So, we'll go no more a-rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright.For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest.Though the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we'll go no more a-rovingBy the light of the moon.
So, we'll go no more a-rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we'll go no more a-rovingBy the light of the moon.
She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes, and starry skies:And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich Heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless grace,Which waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet express,How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent.A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!
She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes, and starry skies:And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich Heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless grace,Which waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet express,How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent.A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!
King Death was a rare old fellow,He sat where no sun could shine,And he lifted his hand so yellow,And poured out his coal-black wineHurrah, for the coal-black wine!There came to him many a maidenWhose eyes had forgot to shine,And widows with grief o'erladen,For a draught of his coal-black wine.Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!The scholar left all his learning,The poet his fancied woes,And the beauty her bloom returning,Like life to the fading rose.Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!All came to the rare old fellow,Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,And he gave them his hand so yellow,And pledged them in Death's black wine.Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!
King Death was a rare old fellow,He sat where no sun could shine,And he lifted his hand so yellow,And poured out his coal-black wineHurrah, for the coal-black wine!
There came to him many a maidenWhose eyes had forgot to shine,And widows with grief o'erladen,For a draught of his coal-black wine.Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!
The scholar left all his learning,The poet his fancied woes,And the beauty her bloom returning,Like life to the fading rose.Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!
All came to the rare old fellow,Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,And he gave them his hand so yellow,And pledged them in Death's black wine.Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!
Hide me, O twilight air,Hide me from thought, from care,From all things foul or fair,Until to-morrow!To-night I strive no more;No more my soul shall soar:Come, sleep, and shut the door'Gainst pain and sorrow!If I must see through dreams,Be mine Elysian gleams,Be mine by morning streamsTo watch and wander;So may my spirit cast(Serpent-like) off the past,And my free soul at lastHave leave to ponder.And shouldst thou 'scape control,Ponder on love, sweet soul;On joy, the end and goalOf all endeavour:But if earth's pains will rise,(As damps will seek the skies,)Then, night, seal thou mine eyes,In sleep for ever.
Hide me, O twilight air,Hide me from thought, from care,From all things foul or fair,Until to-morrow!To-night I strive no more;No more my soul shall soar:Come, sleep, and shut the door'Gainst pain and sorrow!
If I must see through dreams,Be mine Elysian gleams,Be mine by morning streamsTo watch and wander;So may my spirit cast(Serpent-like) off the past,And my free soul at lastHave leave to ponder.
And shouldst thou 'scape control,Ponder on love, sweet soul;On joy, the end and goalOf all endeavour:But if earth's pains will rise,(As damps will seek the skies,)Then, night, seal thou mine eyes,In sleep for ever.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning;By the struggling moonbeam's misty lightAnd the lantern dimly burning.No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bedAnd smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow!Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's goneAnd o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring:And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning;By the struggling moonbeam's misty lightAnd the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bedAnd smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's goneAnd o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring:And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.
I arise from dreams of thee,In the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright;I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHas led me—who knows how?To thy chamber-window, SweetThe wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream,—The champetre odours fail,Like sweet thoughts in a dream,The nightingale's complaintIt dies upon her heart,As I must die on thine,O beloved as thou art!O lift me from the grass!I die, I faint, I fail.Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast.Oh! press it close to thine again,Where it will break at last.
I arise from dreams of thee,In the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright;I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHas led me—who knows how?To thy chamber-window, Sweet
The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream,—The champetre odours fail,Like sweet thoughts in a dream,The nightingale's complaintIt dies upon her heart,As I must die on thine,O beloved as thou art!
O lift me from the grass!I die, I faint, I fail.Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast.Oh! press it close to thine again,Where it will break at last.
O world! O life! O time!On whose last steps I climb,Trembling at that where I had stood before;When will return the glory of your prime?No more—oh, never more!Out of the day and nightA joy has taken flight:Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar,Move my faint heart with grief, but with delightNo more—oh, never more!
O world! O life! O time!On whose last steps I climb,Trembling at that where I had stood before;When will return the glory of your prime?No more—oh, never more!
Out of the day and nightA joy has taken flight:Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar,Move my faint heart with grief, but with delightNo more—oh, never more!
The fountains mingle with the river,And the rivers with the ocean,The winds of heaven mix for everWith a sweet emotion;Nothing in the world is single;All things by a law divineIn one another's being mingle—Why not I with thine?See the mountains kiss high heaven,And the waves clasp one another;No sister flower would be forgivenIf it disdained its brother:And the sunlight clasps the earth,And the moonbeams kiss the sea;—What are all these kissings worth,If thou kiss not me?
The fountains mingle with the river,And the rivers with the ocean,The winds of heaven mix for everWith a sweet emotion;Nothing in the world is single;All things by a law divineIn one another's being mingle—Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high heaven,And the waves clasp one another;No sister flower would be forgivenIf it disdained its brother:And the sunlight clasps the earth,And the moonbeams kiss the sea;—What are all these kissings worth,If thou kiss not me?
From the forests and highlandsWe come, we come;From the river-girt islands,Where loud waves are dumb,Listening to my sweet pipings.The wind in the reeds and the rushes,The bees on the bells of thyme,The birds on the myrtle bushes,The cicale above in the lime,And the lizards below in the grass,Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,Listening to my sweet pipings.Liquid Peneus was flowing,And all dark Tempe layIn Pelion's shadow, outgrowingThe light of the dying day,Speeded by my sweet pipings.The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,To the edge of the moist river-lawns,And the brink of the dewy caves,And all that did then attend and follow,Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,With envy of my sweet pipings.I sang of the dancing stars,I sang of the dædal earth,And of heaven, and the giant wars,And love, and death, and birth.And then I changed my pipings—Singing how down the vale of MænalusI pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:Gods and men, we are all deluded thus;It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.All wept—as I think both ye now would,If envy or age had not frozen your blood—At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
From the forests and highlandsWe come, we come;From the river-girt islands,Where loud waves are dumb,Listening to my sweet pipings.The wind in the reeds and the rushes,The bees on the bells of thyme,The birds on the myrtle bushes,The cicale above in the lime,And the lizards below in the grass,Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,Listening to my sweet pipings.
Liquid Peneus was flowing,And all dark Tempe layIn Pelion's shadow, outgrowingThe light of the dying day,Speeded by my sweet pipings.The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,To the edge of the moist river-lawns,And the brink of the dewy caves,And all that did then attend and follow,Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,I sang of the dædal earth,And of heaven, and the giant wars,And love, and death, and birth.And then I changed my pipings—Singing how down the vale of MænalusI pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:Gods and men, we are all deluded thus;It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.All wept—as I think both ye now would,If envy or age had not frozen your blood—At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,Alone and palely loitering?The sedge has wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!So haggard and so woebegone?The squirrel's granary is full,And the harvest's done.'I see a lily on thy browWith anguish moist and fever-dew.And on thy cheeks a fading roseFast withereth too.''I met a lady in the meads,Full beautiful—a faery's child,Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.'I made a garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;She look'd at me as she did love,And made sweet moan.'I set her on my pacing steedAnd nothing else saw all day long,For sidelong would she bend, and singA faery's song.'She found me roots of relish sweet,And honey wild and manna-dew,And sure in language strange she said,"I love thee true."'She took me to her elfin grot,And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;And there I shut her wild wild eyesWith kisses four.'And there she lullèd me asleep,And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betideThe latest dream I ever dream'dOn the cold hill's side.'I saw pale kings and princes too,Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:They cried—"La belle Dame sans MerciHath thee in thrall!"'I saw their starved lips in the gloamWith horrid warning gapèd wide,And I awoke and found me hereOn the cold hill's side.'And this is why I sojourn hereAlone and palely loitering,Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.'
'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,Alone and palely loitering?The sedge has wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.
'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!So haggard and so woebegone?The squirrel's granary is full,And the harvest's done.
'I see a lily on thy browWith anguish moist and fever-dew.And on thy cheeks a fading roseFast withereth too.'
'I met a lady in the meads,Full beautiful—a faery's child,Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.
'I made a garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;She look'd at me as she did love,And made sweet moan.
'I set her on my pacing steedAnd nothing else saw all day long,For sidelong would she bend, and singA faery's song.
'She found me roots of relish sweet,And honey wild and manna-dew,And sure in language strange she said,"I love thee true."
'She took me to her elfin grot,And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;And there I shut her wild wild eyesWith kisses four.
'And there she lullèd me asleep,And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betideThe latest dream I ever dream'dOn the cold hill's side.
'I saw pale kings and princes too,Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:They cried—"La belle Dame sans MerciHath thee in thrall!"
'I saw their starved lips in the gloamWith horrid warning gapèd wide,And I awoke and found me hereOn the cold hill's side.
'And this is why I sojourn hereAlone and palely loitering,Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.'
Ho, why dost thou shiver and shake,Gaffer Gray?And why does thy nose look so blue?''Tis the weather that's cold,'Tis I'm grown very old,And my doublet is not very new,Well-a-day!'Then line thy worn doublet with ale,Gaffer Gray;And warm thy old heart with a glass.'Nay, but credit I've none,And my money's all gone;Then say how may that come to pass?Well-a-day!'Hie away to the house on the brow,Gaffer Gray;And knock at the jolly priest's door.'The priest often preachesAgainst worldly riches,But ne'er gives a mite to the poor,Well-a-day!'The lawyer lives under the hill,Gaffer Gray;Warmly fenced both in back and in front.'He will fasten his locks,And will threaten the stocksShould he ever more find me in want,Well-a-day!'The squire has fat beeves and brown ale,Gaffer Gray;And the season will welcome you there.'His fat beeves and his beer,And his merry new year,Are all for the flush and the fair,Well-a-day!'My keg is but low, I confess,Gaffer Gray;What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live.'The poor man alone,When he hears the poor moan,Of his morsel a morsel will give,Well-a-day!'
Ho, why dost thou shiver and shake,Gaffer Gray?And why does thy nose look so blue?''Tis the weather that's cold,'Tis I'm grown very old,And my doublet is not very new,Well-a-day!'
Then line thy worn doublet with ale,Gaffer Gray;And warm thy old heart with a glass.'Nay, but credit I've none,And my money's all gone;Then say how may that come to pass?Well-a-day!'
Hie away to the house on the brow,Gaffer Gray;And knock at the jolly priest's door.'The priest often preachesAgainst worldly riches,But ne'er gives a mite to the poor,Well-a-day!'
The lawyer lives under the hill,Gaffer Gray;Warmly fenced both in back and in front.'He will fasten his locks,And will threaten the stocksShould he ever more find me in want,Well-a-day!'
The squire has fat beeves and brown ale,Gaffer Gray;And the season will welcome you there.'His fat beeves and his beer,And his merry new year,Are all for the flush and the fair,Well-a-day!'
My keg is but low, I confess,Gaffer Gray;What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live.'The poor man alone,When he hears the poor moan,Of his morsel a morsel will give,Well-a-day!'
The breaking waves dash'd highOn a stern and rock-bound coast;And the woods, against a stormy sky,Their giant branches toss'd;And the heavy night hung dark,The hills and waters o'er,When a band of exiles moor'd their barkOn 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 gloomWith 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.The ocean-eagle soar'dFrom his nest, by the white wave's foam,And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd:—Such was their welcome home.There were men with hoary hairAmidst 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—'twas a faith's pure shrine.Yes, call it holy ground,—Which first their brave feet trod!They have left unstain'd what there they found—Freedom to worship God!
The breaking waves dash'd highOn a stern and rock-bound coast;And the woods, against a stormy sky,Their giant branches toss'd;
And the heavy night hung dark,The hills and waters o'er,When a band of exiles moor'd their barkOn 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 gloomWith 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.
The ocean-eagle soar'dFrom his nest, by the white wave's foam,And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd:—Such was their welcome home.
There were men with hoary hairAmidst 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—'twas a faith's pure shrine.
Yes, call it holy ground,—Which first their brave feet trod!They have left unstain'd what there they found—Freedom to worship God!
I come, I come! ye have called me long,I come o'er the mountains with light and song;Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,By the green leaves opening as I pass.I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowersBy thousands have burst from the forest-bowers;And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains.—But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,To speak of the ruin or the tomb!I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North,And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,The fisher is out on the sunny sea,And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,And the pine has a fringe of softer green,And the moss looks bright where my step has been.I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky,From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;They are sweeping on to the silvery main,They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs,They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!Where the violets lie may now be your home.Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly,With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,Come forth to the sunshine,—I may not stay.Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,The waters are sparkling in wood and glen;Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth,Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,And Youth is abroad in my green domains.
I come, I come! ye have called me long,I come o'er the mountains with light and song;Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowersBy thousands have burst from the forest-bowers;And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains.—But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,To speak of the ruin or the tomb!
I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North,And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,The fisher is out on the sunny sea,And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,And the pine has a fringe of softer green,And the moss looks bright where my step has been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky,From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;They are sweeping on to the silvery main,They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs,They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!Where the violets lie may now be your home.Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly,With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,Come forth to the sunshine,—I may not stay.
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,The waters are sparkling in wood and glen;Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth,Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,And Youth is abroad in my green domains.
The stately homes of England,How beautiful they stand,Amidst their tall ancestral trees,O'er all the pleasant land!The deer across their greensward boundThrough shade and sunny gleam,And the swan glides past them with the soundOf some rejoicing stream.The merry homes of England—Around their hearths by night,What gladsome looks of household loveMeet in the ruddy light!There woman's voice flows forth in song,Or childhood's tale is told;Or lips move tunefully alongSome glorious page of old.The blessed homes of England,How softly on their bowers,Is laid the holy quietnessThat breathes from Sabbath hours!Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chimeFloats through their woods at morn,All other sounds in that still timeOf breeze and leaf are born.The cottage homes of EnglandBy thousands on her plains,They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,And round the hamlet fanes.Through glowing orchards forth they peep,Each from its nook of leaves,And fearless there the lowly sleep,As the bird beneath their eaves.The free fair homes of England,Long, long, in hut and hall,May hearts of native proof be rearedTo guard each hallowed wall.And green for ever be the groves,And bright the flowery sod,Where first the child's glad spirit lovesIts country and its God.
The stately homes of England,How beautiful they stand,Amidst their tall ancestral trees,O'er all the pleasant land!The deer across their greensward boundThrough shade and sunny gleam,And the swan glides past them with the soundOf some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England—Around their hearths by night,What gladsome looks of household loveMeet in the ruddy light!There woman's voice flows forth in song,Or childhood's tale is told;Or lips move tunefully alongSome glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England,How softly on their bowers,Is laid the holy quietnessThat breathes from Sabbath hours!Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chimeFloats through their woods at morn,All other sounds in that still timeOf breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage homes of EnglandBy thousands on her plains,They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,And round the hamlet fanes.Through glowing orchards forth they peep,Each from its nook of leaves,And fearless there the lowly sleep,As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free fair homes of England,Long, long, in hut and hall,May hearts of native proof be rearedTo guard each hallowed wall.And green for ever be the groves,And bright the flowery sod,Where first the child's glad spirit lovesIts country and its God.
'Oh, call my brother back to me!I cannot play alone;The summer comes with flower and bee—Where is my brother gone?'The butterfly is glancing brightAcross the sunbeam's track;I care not now to chase its flight—Oh, call my brother back!'The flowers run wild—the flowers we sow'dAround our garden tree;Our vine is drooping with its load—Oh, call him back to me!''He could not hear thy voice, fair child,He may not come to thee;The face that once like spring-time smiled,On earth no more thou'lt see.'A rose's brief bright life of joy,Such unto him was given;Go—thou must play alone, my boy!Thy brother is in heaven!''And has he left his birds and flowers,And must I call in vain?And, through the long, long summer hours,Will he not come again?'And by the brook, and in the glade,Are all our wanderings o'er?Oh, while my brother with me play'd,Would I had loved him more!'
'Oh, call my brother back to me!I cannot play alone;The summer comes with flower and bee—Where is my brother gone?
'The butterfly is glancing brightAcross the sunbeam's track;I care not now to chase its flight—Oh, call my brother back!
'The flowers run wild—the flowers we sow'dAround our garden tree;Our vine is drooping with its load—Oh, call him back to me!'
'He could not hear thy voice, fair child,He may not come to thee;The face that once like spring-time smiled,On earth no more thou'lt see.
'A rose's brief bright life of joy,Such unto him was given;Go—thou must play alone, my boy!Thy brother is in heaven!'
'And has he left his birds and flowers,And must I call in vain?And, through the long, long summer hours,Will he not come again?
'And by the brook, and in the glade,Are all our wanderings o'er?Oh, while my brother with me play'd,Would I had loved him more!'
They grew in beauty side by side,They filled one home with glee,Their graves are severed far and wide,By mount, and stream, and sea.The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair sleeping brow,She had each folded flower in sight,Where are those dreamers now?One midst the forests of the West,By a dark stream, is laid;The Indian knows his place of restFar in the cedar's shade.The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,He lies where pearls lie deep,He was the loved of all, yet noneO'er his low bed may weep.One sleeps where southern vines are drestAbove the noble slain;He wrapt his colours round his breastOn a blood-red field of Spain.And one, o'er her the myrtle showersIts leaves, by soft winds fann'd;She faded midst Italian flowers,The last of that bright band.And, parted thus, they rest—who playedBeneath the same green tree,Whose voices mingled as they prayedAround one parent knee!They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheered with song the hearth,Alas for love, if thou wert all,And nought beyond, oh earth!
They grew in beauty side by side,They filled one home with glee,Their graves are severed far and wide,By mount, and stream, and sea.The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair sleeping brow,She had each folded flower in sight,Where are those dreamers now?
One midst the forests of the West,By a dark stream, is laid;The Indian knows his place of restFar in the cedar's shade.The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,He lies where pearls lie deep,He was the loved of all, yet noneO'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drestAbove the noble slain;He wrapt his colours round his breastOn a blood-red field of Spain.And one, o'er her the myrtle showersIts leaves, by soft winds fann'd;She faded midst Italian flowers,The last of that bright band.
And, parted thus, they rest—who playedBeneath the same green tree,Whose voices mingled as they prayedAround one parent knee!They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheered with song the hearth,Alas for love, if thou wert all,And nought beyond, oh earth!
The boy stood on the burning deck,Whence all but him had fled;The flame that lit the battle's wreck,Shone round him o'er the dead.Yet beautiful and bright he stood,As born to rule the storm;A creature of heroic blood,A proud, though child-like form.The flames roll'd on—he would not go,Without his father's word;That father, faint in death below,His voice no longer heard.He call'd aloud—'Say, father, sayIf yet my task is done?'He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious of his son.'Speak, father!' once again he cried,'If I may yet be gone!'—And but the booming shots replied,And fast the flames roll'd on.Upon his brow he felt their breath,And in his waving hair;And look'd from that lone post of death,In still, yet brave despair:And shouted but once more aloud,'My father! must I stay?'While o'er him fast, through sail and shroudThe wreathing fires made way.They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,They caught the flag on high,And stream'd above the gallant child,Like banners in the sky.There came a burst of thunder sound—The boy—oh, where was he?—Ask of the winds that far aroundWith fragments strew'd the sea!
The boy stood on the burning deck,Whence all but him had fled;The flame that lit the battle's wreck,Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,As born to rule the storm;A creature of heroic blood,A proud, though child-like form.
The flames roll'd on—he would not go,Without his father's word;That father, faint in death below,His voice no longer heard.
He call'd aloud—'Say, father, sayIf yet my task is done?'He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious of his son.
'Speak, father!' once again he cried,'If I may yet be gone!'—And but the booming shots replied,And fast the flames roll'd on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,And in his waving hair;And look'd from that lone post of death,In still, yet brave despair:
And shouted but once more aloud,'My father! must I stay?'While o'er him fast, through sail and shroudThe wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,They caught the flag on high,And stream'd above the gallant child,Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound—The boy—oh, where was he?—Ask of the winds that far aroundWith fragments strew'd the sea!
'Twas in the prime of summer time,An evening calm and cool,And four-and-twenty happy boysCame bounding out of school:There were some that ran, and some that leapt,Like troutlets in a pool.Away they sped with gamesome minds,And souls untouch'd by sin;To a level mead they came, and thereThey drave the wickets in;Pleasantly shone the setting sunOver the town of Lynn.Like sportive deer they coursed about,And shouted as they ran—Turning to mirth all things of earth,As only boyhood can:But the usher sat remote from all,A melancholy man.His hat was off, his vest apart,To catch heaven's blessèd breeze;For a burning thought was in his brow,And his bosom ill at ease:So he lean'd his head on his hands, and readThe book between his knees.Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er,Nor ever glanced aside;For the peace of his soul he read that bookIn the golden eventide:Much study had made him very lean,And pale, and leaden-eyed.At last he shut the ponderous tome;With a fast and fervent graspHe strain'd the dusky covers close,And fix'd the brazen hasp:'O Heav'n, could I so close my mind,And clasp it with a clasp!'Then leaping on his feet upright,Some moody turns he took;Now up the mead, then down the mead,And past a shady nook:And lo, he saw a little boyThat pored upon a book.'My gentle lad, what is 't you read—Romance or fairy fable?Or is it some historic pageOf kings and crowns unstable?'The young boy gave an upward glance—'It is the death of Abel.'The usher took six hasty strides,As smit with sudden pain;Six hasty strides beyond the place,Then slowly back again:And down he sat beside the lad,And talked with him of Cain;And long since then, of bloody men,Whose deeds tradition saves;Of lonely folk cut off unseen,And hid in sudden graves;Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn,And murders done in caves;And how the sprites of injured menShriek upward from the sod—Ay, how the ghostly hand will pointTo show the burial clod;And unknown facts of guilty actsAre seen in dreams from God.He told how murderers walk'd the earthBeneath the curse of Cain—With crimson clouds before their eyes,And flames about their brain:For blood has left upon their soulsIts everlasting stain.'And well,' quoth he, 'I know, for truth,Their pangs must be extreme—Wo, wo, unutterable wo—Who spill life's sacred stream!For why? Methought last night I wroughtA murder in a dream!'One that had never done me wrong—A feeble man, and old;I led him to a lonely field,The moon shone clear and cold:Now here, said I, this man shall die,And I will have his gold!'Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,And one with a heavy stone,One hurried gash with a hasty knife,And then the deed was done:There was nothing lying at my feet,But lifeless flesh and bone!'Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,That could not do me ill;And yet I fear'd him all the more,For lying there so still:There was a manhood in his lookThat murder could not kill.'And lo, the universal airSeem'd lit with ghastly flame—Ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyesWere looking down in blame:I took the dead man by the hand,And call'd upon his name!'Oh me, it made me quake to seeSuch sense within the slain!But when I touch'd the lifeless clay,The blood gush'd out amain!For every clot, a burning spotWas scorching in my brain!'My head was like an ardent coal,My heart as solid ice;My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,Was at the devil's price:A dozen times I groan'd; the deadHad never groan'd but twice.'And now from forth the frowning sky,From the heaven's topmost height,I heard a voice—the awful voiceOf the blood-avenging sprite:"Thou guilty man, take up thy dead,And hide it from my sight!"'I took the dreary body upAnd cast it in a stream—A sluggish water, black as ink,The depth was so extreme.My gentle boy, remember, thisIs nothing but a dream!'Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,And vanish'd in the pool;Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,And washed my forehead cool,And sat among the urchins youngThat evening in the school.'O heaven, to think of their white souls,And mine so black and grim!I could not share in childish prayer,Nor join in evening hymn:Like a devil of the pit I seem'd,'Mid holy cherubim!'And peace went with them, one and all,And each calm pillow spread;But Guilt was my grim chamberlainThat lighted me to bed,And drew my midnight curtains round,With fingers bloody red!'All night I lay in agony,In anguish dark and deep;My fever'd eyes I dared not close,But star'd aghast at Sleep;For sin had render'd unto herThe keys of hell to keep!'All night I lay in agony,From weary chime to chime,With one besetting horrid hint,That rack'd me all the time—A mighty yearning, like the firstFierce impulse unto crime.'One stern tyrannic thought that madeAll other thoughts its slave;Stronger and stronger every pulseDid that temptation crave—Still urging me to go and seeThe dead man in his grave.'Heavily I rose up—as soonAs light was in the sky—And sought the black accursèd poolWith a wild misgiving eye;And I saw the dead, in the river bed,For the faithless stream was dry!'Merrily rose the lark, and shookThe dew-drop from its wing;But I never mark'd its morning flight,I never heard it sing:For I was stooping once againUnder the horrid thing.'With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,I took him up and ran—There was no time to dig a graveBefore the day began:In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,I hid the murder'd man.'And all that day I read in school,But my thought was otherwhere;As soon as the mid-day task was done,In secret I was there:And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,And still the corse was bare!'Then down I cast me on my face,And first began to weep;For I knew my secret then was oneThat earth refused to keep;Or land, or sea, though he should beTen thousand fathoms deep.'So wills the fierce avenging sprite,Till blood for blood atones;Ay, though he's buried in a cave,And trodden down with stones,And years have rotted off his flesh—The world shall see his bones.'Oh me—that horrid, horrid dreamBesets me now awake!Again, again, with a dizzy brain,The human life I take;And my red right hand grows raging hot,Like Cranmer's at the stake.'And still no peace for the restless clayWill wave or mould allow;The horrid thing pursues my soul--It stands before me now!'The fearful boy looked up and sawHuge drops upon his brow.That very night, while gentle sleepThe urchin's eyelids kiss'd,Two stern-faced men set out from LynnThrough the cold and heavy mist;And Eugene Aram walk'd between,With gyves upon his wrist.
'Twas in the prime of summer time,An evening calm and cool,And four-and-twenty happy boysCame bounding out of school:There were some that ran, and some that leapt,Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds,And souls untouch'd by sin;To a level mead they came, and thereThey drave the wickets in;Pleasantly shone the setting sunOver the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,And shouted as they ran—Turning to mirth all things of earth,As only boyhood can:But the usher sat remote from all,A melancholy man.
His hat was off, his vest apart,To catch heaven's blessèd breeze;For a burning thought was in his brow,And his bosom ill at ease:So he lean'd his head on his hands, and readThe book between his knees.
Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er,Nor ever glanced aside;For the peace of his soul he read that bookIn the golden eventide:Much study had made him very lean,And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome;With a fast and fervent graspHe strain'd the dusky covers close,And fix'd the brazen hasp:'O Heav'n, could I so close my mind,And clasp it with a clasp!'
Then leaping on his feet upright,Some moody turns he took;Now up the mead, then down the mead,And past a shady nook:And lo, he saw a little boyThat pored upon a book.
'My gentle lad, what is 't you read—Romance or fairy fable?Or is it some historic pageOf kings and crowns unstable?'The young boy gave an upward glance—'It is the death of Abel.'
The usher took six hasty strides,As smit with sudden pain;Six hasty strides beyond the place,Then slowly back again:And down he sat beside the lad,And talked with him of Cain;
And long since then, of bloody men,Whose deeds tradition saves;Of lonely folk cut off unseen,And hid in sudden graves;Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn,And murders done in caves;
And how the sprites of injured menShriek upward from the sod—Ay, how the ghostly hand will pointTo show the burial clod;And unknown facts of guilty actsAre seen in dreams from God.
He told how murderers walk'd the earthBeneath the curse of Cain—With crimson clouds before their eyes,And flames about their brain:For blood has left upon their soulsIts everlasting stain.
'And well,' quoth he, 'I know, for truth,Their pangs must be extreme—Wo, wo, unutterable wo—Who spill life's sacred stream!For why? Methought last night I wroughtA murder in a dream!
'One that had never done me wrong—A feeble man, and old;I led him to a lonely field,The moon shone clear and cold:Now here, said I, this man shall die,And I will have his gold!
'Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,And one with a heavy stone,One hurried gash with a hasty knife,And then the deed was done:There was nothing lying at my feet,But lifeless flesh and bone!
'Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,That could not do me ill;And yet I fear'd him all the more,For lying there so still:There was a manhood in his lookThat murder could not kill.
'And lo, the universal airSeem'd lit with ghastly flame—Ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyesWere looking down in blame:I took the dead man by the hand,And call'd upon his name!
'Oh me, it made me quake to seeSuch sense within the slain!But when I touch'd the lifeless clay,The blood gush'd out amain!For every clot, a burning spotWas scorching in my brain!
'My head was like an ardent coal,My heart as solid ice;My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,Was at the devil's price:A dozen times I groan'd; the deadHad never groan'd but twice.
'And now from forth the frowning sky,From the heaven's topmost height,I heard a voice—the awful voiceOf the blood-avenging sprite:"Thou guilty man, take up thy dead,And hide it from my sight!"
'I took the dreary body upAnd cast it in a stream—A sluggish water, black as ink,The depth was so extreme.My gentle boy, remember, thisIs nothing but a dream!
'Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,And vanish'd in the pool;Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,And washed my forehead cool,And sat among the urchins youngThat evening in the school.
'O heaven, to think of their white souls,And mine so black and grim!I could not share in childish prayer,Nor join in evening hymn:Like a devil of the pit I seem'd,'Mid holy cherubim!
'And peace went with them, one and all,And each calm pillow spread;But Guilt was my grim chamberlainThat lighted me to bed,And drew my midnight curtains round,With fingers bloody red!
'All night I lay in agony,In anguish dark and deep;My fever'd eyes I dared not close,But star'd aghast at Sleep;For sin had render'd unto herThe keys of hell to keep!
'All night I lay in agony,From weary chime to chime,With one besetting horrid hint,That rack'd me all the time—A mighty yearning, like the firstFierce impulse unto crime.
'One stern tyrannic thought that madeAll other thoughts its slave;Stronger and stronger every pulseDid that temptation crave—Still urging me to go and seeThe dead man in his grave.
'Heavily I rose up—as soonAs light was in the sky—And sought the black accursèd poolWith a wild misgiving eye;And I saw the dead, in the river bed,For the faithless stream was dry!
'Merrily rose the lark, and shookThe dew-drop from its wing;But I never mark'd its morning flight,I never heard it sing:For I was stooping once againUnder the horrid thing.
'With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,I took him up and ran—There was no time to dig a graveBefore the day began:In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,I hid the murder'd man.
'And all that day I read in school,But my thought was otherwhere;As soon as the mid-day task was done,In secret I was there:And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,And still the corse was bare!
'Then down I cast me on my face,And first began to weep;For I knew my secret then was oneThat earth refused to keep;Or land, or sea, though he should beTen thousand fathoms deep.
'So wills the fierce avenging sprite,Till blood for blood atones;Ay, though he's buried in a cave,And trodden down with stones,And years have rotted off his flesh—The world shall see his bones.
'Oh me—that horrid, horrid dreamBesets me now awake!Again, again, with a dizzy brain,The human life I take;And my red right hand grows raging hot,Like Cranmer's at the stake.
'And still no peace for the restless clayWill wave or mould allow;The horrid thing pursues my soul--It stands before me now!'The fearful boy looked up and sawHuge drops upon his brow.
That very night, while gentle sleepThe urchin's eyelids kiss'd,Two stern-faced men set out from LynnThrough the cold and heavy mist;And Eugene Aram walk'd between,With gyves upon his wrist.