IHear the sledges with the bells—Silver bells!What a world of merriment their melody foretells!How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,In the icy air of night!While the stars, that oversprinkleAll the heavens, seem to twinkleWith a crystalline delight;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the tintinnabulation that so musically wellsFrom the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.IIHear the mellow wedding bells,Golden bells!What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!Through the balmy air of nightHow they ring out their delight!From the molten-golden notes,And all in tune,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloatsOn the moon!Oh, from out the sounding cells,What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!How it swells!How it dwellsOn the Future! how it tellsOf the rapture that impelsTo the swinging and the ringingOf the bells, bells, bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!IIIHear the loud alarum bells—Brazen bells!What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!In the startled ear of nightHow they scream out their affright!Too much horrified to speak,They can only shriek, shriek,Out of tune,In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,Leaping higher, higher, higher,With a desperate desire,And a resolute endeavorNow—now to sit or never,By the side of the pale-faced moon.Oh, the bells, bells, bells!What a tale their terror tellsOf despair!How they clang, and clash, and roar!What a horror they outpourOn the bosom of the palpitating air!Yet the ear it fully knows,By the twanging,And the clanging,How the danger ebbs and flows;Yet the ear distinctly tells,In the janglingAnd the wrangling,How the danger sinks and swells,By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—Of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells,—In the clamor and the clangor of the bells.IVHear the tolling of the bells—Iron bells!What a world of solemn thought their monodycompels!In the silence of the night,How we shiver with affrightAt the melancholy menace of their tone!For every sound that floatsFrom the rust within their throatsIs a groan.And the people—ah, the people—They that dwell up in the steeple,All alone,And who tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled monotone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone—They are neither man nor woman—They are neither brute or human—They are Ghouls:And their king it is who tolls;And he rolls, rolls, rolls,RollsA pæan from the bells!And his merry bosom swellsWith the pæan of the bells!And he dances and he yells;Keeping time, time, timeIn a sort of Runic rhyme,To the pæan of the bells—Of the bells:Keeping time, time, timeIn a sort of Runic rhyme,To the throbbing of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells,—To the sobbing of the bells;Keeping time, time, time,As he knells, knells, knells,In a happy Runic rhyme,To the rolling of the bells,—Of the bells, bells, bells,—To the tolling of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells,—To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.Edgar Allan Poe.
I
Hear the sledges with the bells—Silver bells!What a world of merriment their melody foretells!How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,In the icy air of night!While the stars, that oversprinkleAll the heavens, seem to twinkleWith a crystalline delight;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the tintinnabulation that so musically wellsFrom the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II
Hear the mellow wedding bells,Golden bells!What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!Through the balmy air of nightHow they ring out their delight!From the molten-golden notes,And all in tune,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloatsOn the moon!Oh, from out the sounding cells,What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!How it swells!How it dwellsOn the Future! how it tellsOf the rapture that impelsTo the swinging and the ringingOf the bells, bells, bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III
Hear the loud alarum bells—Brazen bells!What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!In the startled ear of nightHow they scream out their affright!Too much horrified to speak,They can only shriek, shriek,Out of tune,In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,Leaping higher, higher, higher,With a desperate desire,And a resolute endeavorNow—now to sit or never,By the side of the pale-faced moon.Oh, the bells, bells, bells!What a tale their terror tellsOf despair!How they clang, and clash, and roar!What a horror they outpourOn the bosom of the palpitating air!Yet the ear it fully knows,By the twanging,And the clanging,How the danger ebbs and flows;Yet the ear distinctly tells,In the janglingAnd the wrangling,How the danger sinks and swells,By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—Of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells,—In the clamor and the clangor of the bells.
IV
Hear the tolling of the bells—Iron bells!What a world of solemn thought their monodycompels!In the silence of the night,How we shiver with affrightAt the melancholy menace of their tone!For every sound that floatsFrom the rust within their throatsIs a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—They that dwell up in the steeple,All alone,And who tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled monotone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone—They are neither man nor woman—They are neither brute or human—They are Ghouls:And their king it is who tolls;And he rolls, rolls, rolls,RollsA pæan from the bells!And his merry bosom swellsWith the pæan of the bells!And he dances and he yells;Keeping time, time, timeIn a sort of Runic rhyme,To the pæan of the bells—Of the bells:Keeping time, time, timeIn a sort of Runic rhyme,To the throbbing of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells,—To the sobbing of the bells;Keeping time, time, time,As he knells, knells, knells,In a happy Runic rhyme,To the rolling of the bells,—Of the bells, bells, bells,—To the tolling of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells,—To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
Edgar Allan Poe.
In ancient tapestries, centuries old, you sometimes see, wrought in delicate needlework that is faded with the lapse of years, pictures of the sports of the period. There will be quaint scenes showing otter and bear hunting, swans' nesting, hawking, chasing the deer, and the like; in-door scenes, too, depicting pretty pages strumming musical instruments, and lovely ladies at their tambour or 'broidery frames.
The poetry of each passing age preserves pictures of its plays and diversions still more perfectly than worn and tattered tapestry, and the verses we have chosen cover a bewildering variety of pastimes and recreations. The poets have sounded the praises of almost every kind of sport: angling, swimming, skating, bubble-blowing, going a-Maying, walking, riding, whittling, nutting, the country pleasures of "the barefoot boy," the joys of reading, the delights of music, and the exhilarations of cruising and travelling. One poem of the immediate present, Beeching's "Bicycling Song," shows us that the sport of the moment need not of necessity be too commonplace to be wrought into verse. At first thought the amusements of these latter days are so swift and breathless, so complicated with steam, electricity, and other great forces of the new era, that they seem less poetic than the picturesque frolics of milkmaids and shepherds, the games of the old Greeks or the gay sports of the days of chivalry. But after all, as Lowell said, "there is as much poetry in the iron horses that eat fire as in those of Diomed that fed on men. If you cut an apple across, you may trace in it the lines of the blossom that the bee hummed around in May; and so the soul of poetry survives in things prosaic."
See, the pretty Planet!Floating sphere!Faintest breeze will fan itFar or near;World as light as feather;Moonshine rays,Rainbow tints together,As it plays;Drooping, sinking, failing,Nigh to earth,Mounting, whirling, sailing,Full of mirth;Life there, welling, flowing,Waving round;Pictures coming, going,Without sound.Quick now, be this airyGlobe repell'd!Never can the fairyStar be held.Touch'd—it in a twinkleDisappears!Leaving but a sprinkle,As of tears.William Allingham.
See, the pretty Planet!Floating sphere!Faintest breeze will fan itFar or near;
World as light as feather;Moonshine rays,Rainbow tints together,As it plays;
Drooping, sinking, failing,Nigh to earth,Mounting, whirling, sailing,Full of mirth;
Life there, welling, flowing,Waving round;Pictures coming, going,Without sound.
Quick now, be this airyGlobe repell'd!Never can the fairyStar be held.
Touch'd—it in a twinkleDisappears!Leaving but a sprinkle,As of tears.
William Allingham.
With lifted feet, hands still,I am poised, and down the hillDart, with heedful mind;The air goes by in a wind.Swifter and yet more swift,Till the heart with a mighty liftMakes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:—"O bird, see; see, bird, I fly."Is this, is this your joy?O bird, then I, though a boy,For a golden moment shareYour feathery life in air!"Say, heart, is there aught like thisIn a world that is full of bliss?'Tis more than skating, boundSteel-shod to the level ground.Speed slackens now, I floatAwhile in my airy boat;Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,My feet to the treadles fall.Alas, that the longest hillMust end in a vale; but still,Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er,Shall find wings waiting there.Henry Charles Beeching.
With lifted feet, hands still,I am poised, and down the hillDart, with heedful mind;The air goes by in a wind.
Swifter and yet more swift,Till the heart with a mighty liftMakes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:—"O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.
"Is this, is this your joy?O bird, then I, though a boy,For a golden moment shareYour feathery life in air!"
Say, heart, is there aught like thisIn a world that is full of bliss?'Tis more than skating, boundSteel-shod to the level ground.
Speed slackens now, I floatAwhile in my airy boat;Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,My feet to the treadles fall.
Alas, that the longest hillMust end in a vale; but still,Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er,Shall find wings waiting there.
Henry Charles Beeching.
Get up, get up for shame! The blooming mornUpon her wings presents the god unshorn:See how Aurora throws her fairFresh-quilted colours through the air:Get up, sweet-slug-a-bed, and seeThe dew-bespangled herb and tree!Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east,Above an hour since, yet you not drest,Nay, not so much as out of bed?When all the birds have matins said,And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,Nay, profanation, to keep in,Whenas a thousand virgins on this day,Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seenTo come forth, like the Spring-time fresh and green,And sweet as Flora. Take no careFor jewels for your gown or hair:Fear not; the leaves will strewGems in abundance upon you:Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.Come, and receive them while the lightHangs on the dew-locks of the night.And Titan on the eastern hillRetires himself, or else stands stillTill you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying:Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying.Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, markHow each field turns a street, each street a park,Made green, and trimmed with trees! see howDevotion gives each house a boughOr branch! each porch, each door, ere this,An ark, a tabernacle is,Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,As if here were those cooler shades of love.Can such delights be in the street,And open fields, and we not see't?Come, we'll abroad: and let's obeyThe proclamation made for May.And sin no more, as we have done, by staying,But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.There's not a budding boy or girl, this day,But is got up, and gone to bring in May.A deal of youth, ere this is comeBack and with white-thorn laden home.Some have despatched their cakes and cream,Before that we have left to dream:And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:Many a green-gown has been given,Many a kiss, both odd and even:Many a glance, too, has been sentFrom out the eye, love's firmament:Many a jest told of the keys betrayingThis night, and locks picked: yet we're not a Maying.Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,And take the harmless folly of the time!We shall grow old apace, and dieBefore we know our liberty.Our life is short, and our days runAs fast away as does the sun.And as a vapour, or a drop of rain,Once lost, can ne'er be found again,So when or you or I are madeA fable, song, or fleeting shade,All love, all liking, all delight,Lies drowned with us in endless night.Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.Robert Herrick.
Get up, get up for shame! The blooming mornUpon her wings presents the god unshorn:See how Aurora throws her fairFresh-quilted colours through the air:Get up, sweet-slug-a-bed, and seeThe dew-bespangled herb and tree!Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east,Above an hour since, yet you not drest,Nay, not so much as out of bed?When all the birds have matins said,And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,Nay, profanation, to keep in,Whenas a thousand virgins on this day,Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.
Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seenTo come forth, like the Spring-time fresh and green,And sweet as Flora. Take no careFor jewels for your gown or hair:Fear not; the leaves will strewGems in abundance upon you:Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.Come, and receive them while the lightHangs on the dew-locks of the night.And Titan on the eastern hillRetires himself, or else stands stillTill you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying:Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, markHow each field turns a street, each street a park,Made green, and trimmed with trees! see howDevotion gives each house a boughOr branch! each porch, each door, ere this,An ark, a tabernacle is,Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,As if here were those cooler shades of love.Can such delights be in the street,And open fields, and we not see't?Come, we'll abroad: and let's obeyThe proclamation made for May.And sin no more, as we have done, by staying,But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.
There's not a budding boy or girl, this day,But is got up, and gone to bring in May.A deal of youth, ere this is comeBack and with white-thorn laden home.Some have despatched their cakes and cream,Before that we have left to dream:And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:Many a green-gown has been given,Many a kiss, both odd and even:Many a glance, too, has been sentFrom out the eye, love's firmament:Many a jest told of the keys betrayingThis night, and locks picked: yet we're not a Maying.
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,And take the harmless folly of the time!We shall grow old apace, and dieBefore we know our liberty.Our life is short, and our days runAs fast away as does the sun.And as a vapour, or a drop of rain,Once lost, can ne'er be found again,So when or you or I are madeA fable, song, or fleeting shade,All love, all liking, all delight,Lies drowned with us in endless night.Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.
Robert Herrick.
Jog on, jog on the foot path-way,And merrily hent the stile-a,Your merry heart goes all the day,Your sad tires in a mile-a.Your paltry money-bags of gold—What need have we to stare for,When little or nothing soon is told,And we have the less to care for.Then cast away care, let sorrow cease,A fig for melancholy;Let's laugh and sing, or, if you please,We'll frolic with sweet Dolly.From The Winter's Tale.
Jog on, jog on the foot path-way,And merrily hent the stile-a,Your merry heart goes all the day,Your sad tires in a mile-a.
Your paltry money-bags of gold—What need have we to stare for,When little or nothing soon is told,And we have the less to care for.
Then cast away care, let sorrow cease,A fig for melancholy;Let's laugh and sing, or, if you please,We'll frolic with sweet Dolly.
From The Winter's Tale.
[12]First stanza by William Shakespeare. Last two stanzas by unknown author in "Antidote Against Melancholy," 1661.
[12]First stanza by William Shakespeare. Last two stanzas by unknown author in "Antidote Against Melancholy," 1661.
There is something in the Autumn that is native to my blood—Touch of manner, hint of mood;And my heart is like a rhyme,With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cryOf bugles going by.And my lonely spirit thrillsTo see the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills.There is something in October sets the gipsy blood astir;We must rise and follow her,When from every hill of flameShe calls and calls each vagabond by name.Bliss Carman.
There is something in the Autumn that is native to my blood—Touch of manner, hint of mood;And my heart is like a rhyme,With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cryOf bugles going by.And my lonely spirit thrillsTo see the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills.
There is something in October sets the gipsy blood astir;We must rise and follow her,When from every hill of flameShe calls and calls each vagabond by name.
Bliss Carman.
And mightier grew the joy to meet full-facedEach wave, and mount with upward plunge, and tasteThe rapture of its rolling strength, and crossIts flickering crown of snows that flash and tossLike plumes in battle's blithest charge, and thenceTo match the next with yet more strenuous sense;Till on his eyes the light beat hard and badeHis face turn west and shoreward through the gladSwift revel of the waters golden-clad,And back with light reluctant heart he boreAcross the broad-backed rollers in to shore.Algernon C. Swinburne.From "Tristram of Lyonesse."
And mightier grew the joy to meet full-facedEach wave, and mount with upward plunge, and tasteThe rapture of its rolling strength, and crossIts flickering crown of snows that flash and tossLike plumes in battle's blithest charge, and thenceTo match the next with yet more strenuous sense;Till on his eyes the light beat hard and badeHis face turn west and shoreward through the gladSwift revel of the waters golden-clad,And back with light reluctant heart he boreAcross the broad-backed rollers in to shore.
Algernon C. Swinburne.
From "Tristram of Lyonesse."
How many a time have ICloven, with arm still lustier, breast more daring,The wave all roughened; with a swimmer's strokeFlinging the billows back from my drenched hair,And laughing from my lip the audacious brine,Which kissed it like a wine-cup, rising o'erThe waves as they arose, and prouder stillThe loftier they uplifted me; and oft,In wantonness of spirit, plunging downInto their green and glassy gulfs, and makingMy way to shells and seaweed, all unseenBy those above, till they waxed fearful; thenReturning with my grasp full of such tokensAs showed that I had searched the deep; exulting,With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deepThe long suspended breath, again I spurnedThe foam which broke around me, and pursuedMy track like a sea-bird.—I was a boy then.George Gordon, Lord Byron.From "The Two Foscari."
How many a time have ICloven, with arm still lustier, breast more daring,The wave all roughened; with a swimmer's strokeFlinging the billows back from my drenched hair,And laughing from my lip the audacious brine,Which kissed it like a wine-cup, rising o'erThe waves as they arose, and prouder stillThe loftier they uplifted me; and oft,In wantonness of spirit, plunging downInto their green and glassy gulfs, and makingMy way to shells and seaweed, all unseenBy those above, till they waxed fearful; thenReturning with my grasp full of such tokensAs showed that I had searched the deep; exulting,With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deepThe long suspended breath, again I spurnedThe foam which broke around me, and pursuedMy track like a sea-bird.—I was a boy then.
George Gordon, Lord Byron.
From "The Two Foscari."
What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night,And all the drowsy little stars have fallen asleep in light;'Tis then a wandering wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree,And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.This is the carol the Robin throwsOver the edge of the valley;Listen how boldly it flows,Sally on sally:Tirra-lirra,Down the river,Laughing waterAll a-quiver.Day is near,Clear, clear.Fish are breaking,Time for waking.Tup, tup, tup!Do you hear?All clear—Wake up!The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark,And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark;Now forth she fares through friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew,While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world were new.This is the ballad the Bluebird sings,Unto his mate replying,Shaking the tune from his wingsWhile he is flying:Surely, surely, surely,Life is dearEven here.Blue above,You to love,Purely, purely, purely.There's wild azalea on the hill, and roses down the dell,And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well;The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink,Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink.This is the song of the Yellowthroat,Fluttering gaily beside you;Hear how each voluble noteOffers to guide you:Which way, sir?I say, sir,Let me teach you,I beseech you!Are you wishingJolly fishing?This way, sir!I'll teach you.Then come, my friend, forget your foes, and leave your fears behind,And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind;For be your fortune great or small, you'll take what God may give,And all the day your heart shall say, "'Tis luck enough to live."This is the song the Brown Thrush flings,Out of his thicket of roses;Hark how it warbles and rings,Mark how it closes:Luck, luck,What luck?Good enough for me!I'm alive, you see.Sun shining,No repining;Never borrowIdle sorrow;Drop it!Cover it up!Hold your cup!Joy will fill it,Don't spill it,Steady, be ready,Good luck!Henry van Dyke.
What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night,And all the drowsy little stars have fallen asleep in light;'Tis then a wandering wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree,And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.
This is the carol the Robin throwsOver the edge of the valley;Listen how boldly it flows,Sally on sally:
Tirra-lirra,Down the river,Laughing waterAll a-quiver.Day is near,Clear, clear.Fish are breaking,Time for waking.Tup, tup, tup!Do you hear?All clear—Wake up!
The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark,And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark;Now forth she fares through friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew,While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world were new.
This is the ballad the Bluebird sings,Unto his mate replying,Shaking the tune from his wingsWhile he is flying:
Surely, surely, surely,Life is dearEven here.Blue above,You to love,Purely, purely, purely.
There's wild azalea on the hill, and roses down the dell,And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well;The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink,Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink.
This is the song of the Yellowthroat,Fluttering gaily beside you;Hear how each voluble noteOffers to guide you:
Which way, sir?I say, sir,Let me teach you,I beseech you!Are you wishingJolly fishing?This way, sir!I'll teach you.
Then come, my friend, forget your foes, and leave your fears behind,And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind;For be your fortune great or small, you'll take what God may give,And all the day your heart shall say, "'Tis luck enough to live."
This is the song the Brown Thrush flings,Out of his thicket of roses;Hark how it warbles and rings,Mark how it closes:
Luck, luck,What luck?Good enough for me!I'm alive, you see.Sun shining,No repining;Never borrowIdle sorrow;Drop it!Cover it up!Hold your cup!Joy will fill it,Don't spill it,Steady, be ready,Good luck!
Henry van Dyke.
[13]From "The Toiling of Felix." By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
[13]From "The Toiling of Felix." By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
Come when the leaf comes, angle with me,Come when the bee hums over the lea,Come with the wild flowers—Come with the wild showers—Come when the singing bird calleth for thee!Then to the stream side, gladly we'll hie,Where the grey trout glide silently by,Or in some still placeOver the hill faceHurrying onward, drop the light fly.Then, when the dew falls, homeward we'll speedTo our own loved walls down on the mead,There, by the bright hearth,Holding our night mirth,We'll drink to sweet friendship in need and in deed.Thomas Tod Stoddart.
Come when the leaf comes, angle with me,Come when the bee hums over the lea,Come with the wild flowers—Come with the wild showers—Come when the singing bird calleth for thee!
Then to the stream side, gladly we'll hie,Where the grey trout glide silently by,Or in some still placeOver the hill faceHurrying onward, drop the light fly.
Then, when the dew falls, homeward we'll speedTo our own loved walls down on the mead,There, by the bright hearth,Holding our night mirth,We'll drink to sweet friendship in need and in deed.
Thomas Tod Stoddart.
And in the frosty season, when the sunWas set, and, visible, for many a mile,The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed,I heeded not the summons. Happy timeIt was indeed for all of us: for meIt was a time of rapture! Clear and loudThe village clock tolled six. I wheeled about,Proud and exulting, like an untired horseThat cares not for its home.All shod with steel,We hissed along the polished ice, in gamesConfederate, imitative of the chaseAnd woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn,The pack loud bellowing, and the hunted hare.So through the darkness and the cold we flew,And not a voice was idle.With the dinMeanwhile the precipices rang aloud.The leafless trees and every icy cragTinkled like iron; while the distant hillsInto the tumult sent an alien soundOf melancholy, not unnoticed; while the starsEastward were sparkling clear, and in the westThe orange sky of evening died away.Not seldom from the uproar I retiredInto a silent bay; or sportivelyGlanced sideways, leaving the tumultuous throng,To cut across the reflex of a star,—Image, that, flying still before me, gleamedUpon the glassy plain. And oftentimes,When we had given our bodies to the wind,And all the shadowy banks on either sideCame sweeping through the darkness, spinning stillThe rapid line of motion, then at onceHave I, reclining back upon my heels,Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffsWheeled by me, even as if the earth had rolledWith visible motion her diurnal round.Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,Feebler and feebler; and I stood and watchedTill all was tranquil as a summer sea.William Wordsworth.From "The Prelude."
And in the frosty season, when the sunWas set, and, visible, for many a mile,The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed,I heeded not the summons. Happy timeIt was indeed for all of us: for meIt was a time of rapture! Clear and loudThe village clock tolled six. I wheeled about,Proud and exulting, like an untired horseThat cares not for its home.All shod with steel,We hissed along the polished ice, in gamesConfederate, imitative of the chaseAnd woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn,The pack loud bellowing, and the hunted hare.So through the darkness and the cold we flew,And not a voice was idle.With the dinMeanwhile the precipices rang aloud.The leafless trees and every icy cragTinkled like iron; while the distant hillsInto the tumult sent an alien soundOf melancholy, not unnoticed; while the starsEastward were sparkling clear, and in the westThe orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retiredInto a silent bay; or sportivelyGlanced sideways, leaving the tumultuous throng,To cut across the reflex of a star,—Image, that, flying still before me, gleamedUpon the glassy plain. And oftentimes,When we had given our bodies to the wind,And all the shadowy banks on either sideCame sweeping through the darkness, spinning stillThe rapid line of motion, then at onceHave I, reclining back upon my heels,Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffsWheeled by me, even as if the earth had rolledWith visible motion her diurnal round.Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,Feebler and feebler; and I stood and watchedTill all was tranquil as a summer sea.
William Wordsworth.
From "The Prelude."
... We get no goodBy being ungenerous, even to a book,And calculating profits ... so much helpBy so much reading. It is rather whenWe gloriously forget ourselves and plungeSoul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound,Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth—'Tis then we get the right good from a book.Elizabeth B. Browning.From "Aurora Leigh."
... We get no goodBy being ungenerous, even to a book,And calculating profits ... so much helpBy so much reading. It is rather whenWe gloriously forget ourselves and plungeSoul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound,Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth—'Tis then we get the right good from a book.
Elizabeth B. Browning.
From "Aurora Leigh."
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold;Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyesHe stared at the Pacific—and all his menLooked at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.John Keats.
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold;Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyesHe stared at the Pacific—and all his menLooked at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
John Keats.
When griping grief the heart doth wound,And doleful dump the mind oppress,Then music, with her silver sound,With speedy help doth lend redress.William Shakespeare.From "Romeo and Juliet."
When griping grief the heart doth wound,And doleful dump the mind oppress,Then music, with her silver sound,With speedy help doth lend redress.
William Shakespeare.
From "Romeo and Juliet."
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,Which is the hot condition of their blood;If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,Or any air of music touch their ears,You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze,By the sweet power of music: therefore the poetDid feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods;Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage,But music for the time doth change his nature.The man that hath no music in himself,Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;The motions of his spirit are dull as night,And his affections dark as Erebus:Let no such man be trusted.William Shakespeare.From "The Merchant of Venice."
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,Which is the hot condition of their blood;If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,Or any air of music touch their ears,You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze,By the sweet power of music: therefore the poetDid feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods;Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage,But music for the time doth change his nature.The man that hath no music in himself,Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;The motions of his spirit are dull as night,And his affections dark as Erebus:Let no such man be trusted.
William Shakespeare.
From "The Merchant of Venice."
Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing;The breathing instruments inspire,Wake into voice each silent string,And sweep the sounding lyre!In a sadly pleasing strain,Let the warbling lute complain:Let the loud trumpet sound,Till the roofs all aroundThe shrill echoes rebound;While in more lengthen'd notes and slow,The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.Hark! the numbers soft and clearGently steal upon the ear;Now louder, and yet louder rise,And fill with spreading sounds the skies;Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;Till, by degrees, remote and small,The strains decay,And melt away,In a dying, dying fall.By music, minds an equal temper know,Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,Music her soft, assuasive voice applies;Or, when the soul is press'd with cares,Exalts her in enlivening airs.Warriors she fires with animated sounds;Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds:Melancholy lifts her head,Morpheus rouses from his bed,Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,Listening Envy drops her snakes;Intestine war no more our passions wage,And giddy factions bear away their rage.Alexander Pope.From "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day."
Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing;The breathing instruments inspire,Wake into voice each silent string,And sweep the sounding lyre!In a sadly pleasing strain,Let the warbling lute complain:Let the loud trumpet sound,Till the roofs all aroundThe shrill echoes rebound;While in more lengthen'd notes and slow,The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.Hark! the numbers soft and clearGently steal upon the ear;Now louder, and yet louder rise,And fill with spreading sounds the skies;Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;Till, by degrees, remote and small,The strains decay,And melt away,In a dying, dying fall.By music, minds an equal temper know,Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,Music her soft, assuasive voice applies;Or, when the soul is press'd with cares,Exalts her in enlivening airs.Warriors she fires with animated sounds;Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds:Melancholy lifts her head,Morpheus rouses from his bed,Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,Listening Envy drops her snakes;Intestine war no more our passions wage,And giddy factions bear away their rage.
Alexander Pope.
From "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day."
'Tis a dull sightTo see the year dying,When winter windsSet the yellow wood sighing:Sighing, O sighing!When such a time comethI do retireInto an old roomBeside a bright fire:O, pile a bright fire!And there I sitReading old things,Of knights and lorn damsels,While the wind sings—O, drearily sings!I never look outNor attend to the blast;For all to be seenIs the leaves falling fast:Falling, falling!But close at the hearth,Like a cricket, sit IReading of summerAnd chivalry—Gallant chivalry!* * * *Then the clouds part,Swallows soaring between;The spring is alive,And the meadows are green!I jump up like mad,Break the old pipe in twain,And away to the meadows,The meadows again!Edward Fitzgerald.
'Tis a dull sightTo see the year dying,When winter windsSet the yellow wood sighing:Sighing, O sighing!
When such a time comethI do retireInto an old roomBeside a bright fire:O, pile a bright fire!
And there I sitReading old things,Of knights and lorn damsels,While the wind sings—O, drearily sings!
I never look outNor attend to the blast;For all to be seenIs the leaves falling fast:Falling, falling!
But close at the hearth,Like a cricket, sit IReading of summerAnd chivalry—Gallant chivalry!
* * * *
Then the clouds part,Swallows soaring between;The spring is alive,And the meadows are green!
I jump up like mad,Break the old pipe in twain,And away to the meadows,The meadows again!
Edward Fitzgerald.
Blessings on thee, little man,Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!With thy upturned pantaloons,And thy merry whistled tunes;With thy red lip, redder stillKissed by strawberries on the hill;With the sunshine on thy face,Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;From my heart I give thee joy,—I was once a barefoot boy!Prince thou art,—the grown-up manOnly is republican.Let the million-dollared ride!Barefoot, trudging at his side,Thou hast more than he can buyIn the reach of ear and eye,—Outward sunshine, inward joy:Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!O for boyhood's painless play,Sleep that wakes in laughing day,Health that mocks the doctor's rules,Knowledge never learned of schools,Of the wild bee's morning chase,Of the wild-flower's time and place,Flight of fowl and habitudeOf the tenants of the wood;How the tortoise bears his shell,How the woodchuck digs his cell,And the ground-mole sinks his well;How the robin feeds her young,How the oriole's nest is hung;Where the whitest lilies blow,Where the freshest berries grow,Where the groundnut trails its vine,Where the wood-grape's clusters shine:Of the black wasp's cunning way,Mason of his walls of clay,And the architectural plansOf gray hornet artisans!—For, eschewing books and tasks,Nature answers all he asks;Hand in hand with her he walks,Face to face with her he talks,Part and parcel of her joy,—Blessings on the barefoot boy!O for boyhood's time of June,Crowding years in one brief moon,When all things I heard or saw,Me, their master, waited for.I was rich in flowers and trees,Humming-birds and honey-bees;For my sport the squirrel played,Plied the snouted mole his spade;For my taste the blackberry conePurpled over hedge and stone;Laughed the brook for my delightThrough the day and through the night,Whispering at the garden wall,Talked with me from fall to fall;Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,Mine the walnut slopes beyond,Mine, on bending orchard trees,Apples of Hesperides!Still as my horizon grew,Larger grew my riches too;All the world I saw or knewSeemed a complex Chinese toy,Fashioned for a barefoot boy!O for festal dainties spread,Like my bowl of milk and bread,—Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,On the door-stone, gray and rude!O'er me like a regal tent,Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent,Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,Looped in many a wind-swung fold;While for music came the playOf the pied frogs' orchestra;And to light the noisy choir,Lit the fly his lamp of fire.I was monarch: pomp and joyWaited on the barefoot boy!Cheerily, then, my little man,Live and laugh as boyhood can!Though the flinty slopes be hard,Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,Every morn shall lead thee throughFresh baptisms of the dew;Every evening from thy feetShall the cool wind kiss the heat:All too soon these feet must hideIn the prison cells of pride,Lose the freedom of the sod,Like a colt's for work be shod,Made to tread the mills of toil,Up and down in ceaseless moil:Happy if their track be foundNever on forbidden ground;Happy if they sink not inQuick and treacherous sands of sin.Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,Ere it passes, barefoot boy!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Blessings on thee, little man,Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!With thy upturned pantaloons,And thy merry whistled tunes;With thy red lip, redder stillKissed by strawberries on the hill;With the sunshine on thy face,Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;From my heart I give thee joy,—I was once a barefoot boy!Prince thou art,—the grown-up manOnly is republican.Let the million-dollared ride!Barefoot, trudging at his side,Thou hast more than he can buyIn the reach of ear and eye,—Outward sunshine, inward joy:Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
O for boyhood's painless play,Sleep that wakes in laughing day,Health that mocks the doctor's rules,Knowledge never learned of schools,Of the wild bee's morning chase,Of the wild-flower's time and place,Flight of fowl and habitudeOf the tenants of the wood;How the tortoise bears his shell,How the woodchuck digs his cell,And the ground-mole sinks his well;How the robin feeds her young,How the oriole's nest is hung;Where the whitest lilies blow,Where the freshest berries grow,Where the groundnut trails its vine,Where the wood-grape's clusters shine:Of the black wasp's cunning way,Mason of his walls of clay,And the architectural plansOf gray hornet artisans!—For, eschewing books and tasks,Nature answers all he asks;Hand in hand with her he walks,Face to face with her he talks,Part and parcel of her joy,—Blessings on the barefoot boy!
O for boyhood's time of June,Crowding years in one brief moon,When all things I heard or saw,Me, their master, waited for.I was rich in flowers and trees,Humming-birds and honey-bees;For my sport the squirrel played,Plied the snouted mole his spade;For my taste the blackberry conePurpled over hedge and stone;Laughed the brook for my delightThrough the day and through the night,Whispering at the garden wall,Talked with me from fall to fall;Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,Mine the walnut slopes beyond,Mine, on bending orchard trees,Apples of Hesperides!Still as my horizon grew,Larger grew my riches too;All the world I saw or knewSeemed a complex Chinese toy,Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
O for festal dainties spread,Like my bowl of milk and bread,—Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,On the door-stone, gray and rude!O'er me like a regal tent,Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent,Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,Looped in many a wind-swung fold;While for music came the playOf the pied frogs' orchestra;And to light the noisy choir,Lit the fly his lamp of fire.I was monarch: pomp and joyWaited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,Live and laugh as boyhood can!Though the flinty slopes be hard,Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,Every morn shall lead thee throughFresh baptisms of the dew;Every evening from thy feetShall the cool wind kiss the heat:All too soon these feet must hideIn the prison cells of pride,Lose the freedom of the sod,Like a colt's for work be shod,Made to tread the mills of toil,Up and down in ceaseless moil:Happy if their track be foundNever on forbidden ground;Happy if they sink not inQuick and treacherous sands of sin.Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
John Greenleaf Whittier.