Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,In the forests of the night;What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skiesBurned the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?And what shoulder, and what art,Could twist the sinews of thine heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand? and what dread feet?What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did he smile his work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,In the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?William Blake.
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,In the forests of the night;What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skiesBurned the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,Could twist the sinews of thine heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did he smile his work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,In the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake.
I.'Tis a fearful night in the winter time,As cold as it ever can be;The roar of the blast is heard like the chimeOf the waves on an angry sea.The moon is full; but her silver lightThe storm dashes out with its wings to-night;And over the sky from south to northNot a star is seen, as the wind comes forthIn the strength of a mighty glee.II.All day had the snow come down,—all dayAs it never came down before;And over the hills, at sunset, laySome two or three feet, or more;The fence was lost, and the wall of stone;The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone;The haystack had grown to a mountain lift,And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift,As it lay by the farmer's door.The night sets in on a world of snow,While the air grows sharp and chill,And the warning roar of a fearful blowIs heard on the distant hill;And the norther, see! on the mountain peakIn his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek!He shouts on the plain, ho-ho! ho-ho!He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow,And growls with a savage will.III.Such a night as this to be found abroad,In the drifts and the freezing air,Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road,With the snow in his shaggy hair.He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls;He lifts his head, and moans and howls;Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet,His nose is pressed on his quivering feet,—Pray, what does the dog do there?A farmer came from the village plain,—But he lost the travelled way;And for hours he trod with might and mainA path for his horse and sleigh;But colder still the cold winds blew,And deeper still the deep drifts grew,And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown,At last in her struggles floundered down,Where a log in a hollow lay.In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort,She plunged in the drifting snow,While her master urged, till his breath grew short,With a word and a gentle blow;But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight;His hands were numb and had lost their might;So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh,And strove to shelter himself till day,With his coat and the buffalo.IV.He has given the last faint jerk of the rein,To rouse up his dying steed;And the poor dog howls to the blast in vainFor help in his master's need.For a while he strives with a wistful cryTo catch a glance from his drowsy eye,And wags his tail if the rude winds flapThe skirt of the buffalo over his lap,And whines when he takes no heed.V.The wind goes down and the storm is o'er,—'Tis the hour of midnight, past;The old trees writhe and bend no moreIn the whirl of the rushing blast.The silent moon with her peaceful lightLooks down on the hills with snow all white,And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump,The blasted pine and the ghostly stump,Afar on the plain are cast.But cold and dead by the hidden logAre they who came from the town,—The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog,And his beautiful Morgan brown,—In the wide snow-desert, far and grand,With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand,—The dog with his nose on his master's feet,And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet,Where she lay when she floundered down.Charles Gamage Eastman.
I.
'Tis a fearful night in the winter time,As cold as it ever can be;The roar of the blast is heard like the chimeOf the waves on an angry sea.The moon is full; but her silver lightThe storm dashes out with its wings to-night;And over the sky from south to northNot a star is seen, as the wind comes forthIn the strength of a mighty glee.
II.
All day had the snow come down,—all dayAs it never came down before;And over the hills, at sunset, laySome two or three feet, or more;The fence was lost, and the wall of stone;The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone;The haystack had grown to a mountain lift,And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift,As it lay by the farmer's door.
The night sets in on a world of snow,While the air grows sharp and chill,And the warning roar of a fearful blowIs heard on the distant hill;And the norther, see! on the mountain peakIn his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek!He shouts on the plain, ho-ho! ho-ho!He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow,And growls with a savage will.
III.
Such a night as this to be found abroad,In the drifts and the freezing air,Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road,With the snow in his shaggy hair.He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls;He lifts his head, and moans and howls;Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet,His nose is pressed on his quivering feet,—Pray, what does the dog do there?
A farmer came from the village plain,—But he lost the travelled way;And for hours he trod with might and mainA path for his horse and sleigh;But colder still the cold winds blew,And deeper still the deep drifts grew,And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown,At last in her struggles floundered down,Where a log in a hollow lay.
In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort,She plunged in the drifting snow,While her master urged, till his breath grew short,With a word and a gentle blow;But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight;His hands were numb and had lost their might;So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh,And strove to shelter himself till day,With his coat and the buffalo.
IV.
He has given the last faint jerk of the rein,To rouse up his dying steed;And the poor dog howls to the blast in vainFor help in his master's need.For a while he strives with a wistful cryTo catch a glance from his drowsy eye,And wags his tail if the rude winds flapThe skirt of the buffalo over his lap,And whines when he takes no heed.
V.
The wind goes down and the storm is o'er,—'Tis the hour of midnight, past;The old trees writhe and bend no moreIn the whirl of the rushing blast.The silent moon with her peaceful lightLooks down on the hills with snow all white,And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump,The blasted pine and the ghostly stump,Afar on the plain are cast.
But cold and dead by the hidden logAre they who came from the town,—The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog,And his beautiful Morgan brown,—In the wide snow-desert, far and grand,With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand,—The dog with his nose on his master's feet,And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet,Where she lay when she floundered down.
Charles Gamage Eastman.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stoodIn brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowersAre lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours.The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rainCalls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf,And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.William Cullen Bryant.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stoodIn brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowersAre lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours.The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rainCalls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf,And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
William Cullen Bryant.
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee."The western wind was wild and dank with foam,And all alone went she.The western tide crept up along the sand,And o'er and o'er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she."Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,—A tress of golden hair,A drownéd maiden's hair,Above the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes on Dee."They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea.But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee.Charles Kingsley.
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee."The western wind was wild and dank with foam,And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand,And o'er and o'er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she.
"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,—A tress of golden hair,A drownéd maiden's hair,Above the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea.But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee.
Charles Kingsley.
I heard the trailing garments of the NightSweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with lightFrom the celestial walls!I felt her presence, by its spell of might,Stoop o'er me from above;The calm, majestic presence of the Night,As of the one I love.I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,The manifold, soft chimes,That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,Like some old poet's rhymes.From the cool cisterns of the midnight airMy spirit drank repose;The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—From those deep cisterns flows.O holy Night! from thee I learn to bearWhat man has borne before!Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,And they complain no more.Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!Descend with broad-winged flight,The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,The best-belovéd Night!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
I heard the trailing garments of the NightSweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with lightFrom the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,Stoop o'er me from above;The calm, majestic presence of the Night,As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,The manifold, soft chimes,That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight airMy spirit drank repose;The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bearWhat man has borne before!Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!Descend with broad-winged flight,The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,The best-belovéd Night!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Mysterious Night! when our first parent knewThee from report divine, and heard thy name,Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,This glorious canopy of light and blue?Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew,Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came;And lo! creation widened in man's view.Who could have thought such darkness lay concealedWithin thy beams, O Sun? or who could find,While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind?Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?—If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?Joseph Blanco White.
Mysterious Night! when our first parent knewThee from report divine, and heard thy name,Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,This glorious canopy of light and blue?Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew,Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came;And lo! creation widened in man's view.Who could have thought such darkness lay concealedWithin thy beams, O Sun? or who could find,While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind?Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?—If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?
Joseph Blanco White.
Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place,—O, to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is thy lay and loudFar in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.O'er fell and fountain sheen,O'er moor and mountain green,O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow's rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather bloomsSweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place,O, to abide in the desert with thee!James Hogg.
Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place,—O, to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is thy lay and loudFar in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.O'er fell and fountain sheen,O'er moor and mountain green,O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow's rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather bloomsSweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place,O, to abide in the desert with thee!
James Hogg.
He clasps the crag with hookéd hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ringed with the azure world, he stands.The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.Alfred Tennyson.
He clasps the crag with hookéd hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred Tennyson.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert,—That from heaven, or near it,Pourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire;The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden lightningOf the setting sun,O'er which clouds are brightening,Thou dost float and run;Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heaven,In the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower;Like a glow-worm golden,In a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass which screen it from the view;Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflowered,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves.Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous and fresh and clear thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine;I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymeneal,Or triumphant chant,Matched with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt,—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee;Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.Waking or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught:Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet if we could scornHate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever could come near.Better than all measuresOf delight and sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground.Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now.Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert,—That from heaven, or near it,Pourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire;The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightningOf the setting sun,O'er which clouds are brightening,Thou dost float and run;Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heaven,In the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;
Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower;
Like a glow-worm golden,In a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass which screen it from the view;
Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflowered,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves.
Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous and fresh and clear thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine;I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal,Or triumphant chant,Matched with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt,—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee;Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught:Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scornHate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever could come near.
Better than all measuresOf delight and sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground.
Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flow,The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
My boat is on the shore,And my bark is on the sea;But, before I go, Tom Moore,Here's a double health to thee!Here's a sigh for those that love me,And a smile for those who hate;And, whatever sky's above me,Here's a heart for every fate.Though the ocean roar around me,Yet it still shall bear me on;Though a desert should surround me,It hath springs that may be won.Were 't the last drop in the well,As I gasped upon the brink,Ere my fainting spirit fell'Tis to thee that I would drink.With that water, as this wine,The libation I would pourShould be,—Peace with thine and mine,And a health to thee, Tom Moore!Lord Byron.
My boat is on the shore,And my bark is on the sea;But, before I go, Tom Moore,Here's a double health to thee!
Here's a sigh for those that love me,And a smile for those who hate;And, whatever sky's above me,Here's a heart for every fate.
Though the ocean roar around me,Yet it still shall bear me on;Though a desert should surround me,It hath springs that may be won.
Were 't the last drop in the well,As I gasped upon the brink,Ere my fainting spirit fell'Tis to thee that I would drink.
With that water, as this wine,The libation I would pourShould be,—Peace with thine and mine,And a health to thee, Tom Moore!
Lord Byron.
'Tis the last rose of summer,Left blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rosebud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,Or give sigh for sigh!I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go, sleep thou with them;Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o'er the bedWhere thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.So soon may I follow,When friendships decay,And from love's shining circleThe gems drop away!When true hearts lie withered,And fond ones are flown,O, who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?Thomas Moore.
'Tis the last rose of summer,Left blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rosebud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,Or give sigh for sigh!
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go, sleep thou with them;Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o'er the bedWhere thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,When friendships decay,And from love's shining circleThe gems drop away!When true hearts lie withered,And fond ones are flown,O, who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?
Thomas Moore.
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,Thy tribute wave deliver;No more by thee my steps shall be,Forever and forever.Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,A rivulet, then a river;Nowhere by thee my steps shall be,Forever and forever.But here will sigh thine alder-tree,And here thine aspen shiver;And here by thee will hum the bee,Forever and forever.A thousand suns will stream on thee,A thousand moons will quiver;But not by thee my steps shall be,Forever and forever.Alfred Tennyson.
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,Thy tribute wave deliver;No more by thee my steps shall be,Forever and forever.
Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,A rivulet, then a river;Nowhere by thee my steps shall be,Forever and forever.
But here will sigh thine alder-tree,And here thine aspen shiver;And here by thee will hum the bee,Forever and forever.
A thousand suns will stream on thee,A thousand moons will quiver;But not by thee my steps shall be,Forever and forever.
Alfred Tennyson.
My life is like the summer roseThat opens to the morning sky,But, ere the shades of evening close,Is scattered on the ground—to die!Yet on the rose's humble bedThe sweetest dews of night are shed,As if she wept the waste to see,—But none shall weep a tear for me!My life is like the autumn leafThat trembles in the moon's pale ray;Its hold is frail—its date is brief,Restless—and soon to pass away!Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,The parent tree will mourn its shade,The winds bewail the leafless tree,—But none shall breathe a sigh for me!My life is like the prints which feetHave left on Tampa's desert strand;Soon as the rising tide shall beat,All trace will vanish from the sand;Yet, as if grieving to effaceAll vestige of the human race,On that lone shore loud moans the sea,—But none, alas! shall mourn for me!Richard Henry Wilde.
My life is like the summer roseThat opens to the morning sky,But, ere the shades of evening close,Is scattered on the ground—to die!Yet on the rose's humble bedThe sweetest dews of night are shed,As if she wept the waste to see,—But none shall weep a tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leafThat trembles in the moon's pale ray;Its hold is frail—its date is brief,Restless—and soon to pass away!Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,The parent tree will mourn its shade,The winds bewail the leafless tree,—But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the prints which feetHave left on Tampa's desert strand;Soon as the rising tide shall beat,All trace will vanish from the sand;Yet, as if grieving to effaceAll vestige of the human race,On that lone shore loud moans the sea,—But none, alas! shall mourn for me!
Richard Henry Wilde.
These years! these years! these naughty years!Once they were pretty things:Their fairy footfalls met our ears,Our eyes their glancing wings.They flitted by our school-boy way;We chased the little imps at play.We knew them, soon, for tricksy elves:They brought the college gown,With thoughtful books filled up our shelves,Darkened our lips with down,Played with our throat, and lo! the toneOf manhood had become our own.They smiling stretched our childish size;Their soft hands trimmed our hair;Cast the deep thought within our eyes,And left it glowing there;Sang songs of hope in college halls,Bright fancies drew upon the walls.They flashed upon us love's bright gem;They showed us gleams of fame;Stout-hearted work we learned from them,And honor more than name:And so they came, and went away;We said not go, we said not stay.But one sweet day, when quiet skiesAnd still leaves brought me thought,When hazy hills drew forth my eyes,And woods with deep shade fraught,That day I carelessly found outWhat work these elves had been about.Alas! those little rogues, the years,Had fooled me many a day,Plucked half the locks above my ears,And tinged the rest all gray.They'd left me wrinkles great and small.I fear that they have tricked us all.Well,—give the little years their way;Think, speak, and act the while;Lift up the bare front to the day,And make their wrinkles smile.They mould the noblest living head;They carve the best tomb for the dead.Robert T. S. Lowell.
These years! these years! these naughty years!Once they were pretty things:Their fairy footfalls met our ears,Our eyes their glancing wings.They flitted by our school-boy way;We chased the little imps at play.
We knew them, soon, for tricksy elves:They brought the college gown,With thoughtful books filled up our shelves,Darkened our lips with down,Played with our throat, and lo! the toneOf manhood had become our own.
They smiling stretched our childish size;Their soft hands trimmed our hair;Cast the deep thought within our eyes,And left it glowing there;Sang songs of hope in college halls,Bright fancies drew upon the walls.
They flashed upon us love's bright gem;They showed us gleams of fame;Stout-hearted work we learned from them,And honor more than name:And so they came, and went away;We said not go, we said not stay.
But one sweet day, when quiet skiesAnd still leaves brought me thought,When hazy hills drew forth my eyes,And woods with deep shade fraught,That day I carelessly found outWhat work these elves had been about.
Alas! those little rogues, the years,Had fooled me many a day,Plucked half the locks above my ears,And tinged the rest all gray.They'd left me wrinkles great and small.I fear that they have tricked us all.
Well,—give the little years their way;Think, speak, and act the while;Lift up the bare front to the day,And make their wrinkles smile.They mould the noblest living head;They carve the best tomb for the dead.
Robert T. S. Lowell.
Ho! pretty page with the dimpled chin,That never has known the barber's shear,All your wish is woman to win;This is the way that boys begin,—Wait till you come to forty year.Curly gold locks cover foolish brains;Billing and cooing is all your cheer,—Sighing, and singing of midnight strains,Under Bonnybell's window-panes,—Wait till you come to forty year.Forty times over let Michaelmas pass;Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;Then you know a boy is an ass,Then you know the worth of a lass,—Once you have come to forty year.Pledge me round; I bid ye declare,All good fellows whose beards are gray,—Did not the fairest of the fairCommon grow and wearisome ereEver a month was passed away?The reddest lips that ever have kissed,The brightest eyes that ever have shone,May pray and whisper and we not list,Or look away and never be missed,—Ere yet ever a month is gone.Gillian's dead! God rest her bier,—How I loved her twenty years syne!Marian's married; but I sit here,Alone and merry at forty year,Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.William Makepeace Thackeray.
Ho! pretty page with the dimpled chin,That never has known the barber's shear,All your wish is woman to win;This is the way that boys begin,—Wait till you come to forty year.
Curly gold locks cover foolish brains;Billing and cooing is all your cheer,—Sighing, and singing of midnight strains,Under Bonnybell's window-panes,—Wait till you come to forty year.
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass;Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;Then you know a boy is an ass,Then you know the worth of a lass,—Once you have come to forty year.
Pledge me round; I bid ye declare,All good fellows whose beards are gray,—Did not the fairest of the fairCommon grow and wearisome ereEver a month was passed away?
The reddest lips that ever have kissed,The brightest eyes that ever have shone,May pray and whisper and we not list,Or look away and never be missed,—Ere yet ever a month is gone.
Gillian's dead! God rest her bier,—How I loved her twenty years syne!Marian's married; but I sit here,Alone and merry at forty year,Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.
William Makepeace Thackeray.
I saw him once before,As he passed by the door;And againThe pavement-stones resoundAs he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning-knife of timeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the crier on his roundThrough the town.But now he walks the streets,And he looks at all he meetsSad and wan;And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he has pressedIn their bloom;And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.My grandmamma has said—Poor old lady! she is deadLong ago—That he had a Roman nose,And his cheek was like a roseIn the snow.But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff;And a crook is in his back,And a melancholy crackIn his laugh.I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here,But the old three-cornered hat,And the breeches,—and all that,Are so queer!And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.Oliver Wendell Holmes.
I saw him once before,As he passed by the door;And againThe pavement-stones resoundAs he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.
They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning-knife of timeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the crier on his roundThrough the town.
But now he walks the streets,And he looks at all he meetsSad and wan;And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."
The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he has pressedIn their bloom;And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.
My grandmamma has said—Poor old lady! she is deadLong ago—That he had a Roman nose,And his cheek was like a roseIn the snow.
But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff;And a crook is in his back,And a melancholy crackIn his laugh.
I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here,But the old three-cornered hat,And the breeches,—and all that,Are so queer!
And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Just for a handful of silver he left us:Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat,—Found the one gift of which Fortune bereft us,Lost all the others she lets us devote.They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,So much was theirs who so little allowed:How all our copper had gone for his service!Rags,—were they purple, his heart had been proud!We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,Made him our pattern to live and to die!Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves!He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!We shall march prospering,—not through his presence;Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre:Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence,Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.Blot out his name then,—record one lost soul more,One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels,One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!Life's night begins; let him never come back to us!There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain;Forced praise on our part,—the glimmer of twilight,Never glad, confident morning again!Best fight on well, for we taught him,—strike gallantly,Aim at our heart, ere we pierce through his own;Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!Robert Browning.
Just for a handful of silver he left us:Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat,—Found the one gift of which Fortune bereft us,Lost all the others she lets us devote.They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,So much was theirs who so little allowed:How all our copper had gone for his service!Rags,—were they purple, his heart had been proud!We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,Made him our pattern to live and to die!Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves!He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
We shall march prospering,—not through his presence;Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre:Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence,Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.Blot out his name then,—record one lost soul more,One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels,One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!Life's night begins; let him never come back to us!There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain;Forced praise on our part,—the glimmer of twilight,Never glad, confident morning again!Best fight on well, for we taught him,—strike gallantly,Aim at our heart, ere we pierce through his own;Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
Robert Browning.
There sat an old man on a rock,And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,—That concern where we all must take stockThough our vote has no hearing or weight;And the old man sang him an old, old song,—Never sang voice so clear and strongThat it could drown the old man's long,For he sang the song "Too late! too late!""When we want, we have for our painsThe promise that if we but waitTill the want has burned out of our brains,Every means shall be present to sate;While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold,While the bonnet is trimming the face grows old,When we've matched our buttons the pattern is sold,And everything comes too late,—too late!"When strawberries seemed like red heavens,—Terrapin stew a wild dream,—When my brain was at sixes and sevens,If my mother had "folks" and ice-cream,Then I gazed with a lickerish hungerAt the restaurant-man and fruit-monger,—But oh! how I wished I were youngerWhen the goodies all came in a stream, in a stream!"I've a splendid blood horse, and—a liverThat it jars into torture to trot;My row-boat's the gem of the river,—Gout makes every knuckle a knot!I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome,But no palate forménus,—no eyes for a dome,—Thosebelonged to the youth who must tarry at home,When no home but an attic he'd got,—he'd got!"How I longed, in that lonest of garrets,Where the tiles baked my brains all July,For ground to grow two pecks of carrots,Two pigs of my own in a sty,A rosebush,—a little thatched cottage,—Two spoons—love—a basin of pottage!—Now in freestone I sit,—and my dotage,—With a woman's chair empty close by,—close by!"Ah! now, though I sit on a rock,I have shared one seat with the great;I have sat—knowing naught of the clock—On love's high throne of state;But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed,To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed,And circled a breast that their clasp had blessedHad they only not come too late,—too late!"Fitz-Hugh Ludlow.
There sat an old man on a rock,And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,—That concern where we all must take stockThough our vote has no hearing or weight;And the old man sang him an old, old song,—Never sang voice so clear and strongThat it could drown the old man's long,For he sang the song "Too late! too late!"
"When we want, we have for our painsThe promise that if we but waitTill the want has burned out of our brains,Every means shall be present to sate;While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold,While the bonnet is trimming the face grows old,When we've matched our buttons the pattern is sold,And everything comes too late,—too late!
"When strawberries seemed like red heavens,—Terrapin stew a wild dream,—When my brain was at sixes and sevens,If my mother had "folks" and ice-cream,Then I gazed with a lickerish hungerAt the restaurant-man and fruit-monger,—But oh! how I wished I were youngerWhen the goodies all came in a stream, in a stream!
"I've a splendid blood horse, and—a liverThat it jars into torture to trot;My row-boat's the gem of the river,—Gout makes every knuckle a knot!I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome,But no palate forménus,—no eyes for a dome,—Thosebelonged to the youth who must tarry at home,When no home but an attic he'd got,—he'd got!
"How I longed, in that lonest of garrets,Where the tiles baked my brains all July,For ground to grow two pecks of carrots,Two pigs of my own in a sty,A rosebush,—a little thatched cottage,—Two spoons—love—a basin of pottage!—Now in freestone I sit,—and my dotage,—With a woman's chair empty close by,—close by!
"Ah! now, though I sit on a rock,I have shared one seat with the great;I have sat—knowing naught of the clock—On love's high throne of state;But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed,To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed,And circled a breast that their clasp had blessedHad they only not come too late,—too late!"
Fitz-Hugh Ludlow.