From the desert I come to theeOn a stallion shod with fire,And the winds are left behindIn the speed of my desire.Under thy window I stand,And the midnight hears my cry:I love thee, I love but thee,With a love that shall not dieTill the sun grows cold,And the stars are old,And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!
Look from thy window and seeMy passion and my pain;I lie on the sands below,And I faint in thy disdain.Let the night winds touch thy browWith the heat of my burning sigh,And melt thee to hear the vowOf a love that shall not dieTill the sun grows cold,And the stars are old,And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!
My steps are nightly driven,By the fever in my breast,To hear from thy lattice breathedThe word that shall give me rest.Open the door of thy heart,And open thy chamber door,And my kisses shall teach thy lipsThe love that shall fade no moreTill the sun grows cold,And the stars are old,And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!
Little is known of this English poet and musical composer except that he was born near the end of the seventeenth century—about 1693—and that he is supposed to have committed suicide at London in 1743. He wrote several burlesques and farces, but is chiefly noted as the author of “God Save the King” and “Sally in Our Alley.”
Of all the girls that are so smartThere’s none like pretty Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.There is no lady in the landIs half so sweet as Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.
Her father he makes cabbage nets,And through the streets does cry ’em;Her mother she sells laces longTo such as please to buy ’em;But sure such folks could ne’er begetSo sweet a girl as Sally!She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.
Of all the days that’s in the weekI dearly love but one day—And that’s the day that comes betwixtA Saturday and Monday;For then I’m drest all in my bestTo walk abroad with Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.
My master carries me to church,And often am I blamedBecause I leave him in the lurchAs soon as text is named;I leave the church in sermon timeAnd slink away to Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And she lives in our alley.
Edward J. McPhelim, a singer of many sweet songs, became mute in 1896 at an age all too young. For several years he was dramatic and literary critic for “The Tribune,” departments in which his rare critical ability and wonderful command of language found full scope. His poems, which have never been collected, contain fancies as poetic and delicate as any in the English tongue. The following, on Lamb and his sister, is significant, considering where McPhelim’s last days were spent:
Across the English meadows sweet,Across the smiling sunset land,I see them walk with faltering feet,Brother and sister, hand in hand.
They know the hour of parting nigh,They pass into the dying day,And, lo! against the sunset skyLooms up the madhouse gaunt and gray.
He keeps the lonely lamp aglow,While old loves whisper in the airOf unforgotten long agoBefore his heart had known despair.
He waits till she may come once moreFrom out the darkness to his side,To share the changeless love of yoreWhen all the old, old loves have died.
Between me and this gentle book,Shining with humor rich and quaint,The sad scene rises, and I lookUpon a jester—or a saint.
I lift my eyes, still brimming o’erWith love and laughter—and there fallsAcross the page forever more,The shadow of the madhouse walls!
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,And Phœbus ’gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chaliced flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes:With everything that pretty bin,My lady sweet, arise,Arise, arise.
Cardinal Newman was born in London in 1801 and died in 1890. He graduated from Oxford, and was ordained in 1824. He was the recognized leader of the high church party in England until 1845, when he united with the Roman Catholic Church. He was appointed rector of the Catholic university at Dublin in 1854, and was made a Cardinal by the Pope in 1879.
Lead, kindly Light amid the encircling gloom,Lead Thou me on!The night is dark, and I am far from home,Lead Thou me on!Keep Thou my feet! I do not ask to seeThe distant scene; one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor prayed that ThouShould’st lead me on;I loved to choose and see my path; but nowLead Thou me on!I loved the garish day; and, spite of fears,Pride ruled my will; remember not past years.
So long Thy power has blest me, sure it stillWill lead me on.O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, tillThe night is gone;And with the morn those angel faces smile,Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
I wonder what day of the week,I wonder what month of the year—Will it be midnight, or morning,And who will bend over my bier?
What a hideous fancy to comeAs I wait at the foot of the stair,While she gives the last touch to her robeOr sets the white rose in her hair.
As the carriage rolls down the dark streetThe little wife laughs and makes cheer—But. . . I wonder what day of the week,I wonder what month of the year.
The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handiwork.
Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge.
There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard.
Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun.
Which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race.
His going forth is from the end of the heaven, and his circuit unto the ends of it; and there is nothing hid from the heat thereof.
The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul: the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple.
The statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart: the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes.
The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever: the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.
More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold; sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.
Moreover, by them is thy servant warned: and in keeping of them there is great reward.
Who can understand his errors? Cleanse thou me from secret faults.
Keep back thy servant also from presumptuous sins; let them not have dominion over me: then shall I be upright, and I shall be innocent from the great transgression.
Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.
Austin Dobson is today, as he has been for years, one of the leading English critics and writers of light verse. He is an authority on the literature and society of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, and he excels in verse of the sort here printed.
Chicken-skin, delicate, white,Painted by Carlo Vanloo,Loves in a riot of lightRoses and vaporous blue;Hark to the dainty frou-frou!Picture above, if you can,Eyes that could melt as the dew—This was the Pompadour’s fan
See how they rise at the sight,Thronging the Oeil de Boeuf through;Courtiers as butterflies bright,Beauties that Fragonard drew,Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,Cardinal, Duke—to a man,Eager to sigh or to sue—This was the Pompadour’s fan!
Ah, but things more than politeHung on this toy, voyez-vous!Matters of state and of might,Things that great ministers do;Things that, may be, overthrewThose in whose brains they began;Here was the sigh and the cue—This was the Pompadour’s fan!
Where are the secrets it knew?Weavings of plot and of plan?But where is the Pompadour, too?This was the Pompadour’s fan!
Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae weary, fu’ o’ care!Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn;Thou minds me o’ departed joys,Departed—never to return!
Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon,To see the rose and woodbine twine;And ilka bird sang o’ its luve,And fondly sae did I o’ mine.Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree;And my fause luver stole my rose,But, ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.
This ballad by a poet of our own time finds its way into the hearts of those who have read and loved the song-story of Aucassin and Nicolete. It has about it the fragrance and naïveté of that “good lay,” it contains the “force and freshness of young passion, the troubadour’s sweetness of literary manner,” as Mr. Le Gallienne says of another poem on the same subject written by Edmund Clarence Stedman.
All bathed in pearl and amber lightShe rose to fling the lattice wide,And leaned into the fragrant night,Where brown birds sang of summertide;(’Twas Love’s own voice that called and cried).“Ah Sweet!” she said, “I’ll seek thee yet,Though thorniest pathways should betideThe fair white feet of Nicolete.”
They slept, who would have staid her flight;(Full fain were they the maid had died);She dropped adown her prison’s heightOn strands of linen featly tied.And so she passed the garden sideWith loose leaved roses sweetly set,And dainty daisies, dark besideThe fair white feet of Nicolete!
Her lover lay in evil plight(So many lovers yet abide!)I would my tongue could praise arightHer name, that should be glorified.Those lovers now, whom foes divideA little weep—and soon forget.How far from these faint lovers glideThe fair white feet of Nicolete.
My princess, doff thy frozen pride,Nor scorn to pay Love’s golden debt,Through his dim woodland take for guideThe fair white feet of Nicolete.
Joseph Blanco White was born of Irish parents in Seville, Spain, July 11, 1775, and was put in training for a mercantile career, but he left his father’s counting house and was ordained a priest in 1796, and continued in the priesthood until 1810, when, because of the political crisis in Spain, he went to England, residing in London as a man of letters, where he contributed largely to the leading reviews and periodicals, and produced several books, treating mostly of Spain and its affairs. He died in May, 1841. His “Sonnet to Night” was pronounced by Coleridge the finest in the English language.
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 a curtain of translucent hue,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 would have thought such darkness lay concealedWithin thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,Whilst flower 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 us, wherefore not life?
George Wither was born at Brentworth, 1588. He went to Magdalene College, Oxford. He led a troop of Royalist horse against the Covenanters, but three years later he became a Puritan and held command in Cromwell’s army. He was imprisoned during the Restoration for a time. He died in 1667. Wither wrote, besides his poems, a volume of church hymns, several satires, and a translation of the Psalms.
Shall I, wasting in despair,Die because a woman’s fair?Or make pale my cheek with care’Cause another’s rosy are?Be she fairer than the day,Or the flow’ry meads in May,If she be not so to me,What care I how fair she be?
Shall a woman’s virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or her well-deservings knownMake me quite forget my own?Be she with that goodness blestWhich may merit name of best,If she be not such to me,What care I how good she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,I will ne’er the more despair;If she love me, this believe.I will die ere she shall grieve;If she slight me when I wooI can scorn and let her go,For if she be not for me,What care I for whom she be?
Father Abram Ryan was born about 1834 some say, in Limerick, Ireland, and others, Norfolk, Va., while still others say, Hagerstown, Md. He lived nearly all his life in the South. He was educated at a seminary at Niagara, N. Y., was ordained to the priesthood and labored in many Southern cities. He established a Catholic newspaper at Augusta, Ga. He died in 1883. He was devoted to the cause of the South, and, aside from his devotional poems, none of his writings have more passion or sincerity than those commemorating the deeds of the Confederate army and the cause for which it fought.
I walk down the Valley of Silence—Down the dim, voiceless valley—alone!And I hear not the fall of a footstepAround me, save God’s and my own;And the hush of my heart is as holyAs hovers where angels have flown!
Long ago I was weary of voicesWhose music my heart could not win;Long ago I was weary of noisesThat fretted my soul with their din;Long ago I was weary of placesWhere I met but the human—and sin.
In the hush of the Valley of SilenceI dream all the songs that I sing;And the music floats down the dim Valley,Till each finds a word for a wing,That to hearts, like the Dove of the DelugeA message of Peace they may bring.
Do you ask me the place of the Valley,Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care?It lieth afar between mountains,And God and His angels are there;And one is the dark mount of SorrowAnd one the bright mountain of Prayer.
Edmund Waller was born in Hertfordshire, England, in 1605. He went to King’s College, Cambridge. Later he entered parliament and took an active part in the long parliament. In 1664 he was exiled on account of participating in royalist plots. He returned to England under Cromwell’s administration. He died at Beaconsfield in 1687. Waller’s poems were first published in 1645.
Go, lovely rose!Tell her, that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that’s youngAnd shuns to have her graces spiedThat hadst thou sprungIn deserts, where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired;Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.
Then die, that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee;How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair!
I saw him once before,As he passed by the door,And againThe pavement stones resound,As 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 streetsAnd he looks at all he meetsSo forlorn;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 prestIn their bloom,And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.
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.
With fingers weary and worn,With eyelids heavy and red,A woman sat in unwomanly rags,Plying her needle and thread—Stitch! stitch! stitch!In poverty, hunger and dirt,And still with a voice of dolorous pitchShe sang the “Song of the Shirt!”
Work! work! workWhile the cock is crowing aloof!And work—work—work,Till the stars shine through the roof!It’s oh! to be a slaveAlong with the barbarous Turk,Where a woman has never a soul to save,If this is Christian work!
Work—work—workTill the brain begins to swim;Work—work—workTill the eyes are heavy and dim!Seam and gusset, and band,Band and gusset and seam,Till over the buttons I fall asleep,And sew them on in a dream!
Oh, men, with sisters dear!Oh, men, with mothers and wives!It is not linen you’re wearing outBut human creature’s lives!Stitch—stitch—stitch,In poverty, hunger and dirt,Sewing at once, with a double thread,A shroud as well as a shirt.
Samuel Woodworth was born at Scituate, Mass., in 1785, and was the son of a farmer and revolutionary soldier. He had no educational advantages until taken up by a clergyman, who had read some of his poetical writings and who gave him instruction in the classics. Woodworth was apprenticed to a printer, and later published a paper of his own, of which he was editor, printer, and carrier. Later he removed to New York, where he edited magazines and wrote a number of volumes. His patriotic songs of the war of 1812 were widely popular. His “Old Oaken Bucket” will always hold its place among the choicest songs of America. Woodworth died in New York in 1842.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,When fond recollection presents them to view!The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,And every loved spot which my infancy knew;The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by itThe bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,And e’en the rude bucket which hung in the well—The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;For often, at noon, when returned from the field,I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing!And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well—The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.And, now far removed from the loved situation,The tear of regret will intrusively swell,As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation,And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well—The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturesome bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim, dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—
Build thee more stately mansions, O, my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!
For time is like a fashionable hostThat slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand,And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly,Grasps—in the corner; welcome ever smiles,And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seekRemuneration for the thing it was;For beauty, wit,High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service,Love, friendship, charity, are subjects allTo envious and calumniating time.One touch of nature makes the whole world kin—That all, with one consent, praise new-born gauds,Though they are made and molded of things past,And give to dust that is a little giltMore laud than gilt o’er dusted.
Robert Louis Stevenson, the son of a lighthouse engineer, was born at Edinburgh in 1850. He studied in the university of that city and became a lawyer, though he never practiced. On account of his ill-health he went to Samoa, where he lived with his family and wrote his books. He died in 1894. A few of his stories are: “Treasure island,” “Kidnapped,” “New Arabian Nights,” “St. Ives”; his essays are, “Virginibus Puerisque,” “Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes,” and “Familiar Studies on Men and Books.”
Under the wide and starry sky,Dig the grave and let me lie,Glad did I live and gladly die,And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me;Here he lies where he longed to be;Home is the sailor, home from the seaAnd the hunter home from the hill.
Matthew Arnold, son of the famous head master of Rugby, was born at Laleham, Middlesex, 1822. He studied at Winchester, Rugby, and Balliol College, Oxford, and was a fellow of Oriel. In 1851 he was made lay inspector of schools, and in ’57 received the appointment of professor of poetry at Oxford. He died at Liverpool in 1888. He wrote “Empedocles on Etna,” “Essays in Criticism,” “Study of Celtic Literature,” “Culture and Anarchy,” and other books of essays.
Strew on her roses, roses,And never a spray of yew!In quiet she reposes;Ah! would that I did, too,
Her mirth the world required;She bathed it in smiles of glee,But her heart was tired, tired,And now they let her be.
Her life was turning, turning,In mazes of heat and sound;But for peace her soul was yearning,And now peace laps her round.
Her cabin’d ample spirit,It flutter’d and fail’d for breath;To-night it doth inheritThe vasty hall of death.
William Makepeace Thackeray was horn at Calcutta in 1811. He was brought up in England, where he went to Charterhouse School and later to Trinity College, Cambridge. He left college after one year’s study and went to Paris, where he studied with the hope of becoming an artist. His first contributions in the way of writing were to Frazer’s Magazine, and among them were his famous “Yellowplush Papers.” He wrote other satires and humorous ballads for Punch. Thackeray was the first editor of the Cornhill Magazine, which is still in publication. He died in London in 1863.
Although I enter not,Yet round about the spotOfttimes I hover;And near the sacred gate,With longing eyes I wait,Expectant of her.
My lady comes at last,Timid and stepping fast,And hastening hitherWith modest eyes downcast;She comes—she’s here, she’s past!May heaven go with her!
Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!Pour out your praise or plaintMeekly and duly;I will not enter there,To sully your pure prayerWith thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to paceRound the forbidden place,Lingering a minute,Like outcast spirits who wait,And see, through heaven’s gate,Angels within it.
Joe Beall ’ud set upon a kegDown to the groc’ry store, an’ throwOne leg right over t’other legAn’ swear he’d never had no show,“O, no,” said Joe,“Hain’t hed no show,”Then shif his quid to t’other jaw,An’ chaw, an’ chaw, an’ chaw, an’ chaw.
He said he got no start in life,Didn’t get no money from his dad,The washin’ took in by his wifeEarned all the funds he ever had.“O, no,” said Joe,“Hain’t hed no show,”An’ then he’d look up at the clockAn’ talk, an’ talk, an’ talk, an’ talk.
“I’ve waited twenty year—let’s see—Yes, twenty-four, an’ never struck,Altho’ I’ve sot roun’ patiently,The fust tarnation streak er luck,O, no,” said Joe,“Hain’t hed no show,”Then stuck like mucilage to the spot,An’ sot, an’ sot, an’ sot, an’ sot.
“I’ve come down regerler every dayFor twenty years to Piper’s store.I’ve sot here in a patient way,Say, hain’t I, Piper?” Piper swore.“I tell ye, Joe,Yer hain’t no show;Yer too dern patient”—ther hull raftJest laffed, an’ laffed, an’ laffed, an’ laffed.
John Logan was born in Scotland in 1748. He wrote lyric poems and published his poems in collaboration with Michael Bruce in 1770. This double volume of poems led probably to the confusion of the authorship of the “Ode to the Cuckoo.” The question is still debated, but the poem is generally attributed to Logan. He died in 1788 at London.
Hail beauteous stranger of the grove!Thou messenger of Spring!Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,And woods thy welcome ring.
What time the daisy decks the green,Thy certain voice we hear;Hast thou a star to guide thy path,Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant! with theeI hail the time of flowers,And hear the sound of music sweetFrom birds among the bowers.
* * *
Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,Thy sky is ever clear;Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,No winter in thy year!
O, could I fly, I’d fly with thee!We’d make, with joyful wing,Our annual visit oe’r the globe,Companions of the Spring.
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!Bright and yellow, hard and cold,Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled;Heavy to get, and light to hold;Hoarded, bartered, bought, and sold,Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled;Spurned by the young, but hugged by the oldTo the very verge of the churchyard mould;Price of many a crime untold.
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!Good or bad a thousandfold!How widely its agencies vary—To save—to ruin—to curse—to bless—As even its minted coins express,Now stamp’d with the image of Good Queen BessAnd now of a bloody Mary.
Stars of the summer night!Far in yon azure deeps,Hide, hide your golden light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!
Moon of the summer night!Far down yon western steeps,Sink, sink in silver light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!
Wind of the summer night!Where yonder woodbine creeps,Fold, fold thy pinions light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!
Dreams of the summer night!Tell her, her lover keepsWatch, while in slumbers lightShe sleeps!My lady sleeps!Sleeps!
John Keats was born at London in 1795. He studied medicine, but after passing his examinations he never practiced. About this time he became acquainted with Shelley, Leigh Hunt, and Haydon. In 1820 he went to Naples on account of his health, and from there to Rome, where he died in 1821. His longer poems are; “Endymion” (which poem was most severely criticised at the time of its publication), “Lamia,” “Isabella,” and “The Eve of Saint Agnes.”
Thou still unravished bride of quietness,Thou foster child of Silence and slow Time,Sylvan historian, who canst thus expressA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme;What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shapeOf deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempe or the dales of Arcady:What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?What mad pursuit? What struggles to escape?What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone;Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leaveThy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,Though winning near the goal—yet do not grieve,She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
O, Attic shape! Fair attitude! with bredeOf marble men and maidens overwrought,With forest branches and the trodden weed;Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity: Cold pastoral!When old age shall this generation waste,Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woeThan ours, a friend to man to whom thou say’st,“Beauty is truth, truth beauty”—that is allYe know on earth, truth, and all ye need to know.
This lyric of Richard Lovelace’s is, with the “Lucasta,” the best known and most often quoted of his poems.
When Love with unconfined wingsHovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at my grates;When I lie tangled in her hairAnd fettered with her eye,The birds that wanton in the airKnow no such liberty.
When flowing cups pass swiftly roundWith no allaying Thames,Our careless heads with roses crowned,Our hearts with loyal flames;When thirsty grief in wine we steep,When healths and draughts go free—Fishes that tipple in the deepKnow no such liberty.
When linnet-like confined,With shriller throat shall singThy mercy, sweetness, majestyAnd glories of my king;When I shall voice aloud how goodHe is, how great should be,The enlarged winds that curl the floodKnow no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for a hermitage;If I have freedom in my loveAnd in my soul am free,Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.
John Bunyan was born at Elstow in 1628. He was a tinker, as his father was before him, but he finally became a soldier in the parliamentary army. In 1653 he became a nonconformist and went about the country preaching until he was arrested under the statutes against that doctrine. While in prison Bunyan began his well-known allegory—“Pilgrim’s Progress.” Under Charles II. he was released and made pastor at Bedford. He died at London in 1688.
He that is down need fear no fall;He that is low, no pride;He that is humble ever shallHave God to be his guide.
I am content with what I have,Little be it or much;And, Lord, contentment still I crave,Because thou savest such.
Fullness to such a burden isThat go on pilgrimage;Here little, and hereafter bliss,Is best from age to age.
In the early part of the last century, when the star of Moore was at its zenith, no song was more popular than this, perhaps as much for the charming air to which it is set as for the beauty and rhythm of its words.
Believe me, if all those endearing charms,Which I gaze on so fondly today,Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms,Like fairy-gifts fading away,Thou wouldst still be ador’d, as this moment thou art,Let thy loveliness fade as it willAnd around the dear ruin each wish of my heartWould entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,And thy cheeks unprofan’d by a tear,That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,To which time will but make thee more dear;No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,But as surely loves on to the close,As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,The same look that she turned when he rose.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;Little we see in nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;The winds that will be howling at all hours,And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;For this, for everything, we are out of tune;It moves us not—Great God! I’d rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn!
Pope was born at London in 1688. He had no school education, as he was always sickly, but he learned Latin and Greek from several friends. By the time he was 17 he was an acknowledged wit and critic. His first published poem was “The Pastorals,” 1709; then followed “The Rape of the Lock,” his best satirical poem, and the next year (1713) he began his translation of the “Iliad.” He died at Twickenham in 1744.
Happy the man whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native airIn his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,Whose flocks supply him with attire;Whose trees in summer yield him shade,In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcern’dly findHours, days, and years slide soft away;In health of body, peace of mind,Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night, study and ease,Together mixt, sweet recreation;And innocence, which most doth please,With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;Thus, unlamented, let me die,Steal from the world, and not a stoneTell where I lie.
Sir Walter Scott was born at Edinburgh in 1771. He first began his writing by translating Burger and Goethe, but he left this work to take up the Border Minstrelsy of his own country. In 1814 he published the first of the well-known “Waverley” novels. He sold his copyrights to the firm of Constable, and as the house failed a few years later Scott was heavily involved. As he had also recently bought and repaired the estate of Abbotsford, he was in debt for that also. In spite of ill health he wrote incessantly in order to meet his bills, and gave to the world the novels and poems with which all are so familiar. He died in 1832.
Breathes there a man with soul so deadWho never to himself hath said,“This is my own, my native land!”Whose heart hath ne’er within him burnedAs home his footsteps he hath turnedFrom wandering on a foreign strand?If such there breathe, go, mark him well!For him no minstrel raptures swell;High though his titles, proud his name,Boundless his wealth as wish can claim—Despite those titles, power, and pelf,The wretch, concentered all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And, doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
Emma Willard, the American educator and author, was one of a family of seventeen children. Her maiden name was Hart. She was born at Berlin, Conn., in 1787. She began teaching in the village school and later became principal of a girls’ college at Westfield, Conn., and after her marriage to Dr. John Willard in 1814, opened a boarding school at Middlebury, Conn, into which she introduced new methods and new studies. The school was removed to Troy, N. Y., and became the Troy Female Academy. Retiring from the school in 1858, Mrs. Willard spent the remaining years of her life in revising her text books and writing a volume of poems. She died in 1876.
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.I lay me down in peace to sleep;Secure I rest upon the wave,For Thou, O Lord, hast power to save.
I know Thou wilt not slight my call,For Thou dost mark the sparrow’s fall;And calm and peaceful is my sleep,Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
And such the trust that still were mine,Though stormy winds swept o’er the brine,Or though the tempest’s fiery breathRoused me from sleep to wreck and death.
In ocean’s caves still safe with Thee,The germ of immortality;And calm and peaceful is my sleep,Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
The influence of poetry is greater than is generally realized, and many find inspiration to action in reading it. Mrs. Browning in this pathetic poem did much to rouse England to the evil of child labor and to perceive the wrongs done the little ones toiling in its factories and coal mines far beyond their strength.
Do ye hear the children weeping, O, my brothers,Ere the sorrow comes with years?They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,And that cannot stop their tears.
But the young, young children, O, my brothers,They are weeping bitterly!They are weeping in the playtime of the others,In the country of the free.
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,Grinding life down from its mark;And the children’s souls which God is calling sunward,Spin on blindly in the dark.
James Henry Leigh Hunt was born at Southgate in 1784. He was an essayist, an author, and a poet, chief among his poems being “The Story of Rimini.” He died at Putney in 1859.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,And saw, within the moonlight of his room,Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,An angel writing in a book of gold—Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,And to the presence in the room he said,“What writest thou?” The vision raised its head,And with a look made all of sweet accord,Answer’d, “The names of those who love the Lord.”“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,But cheerily still, and said, “I pray thee, then,Write me as one who loves his fellowmen.”The angel wrote and vanish’d. The next nightIt came again with a great wakening light,And show’d the names whom love of God had bless’d,And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.
This poem is one of the lyrics from the “Princess,” yet there is so little connection between the story and these five or six charming songs embedded within the mock heroic poem that one does not think of them as part of the medley.
The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
John James Ingalls was born in Massachusetts in 1833 and was graduated from Williams College in 1853. He was admitted to the bar in 1857, and removed to Atchison, Kas., in 1859. He took an active interest in the exciting Kansas politics, and, besides serving as a delegate to the Wyandotte convention that framed the State constitution, he served as secretary to the Territorial Council. In 1862 he was a State Senator. He edited the Atchison Champion for three years and served in the State militia. In 1873 he was elected to the United States Senate, and then began his remarkably brilliant political career. After serving twenty years he was retired by the political revolution in his State. As an orator he held high rank. He frequently contributed to the leading magazines and reviews. He died about two years ago.
Master of human destinies am I.Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait,Cities and fields I walk; I penetrateDeserts and seas remote, and, passing byHovel, and mart, and palace, soon or lateI knock unbidden once at every gate!If sleeping, wake—if feasting, rise beforeI turn away. It is the hour of fate,And they who follow me reach every stateMortals desire, and conquer every foeSave death; but those who doubt or hesitate,Condemned to failure, penury and woe,Seek me in vain and uselessly implore—I answer not, and I return no more.
“After having sung the song a second time, she paused for a moment, and, attentively surveying Wilhelm, she asked him, ‘Know’st thou the land?’ ‘It must be Italy!’ he replied.”—Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship.
“After having sung the song a second time, she paused for a moment, and, attentively surveying Wilhelm, she asked him, ‘Know’st thou the land?’ ‘It must be Italy!’ he replied.”—Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship.
Know’st thou the land where the lemon tree blows—Where deep in the bower the gold orange grows?Where zephyrs from heaven die softly away,And the laurel and myrtle tree never decay?Know’st thou it? Thither, O! thither with thee,My dearest, my fondest! with thee would I flee.
Know’st thou the hall with its pillared arcades,Its chambers so vast and its long colonnades?Where the statues of marble with features so mildAsk “Why have they used thee so harshly, my child?”Know’st thou it? Thither, O! thither with thee,My guide, my protector! with thee would I flee.
Know’st thou the Alp which the vapor enshrouds,Where the bold muleteer seeks his way thro’ the clouds?In the cleft of the mountain the dragon abides,And the rush of the stream tears the rock from its sides;Know’st thou it? Thither, O! thither with thee,Leads our way, father—then come, let us flee.
How amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord of hosts!
My soul longeth, yea, even fainteth for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh crieth out for the living God.
Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, even thine altars, O Lord of hosts, my King and my God.
Blessed are they that dwell in thy house; they will be still praising thee. Selah.
Blessed is the man whose strength is in thee; in whose heart are the ways of them.
Who, passing through the valley of Baca, make it a well; the rain also filleth the pools.
They go from strength to strength; every one of them in Zion appeareth before God.
O Lord God of hosts, hear my prayer; give ear, O God of Jacob. Selah.
Behold, O God our shield, and look upon the face of thine anointed.
For a day in thy courts is better than a thousand. I had rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.
For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory; no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly.
O Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee.
This imperishable poem was written by William Cullen Bryant when he was 18 years old. It was sent to the North American Review either by the poet or his father. Richard Henry Dana of the Review supposed the writer to be some one of international repute. The poet’s father was then a member of the Massachusetts senate. Dana went to the statehouse to call on him, but the appearance of Dr. Bryant seemed to satisfy Dana that he must look elsewhere for the author, and so he returned to Cambridge without an interview with the senator. Later he learned that the author was the doctor’s son.
To him who, in the love of nature, holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty; and she glidesInto his darker musings with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,Go forth under the open sky, and listTo Nature’s teachings, while from all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding Sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold groundWhere thy pale form was laid, with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again;And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements;To be a brother to the insensible rock,And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.Yet not to thine eternal resting placeShalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills,Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods; rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooks,That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man! The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon and hears no soundSave his own dashings—yet the dead are there!And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep—the dead reign there alone!So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one, as before, will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glides away, the sons of men—The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron and maid,And the sweet babe, and the gray headed man—Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy sideBy those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan that movesTo the pale realms of shade, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy graveLike one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.