Susan Marr Spalding was born in Bath, Me., and educated in a seminary there. From early girlhood she wrote verse, her sonnets being graceful and tender. At the death of her parents she lived with her uncle, a clergyman, in New York. She married Mr. Spalding, a literary man, and made her home in Philadelphia.
Two shall be born, the whole wide world apart,And speak in different tongues, and have no thoughtEach of the other’s being; and have no heed;And these, o’er unknown seas to unknown landsShall cross, escaping wreck; defying death;And, all unconsciously, shape every act to this one endThat, one day, out of darkness, they shall meetAnd read life’s meaning in each other’s eyes.
And two shall walk some narrow way of lifeSo nearly side by side that, should one turnEver so little space to right or left,They needs must stand acknowledged face to face.And yet, with wistful eyes that never meet.With groping hands that never clasp; and lipsCalling in vain to ears that never hear;They seek each other all their weary daysAnd die unsatisfied—and that is fate.
Richard Realf was born in England in 1834 of poor parents and began writing poetry at an early age. His early work attracted the attention of Tennyson, Miss Mitford, Miss Jameson, Miss Martineau, and others, and they secured the publication of his volume, “Guesses at the Beautiful.” He dabbled some in sculpture, and even studied agricultural science. In 1854 he came to New York, where he wrote stories of slum life and assisted in establishing some institutions for the relief of the poor. He joined the first free soil parties moving to Kansas and was arrested. He did newspaper work until he joined John Brown’s party. He was Brown’s secretary of state. He was arrested in connection with the Harper’s Ferry affair, enlisted in 1862, was wounded, taught a black school in South Carolina in 1867, and for years led a hand to mouth existence, all that time writing poetry, some of it of the most exquisite beauty. Family troubles resulted in his suicide in San Francisco about 1875.
Let Liberty run onward with the years,And circle with the seasons; let her breakThe tyrant’s harshness, the oppressor’s spears;Bring ripened recompenses that shall makeSupreme amends for sorrow’s long arrears;Drop holy benison on hearts that ache;Put clearer radiance into human eyes,And set the glad earth singing to the skies.
Clean natures coin pure statutes. Let us cleanseThe hearts that beat within us; let us mowClear to the roots our falseness and pretense,Tread down our rank ambitions, overthrowOur braggart moods of puffed self-consequence,Plow up our hideous thistles which do growFaster than maize in May time, and strike deadThe base infections our low greeds have bred.
Alfred Tennyson was born at Lincolnshire in 1809. In 1828 he wrote, with his brother, the “Poems by Two Brothers.” He went to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he met his friend, Arthur Hallam, upon whose death he wrote “In Memoriam.” When Wordsworth died in 1850, the laureateship was given to Tennyson; later he was made a Baron. He died at Aldworth, on the Isle of Wight, in 1892, and has been given a place in Westminster Abbey near the grave of Chaucer. Other of his longer poems beside the one mentioned above are: “The Princess,” “Maud,” “Enoch Arden,” and the “Idyls of the King.”
Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O, sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman’s boyThat he shouts with his sister at play!O, well for the sailor ladThat he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on,To the haven under the hill;But O, for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O, sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.
This beautifully touching poem is the creation of Mr. J. L. McCreery, a native of Iowa, and at one time editor of the Delaware County Journal, of that state. The poem was written in 1863 and was first published in Arthur’s Home Magazine in July of that year. The authorship of the poem was for many years erroneously attributed to Lord Lytton, the English poet. A thorough investigation carried on by Lippincott’s a few years ago fully established the authorship. The poem has been printed in every state of the Union, in England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Canada, and even in Australia. It has gone into dozens of school books and been incorporated in scores of miscellaneous collections of poetry. It has been quoted in full or in part at least five times on the floor of Congress. Mr. McCreery has for the past few years been a resident of the national capital and his best poems have been collected into a volume entitled “Songs of Toil and Triumph.”
There is no death, the stars go downTo rise upon some other shore,And bright in heaven’s jeweled crownThey shine forever more.
There is no death! the forest leavesConvert to life the viewless air;The rocks disorganize to feedThe hungry moss they bear.
There is no death! the dust we treadShall change, beneath the summer showers,To golden grain, or mellow fruit,Or rainbow-tinted flowers.
There is no death! the leaves may fall,The flowers may fade and pass away.—They only wait, through wintry hours,The warm, sweet breath of May.
There is no death! the choicest giftsThat heaven hath kindly lent to earthAre ever first to seek againThe country of their birth.
And all things that for growth of joyAre worthy of our love or care,Whose loss has left us desolate,Are safely garnered there.
Though life become a dreary waste,We know its fairest, sweetest flowers,Transplanted into paradise,Adorn immortal bowers.
The voice of bird-like melodyThat we have missed and mourned so longNow mingles with the angel choirIn everlasting song.
There is no death! although we grieveWhen beautiful, familiar formsThat we have learned to love are tornFrom our embracing arms.
Although with bowed and breaking heart,With sable garb and silent tread,We bear their senseless dust to rest,And say that they are “dead.”
They are not dead! they have but passedBeyond the mists that blind us hereInto the new and larger lifeOf that serener sphere.
They have but dropped their robe of clayTo put their shining raiment on;They have not wandered far away—They are not “lost” or “gone.”
Though disenthralled and glorified,They still are here and love us yet;The dear ones they have left behindThey never can forget.
And sometimes, when our hearts grow faintAmid temptations fierce and deep,Or when the wildly raging wavesOf grief or passion sweep,
We feel upon our fevered browTheir gentle touch, their breath of balm;Their arms enfold us, and our heartsGrow comforted and calm.
And ever near us, though unseen,The dear, immortal spirits tread;For all the boundless universeIs life—there are no dead.
Edward Rowland Sill was born at Windsor, Conn., April 29, 1841; died in Cleveland, O., Feb. 27, 1887. He was graduated from Yale in 1861; studied biology at Harvard, did literary work in New York City, taught school in California and Ohio, and was for eight years professor of English language and literature in the University of California. His poems were privately printed under the title “The Hermitage and Other Poems.”
The royal feast was done; the kingSought some new sport to banish care,And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”
The jester doffed his cap and bells,And stood the mocking court before;They could not see the bitter smileBehind the painted grin he wore,
He bowed his head, and bent his kneeUpon the monarch’s silken stool;His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,Be merciful to me, a fool!
“No pity, Lord, could change the heartFrom red with wrong to white as wool;The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,Be merciful to me, a fool!
“’Tis not by guilt the onward sweepOf truth and right, O Lord, we stay;’Tis by our follies that so longWe hold the earth from heaven away.
“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,Go crushing blossoms without end;These hard, well meaning hands we thrustAmong the heart-strings of a friend.
“The ill-timed truth we might have kept—Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung!The word we had not sense to say—Who knows how grandly it had rung!
“Our faults no tenderness should ask,The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;But for our blunders—O, in shameBefore the eyes of heaven we fall.
“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;Men crown the knave and scourge the toolThat did his will; but thou, O Lord,Be merciful to me, a fool!”
The room was hushed; in silence roseThe king, and sought his gardens cool,And walked apart, and murmured low,“Be merciful to me, a fool!”
This is one of the songs which, as Longfellow said, gush from the heart of “some humbler poet.” In this country, at least, it has been extremely popular, having been set to music and sung in innumerable households. Elizabeth Akers Allen was born in 1832, and still lives at Tuckahoe, N.Y. She wrote poetry from the age of 15, and has published many volumes. The poem here published first appeared in 1859. A new volume of her verse is just announced in Boston.
Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight,Make me a child again just for tonight;Mother, come back from the echoless shore,Take me again to your heart as of yore;Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years,I am so weary of toil and of tears—Toil without recompense, tears all in vain—Take them, and give me my childhood again!I have grown weary of dust and decay—Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;Weary of sowing for others to reap;Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!Many a summer the grass has grown green,Blossomed, and faded our faces between!Yet, with strong yearning and passionate painLong I tonight for your presence again.Come from the silence so long and so deep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Over my heart in the days that are flownNo love like mother love ever has shone;No other worship abides and endures—Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;None like a mother can charm away painFrom the sick soul and world weary brain.Slumber’s soft calms o’er the heavy lids creep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,Fall on your shoulders again as of old;Let it drop over my forehead tonight,Shading my faint eyes away from the light;For with its sunny edged shadows once moreHaply will throng the sweet visions of yore;Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep;Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Mother, dear mother, the years have been longSince I last hushed to your lullaby song;Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seemWomanhood’s years have been only a dream.Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,With your light lashes just sweeping my face,Never hereafter to wake or to weep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Lord Byron was born in London in 1788. His first volume of verses, entitled “Hours of Idleness,” was printed in 1807. “Manfred” and “The Lament of Tasso” were written in 1817. From 1818 to his death Byron was occupied on “Don Juan.” In 1823 he went to Greece, and with advice and money aided in the Greek struggle for independence. He died in Greece in 1824.
“And it came to pass,that night,that the angel of the Lord went out and smote in the camp of the Assyrians an hundred four score and five thousand:and when they arose early in the morning,behold,they were all dead corpses.”—II. Kings, xix., 35.
“And it came to pass,that night,that the angel of the Lord went out and smote in the camp of the Assyrians an hundred four score and five thousand:and when they arose early in the morning,behold,they were all dead corpses.”—II. Kings, xix., 35.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen;Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay wither’d and strown.
For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d;And the eyes of the sleepers wax’d deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved—and forever grew still.
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock beating surf.
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Thomas Hood was born in London in 1799, and early in life turned his attention to literary pursuits. At the age of 22 he became sub-editor of the London Magazine, which gave him acquaintance with all the literary men of the age, and an intimacy with Charles Lamb, which continued until his death. He was a voluminous writer, both in poetry and prose, contributing to various magazines. In 1844 Hood’s Magazine was started, for which he furnished most of the material until near his death. His best work was done during his last sickness, when, on a bed of suffering, he contributed to Punch those touching verses which have rendered his name immortal: “The Song of the Shirt” and “The Bridge of Sighs.” He died May 3, 1845.
We watched her sleeping through the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept surging to and fro.So silently we seemed to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her being out.Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied,We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.For when the morn came dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed, she hadAnother morn than ours.
George Herbert was born at Montgomery Castle in Wales in 1593. He graduated from Trinity College, Cambridge, and in 1619 he was made a public orator. Charles I., with whom he was in great favor, gave him the rectory of Bemerton, which has the reputation of being the smallest church in England. It was here that Herbert wrote his religious poems, “The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations.” He died at Bemerton in 1633.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright;The bridal of the earth and sky;The dew shall weep thy fall tonight,For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,Thy music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like seasoned timber never gives,But, though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.
Richard Lovelace was an English cavalier, born in 1618, a period which produced many poets. He was educated both at the Charterhouse and at Oxford. He was twice imprisoned on account of the active part he took in the affairs of the times. After the execution of Charles, he was set free from prison only to find that his estates had been confiscated. He died in great poverty in London, in 1658. After his death his poems were collected under the name of “Lucasta, Posthume Poems.” The name of the lady to whom the poems were written was Lucy Sacheverell, whom he called his “Lux Castra.”
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mind,To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you, too, shall adore;I could not love thee, Dear, so much,Loved I not Honor more.
There is a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies blow,A heavenly paradise is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;There cherries grow that none may buy,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose.Of orient pearl a double row,Which, when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rose-buds fill’d with snow;Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still;Her brows like bended bows do stand,Threat’ning with piercing frowns to killAll that approach with eye or handThese sacred cherries to come nigh,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Pakenham Beatty was born in 1855. He has written several volumes—“To My Lady,” 1878; “Three Women of the People,” 1881; and “Marcia, a Tragedy,” 1884.
By thine own soul’s law learn to live,And if men thwart thee take no heed,And if men hate thee have no care;Sing thou thy song and do thy deed.Hope thou thy hope and pray thy prayer,And claim no crown they will not give,Nor bays they grudge thee for thy hair.
Keep thou thy soul-worn steadfast oath,And to thy heart be true thy heart;What thy soul teaches learn to know,And play out thine appointed part,And thou shalt reap as thou shalt sow,Nor helped nor hindered in thy growth,To thy full stature thou shalt grow.
Fix on the future’s goal thy face,And let thy feet be lured to strayNowhither, but be swift to run,And nowhere tarry by the way,Until at last the end is wonAnd thou mayst look back from thy placeAnd see thy long day’s journey done.
Walt Whitman was born on Long Island, N. Y., in 1819. His father was a carpenter. After the family removed to Brooklyn Walt became apprenticed to a newspaper, and at 12 began to write bits of verse, some of which were published in the New York Mirror. He made a series of long tramping tours through the country, returning finally to newspaper work in Brooklyn. He became known to the public as a poet through his “Leaves of Grass,” published in 1885. The volume was declared immoral by some, and the author severely criticised. “Leaves of Grass” has been republished a number of times in the United States, England, and Scotland, and among Whitman’s other works are “Drum Taps,” “As Strong as a Bird on Pinions Free,” “Two Rivulets,” “Specimen Days and Collect,” “November Boughs,” and “Sands at Seventy.” He died in 1892.
O, Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But, O, heart! heart! heart!O, the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.
O, Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here, Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deck,You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,His ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!But I with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.
Josiah Gilbert Holland was born in Belchertown, Mass., July 24, 1819; died in New York City Oct. 12, 1881. He was the son of a mechanic and inventor. He attended a district school, taught district schools, studied medicine, and in 1844 was graduated from the Berkshire medical college, which exists no longer, at Pittsfield. He practiced medicine for three years, ran a weekly paper six months, became superintendent of schools in Vicksburg, Miss., formed a literary, reportorial, and editorial connection with the Springfield Republican in 1850, which lasted until 1866, he having in the meantime acquired a financial interest in the paper. Some of his best works appeared first in the Republican. In 1870, with Roswell Smith, he founded Scribner’s Magazine. He wrote histories, stories, essays, letters, lectures, and poems.
What is the little one thinking about?Very wonderful things, no doubt!Unwritten history!Unfathomed mystery!Yet chuckles and crows and nods and winks,As if his head were as full of kinksAnd curious riddles as any sphinx!Warped by colic and wet by tears,Punctured by pins and tortured by fearsOur little nephew will lose two years;And he’ll never knowWhere the summers go—He need not laugh, for he’ll find it so.
Who can tell what a baby thinks?Who can follow the gossamer linksBy which the manikin feels his wayOut from the shore of the great unknown,Blind and wailing, and alone,Into the light of day?Out from the shore of the unknown sea,Tossing in pitiful agony—Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,Specked with the barks of little souls—Barks that were launched on the other side,And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!
What does he think of his mother’s eyes?What does he think of his mother’s hair?What of the cradle roof that fliesForward and backward through the air?What does he think of his mother’s breast,Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,Seeking it ever with fresh delight—Cup of his life and couch of his rest?What does he think when her quick embracePresses his hand and buries his faceDeep where the heart throbs sink and swellWith a tenderness she can never tell,Though she murmur the wordsOf all the birds—Words she has learned to murmur well?Now he thinks he’ll go to sleep!I can see the shadow creepOver his eyes in soft eclipse,Over his brow and over his lips,Out to his little finger tips!Softly sinking, down he goes!Down he goes! down he goes!See! he is hushed in sweet repose!
This poem, as well as all of Emily Bronte’s verses, is tinged with the deepest melancholy—the sorrow which both Charlotte and Emily Bronte experienced, and which has set them apart in the world of letters from those who do not feel so deeply the emotions of which they write.
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Sever’d at last by Time’s all severing wave?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Sweet love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world’s tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
No later light has lighten’d up my heaven,No second morn has ever shown for me;All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.
But when the days of golden dreams had perish’d,And even despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherish’dStrengthen’d, and fed without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Wean’d my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hastenDown to that tomb already more than mine.
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?
God is our refuge and strength,A very present help in trouble,Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed,And though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled,Though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof,There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God,The holy place of the tabernacles of the most High.God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved;God shall help her, and that right early.The heathen raged, the kingdoms were moved;He uttered his voice, the earth melted.The Lord of Hosts is with us;The God of Jacob is our refuge.Come, behold the works of the Lord,What desolations he hath made in the earth,He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth;He breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder;He burneth the chariot in the fire.Be still and know that I am God;I will be exalted among the heathen,I will be exalted in the earth.The Lord of Hosts is with us;The God of Jacob is our refuge.
I thank thee, Lord, that I am straight and strong,With wit to work and hope to keep me brave;That two score years, unfathomed, still belongTo the allotted life thy bounty gave.
I thank thee that the sight of sunlit landsAnd dipping hills, the breath of evening grass—That wet, dark rocks and flowers in my handsCan give me daily gladness as I pass.
I thank thee that I love the things of earth—Ripe fruits and laughter lying down to sleep,The shine of lighted towns, the graver worthOf beating human hearts that laugh and weep.
I thank thee that as yet I need not know,Yet need not fear, the mystery of the end;But more than all, and though all these should go—Dear Lord, this on my knees!—I thank thee for my friend.
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,A great sized monster of ingratitudes;Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour’dAs fast as they are made, forgot as soonAs done: perseverance, dear my lord,Keeps honor bright; to have done is to hangQuite out of fashion, like a rusty mailIn monumental mockery. Take th’ instant way;For honor travels in a straight so narrow,Where one but goes abreast; keep, then, the path;For emulation hath a thousand sons,That one by one pursue: if you give way,Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,Like to an enter’d tide, they all rush byAnd leave you hindmost;Or like a gallant horse fallen in first rank,Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,O’errun and trampled on.
Charles Mackay was born at Perth In 1814. He was, from 1844 to 1847, the editor of the Glasgow Argus, and later of the Illustrated London News. During the civil war he was the New York correspondent for the London Times. He died at London in 1889. Several of his writings are “The Salamandrine, or Love and Immortality,” “Voices from the Crowd,” “Voices from the Mountains,” and “History of the Mormons.”
A little stream had lost its wayAmid the grass and fern;A passing stranger scooped a well,Where weary men might turn;He walled it in, and hung with careA ladle at the brink;He thought not of the deed he did,But judged that all might drink.He passed again, and lo! the well,By summer never dried,Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues,And saved a life beside.
A nameless man, amid a crowdThat thronged the daily mart,Let fall a word of hope and love,Unstudied, from the heart;A whisper on the tumult thrown,A transitory breath—It raised a brother from the dust,It saved a soul from death.O germ! O fount! O word of love!O thought at random cast!Ye were but little at the first,But mighty at the last.
Mary Ann Evans was born at Warwickshire, in 1819. She received her education at Nuneaton, and also at Coventry. In 1851 she was given the position of assistant editor on the “Westminster Review,” which she held until 1853. In the following year she entered into a domestic and philosophical partnership with George Henry Lewes. Two years after his death she married John Walter Cross, a man much younger than herself. After her death her husband published her memoirs. She died at Chelsea, London, in 1880. Though shunned by the women of her acquaintance, Eliot was courted by the greatest philosophers of her time.
Two lovers by a moss-grown spring:They leaned soft cheeks together there,Mingled the dark and sunny hair,And heard the wooing thrushes sing.O budding time!O, love’s blest prime!
Two wedded from the portal stept:The bells made happy carolings,The air was soft as fanning wings,White petals on the pathway slept.O pure-eyed bride!O tender pride!
Two faces o’er a cradle bent:Two hands above the head were locked;These pressed each other while they rocked,Those watched a life that love had sent.O solemn hour!O hidden power!
Two parents by the evening fire:The red light fell about their kneesOn heads that rose by slow degreesLike buds upon the lily spire.O patient life!O tender strife!
The two still sat together there,The red light shone about their knees;But all the heads by slow degreesHad gone and left that lonely pair.O voyage fast!O vanished past!
The red light shone upon the floorAnd made the space between them wide;They drew their chairs up side by side,Their pale cheeks joined, and said,“Once more!”O memories!O past that is!
Thomas Buchanan Read, artist and poet, was born in 1822 and died in 1872. His youth was spent in poverty and he earned a miserable existence at tailoring and cigar-making. He played on the stage and took to painting in oils. His work attracted interest and he opened a studio. About the same time he began writing, alternating the brush with the pen. His best-known poems are “Sheridan’s Ride” and “Drifting.” He published a volume of poetry and two of prose. His pictures include portraits of Longfellow, Dallas, Ex-Queen of Naples, Mrs. Browning and “The Lost Pleiad,” “The Star of Bethlehem,” “Spirit of the Waterfall,” and “Sheridan’s Ride.”
My soul todayIs far away,Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;My winged boat,A bird afloat,Swims round the purple peaks remote:—
Round purple peaksIt sails, and seeksBlue inlets and their crystal creeks,Where high rocks throw,Through deeps below,A duplicated golden glow.
Far, vague, and dim,The mountains swim;While on Vesuvius’ misty brimWith outstretched handsThe gray smoke standsO’erlooking the volcanic lands.
Here Ischia smilesO’er liquid miles;And yonder, bluest of the isles,Calm Capri waits,Her sapphire gatesBeguiling to her bright estates.
I heed not, ifMy rippling skiffFloat swift or slow from cliff to cliff;—With dreamful eyesMy spirit liesUnder the walls of Paradise.
Under the wallsWhere swells and fallsThe bay’s deep breast at intervals,At peace I lie,Blown softly by,A cloud upon this liquid sky.
The day so mild,Is Heaven’s own child,With earth and ocean reconciled;—The airs I feelAround me stealAre murmuring to the murmuring keel.
Over the railMy hand I trailWithin the shadow of the sail.A joy intense,The cooling senseGlides down my drowsy indolence.
With dreamful eyesMy spirit liesWhere summer sings and never dies,—O’erveiled with vines.She glows and shinesAmong her future oil and wines.
Her children hid,The cliffs amid,Are gamboling with the gamboling kid;Or down the walls,With tipsy calls,Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.
The fisher’s childWith tresses wild,Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,With glowing lips,Sings as she skips,Or gazes at the far-off ships.
Yon deep bark goesWhere Traffic blows,From lands of sun to lands of snows;This happier oneIts course has runFrom lands of snow to lands of sun.
O happy ship,To rise and dip,With the blue crystal at your lip!O happy crew,My heart with youSails, and sails, and sings anew!
No more, no moreThe worldy shoreUpbraids me with its loud uproar!With dreamful eyesMy spirit liesUnder the walls of Paradise!
George Henry Boker, the American poet, was born in Philadelphia in 1823, and died there in 1890. He was educated at Princeton, and studied law, but never practiced. In 1871 he was made Minister Resident to Turkey, and from 1875 to 1879 he was Minister to Russia. He wrote several volumes of verse and the tragedies “Francesca da Rimini,” “Anne Boleyn,” and “Leonore de Guzman.”
Close his eyes; his work is done!What to him is friend or foeman,Rise of moon or set of sun,Hand of man or kiss of woman?Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? He cannot know;Lay him low!
As man may, he fought his fight,Proved his truth by his endeavor;Let him sleep in solemn might,Sleep for ever and forever.Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snowWhat cares he? He cannot know;Lay him low!
Fold him in his country’s stars,Roll the drum and fire the volley!What to him are all our wars,What but death bemocking folly?Lay him low, lay him lowIn the clover or the snow!What cares he? He cannot know;Lay him low!
Leave him to God’s watching eye;Trust him to the hand that made him.Mortal love weeps idly by;God alone has power to aid him.Lay him low, lay him low,In the clover or the snow!What cares he? He cannot know;Lay him low!
Sidney Lanier was born at Macon, Ga., in 1842. On account of ill health he went to Baltimore, where for a while he played the flute in the famous Peabody concerts—he was passionately fond of music and brought marvelous harmonies out of his flute. In 1879 he became lecturer in English literature at the Johns Hopkins university, Baltimore. He died at Lynn, N. C., in 1881. He wrote a novel, “Tiger Lilies,” “Centennial Ode,” “Science of English Verse,” “The English Novel and Its Development,” and a volume of poems.
Look off, dear love, across the sallow sands,And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea,How long they kiss in sight of all the lands,Ah! longer, longer, we.
Now in the sea’s red vintage melts the sun,As Egypt’s pearl dissolved in rosy wine,And Cleopatra night drinks all. ’Tis done,Love, lay thy hand in mine.
Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven’s heart;Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands.O, night! divorce our sun and sky apart,Never our lips our hands.
The poems of this well-loved poet are the stepping stones by which every American child ascends to the realm of poetry.
I stood on the bridge at midnight,As the clocks were striking the hour,And the moon rose o’er the cityBehind the dark church tower.
I saw her bright reflectionIn the waters under me,Like a golden goblet fallingAnd sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distanceOf that lovely night in JuneThe blaze of the flaming furnaceGleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black raftersThe wavering shadows lay,And the current that came from the oceanSeemed to lift and bear them away;
As, sweeping and eddying through them,Rose the belated tide,And, streaming into the moonlight,The seaweed floated wide.
And like those waters rushingAmong the wooden piers,A flood of thoughts came o’er meThat filled my eyes with tears.
How often, O, how often,In the days that had gone by,I had stood on that bridge at midnightAnd gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, O, how often,I had wished that the ebbing tideWould bear me away on its bosomO’er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,And my life was full of care,And the burden laid upon meSeemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me—It is buried in the sea;And only the sorrow of othersThrows its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the riverOn its bridge with wooden piers,Like the odor of brine from the oceanComes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousandsOf care-encumbered men,Each bearing his burden of sorrow,Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long processionStill passing to and fro—The young heart hot and restless,And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever,As long as the river flows,As long as the heart has passions,As long as life has woes,
The moon and its broken reflectionAnd its shadow shall appear,As the symbol of love in heaven,And its wavering image here.
She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies,And all that’s best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes,Thus mellow’d to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the lessHad half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tressOr softly lightens o’er her face,Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek and o’er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glowBut tell of days in goodness spent—A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent.
Joseph Addison was born at Milston in 1672. He went to Queen’s College, Oxford; after he finished his course he traveled on the continent, studying for the diplomatic service. Returning, he held the position of Secretary of State, 1706–’8, and until a year of his death held different political positions. He wrote, besides his famous contributions to the Tatler, and Spectator, “The Campaign,” a treatise on Medals, a “Letter from Italy,” and one play worthy the name, “Cato.” He died at London in 1719.
The spacious firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal sky,And spangled heavens a shining frame,Their great Original proclaim.The unwearied sun, from day to day,Does his Creator’s power display,And publishes to every landThe work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevailThe moon takes up the wondrous tale,And nightly to the listening earthRepeats the story of her birth;Whilst all the stars that round her burn,And all the planets in their turnConfirm the tidings as they roll,And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence allMove round the dark terrestrial ball;What though no real voice nor soundAmidst their radiant orbs be found;In reason’s ear they all rejoiceAnd utter forth a glorious voice;Forever singing, as they shine,“The hand that made us is divine.”
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove;A maid whom there were none to praise,And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye!Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.
She lived unknown and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and, O,The difference to me!
Geoffrey Chaucer, often called the father of English verse, was born some time after 1340, served with Edward III. in the French campaigns and was imprisoned in France. He was on an embassy to Genoa in 1372, met Petrarch, and got from him the tale of Griselda and other Italian legends. On his return he occupied various positions of trust, principally of a diplomatic nature. His last days were spent in obscurity. He died in London in 1400, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. His “Canterbury Tales,” founded for the most part upon the same stories that Boccaccio and other writers had made famous in prose, are almost the first evidence of the influence of the Italian Renaissance upon English literature. He wrote many detached pieces as well, although his reputation rests largely upon the “Tales.” He had not only the true poetic instinct, but a deep knowledge and intense love of nature, and he gave a great inspiration to the writers of the golden age which followed his own. As Tennyson says of him in “A Dream of Fair Women:”
“Dan Chaucer,the first warbler whose sweet breathPreluded those melodious bursts that fillThe spacious times of great ElizabethWith sounds that echo still.”
“Dan Chaucer,the first warbler whose sweet breathPreluded those melodious bursts that fillThe spacious times of great ElizabethWith sounds that echo still.”
Have ye nat seyn som tyme a pale faceAmong a press, of hym that hath be ladToward his deeth, where as hym gat no grace?And swich a colour in his face hath had,Men myghte knowe his face that was bistad,Amonges alle the faces in that route;So stant Custance, and looketh hire aboute.O, queenes, lyvynge in prosperitee!Duchesses, and ladyes everichone!Haveth som routhe on hire adversitee.An Emperoures doghter stant allone;She hath no wight to whom to make hir mone!O, blood roial, that stondest in this drede,Fer been thy freendes at thy grete nede!This Alla, kyng, hath swich compassioun,As gentil herte is fulfild of pitee,That from hise eyen ran the water doun.“Now hastily do fecche a book,” quod he,“And if this knyght wol sweren how that sheThis womman slow, yet wol we us avyseWhom that we wole that shall been our justise.”A Briton book written with EvaungilesWas fet, and on this book he swore anoonShe gilty was, and in the meene whilesAn hand hym smoot upon the nekke boon,That doun he fil atones as a stoon;And bothe hise eyen broste out of his faceIn sighte of every body in that place!A voys was herd in general audienceAnd seyde, “Thou has desclaundred, giltlees,The doghter of hooly chirche in heigh presence;Thus hastou doon, and yet holde I my pees.”Of this mervaille agast was al the prees;As mazed folk they stoden everichone,For drede of wreche, save Custance allone.Greet was the drede, and eek the repentance,Of hem that hadden wronge suspeciounUpon this sely, innocent Custance;And for this miracle, in conclusion,And by Custance’s mediacioun,The Kyng, and many another in that placeConverted was—thanked be Christes grace!
It is in such poems as the following one that Herrick is at his best; his religious, or, as he called them, his “noble numbers,” being for the most part inferior. But in his lyrics, as Austin Dobson says, his “numbers are of gold.”
A sweet disorder in the dressKindles in clothes a wantonness;A lawn about the shoulders thrown,Into a fine distraction;An erring lace, which here and thereEnthralls the crimson stomacher;A cuff neglected, and therebyRibbands to flow confusedly;A winning wave, deserving note,In the tempestuous petticoat;A careless shoestring, in whose tieI see a wild civility;Doth more bewitch me than when artIs too precise in every part.
Oft in the stilly night,E’re slumber’s chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf another day around me:The smiles, the tears,Of boyhood’s years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shoneNow dimmed and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken.
When I remember allThe friends so linked together,I’ve seen around me fall,Like leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed.
Thus in the stilly night,E’re slumber’s chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
John Hay, Secretary of State, was born at Salem, Ind., on Oct. 8, 1838, and he was graduated at Brown twenty years later. He studied law in Springfield, Ill., and in 1861 became assistant secretary to President Lincoln. He saw some of the civil war as an aid-de-camp under Generals Hunter and Gilmore, with rank of Major and Assistant Adjutant General, Brevet Lieutenant Colonel and Colonel. He was First Assistant Secretary of Legation in Paris and in charge several times from 1865 to 1867, was diplomat in charge at Vienna 1867–’68, Secretary of Legation at Madrid 1868–’70, editorial writer for five years of the New York Tribune, First Assistant Secretary of State, and Ambassador to England. He is the author of “Pike County Ballads,” “Castillian Days,” and part author of a life of Lincoln, written in conjunction with John G. Nicolay.
Wall no! I can’t tell where he livesBecause he don’t live, you see;Leastways he’s got out of the habitOf livin’ like you and me.Whar have you been for the last three years,That you haven’t heard folks tellHow Jimmy Bludso passed in his checksThe night of the Prairie Belle?
He weren’t no saint—them engineersIs all pretty much alike—One wife in Natchez-Under-the-HillAnd another one here in Pike;A keerless man in his talk was Jim,And an awkward man in a row,But he never flunked and he never lied—I reckon he never knowed how.
And this was all the religion he had—To treat his engine well;Never be passed on the river;To mind the pilot’s bell;And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire—A thousand times he sworeHe’d hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last soul got ashore.
All boats has their day on the Mississipp,And her day come at last—The Movastar was a better boat,But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed,And so she come tearin’ along that night—The oldest craft on the line—With a nigger squat on her safety-valveAnd her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she clared the bar,And burnt a hole in the night,And quick as a flash she turned, and madeFor that willer bank on the right.There was runnin’ and cursin’, but Jim yelled out,Over all the infernal roar,“I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last galoot’s ashore.”
Through the hot, black breath of the burnin’ boatJim Bludso’s voice was heard,And they all had trust in his cussedness,And know’d he would keep his word,And, sure’s you’re born they all got offAfore the smokestacks fell—And Bludso’s ghost went up aloneIn the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He weren’t no saint—but at jedgmentI’d run my chance with Jim,’Longside of some pious gentlemenThat wouldn’t shook hands with him.He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing—And went for it thar and then;And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hardOn a man that died for men.
So, Lady Flora, take my lay,And if you find no moral there,Go, look in any glass and say,What moral is in being fair.Oh, to what uses shall we putThe wildweed-flower that simply blows?And is there any moral shutWithin the bosom of the rose?
But any man that walks the mead,In bud or blade, or bloom, may find,According as his humors lead,A meaning suited to his mind.And liberal applications lieIn Art like Nature, dearest friend;So ’twere to cramp its use, if IShould hook it to some useful end.