Charles James Lever was born at Dublin in 1806. He was a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, and afterwards became a physician, as well as a journalist, and the editor of the Dublin University Magazine. He was consul at Spezzia in 1858, and later at Trieste, where he died in 1872. His poems, when he did not try to be serious, are full of humor and rhythm. He wrote, among other novels, “Harry Lorrequer,” “Charles O’Malley,” and “Tom Burke of Ours.”
Did you hear of the Widow Malone,Ohone!Who lived in the town of Athlone,Alone?Oh! she melted the heartsOf the swains in them parts—So lovely the Widow Malone,Ohone!So lovely the Widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full scoreOr more;And fortunes they all had galore,In store;From the minister downTo the clerk of the crown,All were courting the Widow Malone,Ohone!All were courting the Widow Malone.
But so modest was Mistress Malone,’Twas knownThat no one could see her alone,Ohone!Let them ogle and sigh,They could ne’er catch her eye—So bashful the Widow Malone,Ohone!So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Misther O’Brien from Clare—How quare!It’s little for blushing they careDown there—Put his arm round her waist,Gave ten kisses at laste—“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone—My own!”“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”
And the widow they all thought so shy,My eye!Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh—For why?But, “Lucius,” says she,“Since you’ve now made so free,You may marry your Mary Malone,Ohone!You may marry your Mary Malone.”
There’s a moral contained in my song,Not wrong,And, one comfort, it’s not very long,But strong;If for widows you dieLearn to kiss, not to sigh,For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone!Ohone!Oh! they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone!
This poem, which has often been attributed to General “Stonewall” Jackson, was written by General Henry R. Jackson, a lawyer and diplomat, of Savannah, Ga.
The tattoo beats—the lights are gone,The camp around in slumber lies;The night with solemn pace moves on,The shadows thicken o’er the skies;But sleep my weary eyes hath flown,And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.
I think of thee, Oh, dearest one,Whose love my early life hath blest—Of thee and him—our baby son—Who slumbers on thy gentle breast.God of the tender, frail and lone,Oh, guard the tender sleeper’s rest.
And hover gently, hover near,To her, whose watchful eye is wet—To mother, wife—the doubly dear,In whose young heart have freshly metTwo streams of love so deep and clearAnd clear her drooping spirits yet.
Whatever fate those forms may show,Loved with a passion almost wild—By day—by night—in joy or woe—By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled,From every danger, every foe,O God! protect my wife and child!
Now, while she kneels before Thy throne,Oh, teach her, ruler of the skies,That, while by thy behest alone,Earth’s mightiest powers fall or rise,No tear is wept to Thee unknown,No hair is lost, no sparrow dies!
That Thou can’st stay the ruthless handsOf dark disease, and soothe its pain;That only by Thy stern commandThe battle’s lost, the soldier’s slain—That from the distant sea or landThou bring’st the wanderer home again.
And when upon her pillow loneHer tear-wet cheek is sadly prest,May happier visions beam uponThe brightening current of her breast,No frowning look nor angry toneDisturb the Sabbath of her rest.
Lowell was born at Cambridge, Mass., in 1819. He went to Harvard college and was Longfellow’s successor as professor of modern languages at the same college. From 1857–’62 he was editor of the Atlantic Monthly; in 1863–’72 he was editor of the North American Review. He held the office of United States minister, first to Spain–1877–’80—and later to Great Britain–1880–’85. Lowell died at Cambridge in 1891. Among his poems are the “Biglow Papers,” the “Vision of Sir Launfal,” “A Tale for Critics.” Some of his prose works are “Among My Books,” “My Study Windows,” and “Political Essays.”
It don’t seem hardly right, John,When both my hands was full,To stump me to a fight, John—Your cousin, tu, John Bull!Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guessWe know it now,” sez he;“The lion’s paw is all the law,According to J. B.,Thet’s fit for you an’ me!”
You wonder why we’re hot, John?Your mark wuz on the guns—The neutral guns, thet shot, John,Our brothers an’ our sons.Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guessThere’s human blood,” sez he,“By fits an’ starts, in Yankee hearts,Though’t may surprise J. B.More ’n it would you an’ me.”
When your rights was our wrongs, John,You didn’t stop for fuss—Britanny’s trident prongs, John,Was good ’nough law for us.Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess,Though physic’s good,” sez he,“It doesn’t foller thet he can swallerPrescriptions signed ‘J. B.’,Put up by you an’ me!”
We own the ocean, tu, John;You mus’n’t take it hard,Ef we can’t think with you, John,It’s jest your own back yard.Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess,Ef thet’s his claim,” sez he,“The fencin’ stuff’ll cost enoughTo bust up friend J. B.,Ez wal ez you an’ me!”
We know we’ve got a cause, John,Thet’s honest, just, an’ true;We thought ’twould win applause, John,Ef nowheres else, from you.Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guessHis love of right,” sez he,“Hangs by a rotten fibre o’ cotton;There’s natur’ in J. B.,Ez wal ez you an’ me!”
God means to make this land, John,Clear thru, from sea to sea,Believe an’ understand, John,The wuth o’ being free.Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guessGod’s price is high,” sez he;“But nothin’ else than wut he sellsWears long, an’ thet J. B.May larn, like you an’ me.”
To be, or not to be; that is the question;Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep:No more; and by a sleep to say we endThe heart-ache and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to; ’tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To die; to sleep;To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there’s the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause: there’s the respectThat makes calamity of so long life;For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,To grunt and sweat under a weary life,But that the dread of something after death—The undiscover’d country from whose bournNo traveler returns—puzzles the willAnd makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,And enterprises of great pith and momentWith this regard their currents turns awryAnd lose the name of action.
Whither, ’midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler’s eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.
* * *
There is a power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast—The desert and illimitable air—Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere.Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.
* * *
Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread aloneWill lead my steps aright.
William Haines Lytle was born at Cincinnati, O., in 1826, and died a hero’s death at Chickamauga in 1863. He enlisted in the Mexican war in 1846, and served with distinction. Afterwards he attained prominence as a lawyer and politician. When the civil war broke out he was appointed major general of volunteers. At Carnifex ferry he was desperately wounded, but recovered and took charge of a brigade. He was again wounded at Perryville and captured. Being exchanged, he was promoted to brigadier general and fought in many engagements till Sept. 29, 1863. His poems were never collected in book form. This one was written in 1857.
I am dying, Egypt, dying!Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,And the dark Plutonian shadowsGather on the evening blast.Let thine arms, O queen, enfold me;Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear.Listen to the great heart secretsThou, and thou alone, must hear.
Though my scarred and veteran legionsBear their eagles high no more,And my wrecked and scattered galleysStrew dark Actium’s fatal shore;Though no glittering guards surround me,Prompt to do their master’s will,I must perish like a Roman—Die the great Triumvir still!
Let no Cesar’s servile minionsMock the lion thus laid low;’Twas no foeman’s arm that felled him;’Twas his own that struck the blow—His who, pillowed on thy bosom,Turned aside from glory’s ray—His who, drunk with thy caresses,Madly threw a world away.
Should the base plebeian rabbleDare assail my name at Rome,Where my noble spouse, Octavia,Weeps within her widowed home,Seek her; say the gods bear witness—Altars, augurs, circling wings—That her blood with mine commingled,Yet shall mount the throne of kings.
As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian!Glorious sorceress of the Nile!Light the path to Stygian horrorsWith the splendors of thy smile.Give to Cæsar crowns and arches,Let his brow the laurel twine;I can scorn the senate’s triumphs,Triumphing in love like thine.
I am dying, Egypt, dying;Hark! the insulting foeman’s cry.They are coming—quick, my falchion!Let me front them ere I die.Ah! no more amid the battleShall my heart exulting swell;Isis and Osiris guard thee!Cleopatra—Rome—farewell!
The following poem was a particular favorite with Abraham Lincoln. It was first shown to him when a young man by a friend, and afterwards he cut it from a newspaper and learned it by heart. He said to a friend: “I would give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to ascertain.” He did afterwards learn the name of the author.
William Knox was a Scottish poet who was born in 1789 at Firth and died in 1825 at Edinburgh. His “Lonely Hearth and Other Poems” was published in 1818, and “The Songs of Israel,” from which “O, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud” is taken, in 1824. Sir Walter Scott was an admirer of Knox’s poems, and befriended the author when his habits brought him into need.
O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,Be scattered around, and together be laid;As the young and the old, the low and the high,Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,The mother that infant’s affection who proved,The father that mother and infant who blest—Each, all, are away to that dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye,Shone beauty and pleasure—her triumphs are by;And alike from the minds of the living erasedAre the memories of mortals who loved her and praised.
The head of the King, that the scepter hath borne;The brow of the priest, that the miter hath worn;The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave—Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread—Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed,That withers away to let others succeed;So the multitude comes, even those we behold,To repeat every tale that has often been told.
For we are the same our fathers have been;We see the same sights our fathers have seen;We drink the same stream, we see the same sun,And run the same course our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers did think;From the death we are shrinking our fathers did shrink;To the life we are clinging our fathers did cling,But it speeds from us all like the bird on the wing.
They loved—but the story we cannot unfold;They scorned—but the heart of the haughty is cold;They grieved—but no wail from their slumbers will come;They joyed—but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died—ah! they died—we, things that are now,That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,And make in their dwelling a transient abode,Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,Are mingled together in sunshine and rain,And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,Still follow each other like surge upon surge.
’Tis the wink of an eye; ’tis the draught of a breath,From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud;O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Charles Kingsley was born in Devonshire in 1819; he died in 1875. His poetical works consist of “The Saint’s Tragedy” and “Andromeda and Other Poems.”
Three fishers went sailing out into the West,Out into the West as the sun went down;Each thought on the woman who loved him the best;And the children stood watching them out of the town;For men must work and women must weep,And there’s little to earn, and many to keep;Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;They looked at the squall and they looked at the shower,And the rack it came rolling up ragged and brown!But men must work and women must weep,Though storms be sudden and waters deep,And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sandsIn the morning gleam as the tide went down,And the women are weeping and wringing their handsFor those who will never come back to the town;For men must work and women must weep,And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep—And good-by to the bar and its moaning.
Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praisedIn the city of our God, in the mountain of his holiness,Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth,Is Mount Zion, on the sides of the north, the city of the great King.God is known in her palaces for a refuge,For, lo, the kings were assembled,They passed by together.They saw it and so they marveled;They were troubled, and hasted away.Fear took hold upon them there,And pain, as of a woman in travail.Thou breakest the ships of Tarshish with an east wind,As we have heard, so have we seenIn the city of the Lord of hosts, in the city of our God;God will establish it forever.We have thought of thy loving-kindness, O God,In the midst of thy temple.According to thy name, O God,So is thy praise unto the ends of the earth;Thy right hand is full of righteousness.Let Mount Zion rejoice,Let the daughters of Judah be glad, because of thy judgments.Walk about Zion, and go round about her;Tell the towers thereof.Mark ye well her bulwarks, consider her palaces;That ye may tell it to the generation following.For this God is our God for ever and ever;He will be our guide even unto death.
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!Where burning Sappho loved and sung,Where grew the arts of war and peace—Where Delos rose and Phœbus sprung!Eternal summer gilds them yet,But all except their sun, is set.
The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea;And, musing there an hour alone,I dream’d that Greece might still be free;For standing on the Persians’ graveI could not deem myself a slave.
A King sate on the rocky browWhich looks o’er sea-born Salamis;And ships, by thousands, lay below,And men in nations—all were his!He counted them at break of day—And when the sun set where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou,My country? On thy voiceless shoreThe heroic lay is tuneless now—The heroic bosom beats no more!And must thy lyre, so long divine,Degenerate into hands like mine?
Must we but weep o’er days more blest?Must we but blush? Our father’s bled.Earth! render back from out thy breastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three,To make a new Thermopylæ!
In vain—in vain: strike other chords;Fill high the cup with Samian wine!Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,And shed the blood of Scio’s vine!Hark! rising to the ignoble call—How answers each bold Bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?Of two such lessons, why forgetThe nobler and the manlier one?You have the letters Cadmus gave—Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!Our virgins dance beneath the shade—I see their glorious black eyes shine!But gazing on each glowing maid,My own the burning tear-drop laves,To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunium’s marbled steepWhere nothing, save the waves and I,May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;There, swan-like, let me sing and die:A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine—Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
PAGE
Abou Ben Adhem
Leigh Hunt
107
All
Francis A. Durivage
160
Althea from Prison, To
Richard Lovelace
98
Annabel Lee
Edgar Allan Poe
178
Antony and Cleopatra
William H. Lytle
226
Arsenal at Springfield, The
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
158
Babyhood
Josiah Gilbert Holland
40
Ballade of Nicolete
Graham R. Tomson
78
Ballad of Old-Time Ladies
Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s version of Villon
128
Ballad of the Boat, The
Richard Garnett
172
Ballad Upon a Wedding
Sir John Suckling
192
Banks o’ Doon
Robert Burns
76
Bedouin Love Song
Bayard Taylor
67
Believe Me If All Those
Thomas Moore
101
Bells of Shandon
Francis Mahony
196
Bonny Dundee
Sir Walter Scott
167
Border Ballad
Sir Walter Scott
169
Break, Break, Break
Lord Tennyson
24
Breathes There a Man
Sir Walter Scott
104
Bridge, The
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
55
Bugle Song
Lord Tennyson
108
Celia, To
Ben Jonson
187
Chambered Nautilus
Oliver Wendell Holmes
87
Cherry Ripe
Thomas Campion
36
Children, Cry of The
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
106
Church Gate, At the
William Makepeace Thackeray
92
Crossing the Bar
Lord Tennyson
193
Cuckoo, To the
John Logan
94
Daffodils, The
William Wordsworth
162
Dandelion, To the
James Russell Lowell
170
Dante, On A Bust of
T. W. Parsons
126
Death-Bed, The
Thomas Hood
33
Deed and a Word, A
Charles Mackay
47
Delight in Disorder
Robert Herrick
62
Dirge for a Soldier
George H. Boker
53
Ditty, A
Sir Philip Sidney
118
Douglas, Douglas, Tender and True
Dinah Maria Mulock
149
Drifting
Thomas Buchanan Read
50
Elia
E. J. McPhelim
70
Emperor’s Daughter Stands Alone, An
Geoffrey Chaucer
60
Evening Song
Sidney Lanier
54
Faith
Thomas Chatterton
144
Fate
Susan Marr Spalding
22
Flynn of Virginia
Bret Harte
204
Fool’s Prayer, The
Edward Rowland Sill
28
For All These
Juliet Wilbor Tompkins
45
Fount of Castaly
Joseph O’Connor
142
Garret, The
William Makepeace Thackeray
198
Girdle, On a
Edmund Waller
199
Go, Lovely Rose
Edmund Waller
82
Grass, The
Emily Dickinson
217
Graveyard, In the
Macdonald Clarke
166
Grounds of the Terrible
Harold Begbie
164
Hark, Hark the Lark
William Shakespeare
71
Harp That Once Through Tara’s Halls
Thomas Moore
195
He’d Had No Show
S. W. Foss
93
Heritage, The
James Russell Lowell
116
Her Moral (Miss Kilmanseg)
Thomas Hood
95
Highland Mary
Robert Burns
152
Holy Nation, A
Richard Realf
23
Indian Serenade
Percy Bysshe Shelley
141
Indian Summer
John G. Whittier
181
“In Memoriam”
Lord Tennyson
121
Intra Muros
Mary C. Gillington
21
Invictus
W. E. Henley
131
I Remember
Thomas Hood
123
Isles of Greece
Lord Byron
232
Jerusalem the Golden
John M. Neale
183
Jim Bludso
John Hay
64
John Anderson, My Jo
Robert Burns
185
Jonathan to John
James Russell Lowell
222
June
James Russell Lowell
194
Kubla Kahn
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
190
Lamb, The
William Blake
153
Last Leaf, The
Oliver Wendell Holmes
84
Lead Kindly Light
John Henry Newman
72
Life
Mrs. A. L. Barbauld
161
Little Breeches
John Hay
202
Lovers’ Quarrel, A
Austin Dobson
188
Lucasta on Going to the Wars, To
Richard Lovelace
35
Lucy
William Wordsworth
59
Maid of Athens
Lord Byron
186
Mary’s Dream
John Lowe
124
Match, A
Algernon Charles Swinburne
137
Mignon’s Song
Johann Wolfgang Goethe
110
Misconceptions
Robert Browning
184
Moral (“Lady Flora”)
Lord Tennyson
66
Music, When Soft Voices Die
Percy Bysshe Shelley
133
My Boat Is on the Shore
Lord Byron
180
My Wife and Child
Henry R. Jackson
220
Nathan Hale
Francis Miles Finch
212
Nearer Home
Phoebe Cary
174
Night
James Blanco White
79
Night Has a Thousand Eyes, The
Francis Williams Bourdillon
115
Nocturne
Thomas Bailey Aldrich
210
O, Captain, My Captain
Walt Whitman
38
Ode on a Grecian Urn
John Keats
97
Ode on Solitude
Alexander Pope
103
Oft in the Stilly Night
Thomas Moore
63
Old Familiar Faces, The
Charles Lamb
18
Old Oaken Bucket
Samuel Woodworth
86
One Touch of Nature
William Shakespeare
89
Opportunity
John James Ingalls
109
O, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud?
William Knox
228
O, Yet We Trust that Somehow Good (“In Memoriam”)
Lord Tennyson
121
Patriotism
Sir Walter Scott
104
Paradox of Time, The
Austin Dobson
208
Pompadour’s Fan, The
Austin Dobson
75
Portia’s Speech on Mercy
William Shakespeare
207
Psalm XIX
74
Psalm XXIV
155
Psalm XLVI
44
Psalm XLVIII
231
Psalm LXXXIV
111
Psalm CXXI
119
Remembrance
Emily Bronte
42
Requiem, A
Robert Louis Stevenson
90
Requiescat
Matthew Arnold
90
Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep
Emma Willard
105
Rock Me to Sleep
Elizabeth Akers Allen
30
Rose, The
Pierre Ronsard
143
Ruthless Time
William Shakespeare
46
Sally in Our Alley
Henry Carey
68
Scots Wha Hae
Robert Burns
182
Sea Song, A
Allan Cunningham
134
Self-Dependence
Matthew Arnold
156
Sennacherib’s Host, Destruction of
Lord Byron
32
Serenade (From “The Spanish Student”)
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
96
Shepherdess, The
Alice Meynell
130
Shepherd’s Resolution, The
George Wither
80
She Walks in Beauty Like the Night
Lord Byron
57
Sleep, To
William Wordsworth
17
Song
John Bunyan
100
Song
William Shakespeare
71
Song of Callicles
Matthew Arnold
214
Song of the Camp
Bayard Taylor
146
Song of the Mystic
Abram Ryan
81
Song of the Shirt
Thomas Hood
85
Song of the Western Men
Robert S. Hawker
129
Song on a May Morning
John Milton
163
Society Upon the Stanislaus
Bret Harte
210
Spacious Firmament on High, The
Joseph Addison
58
Star Spangled Banner, The
Francis Scott Key
120
Tears, Idle Tears (“Princess”)
Lord Tennyson
151
Thalassa, Thalassa
Brownlee Brown
140
Thanatopsis
William Cullen Bryant
112
There Is No Death
J. L. McCreery
25
Though Lost to Sight
Thomas Moore
20
Three Fishers, The
Charles Kingsley
230
Tiger, The
William Blake
176
Time Hath My Lord (“Troilus and Cressida”)
William Shakespeare
46
’Tis the Last Rose of Summer
Thomas Moore
132
To Be or Not to Be (“Hamlet”)
William Shakespeare
224
Today
Thomas Carlyle
179
Tomorrow and Tomorrow (“Macbeth”)
William Shakespeare
200
To Thine Own Self Be True
Packenham Beatty
37
Two Lovers
George Eliot
48
Untimely Thought, An
Thomas Bailey Aldrich
73
Uphill
Christina Rossetti
148
Virgins, Counsel to
Robert Herrick
138
Virtue Immortal
George Herbert
34
Waiting, The
John G. Whittier
136
Warble for Lilac Time
Walt Whitman
206
Water Fowl, To a
William Cullen Bryant
225
When in Disgrace with Fortune
William Shakespeare
19
Where Shall the Lover Rest? (“Marmion”)
Sir Walter Scott
216
Why So Pale and Wan?
Sir John Suckling
39
Widow Malone, The
Charles Lever
218
World Is Too Much With Us, The
William Wordsworth
102
Year’s at the Spring, The
Robert Browning
135