ON PLUCKING A CROCUS.Sweet Crocus! harbinger of spring,Awake, with others sleeping,How have I wrecked thy new-born lifeAnd set thy parent weeping!See! sad her weeping eyes upturning,Adrip with love for thee,And arms outstretched implore thy slayerThat thou’lt returnéd be.Alas! in vain her tears must flow,Her palms implore the youthWho pluckéd thee from out her heartAnd set in his such ruth.I cannot give thee back—I wouldI might! I’d send thee thither;It grieveth me to see her weep,To know that thou shalt wither.My heart ne’er tho’t when thee I plucked,For thou not yet hadst won it,How much I took, how little gave—I would I had not done it.Lift up thy drooping head again—I would the word would do it!—Make me not weep for plucking thee;Thou know’st how much I rue it.Thy pure and purple-tinted petals,Thy open lily-lips,Thy olden-golden anthered stamensThy saffron pistil-tips!—Would I could here embalm them allAnd wrap in verses meetSo that thou’dst be, when years should roll,To others just as sweet!Envoy.’Tis thus, O soul-inspired poet,The world shall greet thy song—Shall pluck it from thy throbbing soulTo die amidst the throng.And thus, O plucker of the crocus,Shall Death come unto thee—Shall pluck thee from thy mother’s heart,Shall thy embalmer be.So may’st thou live and do and beThat Death, with riches rife,Shall be thy welcome harbinger,—The crocus of thy life.
Sweet Crocus! harbinger of spring,Awake, with others sleeping,How have I wrecked thy new-born lifeAnd set thy parent weeping!See! sad her weeping eyes upturning,Adrip with love for thee,And arms outstretched implore thy slayerThat thou’lt returnéd be.Alas! in vain her tears must flow,Her palms implore the youthWho pluckéd thee from out her heartAnd set in his such ruth.I cannot give thee back—I wouldI might! I’d send thee thither;It grieveth me to see her weep,To know that thou shalt wither.My heart ne’er tho’t when thee I plucked,For thou not yet hadst won it,How much I took, how little gave—I would I had not done it.Lift up thy drooping head again—I would the word would do it!—Make me not weep for plucking thee;Thou know’st how much I rue it.Thy pure and purple-tinted petals,Thy open lily-lips,Thy olden-golden anthered stamensThy saffron pistil-tips!—Would I could here embalm them allAnd wrap in verses meetSo that thou’dst be, when years should roll,To others just as sweet!Envoy.’Tis thus, O soul-inspired poet,The world shall greet thy song—Shall pluck it from thy throbbing soulTo die amidst the throng.And thus, O plucker of the crocus,Shall Death come unto thee—Shall pluck thee from thy mother’s heart,Shall thy embalmer be.So may’st thou live and do and beThat Death, with riches rife,Shall be thy welcome harbinger,—The crocus of thy life.
Sweet Crocus! harbinger of spring,Awake, with others sleeping,How have I wrecked thy new-born lifeAnd set thy parent weeping!
Sweet Crocus! harbinger of spring,
Awake, with others sleeping,
How have I wrecked thy new-born life
And set thy parent weeping!
See! sad her weeping eyes upturning,Adrip with love for thee,And arms outstretched implore thy slayerThat thou’lt returnéd be.
See! sad her weeping eyes upturning,
Adrip with love for thee,
And arms outstretched implore thy slayer
That thou’lt returnéd be.
Alas! in vain her tears must flow,Her palms implore the youthWho pluckéd thee from out her heartAnd set in his such ruth.
Alas! in vain her tears must flow,
Her palms implore the youth
Who pluckéd thee from out her heart
And set in his such ruth.
I cannot give thee back—I wouldI might! I’d send thee thither;It grieveth me to see her weep,To know that thou shalt wither.
I cannot give thee back—I would
I might! I’d send thee thither;
It grieveth me to see her weep,
To know that thou shalt wither.
My heart ne’er tho’t when thee I plucked,For thou not yet hadst won it,How much I took, how little gave—I would I had not done it.
My heart ne’er tho’t when thee I plucked,
For thou not yet hadst won it,
How much I took, how little gave—
I would I had not done it.
Lift up thy drooping head again—I would the word would do it!—Make me not weep for plucking thee;Thou know’st how much I rue it.
Lift up thy drooping head again—
I would the word would do it!—
Make me not weep for plucking thee;
Thou know’st how much I rue it.
Thy pure and purple-tinted petals,Thy open lily-lips,Thy olden-golden anthered stamensThy saffron pistil-tips!—
Thy pure and purple-tinted petals,
Thy open lily-lips,
Thy olden-golden anthered stamens
Thy saffron pistil-tips!—
Would I could here embalm them allAnd wrap in verses meetSo that thou’dst be, when years should roll,To others just as sweet!
Would I could here embalm them all
And wrap in verses meet
So that thou’dst be, when years should roll,
To others just as sweet!
’Tis thus, O soul-inspired poet,The world shall greet thy song—Shall pluck it from thy throbbing soulTo die amidst the throng.
’Tis thus, O soul-inspired poet,
The world shall greet thy song—
Shall pluck it from thy throbbing soul
To die amidst the throng.
And thus, O plucker of the crocus,Shall Death come unto thee—Shall pluck thee from thy mother’s heart,Shall thy embalmer be.
And thus, O plucker of the crocus,
Shall Death come unto thee—
Shall pluck thee from thy mother’s heart,
Shall thy embalmer be.
So may’st thou live and do and beThat Death, with riches rife,Shall be thy welcome harbinger,—The crocus of thy life.
So may’st thou live and do and be
That Death, with riches rife,
Shall be thy welcome harbinger,—
The crocus of thy life.
GRAVITY—LIFE!(After Browning—several miles after.)Gravity—what?Attraction we call it,Yet mind cannot thrall it—Where is it not?Life of world-stuff—truly it is!—Life then of man?—His, and not his!’Tis of all matter; thus ’tis of man;’Tis of all space, and spans the world’s span.Matter, man! Gravity, life!—Each fits to each; with the other at strife.Life? It is—what?Who can explain it?Mind cannot chain it—God! how ’tis wrought!
Gravity—what?Attraction we call it,Yet mind cannot thrall it—Where is it not?Life of world-stuff—truly it is!—Life then of man?—His, and not his!’Tis of all matter; thus ’tis of man;’Tis of all space, and spans the world’s span.Matter, man! Gravity, life!—Each fits to each; with the other at strife.Life? It is—what?Who can explain it?Mind cannot chain it—God! how ’tis wrought!
Gravity—what?Attraction we call it,Yet mind cannot thrall it—Where is it not?Life of world-stuff—truly it is!—Life then of man?—His, and not his!’Tis of all matter; thus ’tis of man;’Tis of all space, and spans the world’s span.Matter, man! Gravity, life!—Each fits to each; with the other at strife.Life? It is—what?Who can explain it?Mind cannot chain it—God! how ’tis wrought!
Gravity—what?
Attraction we call it,
Yet mind cannot thrall it—
Where is it not?
Life of world-stuff—truly it is!
—Life then of man?—His, and not his!
’Tis of all matter; thus ’tis of man;
’Tis of all space, and spans the world’s span.
Matter, man! Gravity, life!
—Each fits to each; with the other at strife.
Life? It is—what?
Who can explain it?
Mind cannot chain it—
God! how ’tis wrought!
DEATH—LIFE.Sadly o’er the moor I fare,Lonely, lonely all the day;Life nor leaf nor song is there;Barren, barren all the way.Sun and spring and hope are bright,Sweetly, sweetly dreaming there;Life will wake with love and light,Joyous, joyous everywhere.
Sadly o’er the moor I fare,Lonely, lonely all the day;Life nor leaf nor song is there;Barren, barren all the way.Sun and spring and hope are bright,Sweetly, sweetly dreaming there;Life will wake with love and light,Joyous, joyous everywhere.
Sadly o’er the moor I fare,Lonely, lonely all the day;Life nor leaf nor song is there;Barren, barren all the way.
Sadly o’er the moor I fare,
Lonely, lonely all the day;
Life nor leaf nor song is there;
Barren, barren all the way.
Sun and spring and hope are bright,Sweetly, sweetly dreaming there;Life will wake with love and light,Joyous, joyous everywhere.
Sun and spring and hope are bright,
Sweetly, sweetly dreaming there;
Life will wake with love and light,
Joyous, joyous everywhere.
HOT?—WELL, RATHER!The sun come peekin’ crost the hillsWith round, red, shinin’, smilin’ faceThat broadened to a grin from earTo ear,—a most perdigeous space!Then he showed his teeth an’ slapped his sidesAn’ laughed an’ shook with all his mightTo think how ’tarnal hot ’t’ould beFer us a-sittin’ still ’fore night.’Twas “purty warm this mornin’” ’fore’Twas eight o’clock; an’ then ’twas found“Quite warm”; then “hot”, an’ “awful hot”Before the minute-hand’s tenth round.At twelve ’twas “b’ilin’ hot”, and yetNo stop; ’twas “meltin’ hot” at two;All said, “I’m dyin’ with the heat!”—“The hottest day I ever knew!”Why, stalks of corn that mornin’ growedFull two foot—ears pupo’tional;An’ then, ’fore night, ’twas dry an’ ripeLike when you shuck it in the fall.The steeples on the churches allWas drawed to more’n three times their height,An’ lightnin’-rods was stretched to wireThat melted off like wax ’fore night.The weather-boardin’ all warped offAn’ shingles rolled in little tubes;Big saw-logs doubled up in bows,An’ water crystallized in cubes.The hoops of barrels tumbled offAn’ wagon-tires follered suit;The forests growed so awful fastThey all was pulled up by the root.Men melted in the harvest-fieldAn’ fried to cracklin’s light as chaff,A-sizzlin’ in a way that madeOld Nickie chuck hisse’f an’ laugh!In one big city, folks all diedBut Smith (Sid. Smith). This chap took offHis flesh an’ lolled ’round in his bones(But it killed him;—caught cold, and died of a cough).I can’t begin to tell how hotIt was—it can’t be even guessed.It’s still so all-infernal hotI can’t begin to try to rest.
The sun come peekin’ crost the hillsWith round, red, shinin’, smilin’ faceThat broadened to a grin from earTo ear,—a most perdigeous space!Then he showed his teeth an’ slapped his sidesAn’ laughed an’ shook with all his mightTo think how ’tarnal hot ’t’ould beFer us a-sittin’ still ’fore night.’Twas “purty warm this mornin’” ’fore’Twas eight o’clock; an’ then ’twas found“Quite warm”; then “hot”, an’ “awful hot”Before the minute-hand’s tenth round.At twelve ’twas “b’ilin’ hot”, and yetNo stop; ’twas “meltin’ hot” at two;All said, “I’m dyin’ with the heat!”—“The hottest day I ever knew!”Why, stalks of corn that mornin’ growedFull two foot—ears pupo’tional;An’ then, ’fore night, ’twas dry an’ ripeLike when you shuck it in the fall.The steeples on the churches allWas drawed to more’n three times their height,An’ lightnin’-rods was stretched to wireThat melted off like wax ’fore night.The weather-boardin’ all warped offAn’ shingles rolled in little tubes;Big saw-logs doubled up in bows,An’ water crystallized in cubes.The hoops of barrels tumbled offAn’ wagon-tires follered suit;The forests growed so awful fastThey all was pulled up by the root.Men melted in the harvest-fieldAn’ fried to cracklin’s light as chaff,A-sizzlin’ in a way that madeOld Nickie chuck hisse’f an’ laugh!In one big city, folks all diedBut Smith (Sid. Smith). This chap took offHis flesh an’ lolled ’round in his bones(But it killed him;—caught cold, and died of a cough).I can’t begin to tell how hotIt was—it can’t be even guessed.It’s still so all-infernal hotI can’t begin to try to rest.
The sun come peekin’ crost the hillsWith round, red, shinin’, smilin’ faceThat broadened to a grin from earTo ear,—a most perdigeous space!
The sun come peekin’ crost the hills
With round, red, shinin’, smilin’ face
That broadened to a grin from ear
To ear,—a most perdigeous space!
Then he showed his teeth an’ slapped his sidesAn’ laughed an’ shook with all his mightTo think how ’tarnal hot ’t’ould beFer us a-sittin’ still ’fore night.
Then he showed his teeth an’ slapped his sides
An’ laughed an’ shook with all his might
To think how ’tarnal hot ’t’ould be
Fer us a-sittin’ still ’fore night.
’Twas “purty warm this mornin’” ’fore’Twas eight o’clock; an’ then ’twas found“Quite warm”; then “hot”, an’ “awful hot”Before the minute-hand’s tenth round.
’Twas “purty warm this mornin’” ’fore
’Twas eight o’clock; an’ then ’twas found
“Quite warm”; then “hot”, an’ “awful hot”
Before the minute-hand’s tenth round.
At twelve ’twas “b’ilin’ hot”, and yetNo stop; ’twas “meltin’ hot” at two;All said, “I’m dyin’ with the heat!”—“The hottest day I ever knew!”
At twelve ’twas “b’ilin’ hot”, and yet
No stop; ’twas “meltin’ hot” at two;
All said, “I’m dyin’ with the heat!”—
“The hottest day I ever knew!”
Why, stalks of corn that mornin’ growedFull two foot—ears pupo’tional;An’ then, ’fore night, ’twas dry an’ ripeLike when you shuck it in the fall.
Why, stalks of corn that mornin’ growed
Full two foot—ears pupo’tional;
An’ then, ’fore night, ’twas dry an’ ripe
Like when you shuck it in the fall.
The steeples on the churches allWas drawed to more’n three times their height,An’ lightnin’-rods was stretched to wireThat melted off like wax ’fore night.
The steeples on the churches all
Was drawed to more’n three times their height,
An’ lightnin’-rods was stretched to wire
That melted off like wax ’fore night.
The weather-boardin’ all warped offAn’ shingles rolled in little tubes;Big saw-logs doubled up in bows,An’ water crystallized in cubes.
The weather-boardin’ all warped off
An’ shingles rolled in little tubes;
Big saw-logs doubled up in bows,
An’ water crystallized in cubes.
The hoops of barrels tumbled offAn’ wagon-tires follered suit;The forests growed so awful fastThey all was pulled up by the root.
The hoops of barrels tumbled off
An’ wagon-tires follered suit;
The forests growed so awful fast
They all was pulled up by the root.
Men melted in the harvest-fieldAn’ fried to cracklin’s light as chaff,A-sizzlin’ in a way that madeOld Nickie chuck hisse’f an’ laugh!
Men melted in the harvest-field
An’ fried to cracklin’s light as chaff,
A-sizzlin’ in a way that made
Old Nickie chuck hisse’f an’ laugh!
In one big city, folks all diedBut Smith (Sid. Smith). This chap took offHis flesh an’ lolled ’round in his bones(But it killed him;—caught cold, and died of a cough).
In one big city, folks all died
But Smith (Sid. Smith). This chap took off
His flesh an’ lolled ’round in his bones
(But it killed him;—caught cold, and died of a cough).
I can’t begin to tell how hotIt was—it can’t be even guessed.It’s still so all-infernal hotI can’t begin to try to rest.
I can’t begin to tell how hot
It was—it can’t be even guessed.
It’s still so all-infernal hot
I can’t begin to try to rest.
A YEAR AGO.A year agoI held the fondest hopesThat ever touched the fondest heart,Nor dreamed that I should ever partFrom all that fancy opes,A year ago.A year ago!—Sweet mem’ry’s golden chime!—A flower bloomed beneath my sillAnd by its soft, enchanting smellI lost all count of timeA year ago.A year agoI slept a bed of peaceBeneath the stars of summer skiesWhile dreams like dews o’erdropt my eyesThat this should never cease—A year ago!A year agoMy morning-glory vine,Soft whispering with the wings of bees,Foretold that whisperings like theseShould endlessly be mine—A year ago!A year agoThe sun light-kissed the moon,Glad skies upon the sweet lake hung,And mingled Life and Love and SongRode near their highest noon—A year ago.A year ago!—Then, then each sister vineUpon a brother sweetly leaned:Thus we, Dear Heart, ourselves demeanedWhen Love had made you mineA year ago.A year ago’Twas Love from sun to sun:To-day I fold you to my heartAnd know that nought but death can partThe love and life begunA year ago.
A year agoI held the fondest hopesThat ever touched the fondest heart,Nor dreamed that I should ever partFrom all that fancy opes,A year ago.A year ago!—Sweet mem’ry’s golden chime!—A flower bloomed beneath my sillAnd by its soft, enchanting smellI lost all count of timeA year ago.A year agoI slept a bed of peaceBeneath the stars of summer skiesWhile dreams like dews o’erdropt my eyesThat this should never cease—A year ago!A year agoMy morning-glory vine,Soft whispering with the wings of bees,Foretold that whisperings like theseShould endlessly be mine—A year ago!A year agoThe sun light-kissed the moon,Glad skies upon the sweet lake hung,And mingled Life and Love and SongRode near their highest noon—A year ago.A year ago!—Then, then each sister vineUpon a brother sweetly leaned:Thus we, Dear Heart, ourselves demeanedWhen Love had made you mineA year ago.A year ago’Twas Love from sun to sun:To-day I fold you to my heartAnd know that nought but death can partThe love and life begunA year ago.
A year agoI held the fondest hopesThat ever touched the fondest heart,Nor dreamed that I should ever partFrom all that fancy opes,A year ago.
A year ago
I held the fondest hopes
That ever touched the fondest heart,
Nor dreamed that I should ever part
From all that fancy opes,
A year ago.
A year ago!—Sweet mem’ry’s golden chime!—A flower bloomed beneath my sillAnd by its soft, enchanting smellI lost all count of timeA year ago.
A year ago!—
Sweet mem’ry’s golden chime!—
A flower bloomed beneath my sill
And by its soft, enchanting smell
I lost all count of time
A year ago.
A year agoI slept a bed of peaceBeneath the stars of summer skiesWhile dreams like dews o’erdropt my eyesThat this should never cease—A year ago!
A year ago
I slept a bed of peace
Beneath the stars of summer skies
While dreams like dews o’erdropt my eyes
That this should never cease—
A year ago!
A year agoMy morning-glory vine,Soft whispering with the wings of bees,Foretold that whisperings like theseShould endlessly be mine—A year ago!
A year ago
My morning-glory vine,
Soft whispering with the wings of bees,
Foretold that whisperings like these
Should endlessly be mine—
A year ago!
A year agoThe sun light-kissed the moon,Glad skies upon the sweet lake hung,And mingled Life and Love and SongRode near their highest noon—A year ago.
A year ago
The sun light-kissed the moon,
Glad skies upon the sweet lake hung,
And mingled Life and Love and Song
Rode near their highest noon—
A year ago.
A year ago!—Then, then each sister vineUpon a brother sweetly leaned:Thus we, Dear Heart, ourselves demeanedWhen Love had made you mineA year ago.
A year ago!—
Then, then each sister vine
Upon a brother sweetly leaned:
Thus we, Dear Heart, ourselves demeaned
When Love had made you mine
A year ago.
A year ago’Twas Love from sun to sun:To-day I fold you to my heartAnd know that nought but death can partThe love and life begunA year ago.
A year ago
’Twas Love from sun to sun:
To-day I fold you to my heart
And know that nought but death can part
The love and life begun
A year ago.
THE SWEETEST OF ALL.There are tears of pity and tears of woe,And tears half of rapture and pain will fall;And tears for excess of joy must flow,But the tears of love are the sweetest of all.There’s the sorrow of husband, the sorrow of wife,And the sorrow that knows no recall;The sorrow of death and the sorrow of life,But the sorrow of love is the sweetest of all.Oh the sighs of remorse and the sighs of painAnd the sighs of hope that the heart enthrallMay be sweet to the soul and balm to the brain,But the sighs of love are the sweetest of all.There’s the laugh of the farm-boy, free and wild,The laugh in the boisterous banqueting hall;The laugh of the sage, the laugh of the child,But the laugh of love is the sweetest of all.There are smiles of contentment and smiles of cheerAnd smiles that gladden wherever they fall;There are smiles that banish the thoughts of fear,But the smiles of love are the sweetest of all.There’s the kiss sweet-blown from the finger tips,The kiss of good-bye when the tear-drops fall;There’s the kiss of a cherishing mother’s lips,But the kiss of love is the sweetest of all.There are songs that sing in a minor key,And songs that the listening heart appall;There are songs that sing like the constant sea,But the songs of love are the sweetest of all.
There are tears of pity and tears of woe,And tears half of rapture and pain will fall;And tears for excess of joy must flow,But the tears of love are the sweetest of all.There’s the sorrow of husband, the sorrow of wife,And the sorrow that knows no recall;The sorrow of death and the sorrow of life,But the sorrow of love is the sweetest of all.Oh the sighs of remorse and the sighs of painAnd the sighs of hope that the heart enthrallMay be sweet to the soul and balm to the brain,But the sighs of love are the sweetest of all.There’s the laugh of the farm-boy, free and wild,The laugh in the boisterous banqueting hall;The laugh of the sage, the laugh of the child,But the laugh of love is the sweetest of all.There are smiles of contentment and smiles of cheerAnd smiles that gladden wherever they fall;There are smiles that banish the thoughts of fear,But the smiles of love are the sweetest of all.There’s the kiss sweet-blown from the finger tips,The kiss of good-bye when the tear-drops fall;There’s the kiss of a cherishing mother’s lips,But the kiss of love is the sweetest of all.There are songs that sing in a minor key,And songs that the listening heart appall;There are songs that sing like the constant sea,But the songs of love are the sweetest of all.
There are tears of pity and tears of woe,And tears half of rapture and pain will fall;And tears for excess of joy must flow,But the tears of love are the sweetest of all.
There are tears of pity and tears of woe,
And tears half of rapture and pain will fall;
And tears for excess of joy must flow,
But the tears of love are the sweetest of all.
There’s the sorrow of husband, the sorrow of wife,And the sorrow that knows no recall;The sorrow of death and the sorrow of life,But the sorrow of love is the sweetest of all.
There’s the sorrow of husband, the sorrow of wife,
And the sorrow that knows no recall;
The sorrow of death and the sorrow of life,
But the sorrow of love is the sweetest of all.
Oh the sighs of remorse and the sighs of painAnd the sighs of hope that the heart enthrallMay be sweet to the soul and balm to the brain,But the sighs of love are the sweetest of all.
Oh the sighs of remorse and the sighs of pain
And the sighs of hope that the heart enthrall
May be sweet to the soul and balm to the brain,
But the sighs of love are the sweetest of all.
There’s the laugh of the farm-boy, free and wild,The laugh in the boisterous banqueting hall;The laugh of the sage, the laugh of the child,But the laugh of love is the sweetest of all.
There’s the laugh of the farm-boy, free and wild,
The laugh in the boisterous banqueting hall;
The laugh of the sage, the laugh of the child,
But the laugh of love is the sweetest of all.
There are smiles of contentment and smiles of cheerAnd smiles that gladden wherever they fall;There are smiles that banish the thoughts of fear,But the smiles of love are the sweetest of all.
There are smiles of contentment and smiles of cheer
And smiles that gladden wherever they fall;
There are smiles that banish the thoughts of fear,
But the smiles of love are the sweetest of all.
There’s the kiss sweet-blown from the finger tips,The kiss of good-bye when the tear-drops fall;There’s the kiss of a cherishing mother’s lips,But the kiss of love is the sweetest of all.
There’s the kiss sweet-blown from the finger tips,
The kiss of good-bye when the tear-drops fall;
There’s the kiss of a cherishing mother’s lips,
But the kiss of love is the sweetest of all.
There are songs that sing in a minor key,And songs that the listening heart appall;There are songs that sing like the constant sea,But the songs of love are the sweetest of all.
There are songs that sing in a minor key,
And songs that the listening heart appall;
There are songs that sing like the constant sea,
But the songs of love are the sweetest of all.
THE LOVER’S COMPLAINT.Sorrows live and pleasures dee,Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!And I’ll wear the willow-tree,Willow-willow weeping, sweeping low.For I loved a bonnie lass,Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!Bonnie, bonnie Love, alas!Willow-willow, whither did she go?Here upon this willow-tree,Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!I will hang my harp, and dee,Willow-willow, will she ever know?On my heart I’ll place my handWilly-willy-waly wailing so!On my head a green garland,Willow-willow weeping sleeping so!Then farewell, my bride and breath,Willy-willy-waly, waly-oh!Still I love you, tho’ my death,Willow-willow wailing—will she know!
Sorrows live and pleasures dee,Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!And I’ll wear the willow-tree,Willow-willow weeping, sweeping low.For I loved a bonnie lass,Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!Bonnie, bonnie Love, alas!Willow-willow, whither did she go?Here upon this willow-tree,Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!I will hang my harp, and dee,Willow-willow, will she ever know?On my heart I’ll place my handWilly-willy-waly wailing so!On my head a green garland,Willow-willow weeping sleeping so!Then farewell, my bride and breath,Willy-willy-waly, waly-oh!Still I love you, tho’ my death,Willow-willow wailing—will she know!
Sorrows live and pleasures dee,Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!And I’ll wear the willow-tree,Willow-willow weeping, sweeping low.
Sorrows live and pleasures dee,
Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!
And I’ll wear the willow-tree,
Willow-willow weeping, sweeping low.
For I loved a bonnie lass,Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!Bonnie, bonnie Love, alas!Willow-willow, whither did she go?
For I loved a bonnie lass,
Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!
Bonnie, bonnie Love, alas!
Willow-willow, whither did she go?
Here upon this willow-tree,Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!I will hang my harp, and dee,Willow-willow, will she ever know?
Here upon this willow-tree,
Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!
I will hang my harp, and dee,
Willow-willow, will she ever know?
On my heart I’ll place my handWilly-willy-waly wailing so!On my head a green garland,Willow-willow weeping sleeping so!
On my heart I’ll place my hand
Willy-willy-waly wailing so!
On my head a green garland,
Willow-willow weeping sleeping so!
Then farewell, my bride and breath,Willy-willy-waly, waly-oh!Still I love you, tho’ my death,Willow-willow wailing—will she know!
Then farewell, my bride and breath,
Willy-willy-waly, waly-oh!
Still I love you, tho’ my death,
Willow-willow wailing—will she know!
[The willow-tree is emblematical of death, or forsaken love—which, to the lover, is, of course, all the same thing. The custom of a disappointed lover’s hanging his harp on a willow-tree and going off to the wars in utter desperation—hoping to get killed, perhaps, and thus be revenged on his false sweetheart by making hersorry!—; also the custom of wearing a green-willow garland about the hat, and leaning up against the tree (they had no fences) to die, somewhatà laJob’s turkey, I presume, as they used to do before quicker, modern, new-fangled methods of a lover’s gettingout of the world came in; and the custom of doing many other things that were done by the young ancient lovers, is a custom that is dead. The preceding is the wail of one of these youthful old dolorous fellows, in the English-Ballad style of his day.]
[The willow-tree is emblematical of death, or forsaken love—which, to the lover, is, of course, all the same thing. The custom of a disappointed lover’s hanging his harp on a willow-tree and going off to the wars in utter desperation—hoping to get killed, perhaps, and thus be revenged on his false sweetheart by making hersorry!—; also the custom of wearing a green-willow garland about the hat, and leaning up against the tree (they had no fences) to die, somewhatà laJob’s turkey, I presume, as they used to do before quicker, modern, new-fangled methods of a lover’s gettingout of the world came in; and the custom of doing many other things that were done by the young ancient lovers, is a custom that is dead. The preceding is the wail of one of these youthful old dolorous fellows, in the English-Ballad style of his day.]
BUZZ.“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”In my ear the sound is drumming,On my heart-chords ever strumming,“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Whence the sound, my soul’s confusion?“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Comes the sound from days of childhoodThronging echoes thro’ the wildwood“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Youth has planted in profusion.Thro’ the tangles wildly growing“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Crieth Hope, my lost companion,Left behind in Wild-oats Cañon,“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”With the sap of manhood flowing.“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Aged now I listen gladlyTo the echoes that so sadly“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”In my ear the sound is drumming,On my heart-chords ever strumming,“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Whence the sound, my soul’s confusion?“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Comes the sound from days of childhoodThronging echoes thro’ the wildwood“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Youth has planted in profusion.Thro’ the tangles wildly growing“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Crieth Hope, my lost companion,Left behind in Wild-oats Cañon,“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”With the sap of manhood flowing.“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Aged now I listen gladlyTo the echoes that so sadly“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”In my ear the sound is drumming,On my heart-chords ever strumming,“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
In my ear the sound is drumming,
On my heart-chords ever strumming,
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Whence the sound, my soul’s confusion?“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Comes the sound from days of childhoodThronging echoes thro’ the wildwood“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Youth has planted in profusion.
Whence the sound, my soul’s confusion?
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Comes the sound from days of childhood
Thronging echoes thro’ the wildwood
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Youth has planted in profusion.
Thro’ the tangles wildly growing“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Crieth Hope, my lost companion,Left behind in Wild-oats Cañon,“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”With the sap of manhood flowing.
Thro’ the tangles wildly growing
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Crieth Hope, my lost companion,
Left behind in Wild-oats Cañon,
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
With the sap of manhood flowing.
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”Aged now I listen gladlyTo the echoes that so sadly“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Aged now I listen gladly
To the echoes that so sadly
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
WASHINGTON.22 Feb.Great Washington! Dear father of the landOur glorious Lincoln died to save! thou whoWast mightiest of men to beat the foeIn war; admired of every nation andOf every hearth, yet more because thy handWas mightiest in peace; exalted thro’The years to more than Jove’s own heights of blue,Still ruling us from yon far golden strand!—For thee this day is made the nation’s day;For thee the red of dawn, the white of morn,And spangled blue of night are all unfurled,Are all the emblems of our love for thee,To liberty and home God’s greatest boon,O noblest, grandest, best of all the world!
Great Washington! Dear father of the landOur glorious Lincoln died to save! thou whoWast mightiest of men to beat the foeIn war; admired of every nation andOf every hearth, yet more because thy handWas mightiest in peace; exalted thro’The years to more than Jove’s own heights of blue,Still ruling us from yon far golden strand!—For thee this day is made the nation’s day;For thee the red of dawn, the white of morn,And spangled blue of night are all unfurled,Are all the emblems of our love for thee,To liberty and home God’s greatest boon,O noblest, grandest, best of all the world!
Great Washington! Dear father of the landOur glorious Lincoln died to save! thou whoWast mightiest of men to beat the foeIn war; admired of every nation andOf every hearth, yet more because thy handWas mightiest in peace; exalted thro’The years to more than Jove’s own heights of blue,Still ruling us from yon far golden strand!—For thee this day is made the nation’s day;For thee the red of dawn, the white of morn,And spangled blue of night are all unfurled,Are all the emblems of our love for thee,To liberty and home God’s greatest boon,O noblest, grandest, best of all the world!
Great Washington! Dear father of the land
Our glorious Lincoln died to save! thou who
Wast mightiest of men to beat the foe
In war; admired of every nation and
Of every hearth, yet more because thy hand
Was mightiest in peace; exalted thro’
The years to more than Jove’s own heights of blue,
Still ruling us from yon far golden strand!—
For thee this day is made the nation’s day;
For thee the red of dawn, the white of morn,
And spangled blue of night are all unfurled,
Are all the emblems of our love for thee,
To liberty and home God’s greatest boon,
O noblest, grandest, best of all the world!
FREEDOM’S BATTLE SONG.CANTUS FILIIS VETERANORUM.We think the thoughts our fathers thought,And sing the same old songs;We fight the battles they have fought,And right the same old wrongs.CHORUS.Hurrah! hurrah! oh may its colors wave,Hurrah! hurrah! the banner of the free,O’er thee for aye, thou Land our fathers gave,O Land my home, sweet Land of Liberty.We breath, the air our fathers breathed,Inspiring freedom still;Unsheathe the sword that they unsheathed,And strike with dauntless will.—Chorus.Behold the same old sun above,The same old spangled domeForever shining out in loveOn Freedom’s happy home.—Chorus.We’ll guard the home our fathers wonAnd fight the latest foe;We’ll stand by every loyal gunWhere Freedom’s streamers flow.—Chorus.Beneath the stripes of red and whiteAnd starry spangled blue,Protected by the God of RightWe’ll fight the battle through.—Chorus.We’ll bid defiance to the worldAnd make the welkin ring,With Freedom’s dauntless flag unfurledAnd God above, our King.—Chorus.
We think the thoughts our fathers thought,And sing the same old songs;We fight the battles they have fought,And right the same old wrongs.CHORUS.Hurrah! hurrah! oh may its colors wave,Hurrah! hurrah! the banner of the free,O’er thee for aye, thou Land our fathers gave,O Land my home, sweet Land of Liberty.We breath, the air our fathers breathed,Inspiring freedom still;Unsheathe the sword that they unsheathed,And strike with dauntless will.—Chorus.Behold the same old sun above,The same old spangled domeForever shining out in loveOn Freedom’s happy home.—Chorus.We’ll guard the home our fathers wonAnd fight the latest foe;We’ll stand by every loyal gunWhere Freedom’s streamers flow.—Chorus.Beneath the stripes of red and whiteAnd starry spangled blue,Protected by the God of RightWe’ll fight the battle through.—Chorus.We’ll bid defiance to the worldAnd make the welkin ring,With Freedom’s dauntless flag unfurledAnd God above, our King.—Chorus.
We think the thoughts our fathers thought,And sing the same old songs;We fight the battles they have fought,And right the same old wrongs.
We think the thoughts our fathers thought,
And sing the same old songs;
We fight the battles they have fought,
And right the same old wrongs.
Hurrah! hurrah! oh may its colors wave,Hurrah! hurrah! the banner of the free,O’er thee for aye, thou Land our fathers gave,O Land my home, sweet Land of Liberty.
Hurrah! hurrah! oh may its colors wave,
Hurrah! hurrah! the banner of the free,
O’er thee for aye, thou Land our fathers gave,
O Land my home, sweet Land of Liberty.
We breath, the air our fathers breathed,Inspiring freedom still;Unsheathe the sword that they unsheathed,And strike with dauntless will.—Chorus.
We breath, the air our fathers breathed,
Inspiring freedom still;
Unsheathe the sword that they unsheathed,
And strike with dauntless will.
—Chorus.
Behold the same old sun above,The same old spangled domeForever shining out in loveOn Freedom’s happy home.—Chorus.
Behold the same old sun above,
The same old spangled dome
Forever shining out in love
On Freedom’s happy home.
—Chorus.
We’ll guard the home our fathers wonAnd fight the latest foe;We’ll stand by every loyal gunWhere Freedom’s streamers flow.—Chorus.
We’ll guard the home our fathers won
And fight the latest foe;
We’ll stand by every loyal gun
Where Freedom’s streamers flow.
—Chorus.
Beneath the stripes of red and whiteAnd starry spangled blue,Protected by the God of RightWe’ll fight the battle through.—Chorus.
Beneath the stripes of red and white
And starry spangled blue,
Protected by the God of Right
We’ll fight the battle through.
—Chorus.
We’ll bid defiance to the worldAnd make the welkin ring,With Freedom’s dauntless flag unfurledAnd God above, our King.—Chorus.
We’ll bid defiance to the world
And make the welkin ring,
With Freedom’s dauntless flag unfurled
And God above, our King.
—Chorus.
’MONG THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SOUL.My grief lies all within.—Shakspere, Rich. II.Tell me not that tears are sorrow,Tell me not that grief must flowLike sad drops of rain descending,Or like streams in valleys low.Mute and sweet as Death’s own slumber,In the heart that’s dumb with griefThere is eloquence, and mournful,That doth shame all tear-relief.From the heart of silent sorrow,Clouds of woe can never rise,And dissolve themselves with rainingTo congeal in weeping eyes.Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning,And the soul may burst with grief;Nought of weeping nor of moaning,Nought of tears can give relief.Deep among the soul’s great mountains,Silent as the night doth come,Clouds of grief may soft be raining,Shrouding every hill in gloom.Oh, along the channeled valleys,Sad as Charon’s river’s roll,Streams of grief may deep be flowing’Mong the mountains of the soul.
My grief lies all within.—Shakspere, Rich. II.Tell me not that tears are sorrow,Tell me not that grief must flowLike sad drops of rain descending,Or like streams in valleys low.Mute and sweet as Death’s own slumber,In the heart that’s dumb with griefThere is eloquence, and mournful,That doth shame all tear-relief.From the heart of silent sorrow,Clouds of woe can never rise,And dissolve themselves with rainingTo congeal in weeping eyes.Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning,And the soul may burst with grief;Nought of weeping nor of moaning,Nought of tears can give relief.Deep among the soul’s great mountains,Silent as the night doth come,Clouds of grief may soft be raining,Shrouding every hill in gloom.Oh, along the channeled valleys,Sad as Charon’s river’s roll,Streams of grief may deep be flowing’Mong the mountains of the soul.
My grief lies all within.—Shakspere, Rich. II.
Tell me not that tears are sorrow,Tell me not that grief must flowLike sad drops of rain descending,Or like streams in valleys low.
Tell me not that tears are sorrow,
Tell me not that grief must flow
Like sad drops of rain descending,
Or like streams in valleys low.
Mute and sweet as Death’s own slumber,In the heart that’s dumb with griefThere is eloquence, and mournful,That doth shame all tear-relief.
Mute and sweet as Death’s own slumber,
In the heart that’s dumb with grief
There is eloquence, and mournful,
That doth shame all tear-relief.
From the heart of silent sorrow,Clouds of woe can never rise,And dissolve themselves with rainingTo congeal in weeping eyes.
From the heart of silent sorrow,
Clouds of woe can never rise,
And dissolve themselves with raining
To congeal in weeping eyes.
Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning,And the soul may burst with grief;Nought of weeping nor of moaning,Nought of tears can give relief.
Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning,
And the soul may burst with grief;
Nought of weeping nor of moaning,
Nought of tears can give relief.
Deep among the soul’s great mountains,Silent as the night doth come,Clouds of grief may soft be raining,Shrouding every hill in gloom.
Deep among the soul’s great mountains,
Silent as the night doth come,
Clouds of grief may soft be raining,
Shrouding every hill in gloom.
Oh, along the channeled valleys,Sad as Charon’s river’s roll,Streams of grief may deep be flowing’Mong the mountains of the soul.
Oh, along the channeled valleys,
Sad as Charon’s river’s roll,
Streams of grief may deep be flowing
’Mong the mountains of the soul.
HAL A-HUNTIN’.Onct we went a-huntin’,Pa ’n’ me, we did,’N’Iwent ’long an’ tookt ol’Rover.—’N’ we didHave ist the mostest fun!—’N’ Pa, w’y he tookt a gun.Rove istskeertthe rabbitsOuten the grass,’N’en Pa he shooted at ’emWhen they runned pas’.My landy! how they run!WushedI’da had a gun!Pa ist shooted at ’em,Hard, but couldn’tKill ’em, ’cause whenhe’dshoot,Thegun—w’y—wouldn’t.’N’en Pa said ’twan’t no funA-huntin’ wifsicha gun.My! but didn’t them rabbitsGo a scootin’!—’N’ Rover after’m, ist a-Skallyhootin’!’N’ Pa said, “see whatHEdone”(When he comed home) “wif his gun!”’N’en the hired man istLaft an’ shook’n’When he’d skun ’em all, heSaid, a-lookin’Solemn-like (in fun),“What adog-gonegun.”’N’en when Ma she fried ’em’N’ we was a-eatin’Of ’em up, Ma said ’atIt was beatin’How that dog could run!—Guess he’s the goodest gun!’N’en Pa’s face got red, an’He scowled at meAwful, ’n’ said, “You littleYoung rascal, seeHere! what ’d you go’n’ haftTo tell for?” ’N’en they laft!Wusht Pa’d take me wif himHuntin’ again;But he says ’at I’m tooAwful green—Rabbits might eat me! IGuess not! Wonder why?
Onct we went a-huntin’,Pa ’n’ me, we did,’N’Iwent ’long an’ tookt ol’Rover.—’N’ we didHave ist the mostest fun!—’N’ Pa, w’y he tookt a gun.Rove istskeertthe rabbitsOuten the grass,’N’en Pa he shooted at ’emWhen they runned pas’.My landy! how they run!WushedI’da had a gun!Pa ist shooted at ’em,Hard, but couldn’tKill ’em, ’cause whenhe’dshoot,Thegun—w’y—wouldn’t.’N’en Pa said ’twan’t no funA-huntin’ wifsicha gun.My! but didn’t them rabbitsGo a scootin’!—’N’ Rover after’m, ist a-Skallyhootin’!’N’ Pa said, “see whatHEdone”(When he comed home) “wif his gun!”’N’en the hired man istLaft an’ shook’n’When he’d skun ’em all, heSaid, a-lookin’Solemn-like (in fun),“What adog-gonegun.”’N’en when Ma she fried ’em’N’ we was a-eatin’Of ’em up, Ma said ’atIt was beatin’How that dog could run!—Guess he’s the goodest gun!’N’en Pa’s face got red, an’He scowled at meAwful, ’n’ said, “You littleYoung rascal, seeHere! what ’d you go’n’ haftTo tell for?” ’N’en they laft!Wusht Pa’d take me wif himHuntin’ again;But he says ’at I’m tooAwful green—Rabbits might eat me! IGuess not! Wonder why?
Onct we went a-huntin’,Pa ’n’ me, we did,’N’Iwent ’long an’ tookt ol’Rover.—’N’ we didHave ist the mostest fun!—’N’ Pa, w’y he tookt a gun.
Onct we went a-huntin’,
Pa ’n’ me, we did,
’N’Iwent ’long an’ tookt ol’
Rover.—’N’ we did
Have ist the mostest fun!—
’N’ Pa, w’y he tookt a gun.
Rove istskeertthe rabbitsOuten the grass,’N’en Pa he shooted at ’emWhen they runned pas’.My landy! how they run!WushedI’da had a gun!
Rove istskeertthe rabbits
Outen the grass,
’N’en Pa he shooted at ’em
When they runned pas’.
My landy! how they run!
WushedI’da had a gun!
Pa ist shooted at ’em,Hard, but couldn’tKill ’em, ’cause whenhe’dshoot,Thegun—w’y—wouldn’t.’N’en Pa said ’twan’t no funA-huntin’ wifsicha gun.
Pa ist shooted at ’em,
Hard, but couldn’t
Kill ’em, ’cause whenhe’dshoot,
Thegun—w’y—wouldn’t.
’N’en Pa said ’twan’t no fun
A-huntin’ wifsicha gun.
My! but didn’t them rabbitsGo a scootin’!—’N’ Rover after’m, ist a-Skallyhootin’!’N’ Pa said, “see whatHEdone”(When he comed home) “wif his gun!”
My! but didn’t them rabbits
Go a scootin’!—
’N’ Rover after’m, ist a-
Skallyhootin’!
’N’ Pa said, “see whatHEdone”
(When he comed home) “wif his gun!”
’N’en the hired man istLaft an’ shook’n’When he’d skun ’em all, heSaid, a-lookin’Solemn-like (in fun),“What adog-gonegun.”
’N’en the hired man ist
Laft an’ shook’n’
When he’d skun ’em all, he
Said, a-lookin’
Solemn-like (in fun),
“What adog-gonegun.”
’N’en when Ma she fried ’em’N’ we was a-eatin’Of ’em up, Ma said ’atIt was beatin’How that dog could run!—Guess he’s the goodest gun!
’N’en when Ma she fried ’em
’N’ we was a-eatin’
Of ’em up, Ma said ’at
It was beatin’
How that dog could run!—
Guess he’s the goodest gun!
’N’en Pa’s face got red, an’He scowled at meAwful, ’n’ said, “You littleYoung rascal, seeHere! what ’d you go’n’ haftTo tell for?” ’N’en they laft!
’N’en Pa’s face got red, an’
He scowled at me
Awful, ’n’ said, “You little
Young rascal, see
Here! what ’d you go’n’ haft
To tell for?” ’N’en they laft!
Wusht Pa’d take me wif himHuntin’ again;But he says ’at I’m tooAwful green—Rabbits might eat me! IGuess not! Wonder why?
Wusht Pa’d take me wif him
Huntin’ again;
But he says ’at I’m too
Awful green—
Rabbits might eat me! I
Guess not! Wonder why?
WRITE FROM THE HEART.Write from the heart straight outwardsWhen divinely the feelings glow,Write for the soul’s satisfaction,And you’ll fashion the best outward show.Write as the June rose blossoms,Always straight from the inside outSlowly unfolding its petalsFrom the ports of its Power’s redoubt.Then from the sweet breathing petals,That I swear seem almost human to me,Perfumes rush out thro’ the portalsIn the drunkenest ecstasy.So let your heart in your poemBreathe its song like a living rose,Sweet with its deepest-drawn perfumesAs from soul unto soul it goes.Write from the heart straight outwards,Caring not for the glitter and show;—Write as the showers from heaven,Nor forget how the sweet roses blow.
Write from the heart straight outwardsWhen divinely the feelings glow,Write for the soul’s satisfaction,And you’ll fashion the best outward show.Write as the June rose blossoms,Always straight from the inside outSlowly unfolding its petalsFrom the ports of its Power’s redoubt.Then from the sweet breathing petals,That I swear seem almost human to me,Perfumes rush out thro’ the portalsIn the drunkenest ecstasy.So let your heart in your poemBreathe its song like a living rose,Sweet with its deepest-drawn perfumesAs from soul unto soul it goes.Write from the heart straight outwards,Caring not for the glitter and show;—Write as the showers from heaven,Nor forget how the sweet roses blow.
Write from the heart straight outwardsWhen divinely the feelings glow,Write for the soul’s satisfaction,And you’ll fashion the best outward show.
Write from the heart straight outwards
When divinely the feelings glow,
Write for the soul’s satisfaction,
And you’ll fashion the best outward show.
Write as the June rose blossoms,Always straight from the inside outSlowly unfolding its petalsFrom the ports of its Power’s redoubt.
Write as the June rose blossoms,
Always straight from the inside out
Slowly unfolding its petals
From the ports of its Power’s redoubt.
Then from the sweet breathing petals,That I swear seem almost human to me,Perfumes rush out thro’ the portalsIn the drunkenest ecstasy.
Then from the sweet breathing petals,
That I swear seem almost human to me,
Perfumes rush out thro’ the portals
In the drunkenest ecstasy.
So let your heart in your poemBreathe its song like a living rose,Sweet with its deepest-drawn perfumesAs from soul unto soul it goes.
So let your heart in your poem
Breathe its song like a living rose,
Sweet with its deepest-drawn perfumes
As from soul unto soul it goes.
Write from the heart straight outwards,Caring not for the glitter and show;—Write as the showers from heaven,Nor forget how the sweet roses blow.
Write from the heart straight outwards,
Caring not for the glitter and show;—
Write as the showers from heaven,
Nor forget how the sweet roses blow.
WHITHER?Whither this Highway, Child?“To the Field of Flowers,—to the Flowers wild.”Whither this Highway, Youth?“Through the Fields of Love to the home of Ruth.”Whither this Highway, Man?“Through the realms of Fame into Class and Clan.”Whither this Highway, Sire?“To the silent Tomb with its marble spire!”Whither, oh whither, Tomb?—But voiceless it points to the azure dome.
Whither this Highway, Child?“To the Field of Flowers,—to the Flowers wild.”Whither this Highway, Youth?“Through the Fields of Love to the home of Ruth.”Whither this Highway, Man?“Through the realms of Fame into Class and Clan.”Whither this Highway, Sire?“To the silent Tomb with its marble spire!”Whither, oh whither, Tomb?—But voiceless it points to the azure dome.
Whither this Highway, Child?“To the Field of Flowers,—to the Flowers wild.”
Whither this Highway, Child?
“To the Field of Flowers,—to the Flowers wild.”
Whither this Highway, Youth?“Through the Fields of Love to the home of Ruth.”
Whither this Highway, Youth?
“Through the Fields of Love to the home of Ruth.”
Whither this Highway, Man?“Through the realms of Fame into Class and Clan.”
Whither this Highway, Man?
“Through the realms of Fame into Class and Clan.”
Whither this Highway, Sire?“To the silent Tomb with its marble spire!”
Whither this Highway, Sire?
“To the silent Tomb with its marble spire!”
Whither, oh whither, Tomb?—But voiceless it points to the azure dome.
Whither, oh whither, Tomb?—
But voiceless it points to the azure dome.
OUR ALMA MATER.Dear Alma Mater! beloved thro’ all the west!Thou who hast taught our infant feet the wayOf light and truth! thou who hast been our stayAnd prop thro’ all our weakness! thou whose zestIn strength’ning us would never let thee rest,E’en in thy trials as in prosperity!’Tis ours to-day in thy adversityTo aid thee, speed thee thro’ this fiery test.And as thou, like the Phœnix, bird of old,Comest from forth thy ruined home, for ayeIn broader fields to live and grow, from westTo east the lengthened shout is roll’d,“’Tis ours, by thee made strong, to strengthen thee,To us, of all the world the dearest, best!”
Dear Alma Mater! beloved thro’ all the west!Thou who hast taught our infant feet the wayOf light and truth! thou who hast been our stayAnd prop thro’ all our weakness! thou whose zestIn strength’ning us would never let thee rest,E’en in thy trials as in prosperity!’Tis ours to-day in thy adversityTo aid thee, speed thee thro’ this fiery test.And as thou, like the Phœnix, bird of old,Comest from forth thy ruined home, for ayeIn broader fields to live and grow, from westTo east the lengthened shout is roll’d,“’Tis ours, by thee made strong, to strengthen thee,To us, of all the world the dearest, best!”
Dear Alma Mater! beloved thro’ all the west!Thou who hast taught our infant feet the wayOf light and truth! thou who hast been our stayAnd prop thro’ all our weakness! thou whose zestIn strength’ning us would never let thee rest,E’en in thy trials as in prosperity!’Tis ours to-day in thy adversity
Dear Alma Mater! beloved thro’ all the west!
Thou who hast taught our infant feet the way
Of light and truth! thou who hast been our stay
And prop thro’ all our weakness! thou whose zest
In strength’ning us would never let thee rest,
E’en in thy trials as in prosperity!
’Tis ours to-day in thy adversity
To aid thee, speed thee thro’ this fiery test.And as thou, like the Phœnix, bird of old,Comest from forth thy ruined home, for ayeIn broader fields to live and grow, from westTo east the lengthened shout is roll’d,“’Tis ours, by thee made strong, to strengthen thee,To us, of all the world the dearest, best!”
To aid thee, speed thee thro’ this fiery test.
And as thou, like the Phœnix, bird of old,
Comest from forth thy ruined home, for aye
In broader fields to live and grow, from west
To east the lengthened shout is roll’d,
“’Tis ours, by thee made strong, to strengthen thee,
To us, of all the world the dearest, best!”
FATHER TIME.I am the father of the river,Of the sea, and of the mountain;Of the sunlight that doth quiverIn the rainbow of the fountain.I have raised up men and nations,I have builded homes and cities;I have given all their stations,Him who scorns and him who pities.I have forged the tears and sorrowsOf a Russia, broken-hearted,Into chains of sad to-morrowsThat but death of kings has parted.I have woven joy and laughter,Fairest of life’s flowers,Into garlands that hereafterShall be worn in Eden’s bowers.Oh the sorrows and the pleasuresOf the world in faultless rhymeBlend the music of their measuresWith the step of Father Time.
I am the father of the river,Of the sea, and of the mountain;Of the sunlight that doth quiverIn the rainbow of the fountain.I have raised up men and nations,I have builded homes and cities;I have given all their stations,Him who scorns and him who pities.I have forged the tears and sorrowsOf a Russia, broken-hearted,Into chains of sad to-morrowsThat but death of kings has parted.I have woven joy and laughter,Fairest of life’s flowers,Into garlands that hereafterShall be worn in Eden’s bowers.Oh the sorrows and the pleasuresOf the world in faultless rhymeBlend the music of their measuresWith the step of Father Time.
I am the father of the river,Of the sea, and of the mountain;Of the sunlight that doth quiverIn the rainbow of the fountain.
I am the father of the river,
Of the sea, and of the mountain;
Of the sunlight that doth quiver
In the rainbow of the fountain.
I have raised up men and nations,I have builded homes and cities;I have given all their stations,Him who scorns and him who pities.
I have raised up men and nations,
I have builded homes and cities;
I have given all their stations,
Him who scorns and him who pities.
I have forged the tears and sorrowsOf a Russia, broken-hearted,Into chains of sad to-morrowsThat but death of kings has parted.
I have forged the tears and sorrows
Of a Russia, broken-hearted,
Into chains of sad to-morrows
That but death of kings has parted.
I have woven joy and laughter,Fairest of life’s flowers,Into garlands that hereafterShall be worn in Eden’s bowers.
I have woven joy and laughter,
Fairest of life’s flowers,
Into garlands that hereafter
Shall be worn in Eden’s bowers.
Oh the sorrows and the pleasuresOf the world in faultless rhymeBlend the music of their measuresWith the step of Father Time.
Oh the sorrows and the pleasures
Of the world in faultless rhyme
Blend the music of their measures
With the step of Father Time.
THUS LIFE’S TALE.I.Away out yonder on the great horizonSail, sail away;Sail, my soul, with thy breaking burthen,Sail, sail, nor stay.II.Away in the westward where the sun is dippingGold, gold from the sea,Gold of a glorious El Dorado—Sail, sail to-day.III.See the straight horizon by the great sun hollowed:Sail swift that way.Sail! ’tis the portal the sun has opened,Sail, sail nor stay.IV.The sun is flashing thro’ the broad portcullis:See, see my sail!See the shroud thro’ the gate disappearing!—Thus, thus life’s tale!Finale.The sea is tolling and the mer-folk weeping:Sailed, sailed away;Sailed the soul with its life-laded burthen,Mourned, mourned the clay.
I.Away out yonder on the great horizonSail, sail away;Sail, my soul, with thy breaking burthen,Sail, sail, nor stay.II.Away in the westward where the sun is dippingGold, gold from the sea,Gold of a glorious El Dorado—Sail, sail to-day.III.See the straight horizon by the great sun hollowed:Sail swift that way.Sail! ’tis the portal the sun has opened,Sail, sail nor stay.IV.The sun is flashing thro’ the broad portcullis:See, see my sail!See the shroud thro’ the gate disappearing!—Thus, thus life’s tale!Finale.The sea is tolling and the mer-folk weeping:Sailed, sailed away;Sailed the soul with its life-laded burthen,Mourned, mourned the clay.
Away out yonder on the great horizonSail, sail away;Sail, my soul, with thy breaking burthen,Sail, sail, nor stay.
Away out yonder on the great horizon
Sail, sail away;
Sail, my soul, with thy breaking burthen,
Sail, sail, nor stay.
Away in the westward where the sun is dippingGold, gold from the sea,Gold of a glorious El Dorado—Sail, sail to-day.
Away in the westward where the sun is dipping
Gold, gold from the sea,
Gold of a glorious El Dorado—
Sail, sail to-day.
See the straight horizon by the great sun hollowed:Sail swift that way.Sail! ’tis the portal the sun has opened,Sail, sail nor stay.
See the straight horizon by the great sun hollowed:
Sail swift that way.
Sail! ’tis the portal the sun has opened,
Sail, sail nor stay.
The sun is flashing thro’ the broad portcullis:See, see my sail!See the shroud thro’ the gate disappearing!—Thus, thus life’s tale!
The sun is flashing thro’ the broad portcullis:
See, see my sail!
See the shroud thro’ the gate disappearing!—
Thus, thus life’s tale!
The sea is tolling and the mer-folk weeping:Sailed, sailed away;Sailed the soul with its life-laded burthen,Mourned, mourned the clay.
The sea is tolling and the mer-folk weeping:
Sailed, sailed away;
Sailed the soul with its life-laded burthen,
Mourned, mourned the clay.
PART OF THE NEW ENGLAND LAMENT.ON THE KILLING OF SITTING BULL, 1891.Sitting Bull and the other SiouxLived in the land where the blizzards blioux,And they grioux, and they grioux, and they grioux!—Till one day they shot him thriouxAnd kicked up an awful hullabalioux,—Bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux!—Terhwytt-in-the-Twinkle D’Bioux.
Sitting Bull and the other SiouxLived in the land where the blizzards blioux,And they grioux, and they grioux, and they grioux!—Till one day they shot him thriouxAnd kicked up an awful hullabalioux,—Bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux!—Terhwytt-in-the-Twinkle D’Bioux.
Sitting Bull and the other SiouxLived in the land where the blizzards blioux,And they grioux, and they grioux, and they grioux!—Till one day they shot him thriouxAnd kicked up an awful hullabalioux,—Bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux!—Terhwytt-in-the-Twinkle D’Bioux.
Sitting Bull and the other Sioux
Lived in the land where the blizzards blioux,
And they grioux, and they grioux, and they grioux!—
Till one day they shot him thrioux
And kicked up an awful hullabalioux,—
Bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux!
—Terhwytt-in-the-Twinkle D’Bioux.
ON KINGSLEY’S “FAREWELL.”Let’s climb the steeps, let’s drink of Kingsley’s fountain;Let’s stand with him above the rabbled throngUpon the sun-tipped top of his grand mountainOf moral song.Oh listen to the music of the riverAlong the channeled valleys of his soulAs its threnode-throbbing echoes on us everTheirFarewellroll:—“Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long,And so make life, and death, and that vast foreverOne grand, sweet song.”
Let’s climb the steeps, let’s drink of Kingsley’s fountain;Let’s stand with him above the rabbled throngUpon the sun-tipped top of his grand mountainOf moral song.Oh listen to the music of the riverAlong the channeled valleys of his soulAs its threnode-throbbing echoes on us everTheirFarewellroll:—“Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long,And so make life, and death, and that vast foreverOne grand, sweet song.”
Let’s climb the steeps, let’s drink of Kingsley’s fountain;Let’s stand with him above the rabbled throngUpon the sun-tipped top of his grand mountainOf moral song.
Let’s climb the steeps, let’s drink of Kingsley’s fountain;
Let’s stand with him above the rabbled throng
Upon the sun-tipped top of his grand mountain
Of moral song.
Oh listen to the music of the riverAlong the channeled valleys of his soulAs its threnode-throbbing echoes on us everTheirFarewellroll:—
Oh listen to the music of the river
Along the channeled valleys of his soul
As its threnode-throbbing echoes on us ever
TheirFarewellroll:—
“Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long,And so make life, and death, and that vast foreverOne grand, sweet song.”
“Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;
Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long,
And so make life, and death, and that vast forever
One grand, sweet song.”
I am not superstitious, not in the least. But that certain things which we cannot explain by any natural method may happen in the lives of us all, there is no longer a shadow of a doubt in my own mind.
I had gone to bed as usual and had been sleeping soundly one night, with only the faint glimmer of a sweet vision now and then flitting through my mind, when suddenly I was startled from my sleep into a lively consciousness of a strange presence, and weird, mournful sounds, as of a dirge, in my room. Moreover, there was a peculiar sensation in my head, a sensation that I have never before or since felt, a kind of pain, yet not a pain; for in some indefinable way it was mysteriously mingled with a peculiar, almost transporting rapture that seemed to permeate my whole being. Indeed, the pain, starting immediately between my brows and running back to my crown, seemed born of this pleasurable sensation, which had no local residence but was in every nerve and fibre, both together producing that indescribable exhilarating feeling that I imagine the truly happy in the next world possess. But, you say, surely the angels have no pain. I hope not; but this I have learned, that every pleasure of earth has its pain. And as I cannot say that this sensation was altogether that of a mortal, I cannot say from experience that there is a pleasure without a pain.
For a moment after awaking, I could not tell where I was or what was going on. But my senses being quickly roused to their fullest keenness, I soon saw Iwas in my own room. But the matter of the presence and the weird sound was not so easily solved.
I lay quietly for a time, trying to persuade myself that I had been dreaming and that my waking fancy was merely the hallucination of the dream that had not yet passed away. Have you never done the like? However, I soon realized that the presence and the sound, whoever or whatever they were, were not mere fancy. Still I tried to shake off the feeling that some one had entered my room; for, as is my custom, I had securely barred the front door, also my bed-room door, before retiring. Besides, no one could possibly have climbed in at my windows of the second story without my knowing it; for when I am so nervous as I was this night, the slightest sound will waken me. I turned over and looked out of the window. The moon was still shining, and the trees swayed with a soft murmur in answer to the light breeze that wantoned among the virgin May leaves just lately from the bud. There were the houses, the barns, the road, everything, in fact, just as it really was, and I knew I could not possibly be asleep.
Still, that consciousness of a presence in my room, stronger and stronger grown until it had reached conviction, I could not rid myself of; nor could I shut my ears to the mournful sounds that came from somewhere—everywhere, it seemed.
Suddenly—most wonderful to tell!—I saw the very faintest streak of light creep up the farther wall of my room.
All that I have related did not, perhaps, occupy more than a full minute, though I must confess it seemed much longer.
The thread of light, different from all lights I have ever before seen, moved toward the ceiling rapidly, and held me in breathless attention. What could it be!—A ray of the moon through a slit in the curtain that was gently moved by the breeze blowing through the window? Wait! It reached the ceiling. Then with such a delicate light that it was almost imperceptible, it crept along the ceiling diagonally toward me. When it got immediately above my head, it stopped. What in the world could it be!
I lay almost breathless, wondering. Wouldn’t you, my friend, if you should see such a thing in your room? You may not know what you would do in such case. Possibly you say you would investigate at once. So, too, had I said many a time,—I would investigate whatever was strange, doubtful, or inexplicable. But if your hands would not move, if your feet lay motionless, and if your whole being were thrilled with a thralling rapture and pain all at once, you would probably do just as I did,—lie there fascinated.
Suddenly, like a flash, something struck me on the forehead, and instantly I sat bolt upright in bed. As I rose, whatever it was that struck me bounded off on the bed, then down on the floor, that mysterious filmy thread of light following it, and at the same time clinging to my forehead. I put my hand up to brush it away. But when I touched it (if I really did touch it, which I doubt, for my hand seemed suddenly arrested), my whole body trembled as if shaken by some supernatural power. It was something more than a light,—it was a film, a thread; and at my touch upon it, that sensation of mingled pain and rapture was almost beyond my power to survive. I let my hand drop from it, and unable to resist doing what I did, I rose from my bed and started to follow up that thread of light and film; for somehow it seemed attached to my brain, and I involuntarily obeyed the will of whoever or whatever it was that controlled it. Though fully conscious of all I was doing, I could not resist. Great beads of sweat stood on my body, caused partly, I suppose, by extreme nervous excitement and partly by this influence upon me.
I would have hastened from the room, screamed for help, or cried “murder!” but it was impossible. Even the rapidity of my steps was under control, and I marched slowly, deliberately, and solemnly, as to martial music of the dead.
I passed from my sleeping-room to my study, obedient to the slightest inclination of the supernatural power that controlled the thread by which I was led.
When I reached my study-chair at my desk, I obediently sat down. Then for the first time I beheld the object that was exerting this power over me. I have seen many an object before and since very similar to it, but never at any time another just like it.
As I sat in my chair, my eyes riveted on the thread of light, suddenly that object appeared at the other end of the thread on a pile of blank writing paper that lay on my desk, and eyed me intently. I was horrified, and if possible, less capable of resisting than before. What I beheld, and what was exerting this supernatural influence over me was nothing more nor less than a horrible, ugly spider!—a supernatural spider, most certainly; different, I tell you, from any I have ever before or since seen.
As I sat watching the spider, it began moving up and down, back and forth, and round and round on the paper in the most irregular motions imaginable. Being rather large and clumsy-looking, his movements, so very irregular though really not ungraceful, made the spider at first look awkward.
Wonder upon wonder! As the spider began moving, another one, somewhat smaller than the first, and more dimly seen, with even a finer thread of light (attached, too, to the first spider’s thread), made its appearance on another pile of paper. Could it be that a whole army of spiders had convened to work my destruction, and that these two were only the picket-guards? Yet it did seem that this one was not present, but only the vision of a spider, existing somewhere in reality, but present only to my mind. This, too, I am persuaded to believe, was really the case. But the other one, the larger one, I swear was there moving on my paper; and I still have the paper in my possession as proof. As this one began to move, the visionary one also began to move; as if each, unconscious of the acts of the other, was nevertheless controlled by the action of the other, and the influence upon each other was mutual. As they both moved, I noticed they left their shining, filmy thread upon the paper. But I was so intent upon every motion that I paid no attention to the web left behind, until each spider, having almost reached the right-hand side of the paper, cut his thread, went to the left, and began again to go through similar motions.
What could be the meaning of this mystic spider-dance? Such, indeed, it now seemed to be; for my first impression of irregularity and clumsiness had nowworn away, and their motions now seemed to be in perfect unison, and measured with the grace and harmony of rhythm. The room was but dimly lighted by the rays of moon that slipped in under the curtains, yet I could see the spiders and their work plainly. I glanced at the glowing web the first spider had left, and—wonderful to relate!—as true as the sun shines above us, there at the top of the page in writing that, had it been in ink, I would have sworn was my own, the glowing web had been woven in and out so as to read,Happy Days of Yore!
Could it be possible?—was I not dreaming? I looked and read and read and looked again and again. But there it was, plain as day, in a style of writing, too, I say, that I would have sworn was my own had it been in ink instead of woven in a glowing web. But why those words? Could there be something in my life, past or present, that those words were to taunt me about? My whole life’s history trailed before my eyes, a galaxy of pleasant memories. No, nothing there that these words could make regretful. Could it then portend something of a dark future? God alone knows!
Thus meditating, my eye caught the less distinct glow of the web of the other spider. Heavens! what next! There, as distinct as if written by the hand of my old chum, were the words,Memories of the Past. Here was a mystery growing deeper and deeper each moment. I would willingly have taken my oath, and will to this day, that the handwriting was that of my boyhood chum and present dear old friend.
Happy Days of Yore,—Memories of the Past. How was I to solve the mystery of the weaving of thesewords and fathom their intended meaning? Both suggested to my mind a similar train of thought. But why this mysterious writing?
As I sat thus meditating, I again became conscious of that weird sound of which I have previously spoken, but which (my mind being so preoccupied with what was before it) I had not again noticed until I fell into this meditation.
It sounded like the sweet, sad blending of mournful voices singing, or chanting, rather, to the deep tones of a distant organ. I recalled myself and looked at the large spider, when I discovered that—mystery of mysteries!—the echo-like organ voice and solemn chanting music came from the spider alone as he moved across the paper, weaving his golden web into rhythmic words! There, as the music went on, I read in illuminated characters of the weaving spider’s web.—
Oh those happy days of yoreWill come back to me no more!Ah no more, no more for aye!—They have fled with time away,And my heart is sad and loneAs I dream forevermore,With a heaving sigh and groan,Of those happy days of yore.
Oh those happy days of yoreWill come back to me no more!Ah no more, no more for aye!—They have fled with time away,And my heart is sad and loneAs I dream forevermore,With a heaving sigh and groan,Of those happy days of yore.
Oh those happy days of yoreWill come back to me no more!Ah no more, no more for aye!—They have fled with time away,And my heart is sad and loneAs I dream forevermore,With a heaving sigh and groan,Of those happy days of yore.
Oh those happy days of yore
Will come back to me no more!
Ah no more, no more for aye!—
They have fled with time away,
And my heart is sad and lone
As I dream forevermore,
With a heaving sigh and groan,
Of those happy days of yore.
Most wonderful!—wonderful not in the words so much, for they were simple, plain, and as they moved to the music, graceful withal, seeming to be words that might come from a sincere and true but untutored poetic heart; wonderful, therefore, rather, that they should be woven by a spider, and that, too, with a web of light.
As in eager wonder I leaned my ear closer, the visionof the second and more delicate spider, likewise weaving, passed before my eyes, and I caught the distant strains of a deeper, sadder, sweeter melody, with these words woven in the finer, more delicate thread of light.—
Oh how sweet those days of boyhood,Oh how dear those happy hoursWhen I rambled through the forests’Mong the birds and trees and flowers!Life lay smiling all before me,No regrets, no cares behind;All the earth seemed bright with beauty,Life was freedom unconfined.I rejoiced whene’er the sunlightScattered wide its golden beams,Thinking not that I should everMiss its light or prize its gleams.
Oh how sweet those days of boyhood,Oh how dear those happy hoursWhen I rambled through the forests’Mong the birds and trees and flowers!Life lay smiling all before me,No regrets, no cares behind;All the earth seemed bright with beauty,Life was freedom unconfined.I rejoiced whene’er the sunlightScattered wide its golden beams,Thinking not that I should everMiss its light or prize its gleams.
Oh how sweet those days of boyhood,Oh how dear those happy hoursWhen I rambled through the forests’Mong the birds and trees and flowers!Life lay smiling all before me,No regrets, no cares behind;All the earth seemed bright with beauty,Life was freedom unconfined.I rejoiced whene’er the sunlightScattered wide its golden beams,Thinking not that I should everMiss its light or prize its gleams.
Oh how sweet those days of boyhood,
Oh how dear those happy hours
When I rambled through the forests
’Mong the birds and trees and flowers!
Life lay smiling all before me,
No regrets, no cares behind;
All the earth seemed bright with beauty,
Life was freedom unconfined.
I rejoiced whene’er the sunlight
Scattered wide its golden beams,
Thinking not that I should ever
Miss its light or prize its gleams.
Still more wonderful and remarkable than anything before was the similarity of music as well as of thought: more wonderful and more remarkable because neither spider seemed conscious of the other’s action or presence. Indeed, as I have already said, only one really was present; the other existing in another place, and onlypsychologicallypresent to me. This latter fact, shown in all that follows, I tell you, is the most remarkable psychological problem I have ever met—except one!—nor have I ever yet found sage or savant able to solve it. Many have tried it, wondered at it more and more as they got more and more into its depths and subtle intricacies, and finally in their weakness have given it up. Herbert Spencer, McCosh, and other lesser philosophers cannot satisfy themselves upon it.
My interest was now, if possible, even greater than before. Again I turned my attention to the present spider as in melody it wove.—
Oh those days of sweetest thought!Oh those days with rapture fraught!Had I known when but a childWhat great blessings round me smiled,With a wild, exulting leapI’d have struck on wisdom’s door;Piled up knowledge heap on heapIn those happy days of yore.
Oh those days of sweetest thought!Oh those days with rapture fraught!Had I known when but a childWhat great blessings round me smiled,With a wild, exulting leapI’d have struck on wisdom’s door;Piled up knowledge heap on heapIn those happy days of yore.
Oh those days of sweetest thought!Oh those days with rapture fraught!Had I known when but a childWhat great blessings round me smiled,With a wild, exulting leapI’d have struck on wisdom’s door;Piled up knowledge heap on heapIn those happy days of yore.
Oh those days of sweetest thought!
Oh those days with rapture fraught!
Had I known when but a child
What great blessings round me smiled,
With a wild, exulting leap
I’d have struck on wisdom’s door;
Piled up knowledge heap on heap
In those happy days of yore.
Both were weaving rapidly, as if their very lives were an ephemeral inspiration, and they were thus weaving it away in illuminated letters, that at least that inspiration might live, though the very weaving should cost both their lives. So I hastened again to look, and to listen to the other richer and deeper melody.—
Ah, those days are gone forever;Time has wafted them away;Happiness now seems a phantomOf a joyous yesterday.If I could but live them over,All those careless, happy hours,Start again in life’s fair morningO’er life’s path of thorns and flowers,Not a moment would be wastedChasing bubbles in the air—I would seek the pearls of knowledge,And the gems of wisdom wear.
Ah, those days are gone forever;Time has wafted them away;Happiness now seems a phantomOf a joyous yesterday.If I could but live them over,All those careless, happy hours,Start again in life’s fair morningO’er life’s path of thorns and flowers,Not a moment would be wastedChasing bubbles in the air—I would seek the pearls of knowledge,And the gems of wisdom wear.
Ah, those days are gone forever;Time has wafted them away;Happiness now seems a phantomOf a joyous yesterday.If I could but live them over,All those careless, happy hours,Start again in life’s fair morningO’er life’s path of thorns and flowers,Not a moment would be wastedChasing bubbles in the air—I would seek the pearls of knowledge,And the gems of wisdom wear.
Ah, those days are gone forever;
Time has wafted them away;
Happiness now seems a phantom
Of a joyous yesterday.
If I could but live them over,
All those careless, happy hours,
Start again in life’s fair morning
O’er life’s path of thorns and flowers,
Not a moment would be wasted
Chasing bubbles in the air—
I would seek the pearls of knowledge,
And the gems of wisdom wear.
Could it be that those two spiders were endowed with human faculties, and that those faculties were now working in unison, inspired by the same thought, the same feeling? I had little time to meditate this, for both wrote (I can’t help saying theywrote) as rapidly as slow music goes, or about as rapidly as I am writing this; and the first spider had already begun the third stanza.—
Could I live again those daysThat I spent in idle playsAnd could know of learning’s worth,I’d not waste my time in mirth;—I would climb the hill of fameAnd on wisdom’s wings would soarTill I caught the beacon flameIn those happy days of yore.
Could I live again those daysThat I spent in idle playsAnd could know of learning’s worth,I’d not waste my time in mirth;—I would climb the hill of fameAnd on wisdom’s wings would soarTill I caught the beacon flameIn those happy days of yore.
Could I live again those daysThat I spent in idle playsAnd could know of learning’s worth,I’d not waste my time in mirth;—I would climb the hill of fameAnd on wisdom’s wings would soarTill I caught the beacon flameIn those happy days of yore.
Could I live again those days
That I spent in idle plays
And could know of learning’s worth,
I’d not waste my time in mirth;—
I would climb the hill of fame
And on wisdom’s wings would soar
Till I caught the beacon flame
In those happy days of yore.
I then involuntarily turned to the other; but finding that it had completed a page, as indeed both had done, I removed the finished sheet of the visible one and at the same instant and by the same act removed that of the psychologically visible one; though how this latter was accomplished even psychologists are at their wits’ end to explain. Even to the close I continued thus to remove the finished sheets as soon as they were completed. And now from the second I heard.—
Had I known of wisdom’s powerIn those days with pleasure fraught,From the mines of truth and beautyGolden trophies I’d have brought.All the lore of bygone agesFrom my books I would have learned;O’er the bards I would have ponderedTho’ my lamp till morning burned;All the broad empire of NatureWith its wealth of laws divineShould have shown to me the beautyOf Omnipotent design.
Had I known of wisdom’s powerIn those days with pleasure fraught,From the mines of truth and beautyGolden trophies I’d have brought.All the lore of bygone agesFrom my books I would have learned;O’er the bards I would have ponderedTho’ my lamp till morning burned;All the broad empire of NatureWith its wealth of laws divineShould have shown to me the beautyOf Omnipotent design.
Had I known of wisdom’s powerIn those days with pleasure fraught,From the mines of truth and beautyGolden trophies I’d have brought.All the lore of bygone agesFrom my books I would have learned;O’er the bards I would have ponderedTho’ my lamp till morning burned;All the broad empire of NatureWith its wealth of laws divineShould have shown to me the beautyOf Omnipotent design.
Had I known of wisdom’s power
In those days with pleasure fraught,
From the mines of truth and beauty
Golden trophies I’d have brought.
All the lore of bygone ages
From my books I would have learned;
O’er the bards I would have pondered
Tho’ my lamp till morning burned;
All the broad empire of Nature
With its wealth of laws divine
Should have shown to me the beauty
Of Omnipotent design.
While I listened to this, the first spider, apparently conscious of my abstraction, had waited; but on again bending my eyes in that direction, again the sad melody floated upwards and away to the heart-felt words.—