Three fishers went sailing away to the west,Away to the west as the sun went down;Each thought on the woman who loved him 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 harbour bar be moaning.Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down;They look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower,And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.But men must work and women must weep,Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,And the harbour 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 home to the town;For men must work and women must weep,And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep,And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
Three fishers went sailing away to the west,Away to the west as the sun went down;Each thought on the woman who loved him 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 harbour bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down;They look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower,And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.But men must work and women must weep,Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,And the harbour 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 home to the town;For men must work and women must weep,And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep,And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
C. Kingsley
The post-boy drove with fierce career,For threatening clouds the moon had drown'd;When, as we hurried on, my earWas smitten with a startling sound.As if the wind blew many ways,I heard the sound,—and more and more;It seem'd to follow with the chaise,And still I heard it as before.At length I to the boy call'd out;He stopp'd his horses at the word,But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,Nor aught else like it, could be heard.The boy then smack'd his whip, and fastThe horses scamper'd through the rain;But hearing soon upon the blastThe cry, I made him halt again.Forthwith alighting on the ground,'Whence comes,' said I, 'that piteous moan?'And there a little girl I found,Sitting behind the chaise alone.'My cloak!' no other word she spake,But loud and bitterly she wept,As if her innocent heart would break;And down from off her seat she leapt.'What ails you, child?'—she sobb'd, 'Look here!'I saw it in the wheel entangled,A weather-beaten rag as e'erFrom any garden scarecrow dangled.There, twisted between nave and spoke,It hung, nor could at once be freed;But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,A miserable rag indeed!'And whither are you going, child,To-night, along these lonesome ways?''To Durham,' answer'd she, half wild—'Then come with me into the chaise.'Insensible to all reliefSat the poor girl, and forth did sendSob after sob, as if her griefCould never, never have an end.'My child, in Durham do you dwell?'She check'd herself in her distress,And said, 'My name is Alice Fell;I'm fatherless and motherless.'And I to Durham, sir, belong.'Again, as if the thought would chokeHer very heart, her grief grew strong;And all was for her tatter'd cloak!The chaise drove on; our journey's endWas nigh; and, sitting by my side,As if she had lost her only friends,She wept, nor would be pacified.Up to the tavern door we post;Of Alice and her grief I told;And I gave money to the host,To buy a new cloak for the old:'And let it be of duffil grey,As warm a cloak as man can sell!'Proud creature was she the next day,The little orphan, Alice Fell!
The post-boy drove with fierce career,For threatening clouds the moon had drown'd;When, as we hurried on, my earWas smitten with a startling sound.
As if the wind blew many ways,I heard the sound,—and more and more;It seem'd to follow with the chaise,And still I heard it as before.
At length I to the boy call'd out;He stopp'd his horses at the word,But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,Nor aught else like it, could be heard.
The boy then smack'd his whip, and fastThe horses scamper'd through the rain;But hearing soon upon the blastThe cry, I made him halt again.
Forthwith alighting on the ground,'Whence comes,' said I, 'that piteous moan?'And there a little girl I found,Sitting behind the chaise alone.
'My cloak!' no other word she spake,But loud and bitterly she wept,As if her innocent heart would break;And down from off her seat she leapt.
'What ails you, child?'—she sobb'd, 'Look here!'I saw it in the wheel entangled,A weather-beaten rag as e'erFrom any garden scarecrow dangled.
There, twisted between nave and spoke,It hung, nor could at once be freed;But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,A miserable rag indeed!
'And whither are you going, child,To-night, along these lonesome ways?''To Durham,' answer'd she, half wild—'Then come with me into the chaise.'
Insensible to all reliefSat the poor girl, and forth did sendSob after sob, as if her griefCould never, never have an end.
'My child, in Durham do you dwell?'She check'd herself in her distress,And said, 'My name is Alice Fell;I'm fatherless and motherless.
'And I to Durham, sir, belong.'Again, as if the thought would chokeHer very heart, her grief grew strong;And all was for her tatter'd cloak!
The chaise drove on; our journey's endWas nigh; and, sitting by my side,As if she had lost her only friends,She wept, nor would be pacified.
Up to the tavern door we post;Of Alice and her grief I told;And I gave money to the host,To buy a new cloak for the old:
'And let it be of duffil grey,As warm a cloak as man can sell!'Proud creature was she the next day,The little orphan, Alice Fell!
W. Wordsworth
The gorse is yellow on the heath,The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,The oaks are budding, and, beneath,The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,The silver wreath, of May.The welcome guest of settled Spring,The swallow, too, has come at last;Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,I saw her dash with rapid wing,And hail'd her as she past.Come, summer visitant, attachTo my reed roof your nest of clay,And let my ear your music catch,Low twittering underneath the thatchAt the grey dawn of day.
The gorse is yellow on the heath,The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,The oaks are budding, and, beneath,The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,The silver wreath, of May.
The welcome guest of settled Spring,The swallow, too, has come at last;Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,I saw her dash with rapid wing,And hail'd her as she past.
Come, summer visitant, attachTo my reed roof your nest of clay,And let my ear your music catch,Low twittering underneath the thatchAt the grey dawn of day.
C. Smith
They grew in beauty side by side,They fill'd one home with glee;—Their graves are sever'd far and wide,—By mount, and stream, and sea.The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair sleeping brow:She had each folded flower in sight,—Where are those dreamers now?One, midst the forests of the West,By a dark stream is laid—The Indian knows his place of rest,Far in the cedar shade.The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one—He lies where pearls lie deep;He was the loved of all, yet noneO'er his low bed may weep.One sleeps where Southern vines are drestAbove the noble slain:He wrapt his colours round his breast,On a blood-red field of Spain.And one—o'er her the myrtle showersIts leaves, by soft winds fann'd;She faded midst Italian flowers,The last of that bright band.And parted thus they rest who play'dBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they pray'dAround one parent knee;They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheer'd with song the hearth!—Alas for love! ifthouwert all,And naught beyond, O, Earth!
They grew in beauty side by side,They fill'd one home with glee;—Their graves are sever'd far and wide,—By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair sleeping brow:She had each folded flower in sight,—Where are those dreamers now?
One, midst the forests of the West,By a dark stream is laid—The Indian knows his place of rest,Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one—He lies where pearls lie deep;He was the loved of all, yet noneO'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where Southern vines are drestAbove the noble slain:He wrapt his colours round his breast,On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one—o'er her the myrtle showersIts leaves, by soft winds fann'd;She faded midst Italian flowers,The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest who play'dBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they pray'dAround one parent knee;
They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheer'd with song the hearth!—Alas for love! ifthouwert all,And naught beyond, O, Earth!
F. Hemans
Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,That overhung a mole-hill large and round,I heard from morn to morn a merry thrushSing hymns of rapture, while I drank the soundWith joy; and oft, an unintruding guest,I watch'd her secret toils from day to day,How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest,And modell'd it within with wool and clay.And bye and bye, like heath-bells gilt with dew,There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue;And there I witness'd, in the summer hours,A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.
Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,That overhung a mole-hill large and round,I heard from morn to morn a merry thrushSing hymns of rapture, while I drank the soundWith joy; and oft, an unintruding guest,I watch'd her secret toils from day to day,How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest,And modell'd it within with wool and clay.And bye and bye, like heath-bells gilt with dew,There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue;And there I witness'd, in the summer hours,A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.
J. Clare
In distant countries have I been,And yet I have not often seenA healthy man, a man full grown,Weep in the public roads alone;But such a one, on English ground,And in the broad highway I met;Along the broad highway he came,His cheeks with tears were wet;Sturdy he seem'd, though he was sad;And in his arms a lamb he had.
In distant countries have I been,And yet I have not often seenA healthy man, a man full grown,Weep in the public roads alone;But such a one, on English ground,And in the broad highway I met;Along the broad highway he came,His cheeks with tears were wet;Sturdy he seem'd, though he was sad;And in his arms a lamb he had.
He saw me, and he turn'd aside,As if he wish'd himself to hide:And with his coat did then essayTo wipe those briny tears away.I follow'd him and said, 'My friend,What ails you! wherefore weep you so?'—'Shame on me, sir! this lusty lamb,He makes my tears to flow.To-day I fetch'd him from the rock;He is the last of all my flock.
He saw me, and he turn'd aside,As if he wish'd himself to hide:And with his coat did then essayTo wipe those briny tears away.I follow'd him and said, 'My friend,What ails you! wherefore weep you so?'—'Shame on me, sir! this lusty lamb,He makes my tears to flow.To-day I fetch'd him from the rock;He is the last of all my flock.
'When I was young, a single man,And after youthful follies ran,Though little given to care and thought,Yet so it was, an ewe I bought;And other sheep from her I raised,As healthy sheep as you might see;And then I married, and was richAs I could wish to be;Of sheep I number'd a full score,And every year increas'd my store.
'When I was young, a single man,And after youthful follies ran,Though little given to care and thought,Yet so it was, an ewe I bought;And other sheep from her I raised,As healthy sheep as you might see;And then I married, and was richAs I could wish to be;Of sheep I number'd a full score,And every year increas'd my store.
'Year after year my stock it grew;And from this one, this single ewe,Full fifty comely sheep I raised,As fine a flock as ever grazed!Upon the Quantock Hills they fed;They throve, and we at home did thrive:—This lusty lamb of all my storeIs all that is alive;And now I care not if we die,And perish all of poverty.
'Year after year my stock it grew;And from this one, this single ewe,Full fifty comely sheep I raised,As fine a flock as ever grazed!Upon the Quantock Hills they fed;They throve, and we at home did thrive:—This lusty lamb of all my storeIs all that is alive;And now I care not if we die,And perish all of poverty.
'Six children, sir, had I to feed;Hard labour, in a time of need!My pride was tamed, and in our grief,I of the parish ask'd relief,They said I was a wealthy man;My sheep upon the uplands fed,And it was fit that thence I tookWhereof to buy us bread.'Do this; how can we give to you,'They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'
'Six children, sir, had I to feed;Hard labour, in a time of need!My pride was tamed, and in our grief,I of the parish ask'd relief,They said I was a wealthy man;My sheep upon the uplands fed,And it was fit that thence I tookWhereof to buy us bread.'Do this; how can we give to you,'They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'
'I sold a sheep, as they had said,And bought my little children bread,And they were healthy with their food;For me—it never did me good.A woful time it was for me,To see the end of all my gains,The pretty flock which I had rear'dWith all my care and pains,To see it melt like snow away—For me it was a woful day.
'I sold a sheep, as they had said,And bought my little children bread,And they were healthy with their food;For me—it never did me good.A woful time it was for me,To see the end of all my gains,The pretty flock which I had rear'dWith all my care and pains,To see it melt like snow away—For me it was a woful day.
Another still! and still another!A little lamb, and then its mother!It was a vein that never stopp'd—Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd,Till thirty were not left alive;They dwindled, dwindled, one by one;And I may say that many a timeI wish'd they all were gone;Reckless of what might come at last,Were but the bitter struggle past.
Another still! and still another!A little lamb, and then its mother!It was a vein that never stopp'd—Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd,Till thirty were not left alive;They dwindled, dwindled, one by one;And I may say that many a timeI wish'd they all were gone;Reckless of what might come at last,Were but the bitter struggle past.
To wicked deeds I was inclined,And wicked fancies cross'd my mind;And every man I chanced to see,I thought he knew some ill of me.No peace, no comfort could I find,No ease within doors or without;And crazily and wearilyI went my work about;And oft was moved to flee from homeAnd hide my head where wild beasts roam.
To wicked deeds I was inclined,And wicked fancies cross'd my mind;And every man I chanced to see,I thought he knew some ill of me.No peace, no comfort could I find,No ease within doors or without;And crazily and wearilyI went my work about;And oft was moved to flee from homeAnd hide my head where wild beasts roam.
'Sir, 'twas a precious flock to me,As dear as my own children be;For daily with my growing storeI loved my children more and more.Alas! it was an evil time;God cursed me in my sore distress;I pray'd, yet every day I thoughtI loved my children less;And every week, and every day,My flock it seem'd to melt away;They dwindled, sir, sad sight to seeFrom ten to five, from five to three,A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;And then at last from three to two;And, of my fifty, yesterdayI had but only one:And here it lies upon my arm,Alas, and I have none;To-day I fetch'd it from the rock—It is the last of all my flock.'
'Sir, 'twas a precious flock to me,As dear as my own children be;For daily with my growing storeI loved my children more and more.Alas! it was an evil time;God cursed me in my sore distress;I pray'd, yet every day I thoughtI loved my children less;And every week, and every day,My flock it seem'd to melt away;They dwindled, sir, sad sight to seeFrom ten to five, from five to three,A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;And then at last from three to two;And, of my fifty, yesterdayI had but only one:And here it lies upon my arm,Alas, and I have none;To-day I fetch'd it from the rock—It is the last of all my flock.'
W. Wordsworth
Little Ellie sits alone'Mid the beeches of a meadow,By a stream-side on the grass;And the trees are showering downDoubles of their leaves in shadowOn her shining hair and face.She has thrown her bonnet by;And her feet she has been dippingIn the shallow waters' flow—Now she holds them nakedlyIn her hands, all sleek and dripping,While she rocketh to and fro.Little Ellie sits alone,And the smile she softly usethFills the silence like a speech:While she thinks what shall be done,And the sweetest pleasure choosethFor her future, within reach.Little Ellie in her smileChooseth—'I will have a lover,Riding on a steed of steeds!He shall love me without guile;And tohimI will discoverThat swan's nest among the reeds.'And the steed it shall be red-roan,And the lover shall be noble,With an eye that takes the breath,And the lute he plays uponShall strike ladies into trouble,As his sword strikes men to death.'And the steed it shall be shodAll in silver, housed in azure,And the mane shall swim the wind;And the hoofs along the sodShall flash onward and keep measure,Till the shepherds look behind.'He will kiss me on the mouthThen, and lead me as a lover,Through the crowds that praise his deeds;And, when soul-tied by one troth,UntohimI will discoverThat swan's nest among the reeds.'Little Ellie, with her smileNot yet ended, rose up gaily,—Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe,And went homeward round a mile,Just to see, as she did daily,What more eggs were with the two.Pushing through the elm-tree copse,Winding by the stream, light-hearted,Where the osier pathway leads—Past the boughs she stoops and stops:Lo! the wild swan had deserted,And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds.Ellie went home sad and slow.If she found the lover ever,With his red-roan steed of steeds,Sooth I know not! but I knowShe could never show him—never,That swan's nest among the reeds.
Little Ellie sits alone'Mid the beeches of a meadow,By a stream-side on the grass;And the trees are showering downDoubles of their leaves in shadowOn her shining hair and face.
She has thrown her bonnet by;And her feet she has been dippingIn the shallow waters' flow—Now she holds them nakedlyIn her hands, all sleek and dripping,While she rocketh to and fro.
Little Ellie sits alone,And the smile she softly usethFills the silence like a speech:While she thinks what shall be done,And the sweetest pleasure choosethFor her future, within reach.
Little Ellie in her smileChooseth—'I will have a lover,Riding on a steed of steeds!He shall love me without guile;And tohimI will discoverThat swan's nest among the reeds.
'And the steed it shall be red-roan,And the lover shall be noble,With an eye that takes the breath,And the lute he plays uponShall strike ladies into trouble,As his sword strikes men to death.
'And the steed it shall be shodAll in silver, housed in azure,And the mane shall swim the wind;And the hoofs along the sodShall flash onward and keep measure,Till the shepherds look behind.
'He will kiss me on the mouthThen, and lead me as a lover,Through the crowds that praise his deeds;And, when soul-tied by one troth,UntohimI will discoverThat swan's nest among the reeds.'
Little Ellie, with her smileNot yet ended, rose up gaily,—Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe,And went homeward round a mile,Just to see, as she did daily,What more eggs were with the two.
Pushing through the elm-tree copse,Winding by the stream, light-hearted,Where the osier pathway leads—Past the boughs she stoops and stops:Lo! the wild swan had deserted,And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds.
Ellie went home sad and slow.If she found the lover ever,With his red-roan steed of steeds,Sooth I know not! but I knowShe could never show him—never,That swan's nest among the reeds.
E. B. Browning
I wander'd by the brook-side,I wander'd by the mill,—I could not hear the brook flow,The noisy wheel was still;There was no burr of grasshopper,Nor chirp of any bird;But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.I sat beneath the elm-tree,I watch'd the long, long shade.And as it grew still longerI did not feel afraid;For I listen'd for a foot-fall,I listen'd for a word,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.He came not,—no, he came not;The night came on alone;The little stars sat one by oneEach on his golden throne;The evening air pass'd by my cheek,The leaves above were stirr'd,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.Fast silent tears were flowing,When some one stood behind;A hand was on my shoulder,I knew its touch was kind:It drew me nearer, nearer;We did not speak a word,—For the beating of our own heartsWas all the sound we heard.
I wander'd by the brook-side,I wander'd by the mill,—I could not hear the brook flow,The noisy wheel was still;There was no burr of grasshopper,Nor chirp of any bird;But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.
I sat beneath the elm-tree,I watch'd the long, long shade.And as it grew still longerI did not feel afraid;For I listen'd for a foot-fall,I listen'd for a word,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.
He came not,—no, he came not;The night came on alone;The little stars sat one by oneEach on his golden throne;The evening air pass'd by my cheek,The leaves above were stirr'd,—But the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.
Fast silent tears were flowing,When some one stood behind;A hand was on my shoulder,I knew its touch was kind:It drew me nearer, nearer;We did not speak a word,—For the beating of our own heartsWas all the sound we heard.
R. M. Milnes
Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!Not a soul in the village this morning will stay:The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.'Of coats and of jackets, grey, scarlet, and green,On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;With their comely blue aprons and caps white as snow,The girls on the hills make a holiday show.Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,Fill'd the funeral basin at Timothy's door;A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past;One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away!Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.Perhaps to himself at that moment he said;'The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.'But of this, in my ears, not a word did he speak;And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!Not a soul in the village this morning will stay:The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.'
Of coats and of jackets, grey, scarlet, and green,On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;With their comely blue aprons and caps white as snow,The girls on the hills make a holiday show.
Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,Fill'd the funeral basin at Timothy's door;A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past;One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.
Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away!Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.
Perhaps to himself at that moment he said;'The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.'But of this, in my ears, not a word did he speak;And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
W. Wordsworth
Year after year unto her feet,She lying on her couch alone,Across the purple coverlet,The maiden's jet-black hair has grown,On either side her tranced formForth streaming from a braid of pearl:The slumbrous light is rich and warm,And moves not on the rounded curl.
Year after year unto her feet,She lying on her couch alone,Across the purple coverlet,The maiden's jet-black hair has grown,On either side her tranced formForth streaming from a braid of pearl:The slumbrous light is rich and warm,And moves not on the rounded curl.
The silk star-broider'd coverlidUnto her limbs itself doth mould,Languidly ever; and, amidHer full black ringlets downward roll'd,Glows forth each softly shadow'd armWith bracelets of the diamond bright:Her constant beauty doth informStillness with love, and day with light.
The silk star-broider'd coverlidUnto her limbs itself doth mould,Languidly ever; and, amidHer full black ringlets downward roll'd,Glows forth each softly shadow'd armWith bracelets of the diamond bright:Her constant beauty doth informStillness with love, and day with light.
She sleeps: her breathings are not heardIn palace chambers far apart.The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd,That lie upon her charmed heart.She sleeps: on either hand upswellsThe gold-fringed pillow lightly press'd:She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwellsA perfect form in perfect rest.
She sleeps: her breathings are not heardIn palace chambers far apart.The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd,That lie upon her charmed heart.She sleeps: on either hand upswellsThe gold-fringed pillow lightly press'd:She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwellsA perfect form in perfect rest.
A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt,There rose a noise of striking clocks,And feet that ran and doors that clapt,And barking dogs, and crowing cocks;A fuller light illumin'd all,A breeze through all the garden swept,A sudden hubbub shook the hall,And sixty feet the fountain leapt.
A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt,There rose a noise of striking clocks,And feet that ran and doors that clapt,And barking dogs, and crowing cocks;A fuller light illumin'd all,A breeze through all the garden swept,A sudden hubbub shook the hall,And sixty feet the fountain leapt.
The hedge broke in, the banner blew,The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd,The fire shot up, the martin flew,The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd,The maid and page renew'd their strife,The palace bang'd and buzz'd and clackt,And all the long pent stream of lifeDash'd downward in a cataract.
The hedge broke in, the banner blew,The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd,The fire shot up, the martin flew,The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd,The maid and page renew'd their strife,The palace bang'd and buzz'd and clackt,And all the long pent stream of lifeDash'd downward in a cataract.
And last with these the king awoke,And in his chair himself uprear'd,And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke,'By holy rood, a royal beard!How say you? we have slept, my lords.My beard has grown into my lap.'The barons swore, with many words,'Twas but an after-dinner's nap.
And last with these the king awoke,And in his chair himself uprear'd,And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke,'By holy rood, a royal beard!How say you? we have slept, my lords.My beard has grown into my lap.'The barons swore, with many words,'Twas but an after-dinner's nap.
'Pardy,' return'd the king, 'but stillMy joints are something stiff or so.My Lord, and shall we pass the billI mention'd half an hour ago?'The chancellor sedate and vainIn courteous words return'd reply:But dallied with his golden chain,And, smiling, put the question by.
'Pardy,' return'd the king, 'but stillMy joints are something stiff or so.My Lord, and shall we pass the billI mention'd half an hour ago?'The chancellor sedate and vainIn courteous words return'd reply:But dallied with his golden chain,And, smiling, put the question by.
A. Tennyson
Up! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!To the meadows trip away.Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,And scare the small birds from the corn.Not a soul at home may stay:For the shepherds must goWith lance and bowTo hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.Leave the hearth and leave the houseTo the cricket and the mouse:Find grannam out a sunny seat,With babe and lambkin at her feet.Not a soul at home may stay:For the shepherds must goWith lance and bowTo hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
Up! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!To the meadows trip away.Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,And scare the small birds from the corn.Not a soul at home may stay:For the shepherds must goWith lance and bowTo hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
Leave the hearth and leave the houseTo the cricket and the mouse:Find grannam out a sunny seat,With babe and lambkin at her feet.Not a soul at home may stay:For the shepherds must goWith lance and bowTo hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
S. T. Coleridge
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold,And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen;Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd;And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever were still.And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,But through them there roll'd not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail,And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold,And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen;Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd;And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever were still.
And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,But through them there roll'd not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail,And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Lord Byron
A widow bird sate mourning for her loveUpon a wintry bough;The frozen wind crept on above,The freezing stream below.There was no leaf upon the forest bare,No flower upon the ground,And little motion in the airExcept the mill-wheel's sound.
A widow bird sate mourning for her loveUpon a wintry bough;The frozen wind crept on above,The freezing stream below.
There was no leaf upon the forest bare,No flower upon the ground,And little motion in the airExcept the mill-wheel's sound.
P. B. Shelley
With farmer Allan at the farm abodeWilliam and Dora. William was his son,And she his niece. He often look'd at them,And often thought, 'I'll make them man and wife.'Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, becauseHe had been always with her in the house,Thought not of Dora.Then there came a dayWhen Allan call'd his son, and said: 'My son,I married late, but I would wish to seeMy grandchild on my knees before I die:And I have set my heart upon a match.Now therefore look to Dora; she is wellTo look to; thrifty too, beyond her age.She is my brother's daughter: he and IHad once hard words, and parted, and he diedIn foreign lands; but for his sake I bredHis daughter Dora: take her for your wife;For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,For many years.' But William answer'd short:'I cannot marry Dora; by my life,I will not marry Dora.' Then the old manWas wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:'You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!But in my time a father's word was law,And so it shall be now for me. Look to't;Consider, William; take a month to think,And let me have an answer to my wish;Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall packAnd nevermore darken my doors again!'But William answer'd madly, bit his lips,And broke away. The more he look'd at herThe less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;But Dora bore them meekly. Then beforeThe month was out he left his father's house,And hired himself to work within the fields;And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wedA labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'dHis niece and said: 'My girl, I love you well;But if you speak with him that was my son,Or change a word with her he calls his wife,My home is none of yours. My will is law.'And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,'It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change.'And days went on, and there was born a boyTo William; then distresses came on him;And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.But Dora stored what little she could save,And sent it them by stealth, nor did they knowWho sent it; till at last a fever seizedOn William, and in harvest-time he died.Then Dora went to Mary. Mary satAnd look'd with tears upon her boy, and thoughtHard things of Dora. Dora came and said:'I have obey'd my uncle until now,And I have sinn'd, for it was all through meThis evil came on William at the first.But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,And for your sake, the woman that he chose,And for this orphan, I am come to you:You know there has not been for these five yearsSo full a harvest: let me take the boy,And I will set him in my uncle's eyeAmong the wheat; that, when his heart is gladOf the full harvest, he may see the boy,And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'And Dora took the child, and went her wayAcross the wheat, and sat upon a moundThat was unsown, where many poppies grew.Far off the farmer came into the fieldAnd spied her not; for none of all his menDare tell him Dora waited with the child;And Dora would have risen and gone to him,But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.But when the morrow came, she rose and tookThe child once more, and sat upon the mound;And made a little wreath of all the flowersThat grew about, and tied it on his hatTo make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.Then when the farmer pass'd into the fieldHe spied her, and he left his men at workAnd came and said, 'Where were you yesterday?Whose child is that? what are you doing here?'So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,And answer'd softly, 'This is William's child.''And did I not,' said Allan, 'did I notForbid you, Dora?' Dora said again:'Do with me as you will, but take the childAnd bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'And Allan said: 'I see it is a trickGot up betwixt you and the woman there.I must be taught my duty, and by you!You knew my word was law, and yet you daredTo slight it. Well—for I will take the boy;But go you hence, and never see me more.'So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloudAnd struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fellAt Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands,And the boy's cry came to her from the field.More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,Remembering the day when first she came,And all the things that had been. She bow'd downAnd wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,And the sun fell and all the land was dark.Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stoodUpon the threshold. Mary saw the boyWas not with Dora. She broke out in praiseTo God that help'd her in her widowhood.And Dora said: 'My uncle took the boy;But, Mary, let me live and work with you:He says that he will never see me more.'Then answer'd Mary, 'This shall never be,That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,For he will teach him hardness, and to slightHis mother: therefore thou and I will go,And I will have my boy, and bring him home;And I will beg of him to take thee back;And if he will not take thee back again,Then thou and I will live within one house,And work for William's child until he growsOf age to help us.'So the women kiss'dEach other, and set out and reach'd the farm.The door was off the latch; they peep'd and sawThe boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd outAnd babbled for the golden seal that hungFrom Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.Then they came in; but when the boy beheldHis mother, he cried out to come to her:And Allan sat him down, and Mary said:'O Father!—if you let me call me so—I never came a-begging for myself,Or William, or this child; but now I comeFor Dora: take her back; she loves you well;O Sir, when William died, he died at peaceWith all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,He could not ever rue his marrying me.I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he saidThat he was wrong to cross his father thus:"God bless him!" he said, "and may he never knowThe troubles I have gone through!" then he turn'dHis face and pass'd—unhappy that I am!But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for youWill make him hard, and he will learn to slightHis father's memory; and take Dora back,And let all this be as it was before.'So Mary said, and Dora hid her faceBy Mary. There was silence in the room,And all at once the old man burst in sobs:—'I have been to blame—to blame! I have kill'd my son!I have kill'd him—but I loved him—my dear son!May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.Kiss me, my children!'Then they clung aboutThe old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times,And all the man was broken with remorse;And all his love came back a hundredfold;And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,Thinking of William.So those four abodeWithin one house together; and as yearsWent forward, Mary took another mate;But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
With farmer Allan at the farm abodeWilliam and Dora. William was his son,And she his niece. He often look'd at them,And often thought, 'I'll make them man and wife.'Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, becauseHe had been always with her in the house,Thought not of Dora.Then there came a dayWhen Allan call'd his son, and said: 'My son,I married late, but I would wish to seeMy grandchild on my knees before I die:And I have set my heart upon a match.Now therefore look to Dora; she is wellTo look to; thrifty too, beyond her age.She is my brother's daughter: he and IHad once hard words, and parted, and he diedIn foreign lands; but for his sake I bredHis daughter Dora: take her for your wife;For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,For many years.' But William answer'd short:'I cannot marry Dora; by my life,I will not marry Dora.' Then the old manWas wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:'You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!But in my time a father's word was law,And so it shall be now for me. Look to't;Consider, William; take a month to think,And let me have an answer to my wish;Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall packAnd nevermore darken my doors again!'But William answer'd madly, bit his lips,And broke away. The more he look'd at herThe less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;But Dora bore them meekly. Then beforeThe month was out he left his father's house,And hired himself to work within the fields;And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wedA labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'dHis niece and said: 'My girl, I love you well;But if you speak with him that was my son,Or change a word with her he calls his wife,My home is none of yours. My will is law.'And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,'It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change.'And days went on, and there was born a boyTo William; then distresses came on him;And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.But Dora stored what little she could save,And sent it them by stealth, nor did they knowWho sent it; till at last a fever seizedOn William, and in harvest-time he died.Then Dora went to Mary. Mary satAnd look'd with tears upon her boy, and thoughtHard things of Dora. Dora came and said:'I have obey'd my uncle until now,And I have sinn'd, for it was all through meThis evil came on William at the first.But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,And for your sake, the woman that he chose,And for this orphan, I am come to you:You know there has not been for these five yearsSo full a harvest: let me take the boy,And I will set him in my uncle's eyeAmong the wheat; that, when his heart is gladOf the full harvest, he may see the boy,And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'And Dora took the child, and went her wayAcross the wheat, and sat upon a moundThat was unsown, where many poppies grew.Far off the farmer came into the fieldAnd spied her not; for none of all his menDare tell him Dora waited with the child;And Dora would have risen and gone to him,But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.But when the morrow came, she rose and tookThe child once more, and sat upon the mound;And made a little wreath of all the flowersThat grew about, and tied it on his hatTo make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.Then when the farmer pass'd into the fieldHe spied her, and he left his men at workAnd came and said, 'Where were you yesterday?Whose child is that? what are you doing here?'So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,And answer'd softly, 'This is William's child.''And did I not,' said Allan, 'did I notForbid you, Dora?' Dora said again:'Do with me as you will, but take the childAnd bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'And Allan said: 'I see it is a trickGot up betwixt you and the woman there.I must be taught my duty, and by you!You knew my word was law, and yet you daredTo slight it. Well—for I will take the boy;But go you hence, and never see me more.'So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloudAnd struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fellAt Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands,And the boy's cry came to her from the field.More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,Remembering the day when first she came,And all the things that had been. She bow'd downAnd wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,And the sun fell and all the land was dark.Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stoodUpon the threshold. Mary saw the boyWas not with Dora. She broke out in praiseTo God that help'd her in her widowhood.And Dora said: 'My uncle took the boy;But, Mary, let me live and work with you:He says that he will never see me more.'Then answer'd Mary, 'This shall never be,That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,For he will teach him hardness, and to slightHis mother: therefore thou and I will go,And I will have my boy, and bring him home;And I will beg of him to take thee back;And if he will not take thee back again,Then thou and I will live within one house,And work for William's child until he growsOf age to help us.'So the women kiss'dEach other, and set out and reach'd the farm.The door was off the latch; they peep'd and sawThe boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd outAnd babbled for the golden seal that hungFrom Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.Then they came in; but when the boy beheldHis mother, he cried out to come to her:And Allan sat him down, and Mary said:'O Father!—if you let me call me so—I never came a-begging for myself,Or William, or this child; but now I comeFor Dora: take her back; she loves you well;O Sir, when William died, he died at peaceWith all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,He could not ever rue his marrying me.I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he saidThat he was wrong to cross his father thus:"God bless him!" he said, "and may he never knowThe troubles I have gone through!" then he turn'dHis face and pass'd—unhappy that I am!But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for youWill make him hard, and he will learn to slightHis father's memory; and take Dora back,And let all this be as it was before.'So Mary said, and Dora hid her faceBy Mary. There was silence in the room,And all at once the old man burst in sobs:—'I have been to blame—to blame! I have kill'd my son!I have kill'd him—but I loved him—my dear son!May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.Kiss me, my children!'Then they clung aboutThe old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times,And all the man was broken with remorse;And all his love came back a hundredfold;And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,Thinking of William.So those four abodeWithin one house together; and as yearsWent forward, Mary took another mate;But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
A. Tennyson
Spoken by a Countryman