Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forest of the night!What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the ardour of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire—What the hand dare seize the fire?And what shoulder, and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?What the hammer, what the chain,In what furnace was thy brain?Did God smile his work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forest of the night!What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the ardour of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire—What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?
What the hammer, what the chain,In what furnace was thy brain?Did God smile his work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?
W. Blake
An ancient story I'll tell you anonOf a notable prince, that was called King John;And he ruled England with main and with might,For he did great wrong and maintain'd little right.And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry,Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;How for his housekeeping and high renown,They rode post for him to fair London town.An hundred men, the king did hear say,The Abbot kept in his house every day;And fifty gold chains, without any doubt,In velvet coats waited the Abbot about.'How now, father Abbot; I hear it of thee,Thou keepest a far better house than me;And for thy housekeeping and high renown,I fear thou work'st treason against my crown.''My liege,' quoth the Abbot, 'I would it were known,I never spend nothing but what is my own;And I trust your grace will do me no deereFor spending of my own true gotten geere.''Yes, yes, father Abbot, thy fault it is high,And now for the same thou needest must die;For except thou canst answer me questions three,Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.'And first,' quoth the king, 'when I'm in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birth,Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth.'Secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride the whole world about;And at the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.''O these are hard questions for my shallow wit,Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet;But if you will give me but three weeks space,I'll do my endeavour to answer your Grace.''Now three weeks space to thee will I give,And that is the longest time thou hast to live;For if thou dost not answer my questions three,Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me.'Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word,And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;But never a doctor there was so wise,That could with his learning an answer devise.Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold,And he met his shepherd a going to fold:'How now, my lord Abbot, you are welcome home;What news do you bring us from good King John?''Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give,That I have but three days more to live;For if I do not answer him questions three,My head will be smitten from my bodie.'The first is to tell him there in that stead,With his crown of gold so fair on his head,Among all his liege-men so noble of birth,To within one penny of what he is worth.'The second, to tell him without any doubt,How soon he may ride this whole world about;And at the third question I must not shrink,But tell him there truly what he does think.''Now cheer up, sir Abbot, did you never hear yetThat a fool he may learn a wise man wit?Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.'Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me,I am like your lordship as ever may be;And if you will but lend me your gownThere is none shall know us in fair London town.''Now horses and serving men thou shalt have,With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope,Fit to appear 'fore our father the Pope.''Now welcome, sir Abbot,' the King he did say,''Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day:For and if thou canst answer my questions three,Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.'And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birth,Tell me to one penny what I am worth.''For thirty pence our Saviour was soldAmong the false Jews, as I have been told:And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,For I think thou art one penny worser than he.'The King he laugh'd, and swore by St. Bittel,'I did not think I had been worth so little!Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride this whole world about.''You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,Until the next morning he riseth again;And then your Grace need not make any doubtBut in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.'The King he laugh'd, and swore by St. Jone,'I did not think it could be gone so soon.Now from the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.''Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry;You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.'The King he laugh'd, and swore by the mass,'I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!''Nay, nay, my liege, be not in such speed,For alack, I can neither write nor read.''Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,For this merry jest thou hast shewn unto me;And tell the old Abbot, when thou com'st home,Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.'
An ancient story I'll tell you anonOf a notable prince, that was called King John;And he ruled England with main and with might,For he did great wrong and maintain'd little right.
And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry,Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;How for his housekeeping and high renown,They rode post for him to fair London town.
An hundred men, the king did hear say,The Abbot kept in his house every day;And fifty gold chains, without any doubt,In velvet coats waited the Abbot about.
'How now, father Abbot; I hear it of thee,Thou keepest a far better house than me;And for thy housekeeping and high renown,I fear thou work'st treason against my crown.'
'My liege,' quoth the Abbot, 'I would it were known,I never spend nothing but what is my own;And I trust your grace will do me no deereFor spending of my own true gotten geere.'
'Yes, yes, father Abbot, thy fault it is high,And now for the same thou needest must die;For except thou canst answer me questions three,Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
'And first,' quoth the king, 'when I'm in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birth,Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth.
'Secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride the whole world about;And at the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.'
'O these are hard questions for my shallow wit,Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet;But if you will give me but three weeks space,I'll do my endeavour to answer your Grace.'
'Now three weeks space to thee will I give,And that is the longest time thou hast to live;For if thou dost not answer my questions three,Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me.'
Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word,And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;But never a doctor there was so wise,That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold,And he met his shepherd a going to fold:'How now, my lord Abbot, you are welcome home;What news do you bring us from good King John?'
'Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give,That I have but three days more to live;For if I do not answer him questions three,My head will be smitten from my bodie.
'The first is to tell him there in that stead,With his crown of gold so fair on his head,Among all his liege-men so noble of birth,To within one penny of what he is worth.
'The second, to tell him without any doubt,How soon he may ride this whole world about;And at the third question I must not shrink,But tell him there truly what he does think.'
'Now cheer up, sir Abbot, did you never hear yetThat a fool he may learn a wise man wit?Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.
'Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me,I am like your lordship as ever may be;And if you will but lend me your gownThere is none shall know us in fair London town.'
'Now horses and serving men thou shalt have,With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope,Fit to appear 'fore our father the Pope.'
'Now welcome, sir Abbot,' the King he did say,''Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day:For and if thou canst answer my questions three,Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.
'And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birth,Tell me to one penny what I am worth.'
'For thirty pence our Saviour was soldAmong the false Jews, as I have been told:And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,For I think thou art one penny worser than he.'
The King he laugh'd, and swore by St. Bittel,'I did not think I had been worth so little!Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride this whole world about.'
'You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,Until the next morning he riseth again;And then your Grace need not make any doubtBut in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.'
The King he laugh'd, and swore by St. Jone,'I did not think it could be gone so soon.Now from the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.'
'Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry;You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.'
The King he laugh'd, and swore by the mass,'I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!''Nay, nay, my liege, be not in such speed,For alack, I can neither write nor read.'
'Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,For this merry jest thou hast shewn unto me;And tell the old Abbot, when thou com'st home,Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.'
Old Ballad
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old king sits;He is now so old and greyHe's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the queenOf the gay Northern Lights.They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down again,Her friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lakes,On a bed of flag leaves,Watching till she wakes.By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bareThey have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig one up in spite,He shall find the thornies setIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.
High on the hill-topThe old king sits;He is now so old and greyHe's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the queenOf the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down again,Her friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lakes,On a bed of flag leaves,Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bareThey have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig one up in spite,He shall find the thornies setIn his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
W. Allingham
A wonder stranger ne'er was knownThan what I now shall treat upon.In Suffolk there did lately dwellA farmer rich and known full well.He had a daughter fair and bright,On whom he placed his chief delight;Her beauty was beyond compare,She was both virtuous and fair.There was a young man living by,Who was so charmed with her eye,That he could never be at rest;He was by love so much possest.He made address to her, and sheDid grant him love immediately;But when her father came to hear,He parted her and her poor dear.Forty miles distant was she sent,Unto his brothers, with intentThat she should there so long remain,Till she had changed her mind again.Hereat this young man sadly grieved,But knew not how to be relieved;He sigh'd and sobb'd continuallyThat his true love he could not see.She by no means could to him send,Who was her heart's espoused friend;He sigh'd, he griev'd, but all in vain,For she confined must still remain.He mourn'd so much that doctor's artCould give no ease unto his heart,Who was so strangely terrified,That in short time for love he died.She that from him was sent awayKnew nothing of his dying day,But constant still she did remain,And loved the dead, although in vain.After he had in grave been laidA month or more, unto this maidHe came in middle of the night,Who joy'd to see her heart's delight.Her father's horse which well she knew,Her mother's hood and safeguard too,He brought with him to testifyHer parents' order he came by.Which when her uncle understood,He hoped it would be for her good,And gave consent to her straightway,That with him she should come away.When she was got her love behind,They passed as swift as any wind,That in two hours, or little more,He brought her to her father's door.But as they did this great haste make,He did complain his head did ache;Her handkerchief she then took out,And tied the same his head about.And unto him she thus did say:'Thou art as cold as any clay,When we come home a fire we'll have;'But little dreamed he went to grave.Soon were they at her father's door,And after she ne'er saw him more;'I'll set the horse up,' then he said,And there he left this harmless maid.She knocked, and straight a man he cried,'Who's there?' ''Tis I,' she then replied;Who wondered much her voice to hear,And was possest with dread and fear.Her father he did tell, and thenHe stared like an affrighted man:Down stairs he ran, and when he see her,Cried out, 'My child, how cam'st thou here?''Pray, sir, did you not send for meBy such a messenger?' said she:Which made his hair stand on his head,As knowing well that he was dead.'Where is he?' then to her he said;'He's in the stable,' quoth the maid.'Go in,' said he, 'and go to bed;I'll see the horse well littered.'He stared about, and there could heNo shape of any mankind see,But found his horse all on a sweat;Which made him in a deadly fret.His daughter he said nothing to,Nor none else, (though full well they knewThat he was dead a month before,)For fear of grieving her full sore.Her father to the father wentOf the deceased, with full intentTo tell him what his daughter said;So both came back unto this maid.They asked her, and she still did say'Twas he that then brought her away;Which when they heard, they were amazed,And on each other strangely gazed.A handkerchief she said she tiedAbout his head, and that they tried;The sexton they did speak untoThat he the grave would then undo.Affrighted then they did beholdHis body turning into mould,And though he had a month been deadThis handkerchief was about his head.This thing unto her then they told,And the whole truth they did unfold;She was thereat so terrifiedAnd grieved, that she quickly died.
A wonder stranger ne'er was knownThan what I now shall treat upon.In Suffolk there did lately dwellA farmer rich and known full well.
He had a daughter fair and bright,On whom he placed his chief delight;Her beauty was beyond compare,She was both virtuous and fair.
There was a young man living by,Who was so charmed with her eye,That he could never be at rest;He was by love so much possest.
He made address to her, and sheDid grant him love immediately;But when her father came to hear,He parted her and her poor dear.
Forty miles distant was she sent,Unto his brothers, with intentThat she should there so long remain,Till she had changed her mind again.
Hereat this young man sadly grieved,But knew not how to be relieved;He sigh'd and sobb'd continuallyThat his true love he could not see.
She by no means could to him send,Who was her heart's espoused friend;He sigh'd, he griev'd, but all in vain,For she confined must still remain.
He mourn'd so much that doctor's artCould give no ease unto his heart,Who was so strangely terrified,That in short time for love he died.
She that from him was sent awayKnew nothing of his dying day,But constant still she did remain,And loved the dead, although in vain.
After he had in grave been laidA month or more, unto this maidHe came in middle of the night,Who joy'd to see her heart's delight.
Her father's horse which well she knew,Her mother's hood and safeguard too,He brought with him to testifyHer parents' order he came by.
Which when her uncle understood,He hoped it would be for her good,And gave consent to her straightway,That with him she should come away.
When she was got her love behind,They passed as swift as any wind,That in two hours, or little more,He brought her to her father's door.
But as they did this great haste make,He did complain his head did ache;Her handkerchief she then took out,And tied the same his head about.
And unto him she thus did say:'Thou art as cold as any clay,When we come home a fire we'll have;'But little dreamed he went to grave.
Soon were they at her father's door,And after she ne'er saw him more;'I'll set the horse up,' then he said,And there he left this harmless maid.
She knocked, and straight a man he cried,'Who's there?' ''Tis I,' she then replied;Who wondered much her voice to hear,And was possest with dread and fear.
Her father he did tell, and thenHe stared like an affrighted man:Down stairs he ran, and when he see her,Cried out, 'My child, how cam'st thou here?'
'Pray, sir, did you not send for meBy such a messenger?' said she:Which made his hair stand on his head,As knowing well that he was dead.
'Where is he?' then to her he said;'He's in the stable,' quoth the maid.'Go in,' said he, 'and go to bed;I'll see the horse well littered.'
He stared about, and there could heNo shape of any mankind see,But found his horse all on a sweat;Which made him in a deadly fret.
His daughter he said nothing to,Nor none else, (though full well they knewThat he was dead a month before,)For fear of grieving her full sore.
Her father to the father wentOf the deceased, with full intentTo tell him what his daughter said;So both came back unto this maid.
They asked her, and she still did say'Twas he that then brought her away;Which when they heard, they were amazed,And on each other strangely gazed.
A handkerchief she said she tiedAbout his head, and that they tried;The sexton they did speak untoThat he the grave would then undo.
Affrighted then they did beholdHis body turning into mould,And though he had a month been deadThis handkerchief was about his head.
This thing unto her then they told,And the whole truth they did unfold;She was thereat so terrifiedAnd grieved, that she quickly died.
Old Ballad
As it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring,Everything did banish moan,Save the Nightingale alone.She, poor bird, as all forlorn,Lean'd her breast against a thorn,And there sung the dolefullest dittyThat to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;Tereu, Tereu, by and by:That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shewnMade me think upon mine own.—Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;King Pandion, he is dead,All thy friends are lapp'd in lead.All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing.Even so, poor bird, like theeNone alive will pity me.
As it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring,Everything did banish moan,Save the Nightingale alone.She, poor bird, as all forlorn,Lean'd her breast against a thorn,And there sung the dolefullest dittyThat to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;Tereu, Tereu, by and by:That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shewnMade me think upon mine own.—Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;King Pandion, he is dead,All thy friends are lapp'd in lead.All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing.Even so, poor bird, like theeNone alive will pity me.
R. Barnefield
'Twas on a lofty vase's sideWhere China's gayest art had dyedThe azure flowers that blow,Demurest of the tabby kind,The pensive Selima, reclined,Gazed on the lake below.Her conscious tail her joy declared:The fair round face, the snowy beard,The velvet of her paws,Her coat that with the tortoise vies,Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,She saw, and purr'd applause.Still had she gazed, but midst the tideTwo angel forms were seen to glide,The genii of the stream:Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue,Through richest purple, to the viewBetray'd a golden gleam.The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:A whisker first, and then a claw,With many an ardent wish,She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize;What female heart can gold despise?What cat's averse to fish?Presumptuous maid! with looks intentAgain she stretch'd, again she bent,Nor knew the gulf between—Malignant fate sat by and smiled—The slippery verge her feet beguiled;She tumbled headlong in!Eight times emerging from the floodShe mew'd to every watery godSome speedy aid to send:No dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard—A favourite has no friend!
'Twas on a lofty vase's sideWhere China's gayest art had dyedThe azure flowers that blow,Demurest of the tabby kind,The pensive Selima, reclined,Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared:The fair round face, the snowy beard,The velvet of her paws,Her coat that with the tortoise vies,Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,She saw, and purr'd applause.
Still had she gazed, but midst the tideTwo angel forms were seen to glide,The genii of the stream:Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue,Through richest purple, to the viewBetray'd a golden gleam.
The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:A whisker first, and then a claw,With many an ardent wish,She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize;What female heart can gold despise?What cat's averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intentAgain she stretch'd, again she bent,Nor knew the gulf between—Malignant fate sat by and smiled—The slippery verge her feet beguiled;She tumbled headlong in!
Eight times emerging from the floodShe mew'd to every watery godSome speedy aid to send:No dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard—A favourite has no friend!
T. Gray
A fox, in life's extreme decay,Weak, sick and faint, expiring lay;All appetite had left his maw,And age disarm'd his mumbling jaw.His numerous race around him standTo learn their dying sire's command:He rais'd his head with whining moan,And thus was heard the feeble tone:'Ah, sons, from evil ways depart;My crimes lie heavy on my heart.See, see, the murdered geese appear!Why are those bleeding turkeys there?Why all around this cackling trainWho haunt my ears for chickens slain?'The hungry foxes round them star'd,And for the promised feast prepar'd.'Where, sir, is all this dainty cheer?Nor turkey, goose, nor hen is here.These are the phantoms of your brain;And your sons lick their lips in vain.''O, gluttons,' says the drooping sire,'Restrain inordinate desire,Your liquorish taste you shall deplore,When peace of conscience is no more.Does not the hound betray our pace,And gins and guns destroy our race?Thieves dread the searching eye of powerAnd never feel the quiet hour.Old age (which few of us shall know)Now puts a period to my woe.Would you true happiness attain,Let honesty your passions rein;So live in credit and esteem,And the good name you lost, redeem.''The counsel's good,' a son replies,'Could we perform what you advise.Think what our ancestors have done;A line of thieves from son to son.To us descends the long disgrace,And infamy hath marked our race.Though we like harmless sheep should feed,Honest in thought, in word, in deed,Whatever hen-roost is decreas'd,We shall be thought to share the feast.The change shall never be believ'd,A lost good name is ne'er retriev'd.''Nay then,' replies the feeble fox,'(But hark, I hear a hen that clucks,)Go; but be moderate in your food;A chicken, too, might do me good.'
A fox, in life's extreme decay,Weak, sick and faint, expiring lay;All appetite had left his maw,And age disarm'd his mumbling jaw.His numerous race around him standTo learn their dying sire's command:He rais'd his head with whining moan,And thus was heard the feeble tone:'Ah, sons, from evil ways depart;My crimes lie heavy on my heart.See, see, the murdered geese appear!Why are those bleeding turkeys there?Why all around this cackling trainWho haunt my ears for chickens slain?'The hungry foxes round them star'd,And for the promised feast prepar'd.'Where, sir, is all this dainty cheer?Nor turkey, goose, nor hen is here.These are the phantoms of your brain;And your sons lick their lips in vain.''O, gluttons,' says the drooping sire,'Restrain inordinate desire,Your liquorish taste you shall deplore,When peace of conscience is no more.Does not the hound betray our pace,And gins and guns destroy our race?Thieves dread the searching eye of powerAnd never feel the quiet hour.Old age (which few of us shall know)Now puts a period to my woe.Would you true happiness attain,Let honesty your passions rein;So live in credit and esteem,And the good name you lost, redeem.''The counsel's good,' a son replies,'Could we perform what you advise.Think what our ancestors have done;A line of thieves from son to son.To us descends the long disgrace,And infamy hath marked our race.Though we like harmless sheep should feed,Honest in thought, in word, in deed,Whatever hen-roost is decreas'd,We shall be thought to share the feast.The change shall never be believ'd,A lost good name is ne'er retriev'd.''Nay then,' replies the feeble fox,'(But hark, I hear a hen that clucks,)Go; but be moderate in your food;A chicken, too, might do me good.'
J. Gay
'You are old, Father William,' the young man cried,'The few locks which are left you are grey;You are hale, Father William, a hearty old manNow tell me the reason, I pray.''In the days of my youth,' Father William replied,'I remember'd that youth would fly fast,And abused not my health and my vigour at first,That I never might need them at last.''You are old, Father William,' the young man cried,'And pleasures with youth pass away;And yet you lament not the days that are gone,Now tell me the reason, I pray.''In the days of my youth,' Father William replied,I remember'd that youth could not last;I thought of the future whatever I did,That I never might grieve for the past.''You are old, Father William,' the young man cried,'And life must be hastening away;You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death,Now tell me the reason, I pray.''I am cheerful, young man,' Father William replied,'Let the cause thy attention engage;In the days of my youth I remember'd my God,And He hath not forgotten my age.'
'You are old, Father William,' the young man cried,'The few locks which are left you are grey;You are hale, Father William, a hearty old manNow tell me the reason, I pray.'
'In the days of my youth,' Father William replied,'I remember'd that youth would fly fast,And abused not my health and my vigour at first,That I never might need them at last.'
'You are old, Father William,' the young man cried,'And pleasures with youth pass away;And yet you lament not the days that are gone,Now tell me the reason, I pray.'
'In the days of my youth,' Father William replied,I remember'd that youth could not last;I thought of the future whatever I did,That I never might grieve for the past.'
'You are old, Father William,' the young man cried,'And life must be hastening away;You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death,Now tell me the reason, I pray.'
'I am cheerful, young man,' Father William replied,'Let the cause thy attention engage;In the days of my youth I remember'd my God,And He hath not forgotten my age.'
R. Southey
Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.'Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!' he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.'Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!' he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!'Was there a man dismay'd?Not though the soldier knewSome one had blunder'd.Theirs not to make reply,Theirs not to reason why,Theirs but to do and die.Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!'Was there a man dismay'd?Not though the soldier knewSome one had blunder'd.Theirs not to make reply,Theirs not to reason why,Theirs but to do and die.Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,Flash'd as they turn'd in air,Sabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder'd:Plunged in the battery smoke,Right through the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReel'd from the sabre strokeShatter'd and sunder'd;Then they rode back, but not—Not the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,Flash'd as they turn'd in air,Sabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder'd:Plunged in the battery smoke,Right through the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReel'd from the sabre strokeShatter'd and sunder'd;Then they rode back, but not—Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame through the jaws of DeathBack from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame through the jaws of DeathBack from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?O, the wild charge they made!All the world wonder'd.Honour the charge they made!Honour the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!
When can their glory fade?O, the wild charge they made!All the world wonder'd.Honour the charge they made!Honour the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!
A. Tennyson
Ye mariners of England,That guard our native seas;Whose flag has braved a thousand yearsThe battle and the breeze!Your glorious standard launch again,To match another foe!And sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.The spirits of your fathersShall start from every wave!—For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,Your manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.Britannia needs no bulwarks,No towers along the steep;Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oak,She quells the floods below,As they roar on the shore,When the stormy winds do blow;When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn;Till danger's troubled night depart,And the star of peace return.Then, then, ye ocean warriors!Our song and feast shall flowTo the fame of your name,When the storm has ceased to blow:When the fiery fight is heard no more,And the storm has ceased to blow.
Ye mariners of England,That guard our native seas;Whose flag has braved a thousand yearsThe battle and the breeze!Your glorious standard launch again,To match another foe!And sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathersShall start from every wave!—For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,Your manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,No towers along the steep;Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oak,She quells the floods below,As they roar on the shore,When the stormy winds do blow;When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn;Till danger's troubled night depart,And the star of peace return.Then, then, ye ocean warriors!Our song and feast shall flowTo the fame of your name,When the storm has ceased to blow:When the fiery fight is heard no more,And the storm has ceased to blow.
T. Campbell
A true story
Napoleon's banners at BoulogneArm'd in our island every freeman,His navy chanced to capture onePoor British seaman.They suffer'd him—I know not how—Unprison'd on the shore to roam;And aye was bent his longing browOn England's home.His eye, methinks, pursued the flightOf birds to Britain half-way over;With envytheycould reach the whiteDear cliffs of Dover.A stormy midnight watch, he thought,Than this sojourn would have been dearer,If but the storm his vessel broughtTo England nearer.At last, when care had banish'd sleep,He saw one morning—dreaming—doating,An empty hogshead from the deepCome shoreward floating;He hid it in a cave, and wroughtThe livelong day laborious; lurkingUntil he launch'd a tiny boatBy mighty working.Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyondDescription wretched: such a wherryPerhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond,Or cross'd a ferry.For ploughing in the salt sea-field,It would have made the boldest shudder;Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd,No sail—no rudder.From neighbouring woods he interlacedHis sorry skiff with wattled willows;And thus equipp'd he would have pass'dThe foaming billows—But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,His little Argo sorely jeering;Till tidings of him chanced to reachNapoleon's hearing.With folded arms Napoleon stood,Serene alike in peace and danger;And in his wonted attitude,Address'd the stranger:—'Rash man that wouldst yon channel passOn twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd;Thy heart with some sweet British lassMust be impassion'd.''I have no sweetheart,' said the lad;'But—absent long from one another—Great was the longing that I hadTo see my mother.''And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said,'Ye've both my favour fairly won;A noble mother must have bredSo brave a son.'He gave the tar a piece of gold,And with a flag of truce commandedHe should be shipp'd to England Old,And safely landed.Our sailor oft could scantly shiftTo find a dinner plain and hearty;But never changed the coin and giftOf Bonaparte.
Napoleon's banners at BoulogneArm'd in our island every freeman,His navy chanced to capture onePoor British seaman.
They suffer'd him—I know not how—Unprison'd on the shore to roam;And aye was bent his longing browOn England's home.
His eye, methinks, pursued the flightOf birds to Britain half-way over;With envytheycould reach the whiteDear cliffs of Dover.
A stormy midnight watch, he thought,Than this sojourn would have been dearer,If but the storm his vessel broughtTo England nearer.
At last, when care had banish'd sleep,He saw one morning—dreaming—doating,An empty hogshead from the deepCome shoreward floating;
He hid it in a cave, and wroughtThe livelong day laborious; lurkingUntil he launch'd a tiny boatBy mighty working.
Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyondDescription wretched: such a wherryPerhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond,Or cross'd a ferry.
For ploughing in the salt sea-field,It would have made the boldest shudder;Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd,No sail—no rudder.
From neighbouring woods he interlacedHis sorry skiff with wattled willows;And thus equipp'd he would have pass'dThe foaming billows—
But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,His little Argo sorely jeering;Till tidings of him chanced to reachNapoleon's hearing.
With folded arms Napoleon stood,Serene alike in peace and danger;And in his wonted attitude,Address'd the stranger:—
'Rash man that wouldst yon channel passOn twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd;Thy heart with some sweet British lassMust be impassion'd.'
'I have no sweetheart,' said the lad;'But—absent long from one another—Great was the longing that I hadTo see my mother.'
'And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said,'Ye've both my favour fairly won;A noble mother must have bredSo brave a son.'
He gave the tar a piece of gold,And with a flag of truce commandedHe should be shipp'd to England Old,And safely landed.
Our sailor oft could scantly shiftTo find a dinner plain and hearty;But never changed the coin and giftOf Bonaparte.
T. Campbell
An Ode
When the British warrior queen,Bleeding from the Roman rods,Sought, with an indignant mien,Counsel of her country's gods;Sage beneath a spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief;Every burning word he spokeFull of rage, and full of grief.Princess! if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,'Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues.Rome shall perish—write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt;Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,Deep in ruin as in guilt.Rome, for empire far renown'd,Tramples on a thousand states;Soon her pride shall kiss the ground—Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!Other Romans shall arise,Heedless of a soldier's name;Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,Harmony the path to fame.Then the progeny that springsFrom the forests of our land,Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,Shall a wider world command.Regions Cæsar never knewThy posterity shall sway;Where his eagles never flew,None invincible as they.Such the bard's prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending as he swept the chordsOf his sweet but awful lyre.She, with all a monarch's pride,Felt them in her bosom glow;Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;Dying hurl'd them at the foe;Ruffians, pitiless as proud,Heaven awards the vengeance due;Empire is on us bestow'd,Shame and ruin wait for you.
When the British warrior queen,Bleeding from the Roman rods,Sought, with an indignant mien,Counsel of her country's gods;
Sage beneath a spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief;Every burning word he spokeFull of rage, and full of grief.
Princess! if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,'Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues.
Rome shall perish—write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt;Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Rome, for empire far renown'd,Tramples on a thousand states;Soon her pride shall kiss the ground—Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
Other Romans shall arise,Heedless of a soldier's name;Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that springsFrom the forests of our land,Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,Shall a wider world command.
Regions Cæsar never knewThy posterity shall sway;Where his eagles never flew,None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending as he swept the chordsOf his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,Felt them in her bosom glow;Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;Dying hurl'd them at the foe;
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,Heaven awards the vengeance due;Empire is on us bestow'd,Shame and ruin wait for you.
W. Cowper
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpower'd,The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array,Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track;'Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the wayTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oftIn life's morning march, when my bosom was young;I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,From my home and my weeping friends never to part,My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.Stay, stay with us,—rest, thou art weary and worn!And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpower'd,The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array,Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track;'Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the wayTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oftIn life's morning march, when my bosom was young;I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,From my home and my weeping friends never to part,My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us,—rest, thou art weary and worn!And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
T. Campbell