Young Henry was as brave a youthAs ever graced a gallant story;And Jane was fair as lovely truth,She sigh'd for Love, and he for Glory!With her his faith he meant to plight,And told her many a gallant story;Till war, their coming joys to blight,Call'd him away from Love to Glory!Young Henry met the foe with pride;Jane followed, fought! ah, hapless story!In man's attire, by Henry's side,She died for Love, and he for Glory.
Young Henry was as brave a youthAs ever graced a gallant story;And Jane was fair as lovely truth,She sigh'd for Love, and he for Glory!
With her his faith he meant to plight,And told her many a gallant story;Till war, their coming joys to blight,Call'd him away from Love to Glory!
Young Henry met the foe with pride;Jane followed, fought! ah, hapless story!In man's attire, by Henry's side,She died for Love, and he for Glory.
T. Dibdin
It was a summer evening,Old Kaspar's work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun,And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he beside the rivuletIn playing there had found;He came to ask what he had foundThat was so large and smooth and round.Old Kaspar took it from the boyWho stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head,And with a natural sigh—''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,'Who fell in the great victory.''I find them in the garden,For there's many here about;And often when I go to ploughThe ploughshare turns them out.For many a thousand men,' said he,'Were slain in that great victory.''Now tell us what 'twas all about,'Young Peterkin he cries:And little Wilhelmine looks upWith wonder-waiting eyes;'Now tell us all about the war,And what they fought each other for.''It was the English,' Kaspar cried,'Who put the French to rout;But what they fought each other forI could not well make out.But every body said,' quoth he,'That 'twas a famous victory.'My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly:So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head.'With fire and sword the country roundWas wasted far and wide,And many a childing mother thenAnd new-born baby died:But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.'They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won;For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun;But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory.'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,And our good Prince Eugene;''Why 'twas a very wicked thing!'Said little Wilhelmine;'Nay, nay, my little girl,' quoth he,'It was a famous victory.'And every body praised the DukeWho this great fight did win.''But what good came of it at last?'Quoth little Peterkin.'Why that I cannot tell,' said he,'But 'twas a famous victory.'
It was a summer evening,Old Kaspar's work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun,And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he beside the rivuletIn playing there had found;He came to ask what he had foundThat was so large and smooth and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boyWho stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head,And with a natural sigh—''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,'Who fell in the great victory.'
'I find them in the garden,For there's many here about;And often when I go to ploughThe ploughshare turns them out.For many a thousand men,' said he,'Were slain in that great victory.'
'Now tell us what 'twas all about,'Young Peterkin he cries:And little Wilhelmine looks upWith wonder-waiting eyes;'Now tell us all about the war,And what they fought each other for.'
'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,'Who put the French to rout;But what they fought each other forI could not well make out.But every body said,' quoth he,'That 'twas a famous victory.
'My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly:So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head.
'With fire and sword the country roundWas wasted far and wide,And many a childing mother thenAnd new-born baby died:But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.
'They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won;For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun;But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory.
'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,And our good Prince Eugene;''Why 'twas a very wicked thing!'Said little Wilhelmine;'Nay, nay, my little girl,' quoth he,'It was a famous victory.
'And every body praised the DukeWho this great fight did win.''But what good came of it at last?'Quoth little Peterkin.'Why that I cannot tell,' said he,'But 'twas a famous victory.'
R. Southey
One morning (raw it was and wet—A foggy day in winter time)A woman on the road I met,Not old, though something past her prime:Majestic in her person, tall and straight;And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.The ancient spirit is not dead;Old times, thought I, are breathing there;Proud was I that my country bredSuch strength, a dignity so fair:She begged an alms like one in poor estate;I looked at her again nor did my pride abate.When from these lofty thoughts I woke,'What is it?' said I, 'that you bearBeneath the covert of your cloak,Protected from this cold damp air?'She answered, soon as she the question heard,'A simple burthen, Sir, a little singing bird.'And, thus continuing, she said,'I had a son, who many a daySail'd on the seas, but he is dead;In Denmark he was cast away:And I have travelled weary miles to seeIf aught that he had owned might still remain for me.The bird and cage they both were his:'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trimHe kept it: many voyagesThe singing bird had gone with him;When last he sailed, he left the bird behind;From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.'
One morning (raw it was and wet—A foggy day in winter time)A woman on the road I met,Not old, though something past her prime:Majestic in her person, tall and straight;And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.
The ancient spirit is not dead;Old times, thought I, are breathing there;Proud was I that my country bredSuch strength, a dignity so fair:She begged an alms like one in poor estate;I looked at her again nor did my pride abate.
When from these lofty thoughts I woke,'What is it?' said I, 'that you bearBeneath the covert of your cloak,Protected from this cold damp air?'She answered, soon as she the question heard,'A simple burthen, Sir, a little singing bird.'
And, thus continuing, she said,'I had a son, who many a daySail'd on the seas, but he is dead;In Denmark he was cast away:And I have travelled weary miles to seeIf aught that he had owned might still remain for me.
The bird and cage they both were his:'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trimHe kept it: many voyagesThe singing bird had gone with him;When last he sailed, he left the bird behind;From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.'
W. Wordsworth
There came a man, making his hasty moanBefore the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne,And crying out—'My sorrow is my right,And Iwillsee the Sultan, and to-night.''Sorrow,' said Mahmoud, 'is a reverend thing:I recognise its right as king with king;Speak on.' 'A fiend has got into my house,'Exclaim'd the staring man, 'and tortures us:One of thine officers;—he comes, the abhorr'd,And takes possession of my house, my board,My bed:—I have two daughters and a wife,And the wild villain comes and makes me mad with life.''Is he there now?' said Mahmoud. 'No, he leftThe house when I did, of my wits bereft;And laugh'd me down the street because I vow'dI'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his shroud.I'm mad with want, I'm mad with misery,And Oh, thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for thee!'The Sultan comforted the man and said,'Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread.(For he was poor,) and other comforts. Go;And should the wretch return let Sultan Mahmoud know.'In two days' time, with haggard eyes and beard,And shaken voice, the suitor re-appeared,And said, 'He's come.'—Mahmoud said not a word,But rose and took four slaves each with a sword,And went with the vext man. They reach the place,And hear a voice and see a female face,That to the window flutter'd in affright.'Go in,' said Mahmoud, 'and put out the light;But tell the females first to leave the room;And when the drunkard follows them, we come.The man went in. There was a cry, and hark!A table falls, the window is struck dark;Forth rush the breathless women, and behindWith curses comes the fiend in desperate mind.In vain: the sabres soon cut short the strife,And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his bloody life.'Nowlightthe light,' the Sultan cried aloud.'Twas done; he took it in his hand and bow'dOver the corpse, and look'd upon the face;Then turn'd and knelt beside it in the place,And said a prayer, and from his lips there creptSome gentle words of pleasure, and he wept.In reverent silence the spectators wait,Then bring him at his call both wine and meat;And when he had refresh'd his noble heart,He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart.The man amaz'd, all mildness now and tears,Fell at the Sultan's feet with many prayers,And begg'd him to vouchsafe to tell his slave,The reason first of that command he gaveAbout the light: then when he saw the face,Why he knelt down; and lastly how it wasThat fare so poor as his detain'd him in the place.The Sultan said, with much humanity,'Since first I heard thee come, and heard thy cry,I could not rid me of a dread that oneBy whom such daring villanies were done,Must be some lord of mine, perhaps a lawless son.Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'dA father's heart, in case the worst appear'd.For this I had the light put out. But whenI saw the face and found a stranger slain,I knelt and thank'd the sovereign arbiter,Whose work I had perform'd through pain and fear.And then I rose and was refresh'd with food,The first time since thou cam'st and marr'd'st my solitude.'
There came a man, making his hasty moanBefore the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne,And crying out—'My sorrow is my right,And Iwillsee the Sultan, and to-night.''Sorrow,' said Mahmoud, 'is a reverend thing:I recognise its right as king with king;Speak on.' 'A fiend has got into my house,'Exclaim'd the staring man, 'and tortures us:One of thine officers;—he comes, the abhorr'd,And takes possession of my house, my board,My bed:—I have two daughters and a wife,And the wild villain comes and makes me mad with life.'
'Is he there now?' said Mahmoud. 'No, he leftThe house when I did, of my wits bereft;And laugh'd me down the street because I vow'dI'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his shroud.I'm mad with want, I'm mad with misery,And Oh, thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for thee!'
The Sultan comforted the man and said,'Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread.(For he was poor,) and other comforts. Go;And should the wretch return let Sultan Mahmoud know.'
In two days' time, with haggard eyes and beard,And shaken voice, the suitor re-appeared,And said, 'He's come.'—Mahmoud said not a word,But rose and took four slaves each with a sword,And went with the vext man. They reach the place,And hear a voice and see a female face,That to the window flutter'd in affright.'Go in,' said Mahmoud, 'and put out the light;But tell the females first to leave the room;And when the drunkard follows them, we come.
The man went in. There was a cry, and hark!A table falls, the window is struck dark;Forth rush the breathless women, and behindWith curses comes the fiend in desperate mind.In vain: the sabres soon cut short the strife,And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his bloody life.
'Nowlightthe light,' the Sultan cried aloud.'Twas done; he took it in his hand and bow'dOver the corpse, and look'd upon the face;Then turn'd and knelt beside it in the place,And said a prayer, and from his lips there creptSome gentle words of pleasure, and he wept.
In reverent silence the spectators wait,Then bring him at his call both wine and meat;And when he had refresh'd his noble heart,He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart.
The man amaz'd, all mildness now and tears,Fell at the Sultan's feet with many prayers,And begg'd him to vouchsafe to tell his slave,The reason first of that command he gaveAbout the light: then when he saw the face,Why he knelt down; and lastly how it wasThat fare so poor as his detain'd him in the place.
The Sultan said, with much humanity,'Since first I heard thee come, and heard thy cry,I could not rid me of a dread that oneBy whom such daring villanies were done,Must be some lord of mine, perhaps a lawless son.Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'dA father's heart, in case the worst appear'd.For this I had the light put out. But whenI saw the face and found a stranger slain,I knelt and thank'd the sovereign arbiter,Whose work I had perform'd through pain and fear.And then I rose and was refresh'd with food,The first time since thou cam'st and marr'd'st my solitude.'
L. Hunt
A Dirge
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying;And the yearOn the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves deadIs lying.Come, Months, come away,From November to May,In your saddest array,—Follow the bierOf the dead cold year,And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling,The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knellingFor the year;The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each goneTo his dwelling.Come, Months, come away;Put on white, black, and grey;Let your light sisters play;Ye, follow the bierOf the dead cold year,And make her grave green with tear on tear.
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying;And the yearOn the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves deadIs lying.Come, Months, come away,From November to May,In your saddest array,—Follow the bierOf the dead cold year,And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.
The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling,The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knellingFor the year;The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each goneTo his dwelling.Come, Months, come away;Put on white, black, and grey;Let your light sisters play;Ye, follow the bierOf the dead cold year,And make her grave green with tear on tear.
P. B. Shelley
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tappingAs of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.''Tis some visitor,' I mutter'd, 'tapping at my chamber door—Only this and nothing more.'Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wish'd the morrow;—vainly had I sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore—For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Nameless here for evermore.And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrill'd me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—This it is, and nothing more.'Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,'Sir,' said I, 'or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you;' here I open'd wide the door;—Darkness there, and nothing more.Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word 'Lenore!'This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word 'Lenore'—Merely this, and nothing more.Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before,'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice;Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore—Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—'Tis the wind, and nothing more!'Open here I flung a shutter, when with many a flirt and flutterIn there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he;But with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber door—Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door—Perch'd and sat and nothing more.Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no craven,Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore,Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore:Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore!'Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door,Bird or beast upon the sculptur'd bust above his chamber door,With such a name as 'Nevermore.'But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour;Nothing farther then he utter'd—not a feather then he flutter'd—Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, 'Other friends have flown before—On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'Then the bird said 'Nevermore.'Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disasterFollow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore—Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf 'Never—nevermore.'But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust, and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking 'Nevermore.'This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burnt into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er,She shall press, ah, nevermore!'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore—Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant AidennIt shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.'Quoth the raven 'Nevermore.''Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shriek'd, upstarting—'Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of the lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door!Quoth the raven 'Nevermore.'And the raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a dæmon's that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow that is floating on the floorShall be lifted 'Nevermore.'
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tappingAs of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.''Tis some visitor,' I mutter'd, 'tapping at my chamber door—Only this and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wish'd the morrow;—vainly had I sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore—For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrill'd me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—This it is, and nothing more.'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,'Sir,' said I, 'or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you;' here I open'd wide the door;—Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word 'Lenore!'This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word 'Lenore'—Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before,'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice;Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore—Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—'Tis the wind, and nothing more!'
Open here I flung a shutter, when with many a flirt and flutterIn there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he;But with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber door—Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door—Perch'd and sat and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no craven,Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore,Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore:Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore!'
Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door,Bird or beast upon the sculptur'd bust above his chamber door,With such a name as 'Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour;Nothing farther then he utter'd—not a feather then he flutter'd—Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, 'Other friends have flown before—On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'Then the bird said 'Nevermore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disasterFollow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore—Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf 'Never—nevermore.'
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust, and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking 'Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burnt into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er,She shall press, ah, nevermore!
'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore—Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant AidennIt shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.'Quoth the raven 'Nevermore.'
'Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shriek'd, upstarting—'Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of the lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door!Quoth the raven 'Nevermore.'
And the raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a dæmon's that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow that is floating on the floorShall be lifted 'Nevermore.'
E. A. Poe
The crafty Nix, more false than fairWhose haunt in arrowy Iser lies,She envied me my golden hair,She envied me my azure eyes.The moon with silvery ciphers tracedThe leaves, and on the waters play'd;She rose, she caught me round the waist,She said, 'Come down with me, fair maid.'She led me to her crystal grot,She set me in her coral chair,She waved her hand, and I had notOr azure eyes or golden hair.Her locks of jet, her eyes of flameWere mine, and hers my semblance fair;'O make me, Nix, again the same,O give me back my golden hair!'She smiles in scorn, she disappears,And here I sit and see no sun,My eyes of fire are quenched in tears,And all my darksome locks undone.
The crafty Nix, more false than fairWhose haunt in arrowy Iser lies,She envied me my golden hair,She envied me my azure eyes.
The moon with silvery ciphers tracedThe leaves, and on the waters play'd;She rose, she caught me round the waist,She said, 'Come down with me, fair maid.'
She led me to her crystal grot,She set me in her coral chair,She waved her hand, and I had notOr azure eyes or golden hair.
Her locks of jet, her eyes of flameWere mine, and hers my semblance fair;'O make me, Nix, again the same,O give me back my golden hair!'
She smiles in scorn, she disappears,And here I sit and see no sun,My eyes of fire are quenched in tears,And all my darksome locks undone.
R. Garnett
Seven daughters had Lord Archibald,All children of one mother:You could not say in one short dayWhat love they bore each other.A garland, of seven lilies wrought!Seven sisters that together dwell;But he, bold knight as ever fought,Their father, took of them no thought,He loved the wars so well.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Seven daughters had Lord Archibald,All children of one mother:You could not say in one short dayWhat love they bore each other.A garland, of seven lilies wrought!Seven sisters that together dwell;But he, bold knight as ever fought,Their father, took of them no thought,He loved the wars so well.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,And from the shores of Erin,Across the wave, a rover braveTo Binnorie is steering:Right onward to the Scottish strandThe gallant ship is borne;The warriors leap upon the land,And hark! the leader of the bandHath blown his bugle horn.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,And from the shores of Erin,Across the wave, a rover braveTo Binnorie is steering:Right onward to the Scottish strandThe gallant ship is borne;The warriors leap upon the land,And hark! the leader of the bandHath blown his bugle horn.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Beside a grotto of their own,With boughs above them closing,The seven are laid, and in the shadeThey lie like fawns reposing.But now upstarting with affrightAt noise of man and steed,Away they fly, to left, to right—Of your fair household, father-knight,Methinks you take small heed!Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Beside a grotto of their own,With boughs above them closing,The seven are laid, and in the shadeThey lie like fawns reposing.But now upstarting with affrightAt noise of man and steed,Away they fly, to left, to right—Of your fair household, father-knight,Methinks you take small heed!Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Away the seven fair Campbells fly;And, over hill and hollow,With menace proud, and insult loud,The youthful rovers follow.Cried they, 'Your father loves to roam:Enough for him to findThe empty house when he comes home;For us your yellow ringlets comb,For us be fair and kind!'Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Away the seven fair Campbells fly;And, over hill and hollow,With menace proud, and insult loud,The youthful rovers follow.Cried they, 'Your father loves to roam:Enough for him to findThe empty house when he comes home;For us your yellow ringlets comb,For us be fair and kind!'Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Some close behind, some side by side,Like clouds in stormy weather,They run and cry, 'Nay let us die,And let us die together.'A lake was near; the shore was steep;There foot had never been;They ran, and with a desperate leapTogether plunged into the deep,Nor ever more were seen.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Some close behind, some side by side,Like clouds in stormy weather,They run and cry, 'Nay let us die,And let us die together.'A lake was near; the shore was steep;There foot had never been;They ran, and with a desperate leapTogether plunged into the deep,Nor ever more were seen.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
The stream that flows out of the lake,As through the glen it rambles,Repeats a moan o'er moss and stoneFor those seven lovely Campbells.Seven little islands, green and bare,Have risen from out the deep:The fishers say those sisters fairBy fairies are all buried there,And there together sleep.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
The stream that flows out of the lake,As through the glen it rambles,Repeats a moan o'er moss and stoneFor those seven lovely Campbells.Seven little islands, green and bare,Have risen from out the deep:The fishers say those sisters fairBy fairies are all buried there,And there together sleep.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
W. Wordsworth
Her arms across her breast she laid;She was more fair than words can say;Barefooted came the beggar maidBefore the King Cophetua.In robe and crown the king stept down,To meet and greet her on her way;'It is no wonder,' said the lords,'She is more beautiful than day.'As shines the moon in clouded skies,She in her poor attire was seen:One praised her ankles, one her eyes,One her dark hair and lovesome mien.So sweet a face, such angel grace,In all that land had never been:Cophetua swore a royal oath:'This beggar maid shall be my queen.'
Her arms across her breast she laid;She was more fair than words can say;Barefooted came the beggar maidBefore the King Cophetua.In robe and crown the king stept down,To meet and greet her on her way;'It is no wonder,' said the lords,'She is more beautiful than day.'
As shines the moon in clouded skies,She in her poor attire was seen:One praised her ankles, one her eyes,One her dark hair and lovesome mien.So sweet a face, such angel grace,In all that land had never been:Cophetua swore a royal oath:'This beggar maid shall be my queen.'
A. Tennyson
The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn,To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo!His fiery courser snuffs the morn,And thronging serfs their lords pursue.The eager pack, from couples freed,Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake;While answering hound, and horn, and steed,The mountain echoes startling wake.The beams of God's own hallow'd dayHad painted yonder spire with gold,And calling sinful man to pray,Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled.But still the Wildgrave onward rides;Halloo, halloo! and, hark again!When spurring from opposing sides,Two stranger horsemen join the train.Who was each stranger, left and right,Well may I guess but dare not tell;The right-hand steed was silver white,The left, the swarthy hue of hell.The right-hand horseman, young and fair,His smile was like the morn of May;The left, from eye of tawny glare,Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray.He waved his huntsman's cap on high,Cried, 'Welcome, welcome, noble lord!What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,To match the princely chase afford?''Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell,'Cried the fair youth with silver voice;'And for devotion's choral swell,Exchange this rude unhallow'd noise;'To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear,Yon bell yet summons to the fane;To-day the warning Spirit hear,To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.''Away, and sweep the glades along!'The sable hunter hoarse replies;'To muttering monks leave matin song,And bells, and books, and mysteries.'The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed,And, launching forward with a bound,'Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede,Would leave the jovial horn and hound?'Hence, if our manly sport offend!With pious fools go chant and pray;Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd friendHalloo, halloo! and, hark away!'The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser light,O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill;And on the left and on the right,Each stranger horseman follow'd still.Up springs from yonder tangled thornA stag more white than mountain snow;And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn,'Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!'A heedless wretch has cross'd the way;He gasps, the thundering hoofs below;But live who can, or die who may,Still 'Forward, forward!' on they go.See where yon simple fences meet,A field with autumn's blessing crown'd;See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet,A husbandman, with toil embrown'd.'O mercy, mercy, noble lord!Spare the poor's pittance,' was his cry,'Earn'd by the sweat these brows have pour'd,In scorching hour of fierce July.'Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads,The left still cheering to the prey;The impetuous Earl no warning heeds,But furious holds the onward way.'Away, thou hound! so basely born!Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!'Then loudly rang his bugle horn,'Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!'So said, so done; a single boundClears the poor labourer's humble pale;While follows man, and horse, and hound,Like dark December's stormy gale.And man, and horse, and hound, and horn,Destructive sweep the field along;While, joying o'er the wasted corn,Fell Famine marks the maddening throng.Again uproused, the timorous preyScours moss and moor, and holt and hill;Hard run, he feels his strength decay,And trusts for life his simple skill.Too dangerous solitude appear'd;He seeks the shelter of the crowd;Amid the flock's domestic herdHis harmless head he hopes to shroud.O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill,His track the steady bloodhounds trace;O'er moss and moor, unwearied still,The furious Earl pursues the chase.Full lowly did the herdsman fall;'O spare, thou noble Baron, spareThese herds, a widow's little all;These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care!'Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads,The left still cheering to the prey;The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds,But furious keeps the onward way.'Unmanner'd dog! To stop my sportVain were thy cant and beggar whine,Though human spirits of thy sortWere tenants of these carrion kine!'Again he winds his bugle horn,'Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!'And through the herd in ruthless scornHe cheers his furious hounds to go.In heaps the throttled victims fall;Down sinks their mangled herdsman near;The murderous cries the stag appal,—Again he starts new-nerved by fear.With blood besmear'd, and white with foam,While big the tears of anguish pour,He seeks amid the forest's gloomThe humble hermit's hallow'd bower.But man, and horse, and horn, and hound,Fast rattling on his traces go;The sacred chapel rung aroundWith 'Hark away! and holla, ho!'All mild amid the rout profane,The holy hermit pour'd his prayer;'Forbear with blood God's house to stain;Revere His altar, and forbear!'The meanest brute has rights to plead,Which, wrong'd by cruelty or pride,Draw vengeance on the ruthless head;—Be warn'd at length, and turn aside.'Still the Fair Horseman anxious pleads;The Black, wild whooping, points the prey:Alas! the Earl no warning heeds,But frantic keeps the forward way.'Holy or not, or right or wrong,Thy altar and its rights I spurn;Not sainted martyrs' sainted song,Not God Himself shall make me turn!'He spurs his horse, he winds his horn,'Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!'But off on whirlwind's pinions borne,The stag, the hut, the hermit go.And horse, and man, and horn, and hound,And clamour of the chase was gone;For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound,A deadly silence reign'd alone.Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around;He strove in vain to wake his horn;In vain to call; for not a soundCould from his anxious lips be borne.He listens for his trusty hounds;No distant baying reach'd his ears;His courser, rooted to the ground,The quickening spur unmindful bears.Still dark and darker frown the shades,Dark, as the darkness of the grave;And not a sound the still invades,Save what a distant torrent gave.High o'er the sinner's humbled headAt length the solemn silence broke;And from a cloud of swarthy red,The awful voice of thunder spoke,'Oppressor of creation fair!Apostate spirits' harden'd tool!Scorner of God, scourge of the poor!The measure of thy cup is full.'Be chas'd forever through the wood:Forever roam the affrighted wild;And let thy fate instruct the proud,God's meanest creature is His child.'Twas hush'd: one flash of sombre glareWith yellow tinged the forest's brown;Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair,And horror chill'd each nerve and bone.Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill;A rising wind began to sing;A louder, louder, louder still,Brought storm and tempest on its wing.Earth heard the call; her entrails rend;From yawning rifts, with many a yell,Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascendThe misbegotten dogs of hell.What ghastly huntsman next arose,Well may I guess, but dare not tell;His eye like midnight lightning glows,His steed the swarthy hue of hell.The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn,With many a shriek of helpless woe;Behind him hound, and horse, and horn;And 'Hark away, and holla, ho!'
The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn,To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo!His fiery courser snuffs the morn,And thronging serfs their lords pursue.
The eager pack, from couples freed,Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake;While answering hound, and horn, and steed,The mountain echoes startling wake.
The beams of God's own hallow'd dayHad painted yonder spire with gold,And calling sinful man to pray,Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled.
But still the Wildgrave onward rides;Halloo, halloo! and, hark again!When spurring from opposing sides,Two stranger horsemen join the train.
Who was each stranger, left and right,Well may I guess but dare not tell;The right-hand steed was silver white,The left, the swarthy hue of hell.
The right-hand horseman, young and fair,His smile was like the morn of May;The left, from eye of tawny glare,Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray.
He waved his huntsman's cap on high,Cried, 'Welcome, welcome, noble lord!What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,To match the princely chase afford?'
'Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell,'Cried the fair youth with silver voice;'And for devotion's choral swell,Exchange this rude unhallow'd noise;
'To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear,Yon bell yet summons to the fane;To-day the warning Spirit hear,To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.'
'Away, and sweep the glades along!'The sable hunter hoarse replies;'To muttering monks leave matin song,And bells, and books, and mysteries.'
The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed,And, launching forward with a bound,'Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede,Would leave the jovial horn and hound?
'Hence, if our manly sport offend!With pious fools go chant and pray;Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd friendHalloo, halloo! and, hark away!'
The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser light,O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill;And on the left and on the right,Each stranger horseman follow'd still.
Up springs from yonder tangled thornA stag more white than mountain snow;And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn,'Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!'
A heedless wretch has cross'd the way;He gasps, the thundering hoofs below;But live who can, or die who may,Still 'Forward, forward!' on they go.
See where yon simple fences meet,A field with autumn's blessing crown'd;See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet,A husbandman, with toil embrown'd.
'O mercy, mercy, noble lord!Spare the poor's pittance,' was his cry,'Earn'd by the sweat these brows have pour'd,In scorching hour of fierce July.'
Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads,The left still cheering to the prey;The impetuous Earl no warning heeds,But furious holds the onward way.
'Away, thou hound! so basely born!Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!'Then loudly rang his bugle horn,'Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!'
So said, so done; a single boundClears the poor labourer's humble pale;While follows man, and horse, and hound,Like dark December's stormy gale.
And man, and horse, and hound, and horn,Destructive sweep the field along;While, joying o'er the wasted corn,Fell Famine marks the maddening throng.
Again uproused, the timorous preyScours moss and moor, and holt and hill;Hard run, he feels his strength decay,And trusts for life his simple skill.
Too dangerous solitude appear'd;He seeks the shelter of the crowd;Amid the flock's domestic herdHis harmless head he hopes to shroud.
O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill,His track the steady bloodhounds trace;O'er moss and moor, unwearied still,The furious Earl pursues the chase.
Full lowly did the herdsman fall;'O spare, thou noble Baron, spareThese herds, a widow's little all;These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care!'
Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads,The left still cheering to the prey;The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds,But furious keeps the onward way.
'Unmanner'd dog! To stop my sportVain were thy cant and beggar whine,Though human spirits of thy sortWere tenants of these carrion kine!'
Again he winds his bugle horn,'Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!'And through the herd in ruthless scornHe cheers his furious hounds to go.
In heaps the throttled victims fall;Down sinks their mangled herdsman near;The murderous cries the stag appal,—Again he starts new-nerved by fear.
With blood besmear'd, and white with foam,While big the tears of anguish pour,He seeks amid the forest's gloomThe humble hermit's hallow'd bower.
But man, and horse, and horn, and hound,Fast rattling on his traces go;The sacred chapel rung aroundWith 'Hark away! and holla, ho!'
All mild amid the rout profane,The holy hermit pour'd his prayer;'Forbear with blood God's house to stain;Revere His altar, and forbear!
'The meanest brute has rights to plead,Which, wrong'd by cruelty or pride,Draw vengeance on the ruthless head;—Be warn'd at length, and turn aside.'
Still the Fair Horseman anxious pleads;The Black, wild whooping, points the prey:Alas! the Earl no warning heeds,But frantic keeps the forward way.
'Holy or not, or right or wrong,Thy altar and its rights I spurn;Not sainted martyrs' sainted song,Not God Himself shall make me turn!'
He spurs his horse, he winds his horn,'Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!'But off on whirlwind's pinions borne,The stag, the hut, the hermit go.
And horse, and man, and horn, and hound,And clamour of the chase was gone;For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound,A deadly silence reign'd alone.
Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around;He strove in vain to wake his horn;In vain to call; for not a soundCould from his anxious lips be borne.
He listens for his trusty hounds;No distant baying reach'd his ears;His courser, rooted to the ground,The quickening spur unmindful bears.
Still dark and darker frown the shades,Dark, as the darkness of the grave;And not a sound the still invades,Save what a distant torrent gave.
High o'er the sinner's humbled headAt length the solemn silence broke;And from a cloud of swarthy red,The awful voice of thunder spoke,
'Oppressor of creation fair!Apostate spirits' harden'd tool!Scorner of God, scourge of the poor!The measure of thy cup is full.
'Be chas'd forever through the wood:Forever roam the affrighted wild;And let thy fate instruct the proud,God's meanest creature is His child.'
Twas hush'd: one flash of sombre glareWith yellow tinged the forest's brown;Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair,And horror chill'd each nerve and bone.
Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill;A rising wind began to sing;A louder, louder, louder still,Brought storm and tempest on its wing.
Earth heard the call; her entrails rend;From yawning rifts, with many a yell,Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascendThe misbegotten dogs of hell.
What ghastly huntsman next arose,Well may I guess, but dare not tell;His eye like midnight lightning glows,His steed the swarthy hue of hell.
The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn,With many a shriek of helpless woe;Behind him hound, and horse, and horn;And 'Hark away, and holla, ho!'
Sir W. Scott
Fair daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon;As yet the early rising sunHas not attain'd his noon:Stay, stay,Until the hastening dayHas runBut to the even-song;And having prayed together, weWill go with you along.We have short time to stay, as you;We have as short a spring:As quick a growth to meet decayAs you, or any thing:We die,As your hours do; and dryAwayLike to the summer's rain,Or as the pearls of morning dew,Ne'er to be found again.
Fair daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon;As yet the early rising sunHas not attain'd his noon:Stay, stay,Until the hastening dayHas runBut to the even-song;And having prayed together, weWill go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you;We have as short a spring:As quick a growth to meet decayAs you, or any thing:We die,As your hours do; and dryAwayLike to the summer's rain,Or as the pearls of morning dew,Ne'er to be found again.
R. Herrick