Faintly as tolls the evening chime,Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.Soon as the woods on the shore look dim,We'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn.Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.Why should we yet our sail unfurl?There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;But when the wind blows off the shore,Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.Utawas' tide! this trembling moonShall see us float over thy surges soon.Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,Oh, grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.Soon as the woods on the shore look dim,We'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn.Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;But when the wind blows off the shore,Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Utawas' tide! this trembling moonShall see us float over thy surges soon.Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,Oh, grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
T. Moore
O listen, listen, ladies gay!No haughty feat of arms I tell;Soft is the note, and sad the lay,That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew,And gentle lady, deign to stay!Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.'The blackening wave is edged with white;To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh.'Last night the gifted seer did viewA wet shroud swathed round lady gay;Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heirTo-night at Roslin leads the ball,But that my lady-mother thereSits lonely in her castle hall.''Tis not because the ring they ride,And Lindesay at the ring rides well,But that my sire the wine will chideIf 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'—O'er Roslin all that dreary nightA wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;'Twas broader than the watch-fires' light,And redder than the bright moonbeam.It glared on Roslin's castled rock,It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.Seem'd all on fire that chapel proudWhere Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,Each Baron, for a sable shroud,Sheath'd in his iron panoply.Seem'd all on fire within, around,Deep sacristy and altar's pale;Shone every pillar foliage-bound,And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.Blazed battlement and pinnet high,Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—So still they blaze, when fate is nighThe lordly line of high St. Clair.There are twenty of Roslin's barons boldLie buried within that proud chapelle;Each one the holy vault doth hold,But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!And each St. Clair was buried thereWith candle, with book, and with knell;But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
O listen, listen, ladies gay!No haughty feat of arms I tell;Soft is the note, and sad the lay,That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew,And gentle lady, deign to stay!Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
'The blackening wave is edged with white;To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh.
'Last night the gifted seer did viewA wet shroud swathed round lady gay;Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'
''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heirTo-night at Roslin leads the ball,But that my lady-mother thereSits lonely in her castle hall.
''Tis not because the ring they ride,And Lindesay at the ring rides well,But that my sire the wine will chideIf 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'
—O'er Roslin all that dreary nightA wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;'Twas broader than the watch-fires' light,And redder than the bright moonbeam.
It glared on Roslin's castled rock,It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
Seem'd all on fire that chapel proudWhere Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,Each Baron, for a sable shroud,Sheath'd in his iron panoply.
Seem'd all on fire within, around,Deep sacristy and altar's pale;Shone every pillar foliage-bound,And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—So still they blaze, when fate is nighThe lordly line of high St. Clair.
There are twenty of Roslin's barons boldLie buried within that proud chapelle;Each one the holy vault doth hold,But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!
And each St. Clair was buried thereWith candle, with book, and with knell;But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
Sir W. Scott
The stream was smooth as glass, we said, 'Arise and let's away:'The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay;And spread the sail, and strong the oar, we gaily took our way.When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted plains,The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains;The labourer looks up to see our shallop speed away.When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large,Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge.The waves are bright with mirror'd light as jacinths on our way.When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we seeThe spreading rivers either bank, and surging distantlyThere booms a sullen thunder as of breakers far away.Now shall the sandy bar be cross'd, now shall we find the bay!The sea-gull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sightThe moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay,When once the sandy bar is cross'd, and we are in the bay.What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded ghost?What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangour on the coast?Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every oar away.O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the bay?
The stream was smooth as glass, we said, 'Arise and let's away:'The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay;And spread the sail, and strong the oar, we gaily took our way.When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?
The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted plains,The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains;The labourer looks up to see our shallop speed away.When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?
Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large,Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge.The waves are bright with mirror'd light as jacinths on our way.When shall the sandy bar be cross'd? when shall we find the bay?
The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we seeThe spreading rivers either bank, and surging distantlyThere booms a sullen thunder as of breakers far away.Now shall the sandy bar be cross'd, now shall we find the bay!
The sea-gull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sightThe moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay,When once the sandy bar is cross'd, and we are in the bay.
What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded ghost?What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangour on the coast?Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every oar away.O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the bay?
R. Garnett
Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the island of Juan Fernandez
I am monarch of all I survey,My right there is none to dispute;From the centre all round to the sea,I am lord of the fowl and the brute.O Solitude! where are the charmsThat sages have seen in thy face?Better dwell in the midst of alarmsThan reign in this horrible place.I am out of humanity's reach,I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech,I start at the sound of my own.The beasts that roam over the plainMy form with indifference see;They are so unacquainted with man,Their tameness is shocking to me.Society, friendship and love,Divinely bestowed upon man,O, had I the wings of a dove,How soon would I taste you again!My sorrows I then might assuage,In the ways of religion and truth,Might learn from the wisdom of age,And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.Religion! what treasure untoldLies hid in that heavenly word!More precious than silver or gold,Or all that this earth can afford.But the sound of the church-going bell,These valleys and rocks never heard,Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd.Ye winds that have made me your sport,Convey to this desolate shoreSome cordial, endearing reportOf a land I shall visit no more.My friends, do they now and then sendA wish or a thought after me?O, tell me I yet have a friend,Though a friend I am never to see.How fleet is a glance of the mind!Compar'd with the speed of its flight,The tempest himself lags behindAnd the swift-winged arrows of light.When I think of my own native land,In a moment I seem to be there;But, alas! recollection at handSoon hurries me back to despair.But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,The beast is laid down in his lair;Even here is a season of rest,And I to my cabin repair.There's mercy in every place,And mercy, encouraging thought,Gives even affliction a grace,And reconciles man to his lot.
I am monarch of all I survey,My right there is none to dispute;From the centre all round to the sea,I am lord of the fowl and the brute.O Solitude! where are the charmsThat sages have seen in thy face?Better dwell in the midst of alarmsThan reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach,I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech,I start at the sound of my own.The beasts that roam over the plainMy form with indifference see;They are so unacquainted with man,Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship and love,Divinely bestowed upon man,O, had I the wings of a dove,How soon would I taste you again!My sorrows I then might assuage,In the ways of religion and truth,Might learn from the wisdom of age,And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
Religion! what treasure untoldLies hid in that heavenly word!More precious than silver or gold,Or all that this earth can afford.But the sound of the church-going bell,These valleys and rocks never heard,Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd.
Ye winds that have made me your sport,Convey to this desolate shoreSome cordial, endearing reportOf a land I shall visit no more.My friends, do they now and then sendA wish or a thought after me?O, tell me I yet have a friend,Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!Compar'd with the speed of its flight,The tempest himself lags behindAnd the swift-winged arrows of light.When I think of my own native land,In a moment I seem to be there;But, alas! recollection at handSoon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,The beast is laid down in his lair;Even here is a season of rest,And I to my cabin repair.There's mercy in every place,And mercy, encouraging thought,Gives even affliction a grace,And reconciles man to his lot.
W. Cowper
Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!And after April, when May follows,And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows—Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could re-captureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower,—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!
And after April, when May follows,And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows—Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could re-captureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower,—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
R. Browning
'Twas in the prime of summer time,An evening calm and cool,And four-and-twenty happy boysCame bounding out of school:There were some that ran, and some that leapt,Like troutlets in a pool.Away they sped with gamesome minds,And souls untouch'd by sin;To a level mead they came, and thereThey drave the wickets in;Pleasantly shone the setting sunOver the town of Lynn.Like sportive deer they coursed about,And shouted as they ran—Turning to mirth all things of earth,As only boyhood can:But the usher sat remote from all,A melancholy man!His hat was off, his vest apart,To catch heaven's blessed breeze;For a burning thought was in his brow,And his bosom ill at ease:So he lean'd his head on his hands, and readThe book between his knees!Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er,Nor ever glanced aside;For the peace of his soul he read that bookIn the golden eventide:Much study had made him very lean,And pale, and leaden-eyed.At last he shut the ponderous tome;With a fast and fervent graspHe strain'd the dusky covers close,And fix'd the brazen hasp:'O Heav'n, could I so close my mind,And clasp it with a clasp!'Then leaping on his feet upright;Some moody turns he took;Now up the mead, then down the mead,And past a shady nook:And lo! he saw a little boyThat pored upon a book!'My gentle lad, what is't you read—Romance or fairy fable?Or is it some historic pageOf kings and crowns unstable?'The young boy gave an upward glance—'It is the death of Abel.'The usher took six hasty strides,As smit with sudden pain;Six hasty strides beyond the place,Then slowly back again:And down he sat beside the lad,And talked with him of Cain;And long since then, of bloody men,Whose deeds tradition saves;Of lonely folk cut off unseen,And hid in sudden graves;Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn,And murders done in caves;And how the sprites of injured menShriek upward from the sod—Aye, how the ghostly hand will pointTo show the burial clod;And unknown facts of guilty actsAre seen in dreams from God!He told how murderers walk'd the earthBeneath the curse of Cain—With crimson clouds before their eyes,And flames about their brain:For blood has left upon their soulsIts everlasting stain!'And well,' quoth he, 'I know, for truth,Their pangs must be extreme—Wo, wo, unutterable wo—Who spill life's sacred stream!For why? Methought last night I wroughtA murder in a dream!'One that had never done me wrong—A feeble man, and old;I led him to a lonely field,The moon shone clear and cold:Now here, said I, this man shall die,And I will have his gold!'Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,And one with a heavy stone,One hurried gash with a hasty knife,And then the deed was done:There was nothing lying at my feet,But lifeless flesh and bone!'Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,That could not do me ill;And yet I fear'd him all the more,For lying there so still:There was a manhood in his lookThat murder could not kill!'And lo! the universal airSeem'd lit with ghastly flame—Ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyesWere looking down in blame:I took the dead man by the hand,And call'd upon his name!'Oh me, it made me quake to seeSuch sense within the slain!But when I touch'd the lifeless clay,The blood gush'd out amain!For every clot, a burning spotWas scorching in my brain!'My head was like an ardent coal,My heart as solid ice;My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,Was at the devil's price:A dozen times I groan'd; the deadHad never groan'd but twice!'And now from forth the frowning sky,From the heaven's topmost height,I heard a voice—the awful voiceOf the blood-avenging sprite:"Thou guilty man, take up thy dead,And hide it from my sight!"'I took the dreary body upAnd cast it in a stream—A sluggish water, black as ink,The depth was so extreme.My gentle boy, remember thisIs nothing but a dream!'Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,And vanish'd in the pool;Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,And wash'd my forehead cool,And sat among the urchins youngThat evening in the school!'O heaven, to think of their white souls,And mine so black and grim!I could not share in childish prayer,Nor join in evening hymn:Like a devil of the pit I seem'd,'Mid holy cherubim!'And peace went with them, one and all,And each calm pillow spread;But Guilt was my grim chamberlainThat lighted me to bed,And drew my midnight curtains round,With fingers bloody red!'All night I lay in agony,In anguish dark and deep;My fever'd eyes I dared not close,But star'd aghast at Sleep;For sin had rendered unto herThe keys of hell to keep!'All night I lay in agony,From weary chime to chime,With one besetting horrid hint,That rack'd me all the time—A mighty yearning, like the firstFierce impulse unto crime!'One stern tyrannic thought that madeAll other thoughts its slave;Stronger and stronger every pulseDid that temptation crave—Still urging me to go and seeThe dead man in his grave!'Heavily I rose up—as soonAs light was in the sky—And sought the black accursed poolWith a wild misgiving eye;And I saw the dead, in the river bed,For the faithless stream was dry!'Merrily rose the lark, and shookThe dew-drop from its wing;But I never mark'd its morning flight,I never heard it sing:For I was stooping once againUnder the horrid thing.'With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,I took him up and ran—There was no time to dig a graveBefore the day began:In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,I hid the murder'd man!'And all that day I read in school,But my thought was otherwhere!As soon as the mid-day task was done,In secret I was there:And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,And still the corse was bare!'Then down I cast me on my face,And first began to weep;For I knew my secret then was oneThat earth refused to keep;Or land, or sea, though he should beTen thousand fathoms deep!'So wills the fierce avenging sprite,Till blood for blood atones!Aye, though he's buried in a cave,And trodden down with stones,And years have rotted off his flesh—The world shall see his bones!'Oh me! that horrid, horrid dreamBesets me now awake!Again, again, with a dizzy brain,The human life I take;And my red right hand grows raging hot,Like Cranmer's at the stake.'And still no peace for the restless clayWill wave or mould allow;The horrid thing pursues my soul—It stands before me now!'The fearful boy looked up and sawHuge drops upon his brow!That very night, while gentle sleepThe urchin eyelids kiss'd,Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,Through the cold and heavy mist;And Eugene Aram walk'd between,With gyves upon his wrist.
'Twas in the prime of summer time,An evening calm and cool,And four-and-twenty happy boysCame bounding out of school:There were some that ran, and some that leapt,Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds,And souls untouch'd by sin;To a level mead they came, and thereThey drave the wickets in;Pleasantly shone the setting sunOver the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,And shouted as they ran—Turning to mirth all things of earth,As only boyhood can:But the usher sat remote from all,A melancholy man!
His hat was off, his vest apart,To catch heaven's blessed breeze;For a burning thought was in his brow,And his bosom ill at ease:So he lean'd his head on his hands, and readThe book between his knees!
Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er,Nor ever glanced aside;For the peace of his soul he read that bookIn the golden eventide:Much study had made him very lean,And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome;With a fast and fervent graspHe strain'd the dusky covers close,And fix'd the brazen hasp:'O Heav'n, could I so close my mind,And clasp it with a clasp!'
Then leaping on his feet upright;Some moody turns he took;Now up the mead, then down the mead,And past a shady nook:And lo! he saw a little boyThat pored upon a book!
'My gentle lad, what is't you read—Romance or fairy fable?Or is it some historic pageOf kings and crowns unstable?'The young boy gave an upward glance—'It is the death of Abel.'
The usher took six hasty strides,As smit with sudden pain;Six hasty strides beyond the place,Then slowly back again:And down he sat beside the lad,And talked with him of Cain;
And long since then, of bloody men,Whose deeds tradition saves;Of lonely folk cut off unseen,And hid in sudden graves;Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn,And murders done in caves;
And how the sprites of injured menShriek upward from the sod—Aye, how the ghostly hand will pointTo show the burial clod;And unknown facts of guilty actsAre seen in dreams from God!
He told how murderers walk'd the earthBeneath the curse of Cain—With crimson clouds before their eyes,And flames about their brain:For blood has left upon their soulsIts everlasting stain!
'And well,' quoth he, 'I know, for truth,Their pangs must be extreme—Wo, wo, unutterable wo—Who spill life's sacred stream!For why? Methought last night I wroughtA murder in a dream!
'One that had never done me wrong—A feeble man, and old;I led him to a lonely field,The moon shone clear and cold:Now here, said I, this man shall die,And I will have his gold!
'Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,And one with a heavy stone,One hurried gash with a hasty knife,And then the deed was done:There was nothing lying at my feet,But lifeless flesh and bone!
'Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,That could not do me ill;And yet I fear'd him all the more,For lying there so still:There was a manhood in his lookThat murder could not kill!
'And lo! the universal airSeem'd lit with ghastly flame—Ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyesWere looking down in blame:I took the dead man by the hand,And call'd upon his name!
'Oh me, it made me quake to seeSuch sense within the slain!But when I touch'd the lifeless clay,The blood gush'd out amain!For every clot, a burning spotWas scorching in my brain!
'My head was like an ardent coal,My heart as solid ice;My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,Was at the devil's price:A dozen times I groan'd; the deadHad never groan'd but twice!
'And now from forth the frowning sky,From the heaven's topmost height,I heard a voice—the awful voiceOf the blood-avenging sprite:"Thou guilty man, take up thy dead,And hide it from my sight!"
'I took the dreary body upAnd cast it in a stream—A sluggish water, black as ink,The depth was so extreme.My gentle boy, remember thisIs nothing but a dream!
'Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,And vanish'd in the pool;Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,And wash'd my forehead cool,And sat among the urchins youngThat evening in the school!
'O heaven, to think of their white souls,And mine so black and grim!I could not share in childish prayer,Nor join in evening hymn:Like a devil of the pit I seem'd,'Mid holy cherubim!
'And peace went with them, one and all,And each calm pillow spread;But Guilt was my grim chamberlainThat lighted me to bed,And drew my midnight curtains round,With fingers bloody red!
'All night I lay in agony,In anguish dark and deep;My fever'd eyes I dared not close,But star'd aghast at Sleep;For sin had rendered unto herThe keys of hell to keep!
'All night I lay in agony,From weary chime to chime,With one besetting horrid hint,That rack'd me all the time—A mighty yearning, like the firstFierce impulse unto crime!
'One stern tyrannic thought that madeAll other thoughts its slave;Stronger and stronger every pulseDid that temptation crave—Still urging me to go and seeThe dead man in his grave!
'Heavily I rose up—as soonAs light was in the sky—And sought the black accursed poolWith a wild misgiving eye;And I saw the dead, in the river bed,For the faithless stream was dry!
'Merrily rose the lark, and shookThe dew-drop from its wing;But I never mark'd its morning flight,I never heard it sing:For I was stooping once againUnder the horrid thing.
'With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,I took him up and ran—There was no time to dig a graveBefore the day began:In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,I hid the murder'd man!
'And all that day I read in school,But my thought was otherwhere!As soon as the mid-day task was done,In secret I was there:And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,And still the corse was bare!
'Then down I cast me on my face,And first began to weep;For I knew my secret then was oneThat earth refused to keep;Or land, or sea, though he should beTen thousand fathoms deep!
'So wills the fierce avenging sprite,Till blood for blood atones!Aye, though he's buried in a cave,And trodden down with stones,And years have rotted off his flesh—The world shall see his bones!
'Oh me! that horrid, horrid dreamBesets me now awake!Again, again, with a dizzy brain,The human life I take;And my red right hand grows raging hot,Like Cranmer's at the stake.
'And still no peace for the restless clayWill wave or mould allow;The horrid thing pursues my soul—It stands before me now!'The fearful boy looked up and sawHuge drops upon his brow!
That very night, while gentle sleepThe urchin eyelids kiss'd,Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,Through the cold and heavy mist;And Eugene Aram walk'd between,With gyves upon his wrist.
T. Hood
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,With the wan moon overhead,There stood, as in an awful dream,The army of the dead.White as a sea-fog, landward bound,The spectral camp was seen,And with a sorrowful deep sound,The river flow'd between.No other voice nor sound was there,No drum, nor sentry's pace;The mist-like banners clasp'd the air,As clouds with clouds embrace.But when the old cathedral bellProclaim'd the morning prayer,The wild pavilions rose and fellOn the alarmed air.Down the broad valley fast and far,The troubled army fled;Up rose the glorious morning star,The ghastly host was dead.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,With the wan moon overhead,There stood, as in an awful dream,The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,The spectral camp was seen,And with a sorrowful deep sound,The river flow'd between.
No other voice nor sound was there,No drum, nor sentry's pace;The mist-like banners clasp'd the air,As clouds with clouds embrace.
But when the old cathedral bellProclaim'd the morning prayer,The wild pavilions rose and fellOn the alarmed air.
Down the broad valley fast and far,The troubled army fled;Up rose the glorious morning star,The ghastly host was dead.
H. W. Longfellow
Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier,The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer.Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust;And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrustOf what the good, and e'en the bad might say,Ordain'd that no man living from that dayShould dare to speak his name on pain of death.All Araby and Persia held their breath.All but the brave Mondeer.—He, proud to showHow far for love a grateful soul could go,And facing death for very scorn and grief,(For his great heart wanted a great relief,)Stood forth in Bagdad, daily in the squareWhere once had stood a happy house, and thereHarangued the tremblers at the scymitarOn all they owed to the divine Jaffar.'Bring me this man,' the caliph cried: the manWas brought, was gazed upon. The mutes beganTo bind his arms. 'Welcome, brave cords,' cried he;'From bonds far worse Jaffar deliver'd me;From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;Restor'd me, loved me, put me on a parWith his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?'Haroun, who felt that on a soul like thisThe mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fateMight smile upon another half as great.He said, 'Let worth grow frenzied if it will;The caliph's judgment shall be master still.Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,The richest in the Tartar's diadem,And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.''Gifts!' cried the friend. He took; and holding itHigh toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,Exclaim'd, 'This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar.'
Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier,The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer.Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust;And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrustOf what the good, and e'en the bad might say,Ordain'd that no man living from that dayShould dare to speak his name on pain of death.All Araby and Persia held their breath.
All but the brave Mondeer.—He, proud to showHow far for love a grateful soul could go,And facing death for very scorn and grief,(For his great heart wanted a great relief,)Stood forth in Bagdad, daily in the squareWhere once had stood a happy house, and thereHarangued the tremblers at the scymitarOn all they owed to the divine Jaffar.
'Bring me this man,' the caliph cried: the manWas brought, was gazed upon. The mutes beganTo bind his arms. 'Welcome, brave cords,' cried he;'From bonds far worse Jaffar deliver'd me;From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;Restor'd me, loved me, put me on a parWith his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?'
Haroun, who felt that on a soul like thisThe mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fateMight smile upon another half as great.He said, 'Let worth grow frenzied if it will;The caliph's judgment shall be master still.Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,The richest in the Tartar's diadem,And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.'
'Gifts!' cried the friend. He took; and holding itHigh toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,Exclaim'd, 'This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar.'
Leigh Hunt
Three times, all in the dead of night,A bell was heard to ring;And shrieking at the window thrice,The raven flapp'd his wing.Too well the love-lorn maiden knewThe solemn boding sound;And thus, in dying words bespoke,The virgins weeping round:'I hear a voice you cannot hear,Which says I must not stay;I see a hand you cannot see,Which beckons me away.By a false heart and broken vows,In early youth I die:Was I to blame, because his brideWas thrice as rich as I?'Ah, Colin, give not her thy vows,Vows due to me alone:Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,Nor think him all thy own.To-morrow in the church to wed,Impatient, both prepare!But know, fond maid, and know, false man,That Lucy will be there!'Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear,This bridegroom blithe to meet,He in his wedding trim so gay,I, in my winding-sheet.'She spoke, she died, her corse was borneThe bridegroom blithe to meet,He in his wedding trim so gay,She in her winding-sheet.Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?How were these nuptials kept?The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,And all the village wept.Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,At once his bosom swell:The damps of death bedew'd his brow,He shook, he groan'd, he fell.
Three times, all in the dead of night,A bell was heard to ring;And shrieking at the window thrice,The raven flapp'd his wing.Too well the love-lorn maiden knewThe solemn boding sound;And thus, in dying words bespoke,The virgins weeping round:
'I hear a voice you cannot hear,Which says I must not stay;I see a hand you cannot see,Which beckons me away.By a false heart and broken vows,In early youth I die:Was I to blame, because his brideWas thrice as rich as I?
'Ah, Colin, give not her thy vows,Vows due to me alone:Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,Nor think him all thy own.To-morrow in the church to wed,Impatient, both prepare!But know, fond maid, and know, false man,That Lucy will be there!
'Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear,This bridegroom blithe to meet,He in his wedding trim so gay,I, in my winding-sheet.'She spoke, she died, her corse was borneThe bridegroom blithe to meet,He in his wedding trim so gay,She in her winding-sheet.
Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?How were these nuptials kept?The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,And all the village wept.Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,At once his bosom swell:The damps of death bedew'd his brow,He shook, he groan'd, he fell.
T. Tickell
Art thou the bird whom man loves best,The pious bird with the scarlet breast,Our little English robin?The bird that comes about our doorsWhen autumn winds are sobbing?Art thou the Peter of Norway boors?Their Thomas in Finland,And Russia far inland?The bird, that by some name or otherAll men who know thee call their brother:The darling of children and men?Could father Adam open his eyes,And see this sight beneath the skies,He'd wish to close them again.—If the butterfly knew but his friend,Hither his flight he would bend;And find his way to me,Under the branches of the tree:In and out, he darts about;Can this be the bird to man so good,That after their bewildering,Cover'd with leaves the little children,So painfully in the wood?What ail'd thee, robin, that thou could'st pursueA beautiful creature,That is gentle by nature?Beneath the summer sky,From flower to flower let him fly;'Tis all that he wishes to do.The cheerer, thou, of our in-door sadness,He is the friend of our summer gladness:What hinders, then, that ye should bePlaymates in the sunny weather,And fly about in the air together?His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,A crimson as bright as thine own:Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,Oh, pious bird! whom man loves best,Love him, or leave him alone!
Art thou the bird whom man loves best,The pious bird with the scarlet breast,Our little English robin?The bird that comes about our doorsWhen autumn winds are sobbing?Art thou the Peter of Norway boors?Their Thomas in Finland,And Russia far inland?The bird, that by some name or otherAll men who know thee call their brother:The darling of children and men?Could father Adam open his eyes,And see this sight beneath the skies,He'd wish to close them again.—If the butterfly knew but his friend,Hither his flight he would bend;And find his way to me,Under the branches of the tree:In and out, he darts about;Can this be the bird to man so good,That after their bewildering,Cover'd with leaves the little children,So painfully in the wood?What ail'd thee, robin, that thou could'st pursueA beautiful creature,That is gentle by nature?Beneath the summer sky,From flower to flower let him fly;'Tis all that he wishes to do.The cheerer, thou, of our in-door sadness,He is the friend of our summer gladness:What hinders, then, that ye should bePlaymates in the sunny weather,And fly about in the air together?His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,A crimson as bright as thine own:Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,Oh, pious bird! whom man loves best,Love him, or leave him alone!
W. Wordsworth
Now ponder well, you parents dear,These words which I shall write;A doleful story you shall hear,In time brought forth to light.A gentleman of good accountIn Norfolk dwelt of late,Who did in honour far surmountMost men of his estate.Sore sick he was, and like to die,No help his life could save;His wife by him as sick did lie,And both possess'd one grave.No love between these two was lost,Each was to other kind;In love they lived, in love they died,And left two babes behind.The one, a fine and pretty boy,Not passing three years old;The other, a girl more young than he.And framed in beauty's mould,The father left his little son,As plainly doth appear,When he to perfect age should comeThree hundred pounds a year.And to his little daughter Jane,Five hundred pounds in gold,To be paid down on her marriage day,Which might not be controll'd:But if the children chanced to die,Ere they to age should come,Their uncle should possess their wealth;For so the will did run.'Now, brother,' said the dying man,'Look to my children dear;Be good unto my boy and girl,No friends else have they here:To God and you I recommendMy children dear this day;But little while be sure we haveWithin this world to stay.'You must be father and mother both,And uncle all in one;God knows what will become of them,When I am dead and gone.'With that bespake their mother dear,'O, brother kind,' quoth she,'You are the man must bring our babesTo wealth or misery.'And if you keep them carefully,Then God will you reward;But if you otherwise should deal,God will your deeds regard.'With lips as cold as any stone,They kiss'd their children small:'God bless you both, my children dear;'With that their tears did fall.These speeches then their brother spakeTo this sick couple there:'The keeping of your little ones,Sweet sister, do not fear.God never prosper me nor mine,Nor aught else that I have,If I do wrong your children dearWhen you are laid in grave.'The parents being dead and gone,The children home he takes,And brings them straight unto his house,Where much of them he makes.He had not kept these pretty babesA twelvemonth and a day,But, for their wealth, he did deviseTo make them both away.He bargain'd with two ruffians strongWhich were of furious mood,That they should take these children youngAnd slay them in a wood.He told his wife an artful tale:He would the children sendTo be brought up in fair London,With one that was his friend.Away then went those pretty babes,Rejoicing at that tide,Rejoicing with a merry mind,They should on cock-horse ride.They prate and prattle pleasantly,As they rode on the way,To those that should their butchers be,And work their lives' decay.So that the pretty speech they had,Made murder's heart relent:And they that undertook the deed,Full sore did now repent.Yet one of them, more hard of heart,Did vow to do his charge,Because the wretch that hired him,Had paid him very large.The other won't agree thereto,So here they fall to strife;With one another they did fightAbout the children's life:And he that was of mildest mood,Did slay the other there,Within an unfrequented wood:The babes did quake for fear!He took the children by the hand,Tears standing in their eye,And bade them straightway follow him,And look they did not cry;And two long miles he led them on,While they for food complain:'Stay here,' quoth he, 'I'll bring you bread,When I come back again.'These pretty babes, with hand in hand,Went wandering up and down;But never more could see the manApproaching from the town:Their pretty lips with blackberriesWere all besmear'd and dyed,And when they saw the darksome night,They sat them down and cried.Thus wandered these poor innocentsTill death did end their grief,In one another's arms they died,As wanting due relief:No burial this pretty pairOf any man receives,Till Robin Redbreast piouslyDid cover them with leaves.And now the heavy wrath of GodUpon their uncle fell;Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house,His conscience felt an hell:His barns were fired, his goods consumed,His lands were barren made,His cattle died within the field,And nothing with him stayed.And in the voyage to PortugalTwo of his sons did die;And to conclude, himself was broughtTo want and misery.He pawn'd and mortgaged all his landEre seven years came about,And now at length this wicked actDid by this means come out:The fellow that did take in handThese children for to kill,Was for a robbery judged to die,Such was God's blessed will.Who did confess the very truth,As here hath been display'd:Their uncle having died in gaol,Where he for debt was laid.You that executors be made,And overseers ekeOf children that be fatherless,And infants mild and meek;Take you example by this thing,And yield to each his right,Lest God with such like miseryYour wicked minds requite.
Now ponder well, you parents dear,These words which I shall write;A doleful story you shall hear,In time brought forth to light.A gentleman of good accountIn Norfolk dwelt of late,Who did in honour far surmountMost men of his estate.
Sore sick he was, and like to die,No help his life could save;His wife by him as sick did lie,And both possess'd one grave.No love between these two was lost,Each was to other kind;In love they lived, in love they died,And left two babes behind.
The one, a fine and pretty boy,Not passing three years old;The other, a girl more young than he.And framed in beauty's mould,The father left his little son,As plainly doth appear,When he to perfect age should comeThree hundred pounds a year.
And to his little daughter Jane,Five hundred pounds in gold,To be paid down on her marriage day,Which might not be controll'd:But if the children chanced to die,Ere they to age should come,Their uncle should possess their wealth;For so the will did run.
'Now, brother,' said the dying man,'Look to my children dear;Be good unto my boy and girl,No friends else have they here:To God and you I recommendMy children dear this day;But little while be sure we haveWithin this world to stay.
'You must be father and mother both,And uncle all in one;God knows what will become of them,When I am dead and gone.'With that bespake their mother dear,'O, brother kind,' quoth she,'You are the man must bring our babesTo wealth or misery.
'And if you keep them carefully,Then God will you reward;But if you otherwise should deal,God will your deeds regard.'With lips as cold as any stone,They kiss'd their children small:'God bless you both, my children dear;'With that their tears did fall.
These speeches then their brother spakeTo this sick couple there:'The keeping of your little ones,Sweet sister, do not fear.God never prosper me nor mine,Nor aught else that I have,If I do wrong your children dearWhen you are laid in grave.'
The parents being dead and gone,The children home he takes,And brings them straight unto his house,Where much of them he makes.He had not kept these pretty babesA twelvemonth and a day,But, for their wealth, he did deviseTo make them both away.
He bargain'd with two ruffians strongWhich were of furious mood,That they should take these children youngAnd slay them in a wood.He told his wife an artful tale:He would the children sendTo be brought up in fair London,With one that was his friend.
Away then went those pretty babes,Rejoicing at that tide,Rejoicing with a merry mind,They should on cock-horse ride.They prate and prattle pleasantly,As they rode on the way,To those that should their butchers be,And work their lives' decay.
So that the pretty speech they had,Made murder's heart relent:And they that undertook the deed,Full sore did now repent.Yet one of them, more hard of heart,Did vow to do his charge,Because the wretch that hired him,Had paid him very large.
The other won't agree thereto,So here they fall to strife;With one another they did fightAbout the children's life:And he that was of mildest mood,Did slay the other there,Within an unfrequented wood:The babes did quake for fear!
He took the children by the hand,Tears standing in their eye,And bade them straightway follow him,And look they did not cry;And two long miles he led them on,While they for food complain:'Stay here,' quoth he, 'I'll bring you bread,When I come back again.'
These pretty babes, with hand in hand,Went wandering up and down;But never more could see the manApproaching from the town:Their pretty lips with blackberriesWere all besmear'd and dyed,And when they saw the darksome night,They sat them down and cried.
Thus wandered these poor innocentsTill death did end their grief,In one another's arms they died,As wanting due relief:No burial this pretty pairOf any man receives,Till Robin Redbreast piouslyDid cover them with leaves.
And now the heavy wrath of GodUpon their uncle fell;Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house,His conscience felt an hell:His barns were fired, his goods consumed,His lands were barren made,His cattle died within the field,And nothing with him stayed.
And in the voyage to PortugalTwo of his sons did die;And to conclude, himself was broughtTo want and misery.He pawn'd and mortgaged all his landEre seven years came about,And now at length this wicked actDid by this means come out:
The fellow that did take in handThese children for to kill,Was for a robbery judged to die,Such was God's blessed will.Who did confess the very truth,As here hath been display'd:Their uncle having died in gaol,Where he for debt was laid.
You that executors be made,And overseers ekeOf children that be fatherless,And infants mild and meek;Take you example by this thing,And yield to each his right,Lest God with such like miseryYour wicked minds requite.
Old Ballad