Of Nelson and the NorthSing the glorious day's renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark's crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;By each gun the lighted brandIn a bold determined hand,And the Prince of all the landLed them on.Like leviathans afloatLay their bulwarks on the brine;While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime:As they drifted on their pathThere was silence deep as death,And the boldest held his breathFor a time.But the might of England flush'dTo anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rush'dO'er the deadly space between.'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the DaneTo our cheering sent us back;—Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—Then ceased—and all is wail,As they strike the shatter'd sail;Or in conflagration paleLight the gloom.Out spoke the victor thenAs he hail'd them o'er the wave,'Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save:—So peace instead of death let us bring:But yield, proud foe, thy fleetWith the crews, at England's feet,And make submission meetTo our King.'Then Denmark bless'd our chiefThat he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As death withdrew his shades from the day:While the sun look'd smiling brightO'er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.Now joy, old England, raise!For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities' blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;And yet amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleepFull many a fathom deepBy thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!Brave hearts! to Britain's prideOnce so faithful and so true,On the deck of fame that died,With the gallant good Riou:Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!While the billow mournful rollsAnd the mermaid's song condolesSinging glory to the soulsOf the brave!
Of Nelson and the NorthSing the glorious day's renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark's crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;By each gun the lighted brandIn a bold determined hand,And the Prince of all the landLed them on.
Like leviathans afloatLay their bulwarks on the brine;While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime:As they drifted on their pathThere was silence deep as death,And the boldest held his breathFor a time.
But the might of England flush'dTo anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rush'dO'er the deadly space between.'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.
Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the DaneTo our cheering sent us back;—Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—Then ceased—and all is wail,As they strike the shatter'd sail;Or in conflagration paleLight the gloom.
Out spoke the victor thenAs he hail'd them o'er the wave,'Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save:—So peace instead of death let us bring:But yield, proud foe, thy fleetWith the crews, at England's feet,And make submission meetTo our King.'
Then Denmark bless'd our chiefThat he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As death withdrew his shades from the day:While the sun look'd smiling brightO'er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.
Now joy, old England, raise!For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities' blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;And yet amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleepFull many a fathom deepBy thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!
Brave hearts! to Britain's prideOnce so faithful and so true,On the deck of fame that died,With the gallant good Riou:Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!While the billow mournful rollsAnd the mermaid's song condolesSinging glory to the soulsOf the brave!
T. Campbell
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!O Duty! if that name thou loveWho art a light to guide, a rodTo check the erring, and reprove;Thou who art victory and lawWhen empty terrors overawe;From vain temptations dost set free,And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!There are who ask not if thine eyeBe on them; who, in love and truthWhere no misgiving is, relyUpon the genial sense of youth:Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,Who do thy work, and know it not:Oh! if through confidence misplacedThey fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.Serene will be our days and brightAnd happy will our nature beWhen love is an unerring light,And joy its own security.And they a blissful course may holdEv'n now, who, not unwisely bold,Live in the spirit of this creed;Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.I, loving freedom, and untried,No sport of every random gust,Yet being to myself a guide,Too blindly have reposed my trust:And oft, when in my heart was heardThy timely mandate, I deferr'dThe task, in smoother walks to stray;But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.Through no disturbance of my soulOr strong compunction in me wrought,I supplicate for thy controul,But in the quietness of thought:Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;I feel the weight of chance-desires:My hopes no more must change their name;I long for a repose that ever is the same.Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wearThe Godhead's most benignant grace;Nor know we anything so fairAs is the smile upon thy face:Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,And fragrance in thy footing treads;Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.To humbler functions, awful Power!I call thee: I myself commendUnto thy guidance from this hour;Oh let my weakness have an end!Give unto me, made lowly wise,The spirit of self-sacrifice;The confidence of reason give;And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live.
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!O Duty! if that name thou loveWho art a light to guide, a rodTo check the erring, and reprove;Thou who art victory and lawWhen empty terrors overawe;From vain temptations dost set free,And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eyeBe on them; who, in love and truthWhere no misgiving is, relyUpon the genial sense of youth:Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,Who do thy work, and know it not:Oh! if through confidence misplacedThey fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and brightAnd happy will our nature beWhen love is an unerring light,And joy its own security.And they a blissful course may holdEv'n now, who, not unwisely bold,Live in the spirit of this creed;Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried,No sport of every random gust,Yet being to myself a guide,Too blindly have reposed my trust:And oft, when in my heart was heardThy timely mandate, I deferr'dThe task, in smoother walks to stray;But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soulOr strong compunction in me wrought,I supplicate for thy controul,But in the quietness of thought:Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;I feel the weight of chance-desires:My hopes no more must change their name;I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wearThe Godhead's most benignant grace;Nor know we anything so fairAs is the smile upon thy face:Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,And fragrance in thy footing treads;Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power!I call thee: I myself commendUnto thy guidance from this hour;Oh let my weakness have an end!Give unto me, made lowly wise,The spirit of self-sacrifice;The confidence of reason give;And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live.
W. Wordsworth.
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,For there thy habitation is the heart—The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,Their country conquers with their martyrdom,And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.Chillon! thy prison is a holy placeAnd thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod,Until his very steps have left a traceWorn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!For they appeal from tyranny to God.
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,For there thy habitation is the heart—The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,Their country conquers with their martyrdom,And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon! thy prison is a holy placeAnd thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod,Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!For they appeal from tyranny to God.
Lord Byron
Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,They were thy chosen music, Liberty!There came a tyrant, and with holy gleeThou fought'st against him,—but hast vainly striven:Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.—Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left—For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it beThat Mountain floods should thunder as before,And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!
Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a tyrant, and with holy gleeThou fought'st against him,—but hast vainly striven:Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
—Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left—For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain floods should thunder as before,And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!
W. Wordsworth
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in feeAnd was the safeguard of the West; the worthOf Venice did not fall below her birth,Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.She was a maiden city, bright and free;No guile seduced, no force could violate;And when she took unto herself a mate,She must espouse the everlasting Sea.And what if she had seen those glories fade,Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,—Yet shall some tribute of regret be paidWhen her long life hath reach'd its final day:Men are we, and must grieve when even the shadeOf that which once was great is pass'd away.
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in feeAnd was the safeguard of the West; the worthOf Venice did not fall below her birth,Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.
She was a maiden city, bright and free;No guile seduced, no force could violate;And when she took unto herself a mate,She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,—Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reach'd its final day:Men are we, and must grieve when even the shadeOf that which once was great is pass'd away.
W. Wordsworth
O Friend! I know not which way I must lookFor comfort, being, as I am, opprestTo think that now our life is only drestFor show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,Or groom!—We must run glittering like a brookIn the open sunshine, or we are unblest;The wealthiest man among us is the best:No grandeur now in nature or in bookDelights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,This is idolatry; and these we adore:Plain living and high thinking are no more:The homely beauty of the good old causeIs gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,And pure religion breathing household laws.
O Friend! I know not which way I must lookFor comfort, being, as I am, opprestTo think that now our life is only drestFor show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
Or groom!—We must run glittering like a brookIn the open sunshine, or we are unblest;The wealthiest man among us is the best:No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,This is idolatry; and these we adore:Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old causeIs gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,And pure religion breathing household laws.
W. Wordsworth
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:England hath need of thee: she is a fenOf stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,Have forfeited their ancient English dowerOf inward happiness. We are selfish men:Oh! raise us up, return to us again;And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;So didst thou travel on life's common wayIn cheerful godliness; and yet thy heartThe lowliest duties on herself did lay.
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:England hath need of thee: she is a fenOf stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dowerOf inward happiness. We are selfish men:Oh! raise us up, return to us again;And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
So didst thou travel on life's common wayIn cheerful godliness; and yet thy heartThe lowliest duties on herself did lay.
W. Wordsworth
When I have borne in memory what has tamedGreat nations; how ennobling thoughts departWhen men change swords for ledgers, and desertThe student's bower for gold,—some fears unnamedI had, my Country!—am I to be blamed?Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,Verily, in the bottom of my heartOf those unfilial fears I am ashamed.For dearly must we prize thee; we who findIn thee a bulwark for the cause of men;And I by my affection was beguiled:What wonder if a Poet now and then,Among the many movements of his mind,Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
When I have borne in memory what has tamedGreat nations; how ennobling thoughts departWhen men change swords for ledgers, and desertThe student's bower for gold,—some fears unnamed
I had, my Country!—am I to be blamed?Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,Verily, in the bottom of my heartOf those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
For dearly must we prize thee; we who findIn thee a bulwark for the cause of men;And I by my affection was beguiled:
What wonder if a Poet now and then,Among the many movements of his mind,Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
W. Wordsworth
On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat at dead of nightCommanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast array'dEach horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neigh'dTo join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills with thunder riven;Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;And louder than the bolts of HeavenFar flash'd the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden's hills of stainéd snow;And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulphurous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye BraveWho rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!Few, few shall part, where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulchre.
On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat at dead of nightCommanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'dEach horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neigh'dTo join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven;Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;And louder than the bolts of HeavenFar flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden's hills of stainéd snow;And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye BraveWho rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulchre.
T. Campbell
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 roundWhich 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 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' wonAnd 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 roundWhich 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 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' wonAnd 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
When he who adores thee has left out the nameOf his fault and his sorrows behind,Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fameOf a life that for thee was resign'd!Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,Thy tears shall efface their decree;For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,I have been but too faithful to thee.With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;Every thought of my reason was thine:In my last humble prayer to the Spirit aboveThy name shall be mingled with mine!Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall liveThe days of thy glory to see;But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can giveIs the pride of thus dying for thee.
When he who adores thee has left out the nameOf his fault and his sorrows behind,Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fameOf a life that for thee was resign'd!Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,Thy tears shall efface their decree;For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,I have been but too faithful to thee.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;Every thought of my reason was thine:In my last humble prayer to the Spirit aboveThy name shall be mingled with mine!Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall liveThe days of thy glory to see;But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can giveIs the pride of thus dying for thee.
T. Moore
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning;By the struggling moonbeam's misty lightAnd the lantern dimly burning.No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bedAnd smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow!Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's goneAnd o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring:And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning;By the struggling moonbeam's misty lightAnd the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bedAnd smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's goneAnd o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring:And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.
C. Wolfe
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,An old man dwells, a little man,—'Tis said he once was tall.Full five-and-thirty years he livedA running huntsman merry;And still the centre of his cheekIs red as a ripe cherry.No man like him the horn could sound,And hill and valley rang with glee,When Echo bandied, round and round,The halloo of Simon Lee.In those proud days he little caredFor husbandry or tillage;To blither tasks did Simon rouseThe sleepers of the village.He all the country could outrun,Could leave both man and horse behind;And often, ere the chase was done,He reel'd and was stone-blind.And still there's something in the worldAt which his heart rejoices;For when the chiming hounds are out,He dearly loves their voices.But oh the heavy change!—bereftOf health, strength, friends and kindred, see!Old Simon to the world is leftIn liveried poverty:—His master's dead, and no one nowDwells in the Hall of Ivor;Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;He is the sole survivor.And he is lean and he is sick,His body, dwindled and awry,Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;His legs are thin and dry.One prop he has, and only one,—His wife, an aged woman,Lives with him, near the waterfall,Upon the village common.Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,Not twenty paces from the door,A scrap of land they have, but theyAre poorest of the poor.This scrap of land he from the heathEnclosed when he was stronger;But what to them avails the landWhich he can till no longer?Oft, working by her husband's side,Ruth does what Simon cannot do;For she, with scanty cause for pride,Is stouter of the two.And, though you with your utmost skillFrom labour could not wean them,'Tis little, very little, allThat they can do between them.Few months of life has he in storeAs he to you will tell,For still, the more he works, the moreDo his weak ankles swell.My gentle Reader, I perceiveHow patiently you've waited,And now I fear that you expectSome tale will be related.O Reader! had you in your mindSuch stores as silent thought can bring,O gentle Reader! you would findA tale in every thing.What more I have to say is short,And you must kindly take it:It is no tale; but, should you think,Perhaps a tale you'll make it.One summer-day I chanced to seeThis old Man doing all he couldTo unearth the root of an old tree,A stump of rotten wood.The mattock totter'd in his hand;So vain was his endeavourThat at the root of the old treeHe might have work'd for ever.'You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,Give me your tool,' to him I said;And at the word right gladly heReceived my proffer'd aid.I struck, and with a single blowThe tangled root I sever'd,At which the poor old man so longAnd vainly had endeavour'd.The tears into his eyes were brought,And thanks and praises seem'd to runSo fast out of his heart, I thoughtThey never would have done.—I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deedWith coldness still returning;Alas! the gratitude of menHath oftener left me mourning.
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,An old man dwells, a little man,—'Tis said he once was tall.Full five-and-thirty years he livedA running huntsman merry;And still the centre of his cheekIs red as a ripe cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound,And hill and valley rang with glee,When Echo bandied, round and round,The halloo of Simon Lee.In those proud days he little caredFor husbandry or tillage;To blither tasks did Simon rouseThe sleepers of the village.
He all the country could outrun,Could leave both man and horse behind;And often, ere the chase was done,He reel'd and was stone-blind.And still there's something in the worldAt which his heart rejoices;For when the chiming hounds are out,He dearly loves their voices.
But oh the heavy change!—bereftOf health, strength, friends and kindred, see!Old Simon to the world is leftIn liveried poverty:—His master's dead, and no one nowDwells in the Hall of Ivor;Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;He is the sole survivor.
And he is lean and he is sick,His body, dwindled and awry,Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;His legs are thin and dry.One prop he has, and only one,—His wife, an aged woman,Lives with him, near the waterfall,Upon the village common.
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,Not twenty paces from the door,A scrap of land they have, but theyAre poorest of the poor.This scrap of land he from the heathEnclosed when he was stronger;But what to them avails the landWhich he can till no longer?
Oft, working by her husband's side,Ruth does what Simon cannot do;For she, with scanty cause for pride,Is stouter of the two.And, though you with your utmost skillFrom labour could not wean them,'Tis little, very little, allThat they can do between them.
Few months of life has he in storeAs he to you will tell,For still, the more he works, the moreDo his weak ankles swell.My gentle Reader, I perceiveHow patiently you've waited,And now I fear that you expectSome tale will be related.
O Reader! had you in your mindSuch stores as silent thought can bring,O gentle Reader! you would findA tale in every thing.What more I have to say is short,And you must kindly take it:It is no tale; but, should you think,Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
One summer-day I chanced to seeThis old Man doing all he couldTo unearth the root of an old tree,A stump of rotten wood.The mattock totter'd in his hand;So vain was his endeavourThat at the root of the old treeHe might have work'd for ever.
'You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,Give me your tool,' to him I said;And at the word right gladly heReceived my proffer'd aid.I struck, and with a single blowThe tangled root I sever'd,At which the poor old man so longAnd vainly had endeavour'd.
The tears into his eyes were brought,And thanks and praises seem'd to runSo fast out of his heart, I thoughtThey never would have done.—I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deedWith coldness still returning;Alas! the gratitude of menHath oftener left me mourning.
W. Wordsworth
I have had playmates, I have had companions,In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I have been laughing, I have been carousing,Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I loved a Love once, fairest among women:Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,Seeking to find the old familiar faces.Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?So might we talk of the old familiar faces,How some they have died, and some they have left me,And some are taken from me; all are departed;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have had playmates, I have had companions,In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing,Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a Love once, fairest among women:Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?So might we talk of the old familiar faces,
How some they have died, and some they have left me,And some are taken from me; all are departed;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
C. Lamb
As slow our ship her foamy trackAgainst the wind was cleaving,Her trembling pennant still look'd backTo that dear isle 'twas leaving.So loth we part from all we love,From all the links that bind us;So turn our hearts, as on we rove,To those we've left behind us!When, round the bowl, of vanish'd yearsWe talk with joyous seeming—With smiles that might as well be tears,So faint, so sad their beaming;While memory brings us back againEach early tie that twined us,Oh, sweet's the cup that circles thenTo those we've left behind us!And when, in other climes, we meetSome isle or vale enchanting,Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,And nought but love is wanting;We think how great had been our blissIf Heaven had but assign'd usTo live and die in scenes like this,With some we've left behind us!As travellers oft look back at eveWhen eastward darkly going,To gaze upon that light they leaveStill faint behind them glowing,—So, when the close of pleasure's dayTo gloom hath near consign'd us,We turn to catch one fading rayOf joy that's left behind us.
As slow our ship her foamy trackAgainst the wind was cleaving,Her trembling pennant still look'd backTo that dear isle 'twas leaving.So loth we part from all we love,From all the links that bind us;So turn our hearts, as on we rove,To those we've left behind us!
When, round the bowl, of vanish'd yearsWe talk with joyous seeming—With smiles that might as well be tears,So faint, so sad their beaming;While memory brings us back againEach early tie that twined us,Oh, sweet's the cup that circles thenTo those we've left behind us!
And when, in other climes, we meetSome isle or vale enchanting,Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,And nought but love is wanting;We think how great had been our blissIf Heaven had but assign'd usTo live and die in scenes like this,With some we've left behind us!
As travellers oft look back at eveWhen eastward darkly going,To gaze upon that light they leaveStill faint behind them glowing,—So, when the close of pleasure's dayTo gloom hath near consign'd us,We turn to catch one fading rayOf joy that's left behind us.
T. Moore
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes awayWhen the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happinessAre driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vainThe shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,—As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes awayWhen the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happinessAre driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vainThe shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.
Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,—As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!
Lord Byron
There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,And the first moment that the sun may shine,Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,Oft have I seen it muffled up from harmIn close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past,And recognized it, though an alter'd form,Now standing forth an offering to the blast,And buffeted at will by rain and storm.I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;This neither is its courage nor its choice,But its necessity in being old.'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;It cannot help itself in its decay;Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'—And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.To be a prodigal's favourite—then, worse truth,A miser's pensioner—behold our lot!O Man! that from thy fair and shining youthAge might but take the things Youth needed not!
There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,And the first moment that the sun may shine,Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,Oft have I seen it muffled up from harmIn close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past,And recognized it, though an alter'd form,Now standing forth an offering to the blast,And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;This neither is its courage nor its choice,But its necessity in being old.
'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;It cannot help itself in its decay;Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'—And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
To be a prodigal's favourite—then, worse truth,A miser's pensioner—behold our lot!O Man! that from thy fair and shining youthAge might but take the things Youth needed not!
W. Wordsworth
I remember, I rememberThe house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soonNor brought too long a day;But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away.I remember, I rememberThe roses, red and white,The violets, and the lily-cups—Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birth-day,—The tree is living yet!I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers thenThat is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow.I remember, I rememberThe fir trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from HeavenThan when I was a boy.
I remember, I rememberThe house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soonNor brought too long a day;But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away.
I remember, I rememberThe roses, red and white,The violets, and the lily-cups—Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birth-day,—The tree is living yet!
I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers thenThat is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow.
I remember, I rememberThe fir trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from HeavenThan when I was a boy.
T. Hood
Oft in the stilly nightEre slumber's chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood's years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shone,Now dimm'd and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken!Thus in the stilly nightEre slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.When I remember allThe friends so link'd togetherI've seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fledWhose garlands dead,And all but he departed!Thus in the stilly nightEre slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
Oft in the stilly nightEre slumber's chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood's years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shone,Now dimm'd and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken!Thus in the stilly nightEre slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
When I remember allThe friends so link'd togetherI've seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fledWhose garlands dead,And all but he departed!Thus in the stilly nightEre slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
T. Moore