Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of dayFar, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of dayFar, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of dayFar, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean side?
There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.William Cullen Bryant.
Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.
William Cullen Bryant.
Jerusalem, the golden!With milk and honey blest;Beneath thy contemplationSink heart and voice opprest.I know not, O I know notWhat joys await us there;What radiancy of glory,What bliss beyond compare.They stand, those halls of Zion,All jubilant with song,And bright with many an angel,And all the martyr throng.The Prince is ever in them,The daylight is serene;The pastures of the blessèdAre decked in glorious sheen.There is the throne of David;And there, from care released,The shout of them that triumph,The song of them that feast.And they, who with their Leader,Have conquered in the fight,Forever and foreverAre clad in robes of white.St. Bernard(translated by John M. Neale).
Jerusalem, the golden!With milk and honey blest;Beneath thy contemplationSink heart and voice opprest.I know not, O I know notWhat joys await us there;What radiancy of glory,What bliss beyond compare.
They stand, those halls of Zion,All jubilant with song,And bright with many an angel,And all the martyr throng.The Prince is ever in them,The daylight is serene;The pastures of the blessèdAre decked in glorious sheen.
There is the throne of David;And there, from care released,The shout of them that triumph,The song of them that feast.And they, who with their Leader,Have conquered in the fight,Forever and foreverAre clad in robes of white.
St. Bernard(translated by John M. Neale).
O Mother dear, Jerusalem!When shall I come to thee?When shall my sorrows have an end?Thy joys when shall I see?O happy harbor of God's saints!O sweet and pleasant soil!In thee no sorrow can be found,Nor grief, nor care, nor toil.No murky cloud o'ershadows thee,Nor gloom, nor darksome night;But every soul shines as the sun;For God Himself gives light.O my sweet home, Jerusalem!Thy joys when shall I see?The King that sitteth on thy throneIn His felicity?Thy gardens and thy goodly walksContinually are green,Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowersAs nowhere else are seen.Right through thy streets, with pleasing soundThe living waters flow,And on the banks, on either side,The trees of life do grow.Those trees each month yield ripened fruit;For evermore they spring,And all the nations of the earthTo thee their honors bring.O Mother dear, Jerusalem!When shall I come to thee?When shall my sorrows have an end?Thy joys when shall I see?Anonymous.
O Mother dear, Jerusalem!When shall I come to thee?When shall my sorrows have an end?Thy joys when shall I see?
O happy harbor of God's saints!O sweet and pleasant soil!In thee no sorrow can be found,Nor grief, nor care, nor toil.
No murky cloud o'ershadows thee,Nor gloom, nor darksome night;But every soul shines as the sun;For God Himself gives light.
O my sweet home, Jerusalem!Thy joys when shall I see?The King that sitteth on thy throneIn His felicity?
Thy gardens and thy goodly walksContinually are green,Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowersAs nowhere else are seen.
Right through thy streets, with pleasing soundThe living waters flow,And on the banks, on either side,The trees of life do grow.
Those trees each month yield ripened fruit;For evermore they spring,And all the nations of the earthTo thee their honors bring.
O Mother dear, Jerusalem!When shall I come to thee?When shall my sorrows have an end?Thy joys when shall I see?
Anonymous.
Abide with me from morn till eve,For without Thee I cannot live:Abide with me when night is nigh,For without Thee I dare not die.Thou Framer of the light and dark,Steer through the tempest Thine own ark:Amid the howling wintry seaWe are in port if we have Thee.If some poor wandering child of ThineHave spurned, to-day, the voice divine,Now, Lord, the gracious work begin;Let him no more lie down in sin.Watch by the sick: enrich the poorWith blessings from Thy boundless store:Be every mourner's sleep to-nightLike infants' slumbers, pure and light.Come near and bless us when we wake,Ere through the world our way we take;Till in the ocean of Thy loveWe lose ourselves in Heaven above.John Keble.
Abide with me from morn till eve,For without Thee I cannot live:Abide with me when night is nigh,For without Thee I dare not die.
Thou Framer of the light and dark,Steer through the tempest Thine own ark:Amid the howling wintry seaWe are in port if we have Thee.
If some poor wandering child of ThineHave spurned, to-day, the voice divine,Now, Lord, the gracious work begin;Let him no more lie down in sin.
Watch by the sick: enrich the poorWith blessings from Thy boundless store:Be every mourner's sleep to-nightLike infants' slumbers, pure and light.
Come near and bless us when we wake,Ere through the world our way we take;Till in the ocean of Thy loveWe lose ourselves in Heaven above.
John Keble.
Close now thine eyes, and rest secure;Thy soul is safe enough; thy body sure;He that loves thee, He that keepsAnd guards thee, never slumbers, never sleeps.The smiling Conscience in a sleeping breastHas only peace, has only rest:The music and the mirth of kingsAre all but very discords, when she sings:Then close thine eyes and rest secure;No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure.Francis Quarles.
Close now thine eyes, and rest secure;Thy soul is safe enough; thy body sure;He that loves thee, He that keepsAnd guards thee, never slumbers, never sleeps.The smiling Conscience in a sleeping breastHas only peace, has only rest:The music and the mirth of kingsAre all but very discords, when she sings:Then close thine eyes and rest secure;No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure.
Francis Quarles.
A dewdrop, falling on the ocean wave,Exclaimed, in fear, "I perish in this grave!"But, in a shell received, that drop of dewUnto a pearl of marvelous beauty grew;And, happy now, the grace did magnifyWhich thrust it forth—as it had feared—to die;Until again, "I perish quite!" it saidTorn by rude diver from its ocean bed:O, unbelieving!—So it came to gleamChief jewel in a monarch's diadem.Richard C. Trench.
A dewdrop, falling on the ocean wave,Exclaimed, in fear, "I perish in this grave!"But, in a shell received, that drop of dewUnto a pearl of marvelous beauty grew;And, happy now, the grace did magnifyWhich thrust it forth—as it had feared—to die;Until again, "I perish quite!" it saidTorn by rude diver from its ocean bed:O, unbelieving!—So it came to gleamChief jewel in a monarch's diadem.
Richard C. Trench.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright—The bridal of the earth and sky;The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;For thou must die.Sweet rose, whose hue angry and braveBids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like seasoned timber, never gives;But though the whole world turns to coal,Then chiefly lives.George Herbert.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright—The bridal of the earth and sky;The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue angry and braveBids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like seasoned timber, never gives;But though the whole world turns to coal,Then chiefly lives.
George Herbert.
The rich man's son inherits lands,And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,And he inherits soft white hands,And tender flesh that fears the cold,Nor dares to wear a garment old;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.The rich man's son inherits cares;The bank may break, the factory burn,A breath may burst his bubble shares,And soft white hands could hardly earnA living that would serve his turn;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.The rich man's son inherits wants,His stomach craves for dainty fare;With sated heart, he hears the pantsOf toiling hinds with brown arms bare,And wearies in his easy-chair;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.What doth the poor man's son inherit?Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;King of two hands, he does his partIn every useful toil and art;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.What doth the poor man's son inherit?Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,Content that from employment springs,A heart that in his labor sings;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.What doth the poor man's son inherit?A patience learned of being poor,Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,A fellow-feeling that is sureTo make the outcast bless his door;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.O rich man's son! there is a toilThat with all others level stands;Large charity doth never soil,But only whiten, soft white hands,—This is the best crop from thy lands;A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being rich to hold in fee.O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;There is worse weariness than thine,In merely being rich and great;Toil only gives the soul to shine,And makes rest fragrant and benign;A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being poor to hold in fee.Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,Are equal in the earth at last;Both, children of the same dear God,Prove title to your heirship vastBy record of a well-filled past;A heritage, it seems to me,Well worth a life to hold in fee.James Russell Lowell.
The rich man's son inherits lands,And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,And he inherits soft white hands,And tender flesh that fears the cold,Nor dares to wear a garment old;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits cares;The bank may break, the factory burn,A breath may burst his bubble shares,And soft white hands could hardly earnA living that would serve his turn;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits wants,His stomach craves for dainty fare;With sated heart, he hears the pantsOf toiling hinds with brown arms bare,And wearies in his easy-chair;A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;King of two hands, he does his partIn every useful toil and art;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,Content that from employment springs,A heart that in his labor sings;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?A patience learned of being poor,Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,A fellow-feeling that is sureTo make the outcast bless his door;A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.
O rich man's son! there is a toilThat with all others level stands;Large charity doth never soil,But only whiten, soft white hands,—This is the best crop from thy lands;A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being rich to hold in fee.
O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;There is worse weariness than thine,In merely being rich and great;Toil only gives the soul to shine,And makes rest fragrant and benign;A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being poor to hold in fee.
Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,Are equal in the earth at last;Both, children of the same dear God,Prove title to your heirship vastBy record of a well-filled past;A heritage, it seems to me,Well worth a life to hold in fee.
James Russell Lowell.
A perilous life, and sad as life may be,Hath the lone fisher, on the lonely sea,O'er the wild waters laboring far from home,For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam:Few hearts to cheer him through his dangerous life,And none to aid him in the stormy strife:Companion of the sea and silent air,The lonely fisher thus must ever fare:Without the comfort, hope,—with scarce a friend,He looks through life and only sees its end!Bryan Waller Procter(Barry Cornwall).
A perilous life, and sad as life may be,Hath the lone fisher, on the lonely sea,O'er the wild waters laboring far from home,For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam:Few hearts to cheer him through his dangerous life,And none to aid him in the stormy strife:Companion of the sea and silent air,The lonely fisher thus must ever fare:Without the comfort, hope,—with scarce a friend,He looks through life and only sees its end!
Bryan Waller Procter(Barry Cornwall).
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!And I'll give thee a silver pound,To row us o'er the ferry.""Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?""O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,And this Lord Ullin's daughter."And fast before her father's menThree days we've fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!And I'll give thee a silver pound,To row us o'er the ferry.""Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?""O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,And this Lord Ullin's daughter."And fast before her father's menThree days we've fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!And I'll give thee a silver pound,To row us o'er the ferry."
"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?""O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's menThree days we've fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.
"His horsemen hard behind us ride;Should they our steps discover,Then who will cheer my bonny brideWhen they have slain her lover?"Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,"I'll go, my chief—I'm ready:It is not for your silver bright;But for your winsome lady:"And by my word! the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry:So though the waves are raging white,I'll row you o'er the ferry."By this the storm grew loud apace,The water wraith was shrieking;And in the scowl of heaven each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.But still as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode armèd men,Their trampling sounded nearer."Oh haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,"Though tempests round us gather;I'll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father."The boat has left a stormy land,A stormy sea before her,—When, Oh! too strong for human hand,The tempest gathered o'er her.And still they rowed amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing:Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,His wrath was changed to wailing.For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,His child he did discover:One lovely hand she stretched for aid,And one was round her lover."Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,"Across this stormy water:And I'll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter!—oh my daughter!"'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,Return or aid preventing:The waters wild went o'er his child,And he was left lamenting.Thomas Campbell.
"His horsemen hard behind us ride;Should they our steps discover,Then who will cheer my bonny brideWhen they have slain her lover?"
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,"I'll go, my chief—I'm ready:It is not for your silver bright;But for your winsome lady:
"And by my word! the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry:So though the waves are raging white,I'll row you o'er the ferry."
By this the storm grew loud apace,The water wraith was shrieking;And in the scowl of heaven each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode armèd men,Their trampling sounded nearer.
"Oh haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,"Though tempests round us gather;I'll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father."
The boat has left a stormy land,A stormy sea before her,—When, Oh! too strong for human hand,The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing:Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,His child he did discover:One lovely hand she stretched for aid,And one was round her lover.
"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,"Across this stormy water:And I'll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter!—oh my daughter!"
'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,Return or aid preventing:The waters wild went o'er his child,And he was left lamenting.
Thomas Campbell.
"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?Why weep ye by the tide?I'll wed ye to my youngest son,And ye sall be his bride:And ye sall be his bride, ladie,Sae comely to be seen"—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock of Hazeldean."Now let this wilfu' grief be done,And dry that cheek so pale;Young Frank is chief of Errington,And lord of Langley-dale;His step is first in peaceful ha',His sword in battle keen"—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock of Hazeldean."A chain of gold ye sall not lack,Nor braid to bind your hair;Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,Nor palfrey fresh and fair;And you, the foremost o' them a',Shall ride our forest queen"—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock of Hazeldean.The kirk was decked at morningtide,The tapers glimmered fair;The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,And dame and knight are there.They sought her baith by bower and ha',The ladie was not seen!She's o'er the Border, and awa'Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.Sir Walter Scott.
"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?Why weep ye by the tide?I'll wed ye to my youngest son,And ye sall be his bride:And ye sall be his bride, ladie,Sae comely to be seen"—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock of Hazeldean.
"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,And dry that cheek so pale;Young Frank is chief of Errington,And lord of Langley-dale;His step is first in peaceful ha',His sword in battle keen"—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock of Hazeldean.
"A chain of gold ye sall not lack,Nor braid to bind your hair;Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,Nor palfrey fresh and fair;And you, the foremost o' them a',Shall ride our forest queen"—But aye she loot the tears down fa'For Jock of Hazeldean.
The kirk was decked at morningtide,The tapers glimmered fair;The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,And dame and knight are there.They sought her baith by bower and ha',The ladie was not seen!She's o'er the Border, and awa'Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.
Sir Walter Scott.
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairingTo wander alone by the wind-beaten hill:But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.Sad is my fate! said the heartbroken stranger;The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger,A home and a country remain not to me.Never again, in the green sunny bowers,Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace meIn a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase me?Never again shall my brothers embrace me?They died to defend me or live to deplore!Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood?Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?And where is the bosom friend clearer than all?Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?Tears, like the raindrop, may fall without measure,But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,One dying wish my lone bosom can draw;Erin! an exile bequeathes thee his blessing!Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,Green be thy field,—sweetest isle of the ocean!And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,—Erin mavournin—Erin go bragh!Thomas Campbell.
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairingTo wander alone by the wind-beaten hill:But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.
Sad is my fate! said the heartbroken stranger;The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger,A home and a country remain not to me.Never again, in the green sunny bowers,Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!
Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace meIn a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase me?Never again shall my brothers embrace me?They died to defend me or live to deplore!
Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood?Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?And where is the bosom friend clearer than all?Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?Tears, like the raindrop, may fall without measure,But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,One dying wish my lone bosom can draw;Erin! an exile bequeathes thee his blessing!Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,Green be thy field,—sweetest isle of the ocean!And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,—Erin mavournin—Erin go bragh!
Thomas Campbell.
The heath this night must be my bed,The bracken curtain for my head,My lullaby the warder's tread,Far, far from love and thee, Mary;To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,My couch may be my bloody plaid,My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid!It will not waken me, Mary!I may not, dare not, fancy nowThe grief that clouds thy lovely brow;I dare not think upon thy vow,And all it promised me, Mary.No fond regret must Norman know;When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,His heart must be like bended bow,His foot like arrow free, Mary.A time will come with feeling fraught!For, if I fall in battle fought,Thy hapless lover's dying thoughtShall be a thought on thee, Mary:And if returned from conquered foes,How blithely will the evening close,How sweet the linnet sing reposeTo my young bride and me, Mary.Sir Walter Scott.From"The Lady of The Lake."
The heath this night must be my bed,The bracken curtain for my head,My lullaby the warder's tread,Far, far from love and thee, Mary;To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,My couch may be my bloody plaid,My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid!It will not waken me, Mary!
I may not, dare not, fancy nowThe grief that clouds thy lovely brow;I dare not think upon thy vow,And all it promised me, Mary.No fond regret must Norman know;When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,His heart must be like bended bow,His foot like arrow free, Mary.
A time will come with feeling fraught!For, if I fall in battle fought,Thy hapless lover's dying thoughtShall be a thought on thee, Mary:And if returned from conquered foes,How blithely will the evening close,How sweet the linnet sing reposeTo my young bride and me, Mary.
Sir Walter Scott.From"The Lady of The Lake."
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae weary, fu' o' care!Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird,That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:Thou minds me o' departed joys,Departed—never to return!Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,To see the rose and woodbine twine;And ilka bird sang o' its luve,And fondly sae did I o' mine.Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;And my fause lover stole my rose,But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.Robert Burns.
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae weary, fu' o' care!Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird,That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:Thou minds me o' departed joys,Departed—never to return!
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,To see the rose and woodbine twine;And ilka bird sang o' its luve,And fondly sae did I o' mine.Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;And my fause lover stole my rose,But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
Robert Burns.
It was the time when lilies blow,And clouds are highest up in air,Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doeTo give his cousin, Lady Clare.I trow they did not part in scorn:Lovers long betrothed were they:They two will wed the morrow morn:God's blessing on the day!"He does not love me for my birth,Nor for my lands so broad and fair;He loves me for my own true worth,And that is well," said Lady Clare.In there came old Alice the nurse,Said, "Who was this that went from thee?""It was my cousin," said Lady Clare,"To-morrow he weds with me.""O God be thanked!" said Alice the nurse,"That all comes round so just and fair:Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,And you are not the Lady Clare.""Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?"Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?""As God is above," said Alice the nurse,"I speak the truth: you are my child."The old Earl's daughter died at my breast;I speak the truth, as I live by bread!I buried her like my own sweet child,And put my child in her stead.""Falsely, falsely have ye done,O mother," she said, "if this be true,To keep the best man under the sunSo many years from his due.""Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse,"But keep the secret for your life,And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,When you are man and wife.""If I'm a beggar born," she said,"I will speak out, for I dare not lie.Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold,And fling the diamond necklace by.""Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse,"But keep the secret all ye can."She said, "Not so: but I will knowIf there be any faith in man.""Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse,"The man will cleave unto his right.""And he shall have it," the lady replied,"Tho' I should die to-night.""Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!Alas, my child, I sinned for thee.""O mother, mother, mother," she said,"So strange it seems to me."Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,My mother dear, if this be so,And lay your hand upon my head,And bless me, mother, ere I go."She clad herself in a russet gown,She was no longer Lady Clare:She went by dale, and she went by town,With a single rose in her hair.The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had broughtLeapt up from where she lay,Dropt her head in the maiden's hand,And followed her all the way.Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:"O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!Why come you drest like a village maid,That are the flower of the earth?""If I come drest like a village maid,I am but as my fortunes are:I am a beggar born," she said,"And not the Lady Clare.""Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,"For I am yours in word and deed.Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,"Your riddle is hard to read."O and proudly stood she up!Her heart within her did not fail:She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes,And told him all her nurse's tale.He laughed a laugh of merry scorn:He turned and kissed her where she stood:"If you are not the heiress born,And I," said he, "the next in blood—"If you are not the heiress born,And I," said he, "the lawful heir,We two will wed to-morrow morn,And you shall still be Lady Clare."Alfred Tennyson.
It was the time when lilies blow,And clouds are highest up in air,Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doeTo give his cousin, Lady Clare.
I trow they did not part in scorn:Lovers long betrothed were they:They two will wed the morrow morn:God's blessing on the day!
"He does not love me for my birth,Nor for my lands so broad and fair;He loves me for my own true worth,And that is well," said Lady Clare.
In there came old Alice the nurse,Said, "Who was this that went from thee?""It was my cousin," said Lady Clare,"To-morrow he weds with me."
"O God be thanked!" said Alice the nurse,"That all comes round so just and fair:Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,And you are not the Lady Clare."
"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?"Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?""As God is above," said Alice the nurse,"I speak the truth: you are my child.
"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast;I speak the truth, as I live by bread!I buried her like my own sweet child,And put my child in her stead."
"Falsely, falsely have ye done,O mother," she said, "if this be true,To keep the best man under the sunSo many years from his due."
"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse,"But keep the secret for your life,And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,When you are man and wife."
"If I'm a beggar born," she said,"I will speak out, for I dare not lie.Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold,And fling the diamond necklace by."
"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse,"But keep the secret all ye can."She said, "Not so: but I will knowIf there be any faith in man."
"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse,"The man will cleave unto his right.""And he shall have it," the lady replied,"Tho' I should die to-night."
"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!Alas, my child, I sinned for thee.""O mother, mother, mother," she said,"So strange it seems to me.
"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,My mother dear, if this be so,And lay your hand upon my head,And bless me, mother, ere I go."
She clad herself in a russet gown,She was no longer Lady Clare:She went by dale, and she went by town,With a single rose in her hair.
The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had broughtLeapt up from where she lay,Dropt her head in the maiden's hand,And followed her all the way.
Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:"O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!Why come you drest like a village maid,That are the flower of the earth?"
"If I come drest like a village maid,I am but as my fortunes are:I am a beggar born," she said,"And not the Lady Clare."
"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,"For I am yours in word and deed.Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,"Your riddle is hard to read."
O and proudly stood she up!Her heart within her did not fail:She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes,And told him all her nurse's tale.
He laughed a laugh of merry scorn:He turned and kissed her where she stood:"If you are not the heiress born,And I," said he, "the next in blood—
"If you are not the heiress born,And I," said he, "the lawful heir,We two will wed to-morrow morn,And you shall still be Lady Clare."
Alfred Tennyson.
Belshazzar is king! Belshazzar is lord!And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board:Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a floodOf the wine that man loveth, runs redder than blood;Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth,And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth;And the crowds all shout,Till the vast roofs ring,—"All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!""Bring forth," cries the Monarch, "the vessels of gold,Which my father tore down from the temples of old;—Bring forth, and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown,To the gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone;Bring forth!" and before him the vessels all shine,And he bows unto Baal, and drinks the dark wine;Whilst the trumpets bray,And the cymbals ring,—"Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!"Now what cometh—look, look!—without menace, or call?Who writes, with the lightning's bright hand, on the wall?What pierceth the king like the point of a dart?What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart?"Chaldeans! Magicians! the letters expound!"They are read—and Belshazzar is dead on the ground!Hark!—the Persian is comeOn a conqueror's wing;And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king.Bryan Waller Procter(Barry Cornwall).
Belshazzar is king! Belshazzar is lord!And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board:Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a floodOf the wine that man loveth, runs redder than blood;Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth,And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth;And the crowds all shout,Till the vast roofs ring,—"All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!"
"Bring forth," cries the Monarch, "the vessels of gold,Which my father tore down from the temples of old;—Bring forth, and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown,To the gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone;Bring forth!" and before him the vessels all shine,And he bows unto Baal, and drinks the dark wine;Whilst the trumpets bray,And the cymbals ring,—"Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!"
Now what cometh—look, look!—without menace, or call?Who writes, with the lightning's bright hand, on the wall?What pierceth the king like the point of a dart?What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart?"Chaldeans! Magicians! the letters expound!"They are read—and Belshazzar is dead on the ground!Hark!—the Persian is comeOn a conqueror's wing;And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king.
Bryan Waller Procter(Barry Cornwall).
BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST.BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST.J. MARTIN.
J. MARTIN.
Pipes of the misty moorlands,Voice of the glens and hills;The droning of the torrents,The treble of the rills!Not the braes of broom and heather,Nor the mountains dark with rain,Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,Have heard your sweetest strain!Dear to the Lowland reaper,And plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe Scottish pipes are dear;—Sweet sounds the ancient pibrochO'er mountain, loch, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe pipes at Lucknow played.
Pipes of the misty moorlands,Voice of the glens and hills;The droning of the torrents,The treble of the rills!Not the braes of broom and heather,Nor the mountains dark with rain,Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,Have heard your sweetest strain!Dear to the Lowland reaper,And plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe Scottish pipes are dear;—Sweet sounds the ancient pibrochO'er mountain, loch, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe pipes at Lucknow played.
Pipes of the misty moorlands,Voice of the glens and hills;The droning of the torrents,The treble of the rills!Not the braes of broom and heather,Nor the mountains dark with rain,Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,Have heard your sweetest strain!
Dear to the Lowland reaper,And plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe Scottish pipes are dear;—Sweet sounds the ancient pibrochO'er mountain, loch, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe pipes at Lucknow played.
Day by day the Indian tigerLouder yelled, and nearer crept;Round and round, the jungle serpentNear and nearer circles swept."Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,—Pray to-day!" the soldier said,"To-morrow, death's between usAnd the wrong and shame we dread,"Oh, they listened, looked, and waited,Till their hope became despair;And the sobs of low bewailingFilled the pauses of their prayer.Then up spake a Scottish maiden,With her ear unto the ground:"Dinna ye hear it?—dinna ye hear it?The pipes o' Havelock sound!"Hushed the wounded man his groaning;Hushed the wife her little ones;Alone they heard the drum-rollAnd the roar of Sepoy guns.But to sounds of home and childhoodThe Highland ear was true;—As her mother's cradle crooningThe mountain pipes she knew.Like the march of soundless musicThrough the vision of the seer,More of feeling than of hearing,Of the heart than of the ear,She knew the droning pibroch,She knew the Campbell's call:"Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,The grandest o' them all!"Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless,And they caught the sound at last;Faint and far beyond the GoomteeRose and fell the piper's blast!Then a burst of wild thanksgivingMingled woman's voice and man's;"God be praised!—the march of Havelock!The piping of the clans!"Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call,Stinging all the air to life.But when the far-off dust cloudTo plaided legions grew,Full tenderly and blithesomelyThe pipes of rescue blew!Round the silver domes of Lucknow,Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine,Breathed the air to Britons dearest,The air of Auld Lang Syne.O'er the cruel roll of war drumsRose that sweet and homelike strain;And the tartan clove the turban,As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.Dear to the corn-land reaperAnd plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe piper's song is dear.Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibrochO'er mountain, glen, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe pipes at Lucknow played!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Day by day the Indian tigerLouder yelled, and nearer crept;Round and round, the jungle serpentNear and nearer circles swept."Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,—Pray to-day!" the soldier said,"To-morrow, death's between usAnd the wrong and shame we dread,"
Oh, they listened, looked, and waited,Till their hope became despair;And the sobs of low bewailingFilled the pauses of their prayer.Then up spake a Scottish maiden,With her ear unto the ground:"Dinna ye hear it?—dinna ye hear it?The pipes o' Havelock sound!"
Hushed the wounded man his groaning;Hushed the wife her little ones;Alone they heard the drum-rollAnd the roar of Sepoy guns.But to sounds of home and childhoodThe Highland ear was true;—As her mother's cradle crooningThe mountain pipes she knew.
Like the march of soundless musicThrough the vision of the seer,More of feeling than of hearing,Of the heart than of the ear,She knew the droning pibroch,She knew the Campbell's call:"Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,The grandest o' them all!"
Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless,And they caught the sound at last;Faint and far beyond the GoomteeRose and fell the piper's blast!Then a burst of wild thanksgivingMingled woman's voice and man's;"God be praised!—the march of Havelock!The piping of the clans!"
Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call,Stinging all the air to life.But when the far-off dust cloudTo plaided legions grew,Full tenderly and blithesomelyThe pipes of rescue blew!
Round the silver domes of Lucknow,Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine,Breathed the air to Britons dearest,The air of Auld Lang Syne.O'er the cruel roll of war drumsRose that sweet and homelike strain;And the tartan clove the turban,As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.
Dear to the corn-land reaperAnd plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe piper's song is dear.Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibrochO'er mountain, glen, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe pipes at Lucknow played!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE RESIDENCY, LUCKNOW, INDIA.THE RESIDENCY, LUCKNOW, INDIA.