They grew in beauty, side by side,They filled one home with glee;Their graves are severed far and wide,By mount, and stream, and sea.The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair, sleeping brow;She had each folded flower in sight:Where are those sleepers now?One, midst the forest of the West,By a dark stream is laid;The Indian knows his place of rest,Far in the cedar shade.The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one;He lies where pearls lie deep;He was the loved of all, yet noneO'er his low bed may weep.One sleeps where southern vines are dressedAbove the noble slain;He wrapped the colors round his breastOn a blood-red field of Spain.And one—o'er her the myrtle showersIts leaves by soft winds fanned;She faded midst Italian flowers—The last of that fair band.And parted thus, they rest who playedBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they prayedAround one parent knee.They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheered with song the hearth;Alas for love! if thou wert all,And nought beyond, O earth!Felicia Dorothea Hemans.
They grew in beauty, side by side,They filled one home with glee;Their graves are severed far and wide,By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair, sleeping brow;She had each folded flower in sight:Where are those sleepers now?
One, midst the forest of the West,By a dark stream is laid;The Indian knows his place of rest,Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one;He lies where pearls lie deep;He was the loved of all, yet noneO'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dressedAbove the noble slain;He wrapped the colors round his breastOn a blood-red field of Spain.
And one—o'er her the myrtle showersIts leaves by soft winds fanned;She faded midst Italian flowers—The last of that fair band.
And parted thus, they rest who playedBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they prayedAround one parent knee.
They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheered with song the hearth;Alas for love! if thou wert all,And nought beyond, O earth!
Felicia Dorothea Hemans.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thouThat cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow:Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,And swelling the white sail. I welcome theeTo the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!Nor I alone—a thousand bosoms roundInhale thee in the fullness of delight;And languid forms rise up, and pulses boundLivelier, at coming of the wind of night;And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!Go, rock the little wood bird in his nest,Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouseThe wide old wood from his majestic rest,Summoning from the innumerable boughsThe strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast:Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bowsThe shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.The faint old man shall lean his silver headTo feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,And dry the moistened curls that overspreadHis temples, while his breathing grows more deep;And they who stand about the sick man's bed,Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,And softly part his curtains to allowThy visit, grateful to his burning brow.Go—but the circle of eternal change,Which is the life of nature, shall restore,With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange,Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore;And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deemHe hears the rustling leaf and running stream.William Cullen Bryant.
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thouThat cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow:Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,And swelling the white sail. I welcome theeTo the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Nor I alone—a thousand bosoms roundInhale thee in the fullness of delight;And languid forms rise up, and pulses boundLivelier, at coming of the wind of night;And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood bird in his nest,Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouseThe wide old wood from his majestic rest,Summoning from the innumerable boughsThe strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast:Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bowsThe shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver headTo feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,And dry the moistened curls that overspreadHis temples, while his breathing grows more deep;And they who stand about the sick man's bed,Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,And softly part his curtains to allowThy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
Go—but the circle of eternal change,Which is the life of nature, shall restore,With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange,Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore;And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deemHe hears the rustling leaf and running stream.
William Cullen Bryant.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!Jehovah has triumphed,—His people are free!Sing,—for the pride of the tyrant is broken,His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave,—How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken,And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!Jehovah has triumphed,—His people are free!Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword.Who shall return to tell Egypt the storyOf those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?For the Lord hath looked out from His pillar of glory,And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!Jehovah hath triumphed,—His people are free!Thomas Moore.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!Jehovah has triumphed,—His people are free!Sing,—for the pride of the tyrant is broken,His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave,—How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken,And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!Jehovah has triumphed,—His people are free!
Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword.Who shall return to tell Egypt the storyOf those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?For the Lord hath looked out from His pillar of glory,And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!Jehovah hath triumphed,—His people are free!
Thomas Moore.
Up! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!To the meadows trip away,'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,And scare the small birds from the corn.Not a soul at home may stay:For the shepherds must goWith lance and bowTo hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.Leave the hearth and leave the houseTo the cricket and the mouse:Find grannam out a sunny seat,With babe and lambkin at her feet.Not a soul at home may stay:For the shepherds must goWith lance and bowTo hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Up! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!To the meadows trip away,'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,And scare the small birds from the corn.Not a soul at home may stay:For the shepherds must goWith lance and bowTo hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
Leave the hearth and leave the houseTo the cricket and the mouse:Find grannam out a sunny seat,With babe and lambkin at her feet.Not a soul at home may stay:For the shepherds must goWith lance and bowTo hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
An ancient story I'll tell you anonOf a notable prince, that was called King John;And he ruled England with main and with might,For he did great wrong and maintained little right.And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry,Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;How for his housekeeping and high renown,They rode post for him to fair London town.An hundred men, the king did hear say,The Abbot kept in his house every day;And fifty gold chains, without any doubt,In velvet coats waited the Abbot about."How now, father Abbot, I hear it of thee,Thou keepest a far better house than me;And for thy housekeeping and high renown,I fear thou work'st treason against my crown.""My liege," quoth the Abbot, "I would it were knownI never spend nothing but what is my own;And I trust your Grace will do me no deereFor spending of my own true gotten geere."
An ancient story I'll tell you anonOf a notable prince, that was called King John;And he ruled England with main and with might,For he did great wrong and maintained little right.
And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry,Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;How for his housekeeping and high renown,They rode post for him to fair London town.
An hundred men, the king did hear say,The Abbot kept in his house every day;And fifty gold chains, without any doubt,In velvet coats waited the Abbot about.
"How now, father Abbot, I hear it of thee,Thou keepest a far better house than me;And for thy housekeeping and high renown,I fear thou work'st treason against my crown."
"My liege," quoth the Abbot, "I would it were knownI never spend nothing but what is my own;And I trust your Grace will do me no deereFor spending of my own true gotten geere."
KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY.KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY.
"Yes, yes, father Abbot, thy fault it is high,And now for the same thou needest must die;For except thou canst answer me questions three,Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie."And first," quoth the king, "when I'm in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liegemen so noble of birth,Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth."Secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride the whole world about;And at the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.""O these are hard questions for my shallow wit,Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet;But if you will give me but three weeks' space,I'll do my endeavor to answer your Grace.""Now three weeks' space to thee will I give,And that is the longest time thou hast to live;For if thou dost not answer my questions three,Thy land and thy livings are forfeit to me."Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word,And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;But never a doctor there was so wise,That could with his learning an answer devise.Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold,And he met his shepherd a-going to fold:"How now, my lord Abbot, you are welcome home;What news do you bring us from good King John?""Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give,That I have but three days more to live;For if I do not answer him questions three,My head will be smitten from my bodie."The first is to tell him there in that stead,With his crown of gold so fair on his head,Among all his liegemen so noble of birth,To within one penny of what he is worth."The second to tell him without any doubt,How soon he may ride this whole world about;And at the third question I must not shrink,But tell him there truly what he does think.""Now cheer up, sir Abbot, did you never hear yetThat a fool he may learn a wise man wit?Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel."Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me,I am like your lordship as ever may be;And if you will but lend me your gownThere is none shall know us in fair London town.""Now horses and serving men thou shalt have,With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,Fit to appear 'fore our father the Pope.""Now welcome, sir Abbot," the king he did say,"'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day:For and if thou canst answer my questions three,Thy life and thy living both saved shall be."And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liegemen so noble of birth,Tell me to one penny what I am worth.""For thirty pence our Savior was soldAmong the false Jews, as I have been told:And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,For I think thou art one penny worser than he."The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,"I did not think I had been worth so little!Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride this whole world about.""You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,Until the next morning he riseth again;And then your Grace need not make any doubtBut in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,"I did not think it could be gone so soon.Now from the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what do I think.""Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry;You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."The King he laughed, and swore by the mass,"I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!""Nay, nay, my liege, be not in such speed,For alack, I can neither write nor read.""Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me;And tell the old Abbot, when thou com'st home,Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."Thomas Percy.
"Yes, yes, father Abbot, thy fault it is high,And now for the same thou needest must die;For except thou canst answer me questions three,Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
"And first," quoth the king, "when I'm in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liegemen so noble of birth,Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth.
"Secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride the whole world about;And at the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think."
"O these are hard questions for my shallow wit,Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet;But if you will give me but three weeks' space,I'll do my endeavor to answer your Grace."
"Now three weeks' space to thee will I give,And that is the longest time thou hast to live;For if thou dost not answer my questions three,Thy land and thy livings are forfeit to me."
Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word,And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;But never a doctor there was so wise,That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold,And he met his shepherd a-going to fold:"How now, my lord Abbot, you are welcome home;What news do you bring us from good King John?"
"Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give,That I have but three days more to live;For if I do not answer him questions three,My head will be smitten from my bodie.
"The first is to tell him there in that stead,With his crown of gold so fair on his head,Among all his liegemen so noble of birth,To within one penny of what he is worth.
"The second to tell him without any doubt,How soon he may ride this whole world about;And at the third question I must not shrink,But tell him there truly what he does think."
"Now cheer up, sir Abbot, did you never hear yetThat a fool he may learn a wise man wit?Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.
"Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me,I am like your lordship as ever may be;And if you will but lend me your gownThere is none shall know us in fair London town."
"Now horses and serving men thou shalt have,With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,Fit to appear 'fore our father the Pope."
"Now welcome, sir Abbot," the king he did say,"'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day:For and if thou canst answer my questions three,Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.
"And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liegemen so noble of birth,Tell me to one penny what I am worth."
"For thirty pence our Savior was soldAmong the false Jews, as I have been told:And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,For I think thou art one penny worser than he."
The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,"I did not think I had been worth so little!Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride this whole world about."
"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,Until the next morning he riseth again;And then your Grace need not make any doubtBut in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,"I did not think it could be gone so soon.Now from the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what do I think."
"Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry;You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."
The King he laughed, and swore by the mass,"I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!""Nay, nay, my liege, be not in such speed,For alack, I can neither write nor read."
"Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me;And tell the old Abbot, when thou com'st home,Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."
Thomas Percy.
Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies,Let them live upon their praises;Long as there's a sun that sets,Primroses will have their glory;Long as there are violets,They will have a place in story:There's a flower that shall be mine,'Tis the little Celandine.Eyes of some men travel farFor the finding of a star;Up and down the heavens they go,Men that keep a mighty rout!I'm as great as they, I trow,Since the day I found thee out,Little flower!—I'll make a stir,Like a sage astronomer.Modest, yet withal an elfBold, and lavish of thyself;Since we needs must first have metI have seen thee, high and low,Thirty years or more, and yet'Twas a face I did not know;Thou hast now, go where I may,Fifty greetings in a day.Ere a leaf is on a bush,In the time before the thrushHas a thought about her nest,Thou wilt come with half a call,Spreading out thy glossy breastLike a careless prodigal;Telling tales about the sun,When we've little warmth, or none.Poets, vain men in their mood!Travel with the multitude:Never heed them; I averThat they are all wanton wooers;But the thrifty cottager,Who stirs little out of doors,Joys to spy thee near her home;Spring is coming, thou art come!Comfort have thou of thy merit,Kindly, unassuming spirit!Careless of thy neighborhood,Thou dost show thy pleasant faceOn the moor, and in the wood,In the lane;—there's not a place,Howsoever mean it be,But 'tis good enough for thee.Ill befall the yellow flowers,Children of the flaring hours!Buttercups, that will be seen,Whether we will see or no;Others, too, of lofty mien;They have done as worldlings do,Taken praise that should be thine,Little, humble Celandine!Prophet of delight and mirth,Ill requited upon earth;Herald of a mighty band,Of a joyous train ensuing,Serving at my heart's command,Tasks that are no tasks renewing,I will sing, as doth behove,Hymns in praise, of what I love!William Wordsworth.
Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies,Let them live upon their praises;Long as there's a sun that sets,Primroses will have their glory;Long as there are violets,They will have a place in story:There's a flower that shall be mine,'Tis the little Celandine.
Eyes of some men travel farFor the finding of a star;Up and down the heavens they go,Men that keep a mighty rout!I'm as great as they, I trow,Since the day I found thee out,Little flower!—I'll make a stir,Like a sage astronomer.
Modest, yet withal an elfBold, and lavish of thyself;Since we needs must first have metI have seen thee, high and low,Thirty years or more, and yet'Twas a face I did not know;Thou hast now, go where I may,Fifty greetings in a day.
Ere a leaf is on a bush,In the time before the thrushHas a thought about her nest,Thou wilt come with half a call,Spreading out thy glossy breastLike a careless prodigal;Telling tales about the sun,When we've little warmth, or none.
Poets, vain men in their mood!Travel with the multitude:Never heed them; I averThat they are all wanton wooers;But the thrifty cottager,Who stirs little out of doors,Joys to spy thee near her home;Spring is coming, thou art come!
Comfort have thou of thy merit,Kindly, unassuming spirit!Careless of thy neighborhood,Thou dost show thy pleasant faceOn the moor, and in the wood,In the lane;—there's not a place,Howsoever mean it be,But 'tis good enough for thee.
Ill befall the yellow flowers,Children of the flaring hours!Buttercups, that will be seen,Whether we will see or no;Others, too, of lofty mien;They have done as worldlings do,Taken praise that should be thine,Little, humble Celandine!
Prophet of delight and mirth,Ill requited upon earth;Herald of a mighty band,Of a joyous train ensuing,Serving at my heart's command,Tasks that are no tasks renewing,I will sing, as doth behove,Hymns in praise, of what I love!
William Wordsworth.
I have read, in some old, marvelous tale,Some legend strange and vague,That a midnight host of specters paleBeleaguered the walls of Prague.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 flowed between.No other voice nor sound was there,No drum, nor sentry's pace;The mistlike banners clasped the air,As clouds with clouds embrace.But, when the old cathedral bellProclaimed the morning prayer,The white pavilions rose and fellOn the alarmèd air.
I have read, in some old, marvelous tale,Some legend strange and vague,That a midnight host of specters paleBeleaguered the walls of Prague.
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 flowed between.
No other voice nor sound was there,No drum, nor sentry's pace;The mistlike banners clasped the air,As clouds with clouds embrace.
But, when the old cathedral bellProclaimed the morning prayer,The white pavilions rose and fellOn the alarmèd air.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Down the broad valley, fast and farThe troubled army fled;Up rose the glorious morning star,The ghastly host was dead.I have read, in the marvelous heart of man,That strange and mystic scroll,That an army of phantoms vast and wanBeleaguer the human soul.Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,In Fancy's misty light,Gigantic shapes and shadows gleamPortentous through the night.Upon its midnight battle groundThe spectral camp is seen,And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,Flows the River of Life between.No other voice, nor sound is there,In the army of the grave;No other challenge breaks the air,But the rushing of Life's wave.And, when the solemn and deep church bellEntreats the soul to pray,The midnight phantoms feel the spell,The shadows sweep away.Down the broad Vale of Tears afarThe spectral camp is fled;Faith shineth as a morning star,Our ghastly fears are dead.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Down the broad valley, fast and farThe troubled army fled;Up rose the glorious morning star,The ghastly host was dead.
I have read, in the marvelous heart of man,That strange and mystic scroll,That an army of phantoms vast and wanBeleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,In Fancy's misty light,Gigantic shapes and shadows gleamPortentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle groundThe spectral camp is seen,And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice, nor sound is there,In the army of the grave;No other challenge breaks the air,But the rushing of Life's wave.
And, when the solemn and deep church bellEntreats the soul to pray,The midnight phantoms feel the spell,The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afarThe spectral camp is fled;Faith shineth as a morning star,Our ghastly fears are dead.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
And are ye sure the news is true?And are ye sure he's weel?Is this a time to think o' wark?Ye jades, lay by your wheel;Is this the time to spin a thread,When Colin's at the door?Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,And see him come ashore.For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa.And gie to me my bigonet,My bishop's satin gown;For I maun tell the baillie's wifeThat Colin's in the town.My Turkey slippers maun gae on,My stockins pearly blue;It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,For he's baith leal and true.Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,Put on the muckle pot;Gie little Kate her button gownAnd Jock his Sunday coat;And mak their shoon as black as slaes,Their hose as white as snaw;It's a' to please my ain gudeman,For he's been long awa.There's twa fat hens upo' the coopBenn fed this month and mair;Mak haste and thraw their necks about,That Colin weel may fare;And spread the table neat and clean,Gar ilka thing look braw,For wha can tell how Colin faredWhen he was far awa?Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,His breath like caller air;His very foot has music in'tAs he comes up the stair.And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet!If Colin's well, and weel content,I hae nae mair to crave;And gin I live to keep him sae,I'm blest aboon the lave:And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet.For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa.William J. Mickle.
And are ye sure the news is true?And are ye sure he's weel?Is this a time to think o' wark?Ye jades, lay by your wheel;Is this the time to spin a thread,When Colin's at the door?Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,And see him come ashore.For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa.
And gie to me my bigonet,My bishop's satin gown;For I maun tell the baillie's wifeThat Colin's in the town.My Turkey slippers maun gae on,My stockins pearly blue;It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,For he's baith leal and true.
Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,Put on the muckle pot;Gie little Kate her button gownAnd Jock his Sunday coat;And mak their shoon as black as slaes,Their hose as white as snaw;It's a' to please my ain gudeman,For he's been long awa.
There's twa fat hens upo' the coopBenn fed this month and mair;Mak haste and thraw their necks about,That Colin weel may fare;And spread the table neat and clean,Gar ilka thing look braw,For wha can tell how Colin faredWhen he was far awa?
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,His breath like caller air;His very foot has music in'tAs he comes up the stair.And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet!
If Colin's well, and weel content,I hae nae mair to crave;And gin I live to keep him sae,I'm blest aboon the lave:And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet.For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa.
William J. Mickle.
I love contemplating, apartFrom all his homicidal glory,The traits that soften to our heartNapoleon's story!'Twas when his banners at BoulogneArmed in our island every freeman,His navy chanced to capture onePoor British seaman.
I love contemplating, apartFrom all his homicidal glory,The traits that soften to our heartNapoleon's story!
'Twas when his banners at BoulogneArmed in our island every freeman,His navy chanced to capture onePoor British seaman.
They suffered him, I know not how,Unprisoned on the shore to roam;And aye was bent his longing browOn England's home.His eye, methinks, pursued the flightOf birds to Britain halfway overWith envy;theycould reach the whiteDear cliffs of Dover.A stormy midnight watch, he thought,Than this sojourn would have been dearer,If but the storm his vessel broughtTo England nearer.At last, when care had banished sleep,He saw one morning—dreaming—doating,An empty hogshead from the deepCome shoreward floating;He hid it in a cave, and wroughtThe livelong day laborious; lurkingUntil he launched a tiny boatBy mighty working.Heaven help us! 'Twas a thing beyondDescription, wretched: such a wherryPerhaps ne'er ventured on a pond,Or crossed a ferry.For plowing in the salt sea field,It would have made the boldest shudder;Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,No sail—no rudder.From neighb'ring woods he interlacedHis sorry skiff with wattled willows;And thus equipped he would have passedThe foaming billows—But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,His little Argo sorely jeering;Till tidings of him chanced to reachNapoleon's hearing.With folded arms Napoleon stood,Serene alike in peace and danger;And, in his wonted attitude,Addressed the stranger:—"Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel passOn twigs and staves so rudely fashioned;Thy heart with some sweet British lassMust be impassioned.""I have no sweetheart," said the lad;"But—absent long from one another—Great was the longing that I hadTo see my mother.""And so thou shalt," Napoleon said,"Ye've both my favor fairly won;A noble mother must have bredSo brave a son."He gave the tar a piece of gold,And, with a flag of truce, commandedHe should be shipped to England Old,And safely landed.Our sailor oft could scantly shiftTo find a dinner, plain and hearty;Butneverchanged the coin and giftOf Bonaparté.Thomas Campbell.
They suffered him, I know not how,Unprisoned on the shore to roam;And aye was bent his longing browOn England's home.
His eye, methinks, pursued the flightOf birds to Britain halfway overWith envy;theycould reach the whiteDear cliffs of Dover.
A stormy midnight watch, he thought,Than this sojourn would have been dearer,If but the storm his vessel broughtTo England nearer.
At last, when care had banished sleep,He saw one morning—dreaming—doating,An empty hogshead from the deepCome shoreward floating;
He hid it in a cave, and wroughtThe livelong day laborious; lurkingUntil he launched a tiny boatBy mighty working.
Heaven help us! 'Twas a thing beyondDescription, wretched: such a wherryPerhaps ne'er ventured on a pond,Or crossed a ferry.
For plowing in the salt sea field,It would have made the boldest shudder;Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,No sail—no rudder.
From neighb'ring woods he interlacedHis sorry skiff with wattled willows;And thus equipped he would have passedThe foaming billows—
But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,His little Argo sorely jeering;Till tidings of him chanced to reachNapoleon's hearing.
With folded arms Napoleon stood,Serene alike in peace and danger;And, in his wonted attitude,Addressed the stranger:—
"Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel passOn twigs and staves so rudely fashioned;Thy heart with some sweet British lassMust be impassioned."
"I have no sweetheart," said the lad;"But—absent long from one another—Great was the longing that I hadTo see my mother."
"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said,"Ye've both my favor fairly won;A noble mother must have bredSo brave a son."
He gave the tar a piece of gold,And, with a flag of truce, commandedHe should be shipped to England Old,And safely landed.
Our sailor oft could scantly shiftTo find a dinner, plain and hearty;Butneverchanged the coin and giftOf Bonaparté.
Thomas Campbell.
It was a summer's evening,Old Kaspar's work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun;And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he beside the rivulet,In playing there, had found.He came to ask what he had found,That was so large, and smooth, and round.Old Kaspar took it from the boy,Who 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 plow,The plowshare 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 killed each other for.""It was the English," Kaspar cried,"Who put the French to rout;But what they killed each other forI could not well make out.But everybody said," quoth he,"That 'twas a famous victory!"My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burned 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 Marlborough won,And our good Prince Eugene.""Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"Said little Wilhelmine."Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,"It was a famous victory!"And everybody 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!"Robert Southey.
It was a summer's evening,Old Kaspar's work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun;And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he beside the rivulet,In playing there, had found.He came to ask what he had found,That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,Who 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 plow,The plowshare 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 killed each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,"Who put the French to rout;But what they killed each other forI could not well make out.But everybody said," quoth he,"That 'twas a famous victory!
"My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burned 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 Marlborough won,And our good Prince Eugene.""Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"Said little Wilhelmine."Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,"It was a famous victory!
"And everybody 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!"
Robert Southey.
And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea,And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring;But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting;So they watched what the end would be.And we had not fought them in vain,But in perilous plight were we,Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,And half of the rest of us maimed for lifeIn the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent;And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;But Sir Richard cried in his English pride,"We have fought such a fight for a day and a nightAs may never be fought again!We have won great glory, my men!And a day less or moreAt sea or ashore,We die—does it matter when?Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain!Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:"We have children, we have wives,And the Lord hath spared our lives.We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow."And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do:With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!"And he fell upon their decks, and he died.Alfred Tennyson.From"The Revenge."
And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea,And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring;But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting;So they watched what the end would be.And we had not fought them in vain,But in perilous plight were we,Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,And half of the rest of us maimed for lifeIn the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent;And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;But Sir Richard cried in his English pride,"We have fought such a fight for a day and a nightAs may never be fought again!We have won great glory, my men!And a day less or moreAt sea or ashore,We die—does it matter when?Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain!Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"
And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:"We have children, we have wives,And the Lord hath spared our lives.We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow."And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.
And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do:With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!"And he fell upon their decks, and he died.
Alfred Tennyson.From"The Revenge."
What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clodIts maker meant not should be trodBy man, the image of his God,Erect and free,Unscourged by Superstition's rodTo bow the knee?That's hallowed ground—where, mourned and missed,The lips repose our love has kissed:—But where's their memory's mansion? Is'tYon churchyard's bowers?No! in ourselves their souls exist,A part of ours.What hallows ground where heroes sleep?'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!In dews that heavens far distant weepTheir turf may bloom;Or Genii twine beneath the deepTheir coral tomb:But strew his ashes to the windWhose sword or voice has served mankind—And is he dead, whose glorious mindLifts thine on high?—To live in hearts we leave behind,Is not to die.Is't death to fall for Freedom's right?He's dead alone that lacks her light!And murder sullies in Heaven's sightThe sword he draws:—What can alone ennoble fight?A noble cause!What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birthTo sacred thoughts in souls of worth!—Peace! Independence! Truth! go forthEarth's compass round;And your high priesthood shall make earthAll hallowed ground.Thomas Campbell.
What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clodIts maker meant not should be trodBy man, the image of his God,Erect and free,Unscourged by Superstition's rodTo bow the knee?
That's hallowed ground—where, mourned and missed,The lips repose our love has kissed:—But where's their memory's mansion? Is'tYon churchyard's bowers?No! in ourselves their souls exist,A part of ours.
What hallows ground where heroes sleep?'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!In dews that heavens far distant weepTheir turf may bloom;Or Genii twine beneath the deepTheir coral tomb:
But strew his ashes to the windWhose sword or voice has served mankind—And is he dead, whose glorious mindLifts thine on high?—To live in hearts we leave behind,Is not to die.
Is't death to fall for Freedom's right?He's dead alone that lacks her light!And murder sullies in Heaven's sightThe sword he draws:—What can alone ennoble fight?A noble cause!
What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birthTo sacred thoughts in souls of worth!—Peace! Independence! Truth! go forthEarth's compass round;And your high priesthood shall make earthAll hallowed ground.
Thomas Campbell.
You know we French stormed Ratisbon:A mile or so awayOn a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming-day;With neck out thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone browOppressive with its mind.Just as perhaps he mused, "My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,—"Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse's mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through),You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two."Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's graceWe've got you Ratisbon!The Marshal's in the market place,And you'll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart's desire,Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.The chief's eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother eagle's eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes."You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's prideTouched to the quick, he said:"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,Smiling, the boy fell dead.Robert Browning.
You know we French stormed Ratisbon:A mile or so awayOn a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming-day;With neck out thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone browOppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,—"Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse's mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through),You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.
"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's graceWe've got you Ratisbon!The Marshal's in the market place,And you'll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart's desire,Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.
The chief's eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother eagle's eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes."You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's prideTouched to the quick, he said:"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,Smiling, the boy fell dead.
Robert Browning.