Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,He had the passion and the power to roam;The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam,Were unto him companionship; they spakeA mutual language, clearer than the tomeOf his land's tongue, which he would oft forsakeFor Nature's pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake.Lord George Noel Gordon Byron.From"Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."
Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,He had the passion and the power to roam;The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam,Were unto him companionship; they spakeA mutual language, clearer than the tomeOf his land's tongue, which he would oft forsakeFor Nature's pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake.
Lord George Noel Gordon Byron.From"Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."
I see before me the Gladiator lie:He leans upon his hand—his manly browConsents to death, but conquers agony,And his drooped head sinks gradually low—And through his side the last drops, ebbing slowFrom the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,Like the first of a thunder shower; and nowThe arena swims around him—he is gone,Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.He heard it, but he heeded not—his eyesWere with his heart, and that was far away;He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,There were his young barbarians all at play,There was their Dacian mother—he, their sire,Butchered to make a Roman holiday—All this rushed with his blood—Shall he expire,And unavenged?—Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire.Lord George Noel Gordon Byron.From"Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."
I see before me the Gladiator lie:He leans upon his hand—his manly browConsents to death, but conquers agony,And his drooped head sinks gradually low—And through his side the last drops, ebbing slowFrom the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,Like the first of a thunder shower; and nowThe arena swims around him—he is gone,Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
He heard it, but he heeded not—his eyesWere with his heart, and that was far away;He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,There were his young barbarians all at play,There was their Dacian mother—he, their sire,Butchered to make a Roman holiday—All this rushed with his blood—Shall he expire,And unavenged?—Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire.
Lord George Noel Gordon Byron.From"Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate bolts undrew;"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,And into the midnight we galloped abreast.Not a word to each other; we kept the great paceNeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,Rebuckled the cheek strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Düffield, 'twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church steeple we heard half the chime,So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,With resolute shoulders, each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glanceO'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick heavy spume flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughs a pitiless laugh,'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;Till over by Dalhem a dome spire sprang white,And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight."How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weightOf the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,And with circles of red for his eye sockets' rim.Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall,Shook off both my jack boots, let go belt and all,Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer;Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or goodTill at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.And all I remember is, friends flocking roundAs I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.Robert Browning.
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate bolts undrew;"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great paceNeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,Rebuckled the cheek strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Düffield, 'twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church steeple we heard half the chime,So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"
At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,With resolute shoulders, each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glanceO'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick heavy spume flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughs a pitiless laugh,'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;Till over by Dalhem a dome spire sprang white,And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight.
"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weightOf the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,And with circles of red for his eye sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall,Shook off both my jack boots, let go belt and all,Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer;Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or goodTill at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is, friends flocking roundAs I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
Robert Browning.
Have you read in the Talmud of old,In the Legends the Rabbins have toldOf the limitless realms of the air,Have you read it,—the marvelous storyOf Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?How, erect, at the outermost gatesOf the City Celestial he waits,With his feet on the ladder of light,That, crowded with angels unnumbered,By Jacob was seen, as he slumberedAlone in the desert at night?The Angels of Wind and of FireChant only one hymn, and expireWith the song's irresistible stress;Expire in their rapture and wonder,As harp strings are broken asunderBy music they throb to express.But serene in the rapturous throng,Unmoved by the rush of the song,With eyes unimpassioned and slow,Among the dead angels, the deathlessSandalphon stands listening breathlessTo sounds that ascend from below;—From the spirits on earth that adore,From the souls that entreat and imploreIn the fervor and passion of prayer;From the hearts that are broken with losses,And weary with dragging the crossesToo heavy for mortals to bear.And he gathers the prayers as he stands,And they change into flowers in his hands,Into garlands of purple and red;And beneath the great arch of the portal,Through the streets of the City ImmortalIs wafted the fragrance they shed.It is but a legend, I know,—A fable, a phantom, a show,Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;Yet the old mediæval tradition,The beautiful, strange superstition,But haunts me and holds me the more.When I look from my window at night,And the welkin above is all white,All throbbing and panting with stars,Among them majestic is standingSandalphon, the angel, expandingHis pinions in nebulous bars.And the legend, I feel, is a partOf the hunger and thirst of the heart,The frenzy and fire of the brain,That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,The golden pomegranates of Eden,To quiet its fever and pain.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Have you read in the Talmud of old,In the Legends the Rabbins have toldOf the limitless realms of the air,Have you read it,—the marvelous storyOf Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?
How, erect, at the outermost gatesOf the City Celestial he waits,With his feet on the ladder of light,That, crowded with angels unnumbered,By Jacob was seen, as he slumberedAlone in the desert at night?
The Angels of Wind and of FireChant only one hymn, and expireWith the song's irresistible stress;Expire in their rapture and wonder,As harp strings are broken asunderBy music they throb to express.
But serene in the rapturous throng,Unmoved by the rush of the song,With eyes unimpassioned and slow,Among the dead angels, the deathlessSandalphon stands listening breathlessTo sounds that ascend from below;—
From the spirits on earth that adore,From the souls that entreat and imploreIn the fervor and passion of prayer;From the hearts that are broken with losses,And weary with dragging the crossesToo heavy for mortals to bear.
And he gathers the prayers as he stands,And they change into flowers in his hands,Into garlands of purple and red;And beneath the great arch of the portal,Through the streets of the City ImmortalIs wafted the fragrance they shed.
It is but a legend, I know,—A fable, a phantom, a show,Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;Yet the old mediæval tradition,The beautiful, strange superstition,But haunts me and holds me the more.
When I look from my window at night,And the welkin above is all white,All throbbing and panting with stars,Among them majestic is standingSandalphon, the angel, expandingHis pinions in nebulous bars.
And the legend, I feel, is a partOf the hunger and thirst of the heart,The frenzy and fire of the brain,That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,The golden pomegranates of Eden,To quiet its fever and pain.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
JOHN MILTON.JOHN MILTON.
It was the winter wildWhile the heaven-born childAll meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies;Nature in awe to himHas doffed her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize:No war, or battle's soundWas heard the world around;The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hookèd chariot stoodUnstained with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng;And kings sat still with awful eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.But peaceful was the nightWherein the Prince of LightHis reign of peace upon the earth began;The winds with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kissedWhispering new joys to the mild ocean—Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.The stars with deep amaze,Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence;And will not take their flightFor all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glowUntil their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.Yea, Truth and Justice thenWill down return to men,Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,Mercy will sit betweenThroned in celestial sheen,With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steeringAnd Heaven, as at some festivalWill open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
It was the winter wildWhile the heaven-born childAll meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies;Nature in awe to himHas doffed her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize:
No war, or battle's soundWas heard the world around;The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hookèd chariot stoodUnstained with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng;And kings sat still with awful eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
But peaceful was the nightWherein the Prince of LightHis reign of peace upon the earth began;The winds with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kissedWhispering new joys to the mild ocean—Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.
The stars with deep amaze,Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence;And will not take their flightFor all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glowUntil their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
Yea, Truth and Justice thenWill down return to men,Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,Mercy will sit betweenThroned in celestial sheen,With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steeringAnd Heaven, as at some festivalWill open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
HOLY NIGHT.HOLY NIGHT.H. GRASS.
H. GRASS.
But wisest Fate says no;This must not yet be so;The Babe yet lies in smiling infancyThat on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both himself and us to glorify;Yet first, to those ychained in sleep,The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.But see, the Virgin blestHath laid her Babe to rest;Time is, our tedious song should here have ending;Heaven's youngest-teemèd starHath fixed her polished car,Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending:And all about the courtly stableBright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.John Milton.A Selection.
But wisest Fate says no;This must not yet be so;The Babe yet lies in smiling infancyThat on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both himself and us to glorify;Yet first, to those ychained in sleep,The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.
But see, the Virgin blestHath laid her Babe to rest;Time is, our tedious song should here have ending;Heaven's youngest-teemèd starHath fixed her polished car,Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending:And all about the courtly stableBright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.
John Milton.A Selection.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,The flying cloud, the frosty light:The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring, happy bells, across the snow;The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.Ring out the grief that saps the mind,For those that here we see no more;Ring out the feud of rich and poor,Ring in redress to all mankind.Ring out a slowly dying cause,And ancient forms of party strife;Ring in the nobler modes of life,With sweeter manners, purer laws.Ring out the want, the care, the sin,The faithless coldness of the times;Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes,But ring the fuller minstrel in.Ring out false pride in place and blood,The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.Ring out old shapes of foul disease;Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;Ring out the thousand wars of old,Ring in the thousand years of peace.Ring in the valiant man and free,The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be.Alfred Tennyson.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,The flying cloud, the frosty light:The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring, happy bells, across the snow;The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,For those that here we see no more;Ring out the feud of rich and poor,Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,And ancient forms of party strife;Ring in the nobler modes of life,With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,The faithless coldness of the times;Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes,But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;Ring out the thousand wars of old,Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Alfred Tennyson.
As it has been impossible to include in this collection as many poems by American authors as we desired, we recommend the following, all of which are published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., with the exception of Bryant's poems, which are published by D. Appleton & Co.
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey.After the Rain.Barberries.Before the Rain.The Bluebells of New England.Bryant, William Cullen.A Northern Legend.The Gladness of Nature.Cary, Alice.The Gray Swan.Emerson, Ralph Waldo.The Humblebee.Harte, Bret.The Reveillé.Holmes, Oliver Wendell.A Sunday Hymn.Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill.The Chambered Nautilus.The Height of the Ridiculous.The Music Grinders.The One Hoss Shay.Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth.A Psalm of Life.Burial of the Minnisink.Christmas Bells.Enceladus.Paul Revere's Ride.Santa Filomena.Snowflakes.Song of the Silent Land.The Bell of Atri.The Builders.The Day is Done.The Old Clock on the Stairs.The Open Window.The Ropewalk.The Two Angels.Victor Galbraith.Lowell, James Russell.Stanzas on Freedom.The Fatherland.The Shepherd of King Admetus.Whittier, John Greenleaf.Abraham Davenport.Laus Deus.My Psalm.Nanhaught, the Deacon.The Corn Song.