Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is thy lay and loud,Far in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.O'er fell and fountain sheen,O'er moor and mountain green,O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow's rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather bloomsSweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Best is thy dwelling-place—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is thy lay and loud,Far in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.O'er fell and fountain sheen,O'er moor and mountain green,O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow's rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather bloomsSweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Best is thy dwelling-place—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud,Far in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and fountain sheen,O'er moor and mountain green,O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow's rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather bloomsSweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Best is thy dwelling-place—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
James Hogg.
James Hogg.
O Blithe newcomer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice.O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,Or but a wandering voice?While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear,From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near!Though babbling only to the vale,Of sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery;The same whom in my schoolboy daysI listened to; that cryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love;Still longed for, never seen.And I can listen to thee yet;Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.O blessèd bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, fairy place:That is fit home for thee!William Wordsworth.
O Blithe newcomer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice.O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,Or but a wandering voice?
While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear,From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near!
Though babbling only to the vale,Of sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my schoolboy daysI listened to; that cryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love;Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.
O blessèd bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, fairy place:That is fit home for thee!
William Wordsworth.
"And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest."
The earth was green, the sky was blue:I saw and heard one sunny mornA skylark hang between the two,A singing speck above the corn;A stage below, in gay accord,White butterflies danced on the wing,And still the singing skylark soaredAnd silent sank, and soared to sing.The cornfield stretched a tender greenTo right and left beside my walks;I knew he had a nest unseenSomewhere among the million stalks:And as I paused to hear his songWhile swift the sunny moments slid,Perhaps his mate sat listening long,And listened longer than I did.Christina G. Rossetti.
The earth was green, the sky was blue:I saw and heard one sunny mornA skylark hang between the two,A singing speck above the corn;
A stage below, in gay accord,White butterflies danced on the wing,And still the singing skylark soaredAnd silent sank, and soared to sing.
The cornfield stretched a tender greenTo right and left beside my walks;I knew he had a nest unseenSomewhere among the million stalks:
And as I paused to hear his songWhile swift the sunny moments slid,Perhaps his mate sat listening long,And listened longer than I did.
Christina G. Rossetti.
The stormy March is come at lastWith wind, and cloud, and changing skies;I hear the rushing of the blast,That through the snowy valley flies.Ah, passing few are those who speak,Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee;Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,Thou art a welcome month to me.For thou, to northern lands, againThe glad and glorious sun dost bring,And thou hast joined the gentle trainAnd wear'st the gentle name of spring.And, in thy reign of blast and storm,Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,When the changed winds are soft and warm,And Heaven puts on the blue of May.Then sing aloud the gushing rillsIn joy that they again are free,And, brightly leaping down the hills,Begin their journey to the sea.The year's departing beauty hidesOf wintry storms the sullen threat;But in thy sternest frown abidesA look of kindly promise yet.Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,And that soft time of sunny showers,When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,Seems of a brighter world than ours.
The stormy March is come at lastWith wind, and cloud, and changing skies;I hear the rushing of the blast,That through the snowy valley flies.Ah, passing few are those who speak,Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee;Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,Thou art a welcome month to me.For thou, to northern lands, againThe glad and glorious sun dost bring,And thou hast joined the gentle trainAnd wear'st the gentle name of spring.And, in thy reign of blast and storm,Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,When the changed winds are soft and warm,And Heaven puts on the blue of May.Then sing aloud the gushing rillsIn joy that they again are free,And, brightly leaping down the hills,Begin their journey to the sea.The year's departing beauty hidesOf wintry storms the sullen threat;But in thy sternest frown abidesA look of kindly promise yet.Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,And that soft time of sunny showers,When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,Seems of a brighter world than ours.
The stormy March is come at lastWith wind, and cloud, and changing skies;I hear the rushing of the blast,That through the snowy valley flies.
Ah, passing few are those who speak,Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee;Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,Thou art a welcome month to me.
For thou, to northern lands, againThe glad and glorious sun dost bring,And thou hast joined the gentle trainAnd wear'st the gentle name of spring.
And, in thy reign of blast and storm,Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,When the changed winds are soft and warm,And Heaven puts on the blue of May.
Then sing aloud the gushing rillsIn joy that they again are free,And, brightly leaping down the hills,Begin their journey to the sea.
The year's departing beauty hidesOf wintry storms the sullen threat;But in thy sternest frown abidesA look of kindly promise yet.
Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,And that soft time of sunny showers,When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,Seems of a brighter world than ours.
William Cullen Bryant.
William Cullen Bryant.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,The ship was still as she could be;Her sails from heaven received no motion,Her keel was steady in the ocean.Without either sign or sound of their shockThe waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;So little they rose, so little they fell,They did not move the Inchcape bell.The good old Abbot of AberbrothokHad placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,And over the waves its warning rung.When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell,The mariners heard the warning bell;And then they knew the perilous Rock,And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.The sun in heaven was shining gay,All things were joyful on that day;The seabirds screamed as they wheeled around,And there was joyance in their sound.The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seenA darker speck on the ocean green;Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.He felt the cheering power of spring,It made him whistle, it made him sing;His heart was mirthful to excess,But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.His eye was on the Inchcape float;Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,And row me to the Inchcape Rock,And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok."The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,And to the Inchcape Rock they go;Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.Down sunk the bell, with a gurgling sound,The bubbles rose and burst around;Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the RockWon't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;He scoured the seas for many a day;And now grown rich with plunder's store,He steers his course for Scotland's shore.So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,They cannot see the sun on high;The wind hath blown a gale all day,At evening it hath died away.On the deck the Rover takes his stand;So dark it is they see no land.Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,For there is the dawn of the rising moon.""Can'st hear," said one, "the breakers roar?For methinks we should be near the shore;Now where we are I cannot tell,But I wish I could hear the Inchcape bell."They hear no sound, the swell is strong;Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock;Cried they, "It is the Inchcape Rock!"Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,And curst himself in his despair;The waves rush in on every side,The ship is sinking beneath the tide.But even in his dying fearOne dreadful sound could the Rover hear,A sound as if with the Inchcape bellThe fiends below were ringing his knell.Robert Southey.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,The ship was still as she could be;Her sails from heaven received no motion,Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shockThe waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;So little they rose, so little they fell,They did not move the Inchcape bell.
The good old Abbot of AberbrothokHad placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell,The mariners heard the warning bell;And then they knew the perilous Rock,And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
The sun in heaven was shining gay,All things were joyful on that day;The seabirds screamed as they wheeled around,And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seenA darker speck on the ocean green;Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring,It made him whistle, it made him sing;His heart was mirthful to excess,But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float;Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,And row me to the Inchcape Rock,And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok."
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,And to the Inchcape Rock they go;Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sunk the bell, with a gurgling sound,The bubbles rose and burst around;Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the RockWon't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;He scoured the seas for many a day;And now grown rich with plunder's store,He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,They cannot see the sun on high;The wind hath blown a gale all day,At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand;So dark it is they see no land.Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,For there is the dawn of the rising moon."
"Can'st hear," said one, "the breakers roar?For methinks we should be near the shore;Now where we are I cannot tell,But I wish I could hear the Inchcape bell."
They hear no sound, the swell is strong;Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock;Cried they, "It is the Inchcape Rock!"
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,And curst himself in his despair;The waves rush in on every side,The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But even in his dying fearOne dreadful sound could the Rover hear,A sound as if with the Inchcape bellThe fiends below were ringing his knell.
Robert Southey.
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,By famous Hanover city;The river Weser deep and wideWashes its walls on the southern side;A pleasanter spot you never spied;But, when begins my ditty,Almost five hundred years ago,To see the townsfolk suffer soFrom vermin, was a pity.Rats!They fought the dogs and killed the cats,And bit the babies in their cradles,And ate the cheeses out of the vats,And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,And even spoiled the women's chats,By drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,By famous Hanover city;The river Weser deep and wideWashes its walls on the southern side;A pleasanter spot you never spied;But, when begins my ditty,Almost five hundred years ago,To see the townsfolk suffer soFrom vermin, was a pity.
Rats!They fought the dogs and killed the cats,And bit the babies in their cradles,And ate the cheeses out of the vats,And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,And even spoiled the women's chats,By drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.
ROBERT BROWNING.ROBERT BROWNING.
At last the people in a bodyTo the town hall came flocking:"'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy:And as for our Corporation—shockingTo think we buy gowns lined with ermineFor dolts that can't or won't determineWhat's best to rid us of our vermin!You hope, because you're old and obese,To find in the furry civic robe ease!Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a rackingTo find the remedy we're lacking,Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!At this the Mayor and CorporationQuaked with a mighty consternation.An hour they sat in council;At length the Mayor broke silence:"For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell;I wish I were a mile hence!It's easy to bid one rack one's brain—I'm sure my poor head aches again,I've scratched it so, and all in vain.Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!"Just as he said this, what should hapAt the chamber door but a gentle tap?"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?Anything like the sound of a ratMakes my heart go pitapat!"Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger;And in did come the strangest figure!His queer long coat from heel to headWas half of yellow and half of red;And he himself was tall and thin,With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,But lips where smiles went out and in—There was no guessing his kith and kin!And nobody could enough admireThe tall man and his quaint attire:Quoth one, "It's as my great-grandsire,Starting up at the trump of Doom's tone,Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"He advanced to the council table:And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able,By means of a secret charm, to drawAll creatures living beneath the sun,That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,After me so as you never saw!And I chiefly use my charmOn creatures that do people harm,The mole, the toad, the newt, the viper;And people call me the Pied Piper."And here they noticed round his neckA scarf of red and yellow stripe,To match with his coat of the selfsame check;And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying,As if impatient to be playingUpon this pipe, as low it dangledOver his vesture so old fangled."Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,In Tartary I freed the Cham,Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats;I eased in Asia the NizamOf a monstrous brood of vampire bats:And as for what your brain bewilders,If I can rid your town of ratsWill you give me a thousand guilders?""One? fifty thousand!" was the exclamationOf the astonished Mayor and Corporation.Into the street the Piper stept,Smiling first a little smile,As if he knew what magic sleptIn his quiet pipe the while;Then like a musical adept,To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;And ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered,You heard as if an army muttered;And the muttering grew into a grumbling;And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;And out of the houses the rats came tumbling—Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,Curling tails, and pricking whiskers,Families by tens and dozens,Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,—Followed the Piper for their lives.From street to street he piped, advancing,And step for step they followed, dancing,Until they came to the river WeserWherein all plunged and perished,Save one, who stout as Julius Cæsar,Swam across, and lived to carry(As he the manuscript he cherished)To Rat-land home his commentary,Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe,I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,And putting apples wondrous ripeInto a cider press's gripe;And a moving away of pickle-tub boards,And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards,And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks,And a breaking the hoops of butter casks;And it seemed as if a voice(Sweeter far than by harp or by psalteryIs breathed) called out, O rats, rejoice!The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,Breakfast, dinner, supper, luncheon!And just as a bulky sugar puncheon,All ready staved, like a great sun shoneGlorious, scarce an inch before me,Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'—I found the Weser rolling o'er me."You should have heard the Hamelin peopleRinging the bells till they rocked the steeple;"Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles!Poke out the nests, and block up the holes!Consult with carpenters and builders,And leave in town not even a traceOf the rats!" When suddenly up the faceOf the Piper perked in the market place,With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;So did the Corporation too.For council dinners made rare havocWith Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;And half the money would replenishTheir cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.To pay this sum to a wandering fellowWith a gypsy coat of red and yellow!"Besides," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,"Our business was done at the river's brink;We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,And what's dead can't come to life, I think.So, friend, we're not the folks to shrinkFrom the duty of giving you something for drink,And a matter of money to put in your poke;But, as for the guilders, what we spokeOf them, as you very well know, was in joke—Beside, our losses have made us thrifty:A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"The Piper's face fell, and he cried,"No trifling! I can't wait; besideI've promised to visit by dinner timeBagdat, and accept the primeOf the head cook's pottage, all he's rich in,For having left in the Caliph's kitchen,Of a nest of scorpions no survivor.With him I proved no bargain-driver;With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!And folks who put me in a passionMay find me pipe to another fashion.""How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brookBeing worse treated than a cook?Insulted by a lazy ribaldWith idle pipe and vesture piebald?You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,Blow your pipe there till you burst!"Once more he stept into the street,And to his lips againLaid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane;And ere he blew three notes (such sweetSoft notes as yet musician's cunningNever gave the enraptured air),There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling,Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,Out came the children running:All the little boys and girls,With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,Tripping and skipping, ran merrily afterThe wonderful music with shouting and laughter.The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stoodAs if they were changed into blocks of wood,Unable to move a step, or cryTo the children merrily skipping by,—And could only follow with the eyeThat joyous crowd at the Piper's back.And now the Mayor was on the rack,And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,As the Piper turned from the High StreetTo where the Weser rolled its watersRight in the way of their sons and daughters!However, he turned from south to west,And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,And after him the children pressed;Great was the joy in every breast."He never can cross that mighty top!He's forced to let the piping drop,And we shall see our children stop!"When, lo! as they reached the mountain's side,A wondrous portal opened wide,As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;And the Piper advanced, and the children followed;And when all were in to the very last,The door in the mountain side shut fast.Did I say, all? No! one was lame,And could not dance the whole of the way;And in after years, if you would blameHis sadness, he was used to say,—"It's dull in our town since my playmates left!I can't forget that I'm bereftOf all the pleasant sights they see,Which the Piper also promised me:For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,Joining the town and just at hand,Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew,And flowers put forth a fairer hue,And everything was strange and new;The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,And their dogs outran our fallow deer,And honeybees had lost their stings,And horses were born with eagles' wings;And just as I became assuredMy lame foot would be speedily cured,The music stopped and I stood still,And found myself outside the hill,Left alone against my will,To go now limping as before,And never hear of that country more!"
At last the people in a bodyTo the town hall came flocking:"'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy:And as for our Corporation—shockingTo think we buy gowns lined with ermineFor dolts that can't or won't determineWhat's best to rid us of our vermin!You hope, because you're old and obese,To find in the furry civic robe ease!Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a rackingTo find the remedy we're lacking,Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!At this the Mayor and CorporationQuaked with a mighty consternation.
An hour they sat in council;At length the Mayor broke silence:"For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell;I wish I were a mile hence!It's easy to bid one rack one's brain—I'm sure my poor head aches again,I've scratched it so, and all in vain.Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!"Just as he said this, what should hapAt the chamber door but a gentle tap?"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?Anything like the sound of a ratMakes my heart go pitapat!
"Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger;And in did come the strangest figure!His queer long coat from heel to headWas half of yellow and half of red;And he himself was tall and thin,With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,But lips where smiles went out and in—There was no guessing his kith and kin!And nobody could enough admireThe tall man and his quaint attire:Quoth one, "It's as my great-grandsire,Starting up at the trump of Doom's tone,Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"
He advanced to the council table:And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able,By means of a secret charm, to drawAll creatures living beneath the sun,That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,After me so as you never saw!And I chiefly use my charmOn creatures that do people harm,The mole, the toad, the newt, the viper;And people call me the Pied Piper."And here they noticed round his neckA scarf of red and yellow stripe,To match with his coat of the selfsame check;And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying,As if impatient to be playingUpon this pipe, as low it dangledOver his vesture so old fangled."Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,In Tartary I freed the Cham,Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats;I eased in Asia the NizamOf a monstrous brood of vampire bats:And as for what your brain bewilders,If I can rid your town of ratsWill you give me a thousand guilders?""One? fifty thousand!" was the exclamationOf the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
Into the street the Piper stept,Smiling first a little smile,As if he knew what magic sleptIn his quiet pipe the while;Then like a musical adept,To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;And ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered,You heard as if an army muttered;And the muttering grew into a grumbling;And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;And out of the houses the rats came tumbling—Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,Curling tails, and pricking whiskers,Families by tens and dozens,Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,—Followed the Piper for their lives.From street to street he piped, advancing,And step for step they followed, dancing,Until they came to the river WeserWherein all plunged and perished,Save one, who stout as Julius Cæsar,Swam across, and lived to carry(As he the manuscript he cherished)To Rat-land home his commentary,Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe,I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,And putting apples wondrous ripeInto a cider press's gripe;And a moving away of pickle-tub boards,And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards,And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks,And a breaking the hoops of butter casks;And it seemed as if a voice(Sweeter far than by harp or by psalteryIs breathed) called out, O rats, rejoice!The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,Breakfast, dinner, supper, luncheon!And just as a bulky sugar puncheon,All ready staved, like a great sun shoneGlorious, scarce an inch before me,Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'—I found the Weser rolling o'er me."
You should have heard the Hamelin peopleRinging the bells till they rocked the steeple;"Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles!Poke out the nests, and block up the holes!Consult with carpenters and builders,And leave in town not even a traceOf the rats!" When suddenly up the faceOf the Piper perked in the market place,With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"
A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;So did the Corporation too.For council dinners made rare havocWith Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;And half the money would replenishTheir cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.To pay this sum to a wandering fellowWith a gypsy coat of red and yellow!"Besides," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,"Our business was done at the river's brink;We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,And what's dead can't come to life, I think.So, friend, we're not the folks to shrinkFrom the duty of giving you something for drink,And a matter of money to put in your poke;But, as for the guilders, what we spokeOf them, as you very well know, was in joke—Beside, our losses have made us thrifty:A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"
The Piper's face fell, and he cried,"No trifling! I can't wait; besideI've promised to visit by dinner timeBagdat, and accept the primeOf the head cook's pottage, all he's rich in,For having left in the Caliph's kitchen,Of a nest of scorpions no survivor.With him I proved no bargain-driver;With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!And folks who put me in a passionMay find me pipe to another fashion.""How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brookBeing worse treated than a cook?Insulted by a lazy ribaldWith idle pipe and vesture piebald?You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,Blow your pipe there till you burst!"
Once more he stept into the street,And to his lips againLaid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane;And ere he blew three notes (such sweetSoft notes as yet musician's cunningNever gave the enraptured air),There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling,Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,Out came the children running:All the little boys and girls,With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,Tripping and skipping, ran merrily afterThe wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stoodAs if they were changed into blocks of wood,Unable to move a step, or cryTo the children merrily skipping by,—And could only follow with the eyeThat joyous crowd at the Piper's back.And now the Mayor was on the rack,And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,As the Piper turned from the High StreetTo where the Weser rolled its watersRight in the way of their sons and daughters!However, he turned from south to west,And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,And after him the children pressed;Great was the joy in every breast."He never can cross that mighty top!He's forced to let the piping drop,And we shall see our children stop!"When, lo! as they reached the mountain's side,A wondrous portal opened wide,As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;And the Piper advanced, and the children followed;And when all were in to the very last,The door in the mountain side shut fast.Did I say, all? No! one was lame,And could not dance the whole of the way;And in after years, if you would blameHis sadness, he was used to say,—"It's dull in our town since my playmates left!I can't forget that I'm bereftOf all the pleasant sights they see,Which the Piper also promised me:For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,Joining the town and just at hand,Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew,And flowers put forth a fairer hue,And everything was strange and new;The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,And their dogs outran our fallow deer,And honeybees had lost their stings,And horses were born with eagles' wings;And just as I became assuredMy lame foot would be speedily cured,The music stopped and I stood still,And found myself outside the hill,Left alone against my will,To go now limping as before,And never hear of that country more!"
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.H. KAULBACH.
H. KAULBACH.
The Mayor sent east, west, north, and south,To offer the Piper by word of mouth,Wherever it was man's lot to find him,Silver and gold to his heart's content,If he'd only return the way he went,And bring the children behind him.But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor,And Piper and dancers were gone forever,They made a decree that lawyers neverShould think their records dated duly,If after the day of the month and yearThese words did not as well appear,"And so long after what happened hereOn the twenty-second of July,Thirteen hundred and seventy-six."And the better in memory to fixThe place of the children's last retreat,They called it the Pied Piper's Street—Where any one playing on pipe or tabor,Was sure for the future to lose his labor.Nor suffered they hostelry or tavernTo shock with mirth a street so solemn;But opposite the place of the cavernThey wrote the story on a column,And on the great church window paintedThe same, to make the world acquaintedHow their children were stolen away;And there it stands to this very day.And I must not omit to sayThat in Transylvania there's a tribeOf alien people, that ascribeThe outlandish ways and dressOn which their neighbors lay such stress,To their fathers and mothers having risenOut of some subterraneous prison,Into which they were trepannedLong ago in a mighty band,Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land;But how or why, they don't understand.So, Willy, let you and me be wipersOf scores out with all men,—especially pipers;And whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.Robert Browning.
The Mayor sent east, west, north, and south,To offer the Piper by word of mouth,Wherever it was man's lot to find him,Silver and gold to his heart's content,If he'd only return the way he went,And bring the children behind him.But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor,And Piper and dancers were gone forever,They made a decree that lawyers neverShould think their records dated duly,If after the day of the month and yearThese words did not as well appear,"And so long after what happened hereOn the twenty-second of July,Thirteen hundred and seventy-six."And the better in memory to fixThe place of the children's last retreat,They called it the Pied Piper's Street—Where any one playing on pipe or tabor,Was sure for the future to lose his labor.Nor suffered they hostelry or tavernTo shock with mirth a street so solemn;But opposite the place of the cavernThey wrote the story on a column,And on the great church window paintedThe same, to make the world acquaintedHow their children were stolen away;And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to sayThat in Transylvania there's a tribeOf alien people, that ascribeThe outlandish ways and dressOn which their neighbors lay such stress,To their fathers and mothers having risenOut of some subterraneous prison,Into which they were trepannedLong ago in a mighty band,Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land;But how or why, they don't understand.
So, Willy, let you and me be wipersOf scores out with all men,—especially pipers;And whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
Robert Browning.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man's ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keen,Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,Thou dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remembered not.William Shakespeare.From "As You Like It."
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man's ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keen,Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,Thou dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remembered not.
William Shakespeare.From "As You Like It."
The sea! the sea! the open sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!Without a mark, without a bound,It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round;It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,Or like a cradled creature lies.I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!I am where I would ever be;With the blue above, and the blue below,And silence wheresoe'er I go;If a storm should come and awake the deep,What matter? I shall ride and sleep.I love (O! how I love) to rideOn the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,When every mad wave drowns the moon,Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,And tells how goeth the world below,And why the southwest blasts do blow.I never was on the dull, tame shore,But I loved the great sea more and more,And backwards flew to her billowy breast,Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;And a mother she was and is to me;For I was born on the open sea!The waves were white, and red the morn,In the noisy hour when I was born;And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;And never was heard such an outcry wildAs welcomed to life the ocean child!I've lived since then, in calm and strife,Full fifty summers a sailor's life,With wealth to spend, and a power to range,But never have sought, nor sighed for change;And Death, whenever he come to me,Shall come on the wide, unbounded sea!Bryan Waller Procter(Barry Cornwall).
The sea! the sea! the open sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!Without a mark, without a bound,It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round;It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,Or like a cradled creature lies.
I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!I am where I would ever be;With the blue above, and the blue below,And silence wheresoe'er I go;If a storm should come and awake the deep,What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love (O! how I love) to rideOn the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,When every mad wave drowns the moon,Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,And tells how goeth the world below,And why the southwest blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,But I loved the great sea more and more,And backwards flew to her billowy breast,Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;And a mother she was and is to me;For I was born on the open sea!
The waves were white, and red the morn,In the noisy hour when I was born;And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;And never was heard such an outcry wildAs welcomed to life the ocean child!
I've lived since then, in calm and strife,Full fifty summers a sailor's life,With wealth to spend, and a power to range,But never have sought, nor sighed for change;And Death, whenever he come to me,Shall come on the wide, unbounded sea!
Bryan Waller Procter(Barry Cornwall).
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fastAnd fills the white and rustling sailAnd bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While like the eagle freeAway the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee."Oh for a soft and gentle wind!"I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my lads,The good ship tight and free:—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;But hark the music, mariners!The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free:—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.Allan Cunningham.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fastAnd fills the white and rustling sailAnd bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While like the eagle freeAway the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee.
"Oh for a soft and gentle wind!"I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my lads,The good ship tight and free:—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;But hark the music, mariners!The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free:—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.
Allan Cunningham.
Up! up! let us a voyage take;Why sit we here at ease?Find us a vessel tight and snug,Bound for the northern seas.I long to see the northern lightsWith their rushing splendors fly,Like living things with flaming wings,Wide o'er the wondrous sky.I long to see those icebergs vast,With heads all crowned with snow,Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep,Two hundred fathoms low.I long to hear the thundering crashOf their terrific fall,And the echoes from a thousand cliffsLike lonely voices call.There shall we see the fierce white bear,The sleepy seals aground,And the spouting whales that to and froSail with a dreary sound.There may we tread on depths of ice,That the hairy mammoth hide;Perfect as when, in times of old,The mighty creature died.And while the unsetting sun shines onThrough the still heaven's deep blue,We'll traverse the azure waves, the herdsOf the dread sea horse to view.We'll pass the shores of solemn pine,Where wolves and black bears prowl;And away to the rocky isles of mist,To rouse the northern fowl.Up there shall start ten thousand wingsWith a rustling, whistling din;Up shall the auk and fulmar start,All but the fat penguin.And there in the wastes of the silent sky,With the silent earth below,We shall see far off to his lonely rockThe lonely eagle go.Then softly, softly will we treadBy inland streams, to seeWhere the pelican of the silent NorthSits there all silently.Mary Howitt.
Up! up! let us a voyage take;Why sit we here at ease?Find us a vessel tight and snug,Bound for the northern seas.
I long to see the northern lightsWith their rushing splendors fly,Like living things with flaming wings,Wide o'er the wondrous sky.
I long to see those icebergs vast,With heads all crowned with snow,Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep,Two hundred fathoms low.
I long to hear the thundering crashOf their terrific fall,And the echoes from a thousand cliffsLike lonely voices call.
There shall we see the fierce white bear,The sleepy seals aground,And the spouting whales that to and froSail with a dreary sound.
There may we tread on depths of ice,That the hairy mammoth hide;Perfect as when, in times of old,The mighty creature died.
And while the unsetting sun shines onThrough the still heaven's deep blue,We'll traverse the azure waves, the herdsOf the dread sea horse to view.
We'll pass the shores of solemn pine,Where wolves and black bears prowl;And away to the rocky isles of mist,To rouse the northern fowl.
Up there shall start ten thousand wingsWith a rustling, whistling din;Up shall the auk and fulmar start,All but the fat penguin.
And there in the wastes of the silent sky,With the silent earth below,We shall see far off to his lonely rockThe lonely eagle go.
Then softly, softly will we treadBy inland streams, to seeWhere the pelican of the silent NorthSits there all silently.
Mary Howitt.
Deep in the wave is a coral grove,Where the purple mullet and goldfish rove;Where the sea flower spreads its leaves of blue,That never are wet with the falling dew;But in bright and changeful beauty shine,Far down in the green and glassy brine.The floor is of sand, like the mountain's drift,And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow;From coral rocks the sea plants liftTheir boughs, where the tides and billows flow.The water is calm and still below,For the winds and waves are absent there,And the sands are bright as the stars that glowIn the motionless fields of upper air.There, with its waving blade of green,The sea flag streams through the silent water,And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seenTo blush like a banner bathed in slaughter;There, with a light and easy motion,The fan coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea;And the yellow and scarlet tufts of oceanAre bending like corn on the upland lea:And life in rare and beautiful formsIs sporting amid those bowers of stone,And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of stormsHas made the top of the waves his own:And when the ship from his fury flies,When the myriad voices of ocean roar,When the wind god frowns in the murky skies,And demons are waiting the wreck on shore,Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,The purple mullet and goldfish rove,Where the waters murmur tranquillyThrough the bending twigs of the coral grove.James Gates Percival.
Deep in the wave is a coral grove,Where the purple mullet and goldfish rove;Where the sea flower spreads its leaves of blue,That never are wet with the falling dew;But in bright and changeful beauty shine,Far down in the green and glassy brine.The floor is of sand, like the mountain's drift,And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow;From coral rocks the sea plants liftTheir boughs, where the tides and billows flow.The water is calm and still below,For the winds and waves are absent there,And the sands are bright as the stars that glowIn the motionless fields of upper air.There, with its waving blade of green,The sea flag streams through the silent water,And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seenTo blush like a banner bathed in slaughter;There, with a light and easy motion,The fan coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea;And the yellow and scarlet tufts of oceanAre bending like corn on the upland lea:And life in rare and beautiful formsIs sporting amid those bowers of stone,And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of stormsHas made the top of the waves his own:And when the ship from his fury flies,When the myriad voices of ocean roar,When the wind god frowns in the murky skies,And demons are waiting the wreck on shore,Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,The purple mullet and goldfish rove,Where the waters murmur tranquillyThrough the bending twigs of the coral grove.
James Gates Percival.
Merry it is in the good greenwood,When the mavis and merle are singing,When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,And the hunter's horn is ringing."O Alice Brand, my native landIs lost for love of you;And we must hold by wood and wold,As outlaws wont to do!"O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright,And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue,That on the night of our luckless flight,Thy brother bold I slew."Now I must teach to hew the beechThe hand that held the glaive,For leaves to spread our lowly bed,And stakes to fence our cave."And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,That wont on harp to stray,A cloak must shear from the slaughtered deer,To keep the cold away.""O Richard! if my brother died,'Twas but a fatal chance:For darkling was the battle tried,And fortune sped the lance."If pall and vair no more I wear,Nor thou the crimson sheen,As warm, we'll say, is the russet gray;As gay the forest green."And, Richard, if our lot be hard,And lost thy native land,Still Alice has her own Richàrd,And he his Alice Brand."
Merry it is in the good greenwood,When the mavis and merle are singing,When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,And the hunter's horn is ringing.
"O Alice Brand, my native landIs lost for love of you;And we must hold by wood and wold,As outlaws wont to do!
"O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright,And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue,That on the night of our luckless flight,Thy brother bold I slew.
"Now I must teach to hew the beechThe hand that held the glaive,For leaves to spread our lowly bed,And stakes to fence our cave.
"And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,That wont on harp to stray,A cloak must shear from the slaughtered deer,To keep the cold away."
"O Richard! if my brother died,'Twas but a fatal chance:For darkling was the battle tried,And fortune sped the lance.
"If pall and vair no more I wear,Nor thou the crimson sheen,As warm, we'll say, is the russet gray;As gay the forest green.
"And, Richard, if our lot be hard,And lost thy native land,Still Alice has her own Richàrd,And he his Alice Brand."