sunset over mountain lake
The sun upon the lake is low,The wild birds hush their song;The hills have evening's deepest glow,Yet Leonard tarries long.Now all whom varied toil and careFrom home and love divide,In the calm sunset may repairEach to the loved one's side.The noble dame on turret high,Who waits her gallant knight,Looks to the western beam to spyThe flash of armor bright.The village maid, with hand on browThe level ray to shade,Upon the footpath watches nowFor Colin's darkening plaid.Now to their mates the wild swans row,By day they swam apart;And to the thicket wanders slowThe hind beside the hart.The wood lark at his partner's sideTwitters his closing song—All meet whom day and care divide,—But Leonard tarries long!
The sun upon the lake is low,The wild birds hush their song;The hills have evening's deepest glow,Yet Leonard tarries long.Now all whom varied toil and careFrom home and love divide,In the calm sunset may repairEach to the loved one's side.
The noble dame on turret high,Who waits her gallant knight,Looks to the western beam to spyThe flash of armor bright.The village maid, with hand on browThe level ray to shade,Upon the footpath watches nowFor Colin's darkening plaid.
Now to their mates the wild swans row,By day they swam apart;And to the thicket wanders slowThe hind beside the hart.The wood lark at his partner's sideTwitters his closing song—All meet whom day and care divide,—But Leonard tarries long!
Sir Walter Scott.
Her arms across her breast she laid;She was more fair than words can say:Barefooted came the beggar maidBefore the king Cophetua.In robe and crown the king stept down,To meet and greet her on her way;"It is no wonder," said the lords,"She is more beautiful than day."As shines the moon in clouded skies,She in her poor attire was seen:One praised her ankles, one her eyes,One her dark hair and lovesome mien.So sweet a face, such angel grace,In all that land had never been:Cophetua sware a royal oath:"This beggar maid shall be my queen!"
Her arms across her breast she laid;She was more fair than words can say:Barefooted came the beggar maidBefore the king Cophetua.In robe and crown the king stept down,To meet and greet her on her way;"It is no wonder," said the lords,"She is more beautiful than day."
As shines the moon in clouded skies,She in her poor attire was seen:One praised her ankles, one her eyes,One her dark hair and lovesome mien.So sweet a face, such angel grace,In all that land had never been:Cophetua sware a royal oath:"This beggar maid shall be my queen!"
Alfred Tennyson.
She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling place.And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!
She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!
Lord George Noel Gordon Byron.
statue of Diana holding a stagDIANA.
Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep:Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess, excellently bright.Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear, when day did close:Bless us then with wishèd sight,Goddess, excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apartAnd thy crystal shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess, excellently bright.
Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep:Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess, excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear, when day did close:Bless us then with wishèd sight,Goddess, excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apartAnd thy crystal shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess, excellently bright.
Ben Jonson.
I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide,All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,And starting around me the echoes replied.On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.Dark green was the spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather,Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay,Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,The much-loved remains of her master defended,And chased the hill fox and the raven away.
I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide,All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,And starting around me the echoes replied.On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.
Dark green was the spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather,Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay,Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,The much-loved remains of her master defended,And chased the hill fox and the raven away.
stream running through mountains
How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?And, O, was it meet, that,—no requiem read o'er him,No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him—Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart?When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,And pages stand mute by the canopied pall;Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming,In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming,Far adown the long isle sacred music is streaming,Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb;When, 'wildered, he drops from some rock huge in stature,And draws his last sob by the side of his dam;And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.
How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?And, O, was it meet, that,—no requiem read o'er him,No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him—Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart?
When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,And pages stand mute by the canopied pall;Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming,In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming,Far adown the long isle sacred music is streaming,Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.
But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb;When, 'wildered, he drops from some rock huge in stature,And draws his last sob by the side of his dam;And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.
Sir Walter Scott.
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?Where may the grave of that good man be?—By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,Under the twigs of a young birch tree!The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,And whistled and roared in the winter alone,Is gone,—and the birch in its stead is grown.The knight's bones are dust,And his good sword rust;—His soul is with the saints, I trust.
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?Where may the grave of that good man be?—By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,Under the twigs of a young birch tree!The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,And whistled and roared in the winter alone,Is gone,—and the birch in its stead is grown.The knight's bones are dust,And his good sword rust;—His soul is with the saints, I trust.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Touch us gently, Time!Let us glide adown thy streamGently,—as we sometimes glideThrough a quiet dream!Humble voyagers are we,Husband, wife, and children three,—(One is lost,—an angel, fledTo the azure overhead!)Touch us gently, Time!We've not proud nor soaring wings,Our ambition, our content,Lies in simple things.Humble voyagers are we,O'er Life's dim, unsounded sea,Seeking only some calm clime;—Touch us gently, gentle Time!
Touch us gently, Time!Let us glide adown thy streamGently,—as we sometimes glideThrough a quiet dream!Humble voyagers are we,Husband, wife, and children three,—(One is lost,—an angel, fledTo the azure overhead!)
Touch us gently, Time!We've not proud nor soaring wings,Our ambition, our content,Lies in simple things.Humble voyagers are we,O'er Life's dim, unsounded sea,Seeking only some calm clime;—Touch us gently, gentle Time!
Bryan Waller Procter(Barry Cornwall).
O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud:Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;They marched all in silence,—they looked on the ground.In silence they reached over mountain and moor,To a heath, where the oak tree grew lonely and hoar:"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn:Why speak ye no word?"—said Glenara the stern."And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"So spake the rude chieftain:—no answer is made,But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed."I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud:"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem:Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen;When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief:On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground,And the desert revealed where his lady was found;From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne—Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.
Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud:Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;They marched all in silence,—they looked on the ground.
In silence they reached over mountain and moor,To a heath, where the oak tree grew lonely and hoar:"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn:Why speak ye no word?"—said Glenara the stern.
"And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"So spake the rude chieftain:—no answer is made,But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed.
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud:"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem:Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen;When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief:On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground,And the desert revealed where his lady was found;From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne—Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
Thomas Campbell.
Seven daughters had Lord Archibald,All children of one mother:You could not say in one short dayWhat love they bore each other.A garland, of seven lilies wrought!Seven sisters that together dwell;But he, bold knight as ever fought,Their father, took of them no thought,He loved the wars so well.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,And from the shores of Erin,Across the wave, a rover braveTo Binnorie is steering:Right onward to the Scottish strandThe gallant ship is borne;The warriors leap upon the land,And hark! the leader of the bandHath blown his bugle horn.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!Beside a grotto of their own,With boughs above them closing,The seven are laid, and in the shadeThey lie like fawns reposing.But now upstarting with affrightAt noise of man and steed,Away they fly, to left, to right—Of your fair household, father knight,Methinks you take small heed!Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!Away the seven fair Campbells fly;And, over hill and hollow,With menace proud, and insult loud,The youthful rovers follow.Cried they, "Your father loves to roam:Enough for him to findThe empty house when he comes home;For us your yellow ringlets comb,For us be fair and kind!"Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!Some close behind, some side by side,Like clouds in stormy weather,They run and cry, "Nay, let us die,And let us die together."A lake was near; the shore was steep;There foot had never been;They ran, and with a desperate leapTogether plunged into the deep,Nor ever more were seen.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!The stream that flows out of the lake,As through the glen it rambles,Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,For those seven lovely Campbells.Seven little islands, green and bare,Have risen from out the deep:The fishers say those sisters fairBy fairies are all buried there,And there together sleep.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Seven daughters had Lord Archibald,All children of one mother:You could not say in one short dayWhat love they bore each other.A garland, of seven lilies wrought!Seven sisters that together dwell;But he, bold knight as ever fought,Their father, took of them no thought,He loved the wars so well.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,And from the shores of Erin,Across the wave, a rover braveTo Binnorie is steering:Right onward to the Scottish strandThe gallant ship is borne;The warriors leap upon the land,And hark! the leader of the bandHath blown his bugle horn.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Beside a grotto of their own,With boughs above them closing,The seven are laid, and in the shadeThey lie like fawns reposing.But now upstarting with affrightAt noise of man and steed,Away they fly, to left, to right—Of your fair household, father knight,Methinks you take small heed!Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Away the seven fair Campbells fly;And, over hill and hollow,With menace proud, and insult loud,The youthful rovers follow.Cried they, "Your father loves to roam:Enough for him to findThe empty house when he comes home;For us your yellow ringlets comb,For us be fair and kind!"Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
Some close behind, some side by side,Like clouds in stormy weather,They run and cry, "Nay, let us die,And let us die together."A lake was near; the shore was steep;There foot had never been;They ran, and with a desperate leapTogether plunged into the deep,Nor ever more were seen.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
The stream that flows out of the lake,As through the glen it rambles,Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,For those seven lovely Campbells.Seven little islands, green and bare,Have risen from out the deep:The fishers say those sisters fairBy fairies are all buried there,And there together sleep.Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,The solitude of Binnorie!
William Wordsworth.
Amid the loud ebriety of War,With shouts of "la République" and "la Gloire,'The Vengeur's crew, 'twas said, with flying flagAnd broadside blazing level with the waveWent down erect, defiant, to their graveBeneath the sea.—Twas but a Frenchman's brag,Yet Europe rang with it for many a year.Now we recount no fable; Europe, hear!And when they tell thee "England is a fenCorrupt, a kingdom tottering to decay,Her nerveless burghers lying an easy preyFor the first comer," tell how the other dayA crew of half a thousand EnglishmenWent down into the deep in Simon's Bay!Not with the cheer of battle in the throat,Or cannon-glare and din to stir their blood,But, roused from dreams of home to find their boatFast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood,Biding God's pleasure and their chief's command.Calm was the sea, but not less calm that bandClose ranged upon the poop, with bated breath,But flinching not though eye to eye with Death! Heroes!Who were those Heroes? Veterans steeledTo face the King of Terrors mid the scaithOf many a hurricane and trenchèd field?Far other: weavers from the stocking frame;Boys from the plow; cornets with beardless chin,But steeped in honor and in discipline!Weep, Britain, for the Cape whose ill-starred name,Long since divorced from Hope suggests but shame,Disaster, and thy Captains held at bayBy naked hordes; but as thou weepest, thankHeaven for those undegenerate sons who sankAboard the Birkenhead in Simon's Bay!
Amid the loud ebriety of War,With shouts of "la République" and "la Gloire,'The Vengeur's crew, 'twas said, with flying flagAnd broadside blazing level with the waveWent down erect, defiant, to their graveBeneath the sea.—Twas but a Frenchman's brag,Yet Europe rang with it for many a year.Now we recount no fable; Europe, hear!And when they tell thee "England is a fenCorrupt, a kingdom tottering to decay,Her nerveless burghers lying an easy preyFor the first comer," tell how the other dayA crew of half a thousand EnglishmenWent down into the deep in Simon's Bay!Not with the cheer of battle in the throat,Or cannon-glare and din to stir their blood,But, roused from dreams of home to find their boatFast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood,Biding God's pleasure and their chief's command.Calm was the sea, but not less calm that bandClose ranged upon the poop, with bated breath,But flinching not though eye to eye with Death! Heroes!Who were those Heroes? Veterans steeledTo face the King of Terrors mid the scaithOf many a hurricane and trenchèd field?Far other: weavers from the stocking frame;Boys from the plow; cornets with beardless chin,But steeped in honor and in discipline!
Weep, Britain, for the Cape whose ill-starred name,Long since divorced from Hope suggests but shame,Disaster, and thy Captains held at bayBy naked hordes; but as thou weepest, thankHeaven for those undegenerate sons who sankAboard the Birkenhead in Simon's Bay!
Sir Henry Yule.
small harp and branch
Here in this leafy placeQuiet he lies,Cold, with his sightless faceTurned to the skies;'Tis but another dead;All you can say is said.Carry his body hence,—Kings must have slaves;Kings climb to eminenceOver men's graves;So this man's eyes are dim;—Throw the earth over him.What was the white you touchedThere at his side?Paper his hand had clutchedTight ere he died;—Message or wish, may be;—Smooth the folds out and see.Hardly the worst of usHere could have smiled!—Only the tremulousWords of a child;—Prattle, that has for stopsJust a few ruddy drops.Look. She is sad to miss,Morning and night,His—her dead father's—kiss,Tries to be bright,Good to mamma, and sweet;That is all.  "Marguerite."Ah, if beside the deadSlumbered the pain!Ah, if the hearts that bledSlept with the slain!If the grief died;—but no;—Death will not have it so.
Here in this leafy placeQuiet he lies,Cold, with his sightless faceTurned to the skies;'Tis but another dead;All you can say is said.
Carry his body hence,—Kings must have slaves;Kings climb to eminenceOver men's graves;So this man's eyes are dim;—Throw the earth over him.
What was the white you touchedThere at his side?Paper his hand had clutchedTight ere he died;—Message or wish, may be;—Smooth the folds out and see.
Hardly the worst of usHere could have smiled!—Only the tremulousWords of a child;—Prattle, that has for stopsJust a few ruddy drops.
Look. She is sad to miss,Morning and night,His—her dead father's—kiss,Tries to be bright,Good to mamma, and sweet;That is all.  "Marguerite."
Ah, if beside the deadSlumbered the pain!Ah, if the hearts that bledSlept with the slain!If the grief died;—but no;—Death will not have it so.
Austin Dobson.
Oft in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound meFond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood's years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shone,Now dimmed and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken!Thus in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.When I remember allThe friends so linked togetherI've seen around me fall,Like leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed!Thus in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
Oft in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound meFond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood's years,The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,Now dimmed and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken!Thus in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
When I remember allThe friends so linked togetherI've seen around me fall,Like leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed!Thus in the stilly night,Ere slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
Thomas Moore.
Portrait of Robert BurnsROBERT BURNS.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And never brought to min'?Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And days o' lang syne?For auld lang syne, my dear,For auld lang syne,We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,For auld lang syne!We twa hae run about the braes,And pu't the gowans fine;But we've wandered mony a weary foot,Sin' auld lang syne.For auld lang syne, my dear,For auld lang syne,We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,For auld lang syne!We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,Frae mornin' sun till dine:But seas between us braid hae roared,Sin' auld lang syne.For auld lang syne, my dear,For auld lang syne,We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,For auld lang syne!
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And never brought to min'?Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And days o' lang syne?For auld lang syne, my dear,For auld lang syne,We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,For auld lang syne!
We twa hae run about the braes,And pu't the gowans fine;But we've wandered mony a weary foot,Sin' auld lang syne.For auld lang syne, my dear,For auld lang syne,We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,For auld lang syne!
We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,Frae mornin' sun till dine:But seas between us braid hae roared,Sin' auld lang syne.For auld lang syne, my dear,For auld lang syne,We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,For auld lang syne!
Robert Burns.
John Andersson, my jo, John,When we were first acquent,Your locks were like the raven,Your bonnie brow was brent;But now your brow is beld, John,Your locks are like the snaw;But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson, my jo.John Anderson, my jo, John,We clamb the hill thegither;And mony a canty day, John,We've had wi' are anither:Now we maun totter down, John,But hand in hand we'll go;And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson, my jo.
John Andersson, my jo, John,When we were first acquent,Your locks were like the raven,Your bonnie brow was brent;But now your brow is beld, John,Your locks are like the snaw;But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,We clamb the hill thegither;And mony a canty day, John,We've had wi' are anither:Now we maun totter down, John,But hand in hand we'll go;And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson, my jo.
Robert Burns.
sailboat near cliff
Where lies the land to which the ship would go;Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face,Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace;Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch belowThe foaming wake far widening as we go.On stormy nights when wild northwesters rave,How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!The dripping sailor on the reeling mastExults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
Where lies the land to which the ship would go;Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face,Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace;Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch belowThe foaming wake far widening as we go.
On stormy nights when wild northwesters rave,How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!The dripping sailor on the reeling mastExults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.
Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
Arthur Hugh Clough.
Said a people to a poet—"Go out from among us straightway!While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine.There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateway,Makes fitter music to our ear, than any song of thine!"The poet went out weeping—the nightingale ceased chanting,"Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness done?"——"I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting,Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under the sun."The poet went out weeping,—and died abroad, bereft there.The bird flew to his grave and died amid a thousand wails.And, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left thereWas only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's.
Said a people to a poet—"Go out from among us straightway!While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine.There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateway,Makes fitter music to our ear, than any song of thine!"
The poet went out weeping—the nightingale ceased chanting,"Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness done?"——"I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting,Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under the sun."
The poet went out weeping,—and died abroad, bereft there.The bird flew to his grave and died amid a thousand wails.And, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left thereWas only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Portrait of Matthew ArnoldMATTHEW ARNOLD.
In summer, on the headlands,The Baltic Sea along,Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,And sings his plaintive song.Green rolls beneath the headlands,Green rolls the Baltic Sea;And there, below the Neckan's feet,His wife and children be.He sings not of the ocean,Its shells and roses pale;Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings,He hath no other tale.He sits upon the headlands,And sings a mournful staveOf all he saw and felt on earth,Far from the kind sea wave.Sings how, a knight, he wanderedBy castle, field, and town—But earthly knights have harder heartsThan the sea children own.Sings of his earthly bridal—Priests, knights, and ladies gay."—And who art thou," the priest began,"Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day?"—"—I am no knight," he answered;"From the sea waves I come."—The knights drew sword, the ladies screamed,The surpliced priest stood dumb.He sings how from the chapelHe vanished with his bride,And bore her down to the sea halls,Beneath the salt sea tide.He sings how she sits weeping'Mid shells that round her lie."—False Neckan shares my bed," she weeps;"No Christian mate have I."—He sings how through the billowsHe rose to earth again,And sought a priest to sign the cross,That Neckan Heaven might gain.He sings how, on an evening,Beneath the birch trees cool,He sate and played his harp of gold,Beside the river pool.Beside the pool sate Neckan—Tears filled his mild blue eye.On his white mule, across the bridge,A cassocked priest rode by."—Why sitt'st thou there, O Neckan,And play'st thy harp of gold?Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves,Than thou shalt Heaven behold."—But, lo, the staff, it budded!It greened, it branched, it waved."—O ruth of God," the priest cried out,"This lost sea creature saved!"The cassocked priest rode onwards,And vanished with his mule;But Neckan in the twilight grayWept by the river pool.He wept: "The earth hath kindness,The sea, the starry poles;Earth, sea, and sky, and God above—But, ah, not human souls!"In summer, on the headlands,The Baltic Sea along,Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,And sings this plaintive song.
In summer, on the headlands,The Baltic Sea along,Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,And sings his plaintive song.
Green rolls beneath the headlands,Green rolls the Baltic Sea;And there, below the Neckan's feet,His wife and children be.
He sings not of the ocean,Its shells and roses pale;Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings,He hath no other tale.
He sits upon the headlands,And sings a mournful staveOf all he saw and felt on earth,Far from the kind sea wave.
Sings how, a knight, he wanderedBy castle, field, and town—But earthly knights have harder heartsThan the sea children own.
Sings of his earthly bridal—Priests, knights, and ladies gay."—And who art thou," the priest began,"Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day?"—
"—I am no knight," he answered;"From the sea waves I come."—The knights drew sword, the ladies screamed,The surpliced priest stood dumb.
He sings how from the chapelHe vanished with his bride,And bore her down to the sea halls,Beneath the salt sea tide.
He sings how she sits weeping'Mid shells that round her lie."—False Neckan shares my bed," she weeps;"No Christian mate have I."—
He sings how through the billowsHe rose to earth again,And sought a priest to sign the cross,That Neckan Heaven might gain.
He sings how, on an evening,Beneath the birch trees cool,He sate and played his harp of gold,Beside the river pool.
Beside the pool sate Neckan—Tears filled his mild blue eye.On his white mule, across the bridge,A cassocked priest rode by.
"—Why sitt'st thou there, O Neckan,And play'st thy harp of gold?Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves,Than thou shalt Heaven behold."—
But, lo, the staff, it budded!It greened, it branched, it waved."—O ruth of God," the priest cried out,"This lost sea creature saved!"
The cassocked priest rode onwards,And vanished with his mule;But Neckan in the twilight grayWept by the river pool.
He wept: "The earth hath kindness,The sea, the starry poles;Earth, sea, and sky, and God above—But, ah, not human souls!"
In summer, on the headlands,The Baltic Sea along,Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,And sings this plaintive song.
Matthew Arnold.
sailboat, hillside city in background
The stream was smooth as glass; we said, "Arise and let's away:"The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay;And spread the sail, and strong the oar; we gayly took our way.When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay?The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted plains,The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains;The laborer looks up to see our shallop speed away.When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay?Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large,Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge.The waves are bright with mirrored light as jacinths on our way.When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay?The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we seeThe spreading river's either bank, and surging distantlyThere booms a sudden thunder as of breakers far away.Now shall the sandy bar be crossed, now shall we find the bay!The seagull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sightThe moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay,When once the sandy bar is crossed, and we are in the bay.What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded ghost?What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangor on the coast?Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every oar away.O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the bay?
The stream was smooth as glass; we said, "Arise and let's away:"The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay;And spread the sail, and strong the oar; we gayly took our way.When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay?
The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted plains,The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains;The laborer looks up to see our shallop speed away.When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay?
Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large,Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge.The waves are bright with mirrored light as jacinths on our way.When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay?
The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we seeThe spreading river's either bank, and surging distantlyThere booms a sudden thunder as of breakers far away.Now shall the sandy bar be crossed, now shall we find the bay!
The seagull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sightThe moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay,When once the sandy bar is crossed, and we are in the bay.
What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded ghost?What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangor on the coast?Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every oar away.O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the bay?
Richard Garnett.
It keeps eternal whisperings aroundDesolate shores, and with its mighty swellGluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spellOf Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.Often 'tis in such gentle temper found,That scarcely will the very smallest shellBe moved for days from where it sometime fell,When last the winds of heaven were unbound.O ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,Feast them upon the wideness of the sea;O ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,Or fed too much with cloying melody,—Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and broodUntil ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired!
It keeps eternal whisperings aroundDesolate shores, and with its mighty swellGluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spellOf Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.Often 'tis in such gentle temper found,That scarcely will the very smallest shellBe moved for days from where it sometime fell,When last the winds of heaven were unbound.O ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,Feast them upon the wideness of the sea;O ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,Or fed too much with cloying melody,—Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and broodUntil ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired!
John Keats.
waves breaking on sandy beach
By none but me can the tale be told,The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.(Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.)'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,Yet the tale can be told by none but me.(The sea hath no King but God alone.)King Henry held it as life's whole gainThat after his death his son should reign.'Twas so in my youth I heard men say,And my old age calls it back to-day.King Henry of England's realm was he,And Henry Duke of Normandy.The times had changed when on either coast"Clerkly Harry" was all his boast.Of ruthless strokes full many a oneHe had struck to crown himself and his son;And his elder brother's eyes were gone.And when to the chase his court would crowd,The poor flung plowshares on his road,And shrieked: "Our cry is from King to God!"But all the chiefs of the English landHad knelt and kissed the Prince's hand.And next with his son he sailed to FranceTo claim the Norman allegiance:And every baron in NormandyHad taken the oath of fealty.'Twas sworn and sealed, and the day had comeWhen the King and the Prince might journey home:For Christmas cheer is to home hearts dear,And Christmas now was drawing near.Stout Fitz-Stephen came to the King,—A pilot famous in seafaring;And he held to the King, in all men's sight,A mark of gold for his tribute's right."Liege Lord! my father guided the shipFrom whose boat your father's foot did slipWhen he caught the English soil in his grip,"And cried: 'By this clasp I claim commandO'er every rood of English land!'"He was borne to the realm you rule o'er nowIn that ship with the archer carved at her prow:"And thither I'll bear, an' it be my due,Your father's son and his grandson too."The famed White Ship is mine in the bay;From Harfleur's harbor she sails to-day,"With masts fair-pennoned as Norman spearsAnd with fifty well-tried mariners."Quoth the King: "My ships are chosen each one,But I'll not say nay to Stephen's son."My son and daughter and fellowshipShall cross the water in the White Ship."The King set sail with the eve's south wind,And soon he left that coast behind.The Prince and all his, a princely show,Remained in the good White Ship to go.With noble knights and with ladies fair,With courtiers and sailors gathered there,Three hundred living souls we were:And I Berold was the meanest hindIn all that train to the Prince assigned.The Prince was a lawless, shameless youth;From his father's loins he sprang without ruth:Eighteen years till then he had seen,And the devil's dues in him were eighteen.And now he cried: "Bring wine from below;Let the sailors revel ere yet they row:"Our speed shall o'ertake my father's flightThough we sail from the harbor at midnight."The rowers made good cheer without check;The lords and ladies obeyed his beck;The night was light, and they danced on the deck.But at midnight's stroke they cleared the bay,And the White Ship furrowed the water way.The sails were set, and the oars kept tuneTo the double flight of the ship and the moon:Swifter and swifter the White Ship spedTill she flew as the spirit flies from the dead:As white as a lily glimmered sheLike a ship's fair ghost upon the sea.And the Prince cried, "Friends, 'tis the hour to sing!Is a song bird's course so swift on the wing?"And under the winter stars' still throng,From brown throats, white throats, merry and strong,The knights and the ladies raised a song.A song,—nay, a shriek that rent the sky,That leaped o'er the deep!—the grievous cryOf three hundred living that now must die.An instant shriek that sprang to the shockAs the ship's keel felt the sunken rock.'Tis said that afar—a shrill strange sigh—The King's ships heard it and knew not why.Pale Fitz-Stephen stood by the helm'Mid all those folk that the waves must whelm.A great King's heir for the waves to whelm,And the helpless pilot pale at the helm!The ship was eager and sucked athirst,By the stealthy stab of the sharp reef pierced:And like the moil round a sinking cup,The waters against her crowded up.A moment the pilot's senses spin,—The next he snatched the Prince 'mid the din,Cut the boat loose, and the youth leaped in.A few friends leaped with him, standing near."Row! the sea's smooth and the night is clear!""What! none to be saved but these and I?""Row, row as you'd live! All here must die!"Out of the churn of the choking ship,Which the gulf grapples and the waves strip,They struck with the strained oars' flash and dip.
By none but me can the tale be told,The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.(Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.)
'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,Yet the tale can be told by none but me.(The sea hath no King but God alone.)
King Henry held it as life's whole gainThat after his death his son should reign.
'Twas so in my youth I heard men say,And my old age calls it back to-day.
King Henry of England's realm was he,And Henry Duke of Normandy.
The times had changed when on either coast"Clerkly Harry" was all his boast.
Of ruthless strokes full many a oneHe had struck to crown himself and his son;And his elder brother's eyes were gone.
And when to the chase his court would crowd,The poor flung plowshares on his road,And shrieked: "Our cry is from King to God!"
But all the chiefs of the English landHad knelt and kissed the Prince's hand.
And next with his son he sailed to FranceTo claim the Norman allegiance:
And every baron in NormandyHad taken the oath of fealty.
'Twas sworn and sealed, and the day had comeWhen the King and the Prince might journey home:
For Christmas cheer is to home hearts dear,And Christmas now was drawing near.
Stout Fitz-Stephen came to the King,—A pilot famous in seafaring;
And he held to the King, in all men's sight,A mark of gold for his tribute's right.
"Liege Lord! my father guided the shipFrom whose boat your father's foot did slipWhen he caught the English soil in his grip,
"And cried: 'By this clasp I claim commandO'er every rood of English land!'
"He was borne to the realm you rule o'er nowIn that ship with the archer carved at her prow:
"And thither I'll bear, an' it be my due,Your father's son and his grandson too.
"The famed White Ship is mine in the bay;From Harfleur's harbor she sails to-day,
"With masts fair-pennoned as Norman spearsAnd with fifty well-tried mariners."
Quoth the King: "My ships are chosen each one,But I'll not say nay to Stephen's son.
"My son and daughter and fellowshipShall cross the water in the White Ship."
The King set sail with the eve's south wind,And soon he left that coast behind.
The Prince and all his, a princely show,Remained in the good White Ship to go.
With noble knights and with ladies fair,With courtiers and sailors gathered there,Three hundred living souls we were:
And I Berold was the meanest hindIn all that train to the Prince assigned.
The Prince was a lawless, shameless youth;From his father's loins he sprang without ruth:
Eighteen years till then he had seen,And the devil's dues in him were eighteen.
And now he cried: "Bring wine from below;Let the sailors revel ere yet they row:
"Our speed shall o'ertake my father's flightThough we sail from the harbor at midnight."
The rowers made good cheer without check;The lords and ladies obeyed his beck;The night was light, and they danced on the deck.
But at midnight's stroke they cleared the bay,And the White Ship furrowed the water way.
The sails were set, and the oars kept tuneTo the double flight of the ship and the moon:
Swifter and swifter the White Ship spedTill she flew as the spirit flies from the dead:
As white as a lily glimmered sheLike a ship's fair ghost upon the sea.
And the Prince cried, "Friends, 'tis the hour to sing!Is a song bird's course so swift on the wing?"
And under the winter stars' still throng,From brown throats, white throats, merry and strong,The knights and the ladies raised a song.
A song,—nay, a shriek that rent the sky,That leaped o'er the deep!—the grievous cryOf three hundred living that now must die.
An instant shriek that sprang to the shockAs the ship's keel felt the sunken rock.
'Tis said that afar—a shrill strange sigh—The King's ships heard it and knew not why.
Pale Fitz-Stephen stood by the helm'Mid all those folk that the waves must whelm.
A great King's heir for the waves to whelm,And the helpless pilot pale at the helm!
The ship was eager and sucked athirst,By the stealthy stab of the sharp reef pierced:
And like the moil round a sinking cup,The waters against her crowded up.
A moment the pilot's senses spin,—The next he snatched the Prince 'mid the din,Cut the boat loose, and the youth leaped in.
A few friends leaped with him, standing near."Row! the sea's smooth and the night is clear!"
"What! none to be saved but these and I?""Row, row as you'd live! All here must die!"
Out of the churn of the choking ship,Which the gulf grapples and the waves strip,They struck with the strained oars' flash and dip.