Who is Silvia? what is she,That all our swains commend her?Holy, fair and wise is she;The heaven such grace did lend herThat she might admirèd be.Is she kind, as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness.Love doth to her eyes repair,To help him of his blindness;And, being helped, inhabits there.Then to Silvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling;She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwelling;To her let us garlands bring.
Who is Silvia? what is she,That all our swains commend her?Holy, fair and wise is she;The heaven such grace did lend herThat she might admirèd be.
Is she kind, as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness.Love doth to her eyes repair,To help him of his blindness;And, being helped, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling;She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwelling;To her let us garlands bring.
William Shakespeare.
From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona."
portrait of womanSILVIA.
O Brignall banks are wild and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer queen.And as I rode by Dalton HallBeneath the turrets high,A maiden on the castle wallWas singing merrily,—"O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green;I'd rather rove with Edmund there,Than reign our English queen."—"If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,To leave both tower and town,Thou first must guess what life lead we,That dwell by dale and down.And if thou canst that riddle read,As read full well you may,Then to the greenwood shalt thou speedAs blithe as Queen of May."Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are green;I'd rather rove with Edmund there,Than reign our English queen."I read you by your bugle hornAnd by your palfrey good,I read for you a ranger sworn,To keep the king's greenwood."—"A ranger, lady, winds his horn,And 'tis at peep of light;His blast is heard at merry morn,And mine at dead of night."Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are gay;I would I were with Edmund there,To reign his Queen of May!"With burnished brand and musketoon,So gallantly you come,I read you for a bold dragoonThat lists the tuck of drum."—"I list no more the tuck of drum,No more the trumpet hear;But when the beetle sounds his hum,My comrades take the spear.And O! though Brignall banks be fairAnd Greta woods be gay,Yet mickle must the maiden dare,Would reign my Queen of May!"Maiden! a nameless life I lead,A nameless death I'll die!The fiend, whose lantern lights the meadWere better mate than I!And when I'm with my comrades metBeneath the greenwood bough,What once we were we all forget,Nor think what we are now.Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer queen."
O Brignall banks are wild and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer queen.And as I rode by Dalton HallBeneath the turrets high,A maiden on the castle wallWas singing merrily,—"O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green;I'd rather rove with Edmund there,Than reign our English queen."
—"If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,To leave both tower and town,Thou first must guess what life lead we,That dwell by dale and down.And if thou canst that riddle read,As read full well you may,Then to the greenwood shalt thou speedAs blithe as Queen of May."Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are green;I'd rather rove with Edmund there,Than reign our English queen.
"I read you by your bugle hornAnd by your palfrey good,I read for you a ranger sworn,To keep the king's greenwood."—"A ranger, lady, winds his horn,And 'tis at peep of light;His blast is heard at merry morn,And mine at dead of night."Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are gay;I would I were with Edmund there,To reign his Queen of May!
"With burnished brand and musketoon,So gallantly you come,I read you for a bold dragoonThat lists the tuck of drum."—"I list no more the tuck of drum,No more the trumpet hear;But when the beetle sounds his hum,My comrades take the spear.And O! though Brignall banks be fairAnd Greta woods be gay,Yet mickle must the maiden dare,Would reign my Queen of May!
"Maiden! a nameless life I lead,A nameless death I'll die!The fiend, whose lantern lights the meadWere better mate than I!And when I'm with my comrades metBeneath the greenwood bough,What once we were we all forget,Nor think what we are now.Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer queen."
Sir Walter Scott.
From "Rokeby."
Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,On yonder lea, on yonder lea,My plaidie to the angry airt,I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:Or did misfortune's bitter stormsAround thee blaw, around thee blaw,Thy bield should be my bosom,To share it a', to share it a'.Or were I in the wildest waste,Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,The desert were a paradise,If thou wert there, if thou wert there:Or were I monarch o' the globe,Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,The brightest jewel in my crownWad be my queen, wad be my queen.
Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,On yonder lea, on yonder lea,My plaidie to the angry airt,I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:Or did misfortune's bitter stormsAround thee blaw, around thee blaw,Thy bield should be my bosom,To share it a', to share it a'.
Or were I in the wildest waste,Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,The desert were a paradise,If thou wert there, if thou wert there:Or were I monarch o' the globe,Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,The brightest jewel in my crownWad be my queen, wad be my queen.
Robert Burns.
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?Loved the wood rose, and left it on its stalk?At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?And loved so well a high behavior,In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,Nobility more nobly to repay?O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?Loved the wood rose, and left it on its stalk?At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?And loved so well a high behavior,In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,Nobility more nobly to repay?O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyesI all alone beweep my outcast state,And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,And look upon myself, and curse my fate;Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featured like him, like him with friends possest,Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,Haply I think on thee—and then my state,Like to the lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;For thy sweet love remembered, such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyesI all alone beweep my outcast state,And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,And look upon myself, and curse my fate;Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featured like him, like him with friends possest,Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,Haply I think on thee—and then my state,Like to the lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;For thy sweet love remembered, such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.
William Shakespeare.
Portrait of Percy Bysshe ShelleyPERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest;Like a cloud of fireThe blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden lightningOf the sunken sunO'er which clouds are brightening,Thou dost float and run,Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heavenIn the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clearUntil we hardly see, we feel that it is there.All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to seeAs from thy presence showers a rain of melody.Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:Like a glowworm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aërial hueAmong he flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflowered,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves.Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chauntMatched with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.Waking or asleepThou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and afterAnd pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet if we could scornHate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flowThe world should listen then, as I am listening now!
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest;Like a cloud of fireThe blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightningOf the sunken sunO'er which clouds are brightening,Thou dost float and run,Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heavenIn the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphere,Whose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clearUntil we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to seeAs from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glowworm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aërial hueAmong he flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflowered,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves.
Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awakened flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chauntMatched with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleepThou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and afterAnd pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scornHate, and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flowThe world should listen then, as I am listening now!
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
There was a sound of revelry by night,And Belgium's capital had gathered thenHer beauty and her chivalry, and brightThe lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,And all went merry as a marriage bell;But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing hours with flying feet.But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!Arm, arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!Within a windowed niche of that high hallSate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hearThat sound, the first amidst the festival,And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;And when they smiled because he deemed it near,His heart more truly knew that peal too wellWhich stretched his father on a bloody bier,And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
There was a sound of revelry by night,And Belgium's capital had gathered thenHer beauty and her chivalry, and brightThe lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,And all went merry as a marriage bell;But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing hours with flying feet.But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!Arm, arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!
Within a windowed niche of that high hallSate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hearThat sound, the first amidst the festival,And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;And when they smiled because he deemed it near,His heart more truly knew that peal too wellWhich stretched his father on a bloody bier,And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
Napoleon at WaterlooC. STEUBEN.NAPOLEON AT WATERLOO.
C. STEUBEN.
NAPOLEON AT WATERLOO.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlushed at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne'er might be repeated: who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star;While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering with white lips—"The foe! They come! they come!"And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hillsHave heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:How in the noon of night that pibroch thrillsSavage and shrill! But with the breath which fillsTheir mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring which instillsThe stirring memory of a thousand years,And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,Dewy with Nature's tear drops, as they pass,Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,Over the unreturning brave,—alas!Ere evening to be trodden like the grassWhich now beneath them, but above shall growIn its next verdure, when this fiery massOf living valor, rolling on the foe,And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low.Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay,The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,The morn the marshaling in arms,—the dayBattle's magnificently stern array!The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rentThe earth is covered thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlushed at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne'er might be repeated: who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star;While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering with white lips—"The foe! They come! they come!"
And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hillsHave heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:How in the noon of night that pibroch thrillsSavage and shrill! But with the breath which fillsTheir mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring which instillsThe stirring memory of a thousand years,And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,Dewy with Nature's tear drops, as they pass,Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,Over the unreturning brave,—alas!Ere evening to be trodden like the grassWhich now beneath them, but above shall growIn its next verdure, when this fiery massOf living valor, rolling on the foe,And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay,The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,The morn the marshaling in arms,—the dayBattle's magnificently stern array!The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rentThe earth is covered thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!
Lord George Noel Gordon Byron.
From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."
Sunset and evening star,And one clear call for me!And may there be no moaning of the bar,When I put out to sea,But such a tide as moving seems asleep,Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deepTurns again home.Twilight and evening bell,And after that the dark!And may there be no sadness of farewell,When I embark;For tho' from out our bourne of Time and PlaceThe flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to faceWhen I have crossed the bar.
Sunset and evening star,And one clear call for me!And may there be no moaning of the bar,When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deepTurns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,And after that the dark!And may there be no sadness of farewell,When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and PlaceThe flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to faceWhen I have crossed the bar.
Alfred Tennyson.
God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle line—Beneath whose awful hand we holdDominion over palm and pine—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!The tumult and the shouting dies—The Captains and the Kings depart—Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!Far-called, our navies melt away—On dune and headland sinks the fire—Lo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!Judge of the Nations, spare us yetLest we forget—lest we forget!If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles use,Or lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard—All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not Thee to guard—For frantic boast and foolish word,Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!Amen.
God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle line—Beneath whose awful hand we holdDominion over palm and pine—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies—The Captains and the Kings depart—Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Far-called, our navies melt away—On dune and headland sinks the fire—Lo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!Judge of the Nations, spare us yetLest we forget—lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles use,Or lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard—All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not Thee to guard—For frantic boast and foolish word,Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!Amen.
Rudyard Kipling.
As it has been impossible to include in this collection as many poems by American authors as we desired, we recommend the following, all of which are published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., with the exception of Bryant's poems, which are published by D. Appleton & Co:—
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey.An Arab Welcome.A Turkish Legend.Baby Bell.Friar Jerome's Beautiful Book.In the Old Church Tower.On Lynn Terrace.Bryant, William Cullen.A Forest Hymn.Thanatopsis.The Conqueror's Grave.Emerson, Ralph Waldo.Boston.Days.Good-bye.Sea-shore.The Apology.The Titmouse.Holmes, Oliver Wendell.Bill and Joe.Boston Common.Contentment.Dorothy Q.Latter-Day Warnings.Sun and Shadow.The Boston Tea Party.The Boys.The Last Survivor.The Living Temple.The Old Cruiser.To a Caged Lion.Whittier's Seventieth Birthday.Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth.Killed at the Ford.King Robert of Sicily.Ser Federigo's Falcon.The Arsenal at Springfield.The Birds of Killingworth.The Leap of Roushan Beg.The North Cape.The Skeleton in Armor.The Three Kings.To the River Charles.To the River Rhone.Warden of the Cinque Ports.Lowell, James Russell.Ambrose.Commemoration Ode (Selections from).Irene.Mahmood, the Image-breaker.The Beggar.The Birch Tree.The Courtin'.The Dandelion.The Singing Leaves.The Vision of Sir Launfal.Under the Old Elm.Under the Willows.Yussouf.Sill, Edward Rowland.A Morning Thought.Opportunity.Whittier, John Greenleaf.Among the Hills.Amy Wentworth.Barclay of Ury.Benedicite.King Volmer and Elsie.Mary Garvin.Maud Muller.Skipper Ireson's Ride.Snow-Bound.The Eternal Goodness.The Gift of Tritemius.The Two Rabbis.
Transcriber's Notes:Inconsistent punctuation corrected without comment.Archaic spellings have been retained.
Inconsistent punctuation corrected without comment.Archaic spellings have been retained.