We watched her breathing thro' the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.So silently we seemed to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.For when the morn came dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
We watched her breathing thro' the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
Thomas Hood.
Of all the thoughts of God that areBorne inward unto souls afar,Along the Psalmist's music deep,Now tell me if that any is,For gift or grace, surpassing this—"He giveth His beloved, sleep"?What would we give to our beloved?The hero's heart, to be unmoved,The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,The monarch's crown, to light the brows?—He giveth His beloved, sleep.What do we give to our beloved?A little faith all undisproved,A little dust to overweep,And bitter memories to makeThe whole earth blasted for our sake.He giveth His beloved, sleep."Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,But have no tune to charm awaySad dreams that through the eyelids creep.But never doleful dream againShall break the happy slumber whenHe giveth His beloved, sleep.O earth, so full of dreary noises!O men, with wailing in your voices!O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!God strikes a silence through you all,And giveth His beloved, sleep.His dews drop mutely on the hill;His cloud above it saileth still,Though on its slope men sow and reap.More softly than the dew is shed,Or cloud is floated overhead,He giveth His beloved, sleep.Ay, men may wonder while they scanA living, thinking, feeling manConfirmed in such a rest to keep;But angels say, and through the wordI think their happy smile isheard—"He giveth His beloved, sleep."For me, my heart that erst did goMost like a tired child at a show,That sees through tears the mummers leap,Would now its wearied vision close,Would childlike on His love repose,Who giveth His beloved, sleep.And, friends, dear friends,—when it shall beThat this low breath is gone from me,And round my bier ye come to weep,Let one, most loving of you all,Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall;'He giveth His beloved, sleep.'"
Of all the thoughts of God that areBorne inward unto souls afar,Along the Psalmist's music deep,Now tell me if that any is,For gift or grace, surpassing this—"He giveth His beloved, sleep"?
What would we give to our beloved?The hero's heart, to be unmoved,The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,The monarch's crown, to light the brows?—He giveth His beloved, sleep.
What do we give to our beloved?A little faith all undisproved,A little dust to overweep,And bitter memories to makeThe whole earth blasted for our sake.He giveth His beloved, sleep.
"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,But have no tune to charm awaySad dreams that through the eyelids creep.But never doleful dream againShall break the happy slumber whenHe giveth His beloved, sleep.
O earth, so full of dreary noises!O men, with wailing in your voices!O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!God strikes a silence through you all,And giveth His beloved, sleep.
His dews drop mutely on the hill;His cloud above it saileth still,Though on its slope men sow and reap.More softly than the dew is shed,Or cloud is floated overhead,He giveth His beloved, sleep.
Ay, men may wonder while they scanA living, thinking, feeling manConfirmed in such a rest to keep;But angels say, and through the wordI think their happy smile isheard—"He giveth His beloved, sleep."
For me, my heart that erst did goMost like a tired child at a show,That sees through tears the mummers leap,Would now its wearied vision close,Would childlike on His love repose,Who giveth His beloved, sleep.
And, friends, dear friends,—when it shall beThat this low breath is gone from me,And round my bier ye come to weep,Let one, most loving of you all,Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall;'He giveth His beloved, sleep.'"
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Portrait of Elizabeth Barrett BrowningELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
How many thousand of my poorest subjectsAre at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep,Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids downAnd steep my senses in forgetfulness?Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,Upon uneasy pallets stretching theeAnd hushed with buzzing night flies to thy slumber,Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,Under the canopies of costly state,And lulled with sound of sweetest melody?O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vileIn loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couchA watch case or a common 'larum bell?Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mastSeal up the ship boy's eyes, and rock his brainsIn cradle of the rude imperious surgeAnd in the visitation of the winds,Who take the ruffian billows by the top,Curling their monstrous heads and hanging themWith deafening clamor in the slippery clouds,That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy reposeTo the wet sea boy in an hour so rude,And in the calmest and most stillest night,With all appliances and means to boot,Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
How many thousand of my poorest subjectsAre at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep,Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids downAnd steep my senses in forgetfulness?Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,Upon uneasy pallets stretching theeAnd hushed with buzzing night flies to thy slumber,Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,Under the canopies of costly state,And lulled with sound of sweetest melody?O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vileIn loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couchA watch case or a common 'larum bell?Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mastSeal up the ship boy's eyes, and rock his brainsIn cradle of the rude imperious surgeAnd in the visitation of the winds,Who take the ruffian billows by the top,Curling their monstrous heads and hanging themWith deafening clamor in the slippery clouds,That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy reposeTo the wet sea boy in an hour so rude,And in the calmest and most stillest night,With all appliances and means to boot,Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
William Shakespeare.
From "King Henry IV."
farmhouse
Lord, Thou hast given me a cellWherein to dwell;A little house, whose humble roofIs weather proof;Under the spars of which I lieBoth soft, and dry;Where Thou my chamber for to wardHast set a guardOf harmless thoughts, to watch and keepMe, while I sleep.Low is my porch, as is my fate,Both void of state;And yet the threshold of my doorIs worn by the poor,Who thither come, and freely getGood words, or meat:Like as my parlor, so my hallAnd kitchen's small:A little buttery, and thereinA little bin,Which keeps my little loaf of breadUnchipt, unflead:Some brittle sticks of thorn or brierMake me a fire,Close by whose living coal I sit,And glow like it.Lord, I confess too, when I dineThe pulse is Thine,And all those other bits, that beThere placed by Thee;The worts, the purslain, and the messOf water cress,Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;And my contentMakes those, and my beloved beet,To be more sweet.'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearthWith guiltless mirth;And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,Spiced to the brink.Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping handThat soils my land;And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,Twice ten for one:Thou mak'st my teeming hen to layHer egg each day:Besides my healthful ewes to bearMe twins each year:The while the conduits of my kineRun cream (for wine.)All these, and better, Thou dost sendMe, to this end,That I should render, for my part,A thankful heart;Which, fired with incense, I resign,As wholly Thine;But the acceptance,—that must be,My Christ, by Thee.
Lord, Thou hast given me a cellWherein to dwell;A little house, whose humble roofIs weather proof;Under the spars of which I lieBoth soft, and dry;Where Thou my chamber for to wardHast set a guardOf harmless thoughts, to watch and keepMe, while I sleep.Low is my porch, as is my fate,Both void of state;And yet the threshold of my doorIs worn by the poor,Who thither come, and freely getGood words, or meat:Like as my parlor, so my hallAnd kitchen's small:A little buttery, and thereinA little bin,Which keeps my little loaf of breadUnchipt, unflead:Some brittle sticks of thorn or brierMake me a fire,Close by whose living coal I sit,And glow like it.Lord, I confess too, when I dineThe pulse is Thine,And all those other bits, that beThere placed by Thee;The worts, the purslain, and the messOf water cress,Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;And my contentMakes those, and my beloved beet,To be more sweet.'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearthWith guiltless mirth;And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,Spiced to the brink.Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping handThat soils my land;And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,Twice ten for one:Thou mak'st my teeming hen to layHer egg each day:Besides my healthful ewes to bearMe twins each year:The while the conduits of my kineRun cream (for wine.)All these, and better, Thou dost sendMe, to this end,That I should render, for my part,A thankful heart;Which, fired with incense, I resign,As wholly Thine;But the acceptance,—that must be,My Christ, by Thee.
Robert Herrick.
O Love Divine, that stooped to shareOur sharpest pang, our bitterest tear,On Thee we cast each earthborn care,We smile at pain while Thou art near!Though long the weary way we tread,And sorrow crown each lingering year,No path we shun, no darkness dread,Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near!When drooping pleasure turns to grief,And trembling faith is changed to fear,The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf,Shall softly tell us, Thou art near!On Thee we fling our burdening woe,O Love Divine, forever dear,Content to suffer while we know,Living and dying, Thou art near!
O Love Divine, that stooped to shareOur sharpest pang, our bitterest tear,On Thee we cast each earthborn care,We smile at pain while Thou art near!
Though long the weary way we tread,And sorrow crown each lingering year,No path we shun, no darkness dread,Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near!
When drooping pleasure turns to grief,And trembling faith is changed to fear,The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf,Shall softly tell us, Thou art near!
On Thee we fling our burdening woe,O Love Divine, forever dear,Content to suffer while we know,Living and dying, Thou art near!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
With farmer Allan at the farm abodeWilliam and Dora. William was his son,And she his niece. He often looked at them,And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,And yearned towards William; but the youth, becauseHe had been always with her in the house,Thought not of Dora.Then there came a dayWhen Allan called his son, and said, "My son,I married late, but I would wish to seeMy grandchild on my knees before I die;And I have set my heart upon a match.Now therefore look to Dora: she is wellTo look to; thrifty too beyond her age.She is my brother's daughter; he and IHad once hard words, and parted, and he diedIn foreign lands; but for his sake I bredHis daughter Dora: take her for your wife;For I have wished this marriage, night and day,For many years." But William answered short:"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,I will not marry Dora." Then the old manWas wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!But in my time a father's word was law,And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;Consider, William: take a month to think,And let me have an answer to my wish;Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,And never more darken my doors again."But William answered madly; bit his lips,And broke away. The more he looked at herThe less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;But Dora bore them meekly. Then beforeThe month was out he left his father's houseAnd hired himself to work within the fields;And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wedA laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan calledHis niece and said, "My girl, I love you well;But if you speak with him that was my son,Or change a word with her he calls his wife,My home is none of yours. My will is law."And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,"It cannot be; my uncle's mind will change!"And days went on, and there was born a boyTo William; then distresses came on him;And day by day he passed his father's gate,Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.But Dora stored what little she could save,And sent it them by stealth, nor did they knowWho sent it; till at last a fever seizedOn William, and in harvest time he died.Then Dora went to Mary. Mary satAnd looked with tears upon her boy, and thoughtHard things of Dora. Dora came and said:"I have obeyed my uncle until now,And I have sinned, for it was all thro' meThis evil came on William at the first.But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,And for your sake, the woman that he chose,And for this orphan, I am come to you;You know there has not been for these five yearsSo full a harvest; let me take the boy,And I will set him in my uncle's eyeAmong the wheat; that when his heart is gladOf the full harvest, he may see the boy,And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."And Dora took the child, and went her wayAcross the wheat, and sat upon a moundThat was unsown, where many poppies grew.Far off the farmer came into the fieldAnd spied her not; for none of all his menDare tell him Dora waited with the child;And Dora would have risen and gone to him,But her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.But when the morrow came, she rose and tookThe child once more, and sat upon the mound;And made a little wreath of all the flowersThat grew about, and tied it round his hatTo make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.Then, when the farmer passed into the field,He spied her, and he left his men at work,And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,And answered softly, "This is William's child!""And did I not," said Allan, "did I notForbid you, Dora?" Dora said again:"Do with me as you will, but take the childAnd bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"And Allan said, "I see it is a trickGot up betwixt you and the woman there.I must be taught my duty, and by you!You knew my word was law, and yet you daredTo slight it. Well—for I will take the boy;But go you hence, and never see me more."So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloudAnd struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fellAt Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands,And the boy's cry came to her from the field,More and more distant. She bowed down her head,Remembering the day when first she came,And all the things that had been. She bowed downAnd wept in secret; and the reapers reaped,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stoodUpon the threshold. Mary saw the boyWas not with Dora. She broke out in praiseTo God, that helped her in her widowhood.And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;But, Mary, let me live and work with you:He says that he will never see me more."Then answered Mary, "This shall never be,That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself;And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,For he will teach him hardness, and to slightHis mother; therefore thou and I will go,And I will have my boy, and bring him home;And I will beg of him to take thee back.But if he will not take thee back again,Then thou and I will live within one house,And work for William's child, until he growsOf age to help us."So the women kissedEach other, and set out, and reached the farm.The door was off the latch; they peeped, and sawThe boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched outAnd babbled for the golden seal, that hungFrom Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.Then they came in; but when the boy beheldHis mother, he cried out to come to her;And Allan set him down, and Mary said:"O Father!—if you let me call you so—I never came a begging for myself,Or William, or this child; but now I comeFor Dora; take her back; she loves you well.O Sir, when William died, he died at peaceWith all men; for I asked him, and he said,He could not ever rue his marrying me—I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he saidThat he was wrong to cross his father thus;'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never knowThe troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turnedHis face and passed—unhappy that I am!But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for youWill make him hard, and he will learn to slightHis father's memory; and take Dora back,And let all this be as it was before."So Mary said, and Dora hid her faceBy Mary. There was silence in the room;And all at once the old man burst in sobs:—"I have been to blame—to blame. I have killed my son.I have killed him—but I loved him—my dear son.May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.Kiss me, my children."Then they clung aboutThe old man's neck, and kissed him many times.And all the man was broken with remorse;And all his love came back a hundredfold;And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's child,Thinking of William.So those four abodeWithin one house together; and as yearsWent forward, Mary took another mate;But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
With farmer Allan at the farm abodeWilliam and Dora. William was his son,And she his niece. He often looked at them,And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,And yearned towards William; but the youth, becauseHe had been always with her in the house,Thought not of Dora.Then there came a dayWhen Allan called his son, and said, "My son,I married late, but I would wish to seeMy grandchild on my knees before I die;And I have set my heart upon a match.Now therefore look to Dora: she is wellTo look to; thrifty too beyond her age.She is my brother's daughter; he and IHad once hard words, and parted, and he diedIn foreign lands; but for his sake I bredHis daughter Dora: take her for your wife;For I have wished this marriage, night and day,For many years." But William answered short:"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,I will not marry Dora." Then the old manWas wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!But in my time a father's word was law,And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;Consider, William: take a month to think,And let me have an answer to my wish;Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,And never more darken my doors again."But William answered madly; bit his lips,And broke away. The more he looked at herThe less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;But Dora bore them meekly. Then beforeThe month was out he left his father's houseAnd hired himself to work within the fields;And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wedA laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan calledHis niece and said, "My girl, I love you well;But if you speak with him that was my son,Or change a word with her he calls his wife,My home is none of yours. My will is law."And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,"It cannot be; my uncle's mind will change!"And days went on, and there was born a boyTo William; then distresses came on him;And day by day he passed his father's gate,Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.But Dora stored what little she could save,And sent it them by stealth, nor did they knowWho sent it; till at last a fever seizedOn William, and in harvest time he died.Then Dora went to Mary. Mary satAnd looked with tears upon her boy, and thoughtHard things of Dora. Dora came and said:"I have obeyed my uncle until now,And I have sinned, for it was all thro' meThis evil came on William at the first.But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,And for your sake, the woman that he chose,And for this orphan, I am come to you;You know there has not been for these five yearsSo full a harvest; let me take the boy,And I will set him in my uncle's eyeAmong the wheat; that when his heart is gladOf the full harvest, he may see the boy,And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."And Dora took the child, and went her wayAcross the wheat, and sat upon a moundThat was unsown, where many poppies grew.Far off the farmer came into the fieldAnd spied her not; for none of all his menDare tell him Dora waited with the child;And Dora would have risen and gone to him,But her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.But when the morrow came, she rose and tookThe child once more, and sat upon the mound;And made a little wreath of all the flowersThat grew about, and tied it round his hatTo make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.Then, when the farmer passed into the field,He spied her, and he left his men at work,And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,And answered softly, "This is William's child!""And did I not," said Allan, "did I notForbid you, Dora?" Dora said again:"Do with me as you will, but take the childAnd bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"And Allan said, "I see it is a trickGot up betwixt you and the woman there.I must be taught my duty, and by you!You knew my word was law, and yet you daredTo slight it. Well—for I will take the boy;But go you hence, and never see me more."So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloudAnd struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fellAt Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands,And the boy's cry came to her from the field,More and more distant. She bowed down her head,Remembering the day when first she came,And all the things that had been. She bowed downAnd wept in secret; and the reapers reaped,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stoodUpon the threshold. Mary saw the boyWas not with Dora. She broke out in praiseTo God, that helped her in her widowhood.And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;But, Mary, let me live and work with you:He says that he will never see me more."Then answered Mary, "This shall never be,That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself;And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,For he will teach him hardness, and to slightHis mother; therefore thou and I will go,And I will have my boy, and bring him home;And I will beg of him to take thee back.But if he will not take thee back again,Then thou and I will live within one house,And work for William's child, until he growsOf age to help us."So the women kissedEach other, and set out, and reached the farm.The door was off the latch; they peeped, and sawThe boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched outAnd babbled for the golden seal, that hungFrom Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.Then they came in; but when the boy beheldHis mother, he cried out to come to her;And Allan set him down, and Mary said:"O Father!—if you let me call you so—I never came a begging for myself,Or William, or this child; but now I comeFor Dora; take her back; she loves you well.O Sir, when William died, he died at peaceWith all men; for I asked him, and he said,He could not ever rue his marrying me—I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he saidThat he was wrong to cross his father thus;'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never knowThe troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turnedHis face and passed—unhappy that I am!But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for youWill make him hard, and he will learn to slightHis father's memory; and take Dora back,And let all this be as it was before."So Mary said, and Dora hid her faceBy Mary. There was silence in the room;And all at once the old man burst in sobs:—"I have been to blame—to blame. I have killed my son.I have killed him—but I loved him—my dear son.May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.Kiss me, my children."Then they clung aboutThe old man's neck, and kissed him many times.And all the man was broken with remorse;And all his love came back a hundredfold;And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's child,Thinking of William.So those four abodeWithin one house together; and as yearsWent forward, Mary took another mate;But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
Alfred Tennyson.
Portrait of Charles LambCHARLES LAMB.
When maidens such as Hester die,Their place ye may not well supply,Though ye among a thousand try,With vain endeavor.A month or more hath she been dead,Yet cannot I by force be ledTo think upon the wormy bedAnd her together.A springy motion in her gait,A rising step, did indicateOf pride and joy no common rate,That flushed her spirit.I know not by what name besideI shall it call:—if 'twas not pride,It was a joy to that allied,She did inherit.Her parents held the Quaker rule,Which doth the human feeling cool,But she was trained in Nature's school,Nature had blest her.A waking eye, a prying mind,A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,Ye could not Hester.My sprightly neighbor! gone beforeTo that unknown and silent shore,Shall we not meet, as heretofore,Some summer morning,When from thy cheerful eyes a rayHath struck a bliss upon the day,A bliss that would not go away,A sweet forewarning?
When maidens such as Hester die,Their place ye may not well supply,Though ye among a thousand try,With vain endeavor.
A month or more hath she been dead,Yet cannot I by force be ledTo think upon the wormy bedAnd her together.
A springy motion in her gait,A rising step, did indicateOf pride and joy no common rate,That flushed her spirit.
I know not by what name besideI shall it call:—if 'twas not pride,It was a joy to that allied,She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule,Which doth the human feeling cool,But she was trained in Nature's school,Nature had blest her.
A waking eye, a prying mind,A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,Ye could not Hester.
My sprightly neighbor! gone beforeTo that unknown and silent shore,Shall we not meet, as heretofore,Some summer morning,
When from thy cheerful eyes a rayHath struck a bliss upon the day,A bliss that would not go away,A sweet forewarning?
Charles Lamb.
O saw ye bonnie LesleyAs she ga'ed o'er the border?She's gane, like Alexander,To spread her conquests farther.To see her is to love her,And love but her for ever;For Nature made her what she is,And ne'er made sic anither!Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,Thy subjects we, before thee;Thou art divine, fair Lesley,The hearts o' men adore thee.The deil he could na scaith thee,Or aught that wad belang thee;He'd look into thy bonnie face,And say, "I canna wrang thee."The powers aboon will tent thee;Misfortune sha' na steer thee;Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.Return again, fair Lesley,Return to Caledonie;That we may brag, we hae a lassThere's nane again sae bonnie.
O saw ye bonnie LesleyAs she ga'ed o'er the border?She's gane, like Alexander,To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,And love but her for ever;For Nature made her what she is,And ne'er made sic anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,Thy subjects we, before thee;Thou art divine, fair Lesley,The hearts o' men adore thee.
The deil he could na scaith thee,Or aught that wad belang thee;He'd look into thy bonnie face,And say, "I canna wrang thee."
The powers aboon will tent thee;Misfortune sha' na steer thee;Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,Return to Caledonie;That we may brag, we hae a lassThere's nane again sae bonnie.
Robert Burns.
Maxwelton braes are bonnieWhere early fa's the dew,And it's there that Annie LaurieGie'd me her promise true,—Gie'd me her promise true,Which ne'er forgot will be;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doune and dee.Her brow is like the snawdrift,Her throat is like the swan,Her face it is the fairestThat e'er the sun shone on,—That e'er the sun shone on;And dark blue is her e'e;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doune and dee.Like dew on the gowan lyingIs the fa' o' her fairy feet;Like the winds in summer sighing,Her voice is low and sweet,—Her voice is low and sweet;And she's a' the world to me;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doune and dee.
Maxwelton braes are bonnieWhere early fa's the dew,And it's there that Annie LaurieGie'd me her promise true,—Gie'd me her promise true,Which ne'er forgot will be;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doune and dee.
Her brow is like the snawdrift,Her throat is like the swan,Her face it is the fairestThat e'er the sun shone on,—That e'er the sun shone on;And dark blue is her e'e;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doune and dee.
Like dew on the gowan lyingIs the fa' o' her fairy feet;Like the winds in summer sighing,Her voice is low and sweet,—Her voice is low and sweet;And she's a' the world to me;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doune and dee.
William Douglas.
Photo of Bayard TaylorBAYARD TAYLOR.
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,The outer trenches guarding,When the heated guns of the camp alliedGrew weary of bombarding.The dark Redan, in silent scoff,Lay grim and threatening under;And the tawny mound of the MalakoffNo longer belched its thunder.There was a pause. A guardsman said:"We storm the forts to-morrow;Sing while we may, another dayWill bring enough of sorrow."They lay along the battery's side,Below the smoking cannon,—Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,And from the banks of Shannon.They sang of love, and not of fame;Forgot was Britain's glory;Each heart recalled a different name,But all sang "Annie Laurie."Voice after voice caught up the song,Until its tender passionRose like an anthem rich and strong,Their battle eve confession.Dear girl! her name he dared not speak;But as the song grew louder,Something upon the soldier's cheekWashed off the stains of powder.Beyond the darkening ocean burnedThe bloody sunset's embers,While the Crimean valleys learnedHow English love remembers.And once again a fire of hellRained on the Russian quarters,With scream of shot and burst of shell,And bellowing of the mortars!And Irish Nora's eyes are dimFor a singer dumb and gory;And English Mary mourns for himWho sang of "Annie Laurie."Sleep, soldiers! still in honored restYour truth and valor wearing;The bravest are the tenderest,—The loving are the daring.
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,The outer trenches guarding,When the heated guns of the camp alliedGrew weary of bombarding.
The dark Redan, in silent scoff,Lay grim and threatening under;And the tawny mound of the MalakoffNo longer belched its thunder.
There was a pause. A guardsman said:"We storm the forts to-morrow;Sing while we may, another dayWill bring enough of sorrow."
They lay along the battery's side,Below the smoking cannon,—Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,And from the banks of Shannon.
They sang of love, and not of fame;Forgot was Britain's glory;Each heart recalled a different name,But all sang "Annie Laurie."
Voice after voice caught up the song,Until its tender passionRose like an anthem rich and strong,Their battle eve confession.
Dear girl! her name he dared not speak;But as the song grew louder,Something upon the soldier's cheekWashed off the stains of powder.
Beyond the darkening ocean burnedThe bloody sunset's embers,While the Crimean valleys learnedHow English love remembers.
And once again a fire of hellRained on the Russian quarters,With scream of shot and burst of shell,And bellowing of the mortars!
And Irish Nora's eyes are dimFor a singer dumb and gory;And English Mary mourns for himWho sang of "Annie Laurie."
Sleep, soldiers! still in honored restYour truth and valor wearing;The bravest are the tenderest,—The loving are the daring.
Bayard Taylor.
Portrait of Ralph Waldo EmersonRALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clownOf thee from the hilltop looking down;The heifer that lows in the upland farm,Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm;The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,Deems not that great NapoleonStops his horse, and lists with delight,Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;Nor knowest thou what argumentThy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.All are needed by each one;Nothing is fair or good alone.I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,Singing at dawn on the alder bough;I brought him home, in his nest, at even;He sings the song, but it cheers not now,For I did not bring home the river and sky;He sang to my ear,—they sang to my eye.The delicate shells lay on the shore;The bubbles of the latest waveFresh pearls to their enamel gave,And the bellowing of the savage seaGreeted their safe escape to me.I wiped away the weeds and foam,I fetched my sea-born treasures home;But the poor, unsightly, noisome thingsHad left their beauty on the shoreWith the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.The lover watched his graceful maid,As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,Nor knew her beauty's best attireWas woven still by the snow-white choir.At last she came to his hermitage,Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;—The gay enchantment was undone,A gentle wife, but fairy none.Then I said, "I covet truth;Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;I leave it behind with the games of youth:"—As I spoke, beneath my feetThe ground pine curled its pretty wreath,Running over the club moss burs;I inhaled the violet's breath;Around me stood the oaks and firs;Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground;Over me soared the eternal sky,Full of light and of deity;Again I saw, again I heard,The rolling river, the morning bird;Beauty through my senses stole;I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clownOf thee from the hilltop looking down;The heifer that lows in the upland farm,Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm;The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,Deems not that great NapoleonStops his horse, and lists with delight,Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;Nor knowest thou what argumentThy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.All are needed by each one;Nothing is fair or good alone.I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,Singing at dawn on the alder bough;I brought him home, in his nest, at even;He sings the song, but it cheers not now,For I did not bring home the river and sky;He sang to my ear,—they sang to my eye.The delicate shells lay on the shore;The bubbles of the latest waveFresh pearls to their enamel gave,And the bellowing of the savage seaGreeted their safe escape to me.I wiped away the weeds and foam,I fetched my sea-born treasures home;But the poor, unsightly, noisome thingsHad left their beauty on the shoreWith the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.The lover watched his graceful maid,As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,Nor knew her beauty's best attireWas woven still by the snow-white choir.At last she came to his hermitage,Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;—The gay enchantment was undone,A gentle wife, but fairy none.Then I said, "I covet truth;Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;I leave it behind with the games of youth:"—As I spoke, beneath my feetThe ground pine curled its pretty wreath,Running over the club moss burs;I inhaled the violet's breath;Around me stood the oaks and firs;Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground;Over me soared the eternal sky,Full of light and of deity;Again I saw, again I heard,The rolling river, the morning bird;Beauty through my senses stole;I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,To please the desert and the sluggish brook.The purple petals, fallen in the pool,Made the black water with their beauty gay;Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool,And court the flower that cheapens his array.Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the earth and sky,Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,Then Beauty is its own excuse for being.Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!I never thought to ask, I never knew:But, in my simple ignorance, supposeThe selfsame Power that brought me there brought you.
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,To please the desert and the sluggish brook.The purple petals, fallen in the pool,Made the black water with their beauty gay;Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool,And court the flower that cheapens his array.Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the earth and sky,Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,Then Beauty is its own excuse for being.Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!I never thought to ask, I never knew:But, in my simple ignorance, supposeThe selfsame Power that brought me there brought you.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Cardinal Wolsey received at the AbbeyR. WESTALL.CARDINAL WOLSEY RECEIVED AT THE ABBEY.
R. WESTALL
CARDINAL WOLSEY RECEIVED AT THE ABBEY.
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!This is the state of man: to-day he puts forthThe tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surelyHis greatness is a ripening, nips his root,And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,This many summers in a sea of glory,But far beyond my depth: my high-blown prideAt length broke under me and now has left me,Weary and old with service, to the mercyOf a rude stream, that must forever hide me.Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretchedIs that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,More pangs and fears than wars or women have:And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,Never to hope again.
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!This is the state of man: to-day he puts forthThe tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surelyHis greatness is a ripening, nips his root,And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,This many summers in a sea of glory,But far beyond my depth: my high-blown prideAt length broke under me and now has left me,Weary and old with service, to the mercyOf a rude stream, that must forever hide me.Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretchedIs that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,More pangs and fears than wars or women have:And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,Never to hope again.
William Shakespeare.
From "Henry VIII."
Photo of John Greenleaf WhittierJOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawnWhich once he wore!The glory from his gray hairs goneForevermore!Revile him not,—the Tempter hathA snare for all;And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,Befit his fall!O, dumb be passion's stormy rage,When he who mightHave lighted up and led his age,Falls back in night.Scorn! would the angels laugh, to markA bright soul driven,Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,From hope and heaven!Let not the land once proud of himInsult him now,Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,Dishonored brow.But let its humbled sons, instead,From sea to lake,A long lament, as for the dead,In sadness make.Of all we loved and honored, naughtSave power remains,—A fallen angel's pride of thought,Still strong in chains.All else is gone: from those great eyesThe soul has fled:When faith is lost, when honor dies,The man is dead!Then, pay the reverence of old daysTo his dead fame;Walk backward, with averted gaze,And hide the shame!
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawnWhich once he wore!The glory from his gray hairs goneForevermore!
Revile him not,—the Tempter hathA snare for all;And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,Befit his fall!
O, dumb be passion's stormy rage,When he who mightHave lighted up and led his age,Falls back in night.
Scorn! would the angels laugh, to markA bright soul driven,Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,From hope and heaven!
Let not the land once proud of himInsult him now,Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,Dishonored brow.
But let its humbled sons, instead,From sea to lake,A long lament, as for the dead,In sadness make.
Of all we loved and honored, naughtSave power remains,—A fallen angel's pride of thought,Still strong in chains.
All else is gone: from those great eyesThe soul has fled:When faith is lost, when honor dies,The man is dead!
Then, pay the reverence of old daysTo his dead fame;Walk backward, with averted gaze,And hide the shame!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
Just for a handful of silver he left us,Just for a riband to stick in his coat—Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,Lost all the others she lets us devote;They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,So much was theirs who so little allowed:How all our copper had gone for his service!Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,Made him our pattern to live and to die!Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves!He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence;Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre;Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence,Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,One more devil's triumph, and sorrow for angels,One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,Never glad, confident morning again!Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,Menace our heart ere we master his own;Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
Just for a handful of silver he left us,Just for a riband to stick in his coat—Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,Lost all the others she lets us devote;They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,So much was theirs who so little allowed:How all our copper had gone for his service!Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,Made him our pattern to live and to die!Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves!He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence;Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre;Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence,Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,One more devil's triumph, and sorrow for angels,One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,Never glad, confident morning again!Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,Menace our heart ere we master his own;Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
Robert Browning.