LINES.[Written in the Tower, the night before his probably unjust execution for treason.]My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,My crop of corn is but a field of tares,And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain.The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;And now I live, and now my life is done!My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,My youth is past, and yet I am but young,I saw the world, and yet I was not seen.My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;And now I live, and now my life is done!I sought for death and found it in the wombe,I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade,I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe,And now I die, and now I am but made.The glass is full, and yet my glass is run;And now I live, and now my life is done!CHEDIOCK TICHEBORNE.
LINES.
[Written in the Tower, the night before his probably unjust execution for treason.]
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,My crop of corn is but a field of tares,And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain.The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;And now I live, and now my life is done!
My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,My youth is past, and yet I am but young,I saw the world, and yet I was not seen.My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;And now I live, and now my life is done!
I sought for death and found it in the wombe,I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade,I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe,And now I die, and now I am but made.The glass is full, and yet my glass is run;And now I live, and now my life is done!
CHEDIOCK TICHEBORNE.
HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS.FROM "THE NICE VALOUR," ACT III. SC. 3.Hence, all ye vain delights,As short as are the nightsWherein you spend your folly!There's naught in this life sweet,If man were wise to see'tBut only melancholy,O, sweetest melancholy!Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes,A sigh that piercing mortifies,A look that's fastened to the ground,A tongue chained up without a sound!Fountain-heads and pathless groves,Places which pale passion loves!Moonlight walks, when all the fowlsAre warmly housed save bats and owls!A midnight bell, a parting groan!These are the sounds we feed upon;Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley:Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.JOHN FLETCHER.
HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS.
FROM "THE NICE VALOUR," ACT III. SC. 3.
Hence, all ye vain delights,As short as are the nightsWherein you spend your folly!There's naught in this life sweet,If man were wise to see'tBut only melancholy,O, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes,A sigh that piercing mortifies,A look that's fastened to the ground,A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,Places which pale passion loves!Moonlight walks, when all the fowlsAre warmly housed save bats and owls!A midnight bell, a parting groan!These are the sounds we feed upon;Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley:Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
JOHN FLETCHER.
THE FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY.FROM "KING HENRY VIII.," ACT III. SC. 2.Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tearIn all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;And—when I am forgotten, as I shall be,And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mentionOf me more must be heard of—say, I taught thee,Say, Wolsey—that once trod the ways of glory,And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor—Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee:Corruption wins not more than honesty.Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell!Thou fall'st a blessed martyr.Serve the king; and—pr'ythee, lead me in:There take an inventory of all I have,To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,And my integrity to heaven, is allI dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!Had I but served my God with half the zealI served my king, he would not in mine ageHave left me naked to mine enemies!· · · · · ·Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!This is the state of man: to-day he puts forthThe tender leaves of hope; 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.SHAKESPEARE.
THE FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY.
FROM "KING HENRY VIII.," ACT III. SC. 2.
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tearIn all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;And—when I am forgotten, as I shall be,And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mentionOf me more must be heard of—say, I taught thee,Say, Wolsey—that once trod the ways of glory,And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor—Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee:Corruption wins not more than honesty.Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell!Thou fall'st a blessed martyr.Serve the king; and—pr'ythee, lead me in:There take an inventory of all I have,To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,And my integrity to heaven, is allI dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!Had I but served my God with half the zealI served my king, he would not in mine ageHave left me naked to mine enemies!
· · · · · ·
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!This is the state of man: to-day he puts forthThe tender leaves of hope; 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.
SHAKESPEARE.
THE APPROACH OF AGE.FROM "TALES OF THE HALL."Six years had passed, and forty ere the six,When Time began to play his usual tricks:The locks once comely in a virgin's sight,Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white;The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man.I rode or walked as I was wont before,But now the bounding spirit was no more;A moderate pace would now my body heat,A walk of moderate length distress my feet.I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime,But said, "The view is poor, we need not climb."At a friend's mansion I began to dreadThe cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed;At home I felt a more decided taste,And must have all things in my order placed.I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,—My dinner more; I learned to play at chess.I took my dog and gun, but saw the bruteWas disappointed that I did not shoot.My morning walks I now could bear to lose,And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose.In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;The active arm, the agile hand, were gone;Small daily actions into habits grew,And new dislike to forms and fashions new.I loved my trees in order to dispose;I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose;Told the same story oft,—in short, began to prose.GEORGE CRABBE.
THE APPROACH OF AGE.
FROM "TALES OF THE HALL."
Six years had passed, and forty ere the six,When Time began to play his usual tricks:The locks once comely in a virgin's sight,Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white;The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man.I rode or walked as I was wont before,But now the bounding spirit was no more;A moderate pace would now my body heat,A walk of moderate length distress my feet.I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime,But said, "The view is poor, we need not climb."At a friend's mansion I began to dreadThe cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed;At home I felt a more decided taste,And must have all things in my order placed.I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,—My dinner more; I learned to play at chess.I took my dog and gun, but saw the bruteWas disappointed that I did not shoot.My morning walks I now could bear to lose,And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose.In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;The active arm, the agile hand, were gone;Small daily actions into habits grew,And new dislike to forms and fashions new.I loved my trees in order to dispose;I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose;Told the same story oft,—in short, began to prose.
GEORGE CRABBE.
STANZASWRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.The sun is warm, the sky is clear,The waves are dancing fast and bright,Blue isles and snowy mountains wearThe purple noon's transparent light:The breath of the moist air is lightAround its unexpanded buds;Like many a voice of one delight,—The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods',—The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.I see the Deep's untrampled floorWith green and purple sea-weeds strown;I see the waves upon the shoreLike light dissolved in star-showers thrown:I sit upon the sands alone;The lightning of the noontide oceanIs flashing round me, and a toneArises from its measured motion,—How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion!Alas! I have nor hope nor health,Nor peace within nor calm around,Nor that Content surpassing wealthThe sage in meditation found,And walked with inward glory crowned,—Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.Others I see whom these surround;Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.Yet now despair itself is mildEven as the winds and waters are;I could lie down like a tired child,And weep away the life of careWhich I have borne, and yet must bear,Till death like sleep might steal on me,And I might feel in the warm airMy cheek grow cold, and hear the seaBreathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.Some might lament that I were cold,As I, when this sweet day is gone,Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,Insults with this untimely moan;They might lament,—for I am oneWhom men love not,—and yet regret,Unlike this day, which, when the sunShall on its stainless glory set,Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
STANZAS
WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.
The sun is warm, the sky is clear,The waves are dancing fast and bright,Blue isles and snowy mountains wearThe purple noon's transparent light:The breath of the moist air is lightAround its unexpanded buds;Like many a voice of one delight,—The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods',—The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
I see the Deep's untrampled floorWith green and purple sea-weeds strown;I see the waves upon the shoreLike light dissolved in star-showers thrown:I sit upon the sands alone;The lightning of the noontide oceanIs flashing round me, and a toneArises from its measured motion,—How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion!
Alas! I have nor hope nor health,Nor peace within nor calm around,Nor that Content surpassing wealthThe sage in meditation found,And walked with inward glory crowned,—Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.Others I see whom these surround;Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mildEven as the winds and waters are;I could lie down like a tired child,And weep away the life of careWhich I have borne, and yet must bear,Till death like sleep might steal on me,And I might feel in the warm airMy cheek grow cold, and hear the seaBreathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
Some might lament that I were cold,As I, when this sweet day is gone,Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,Insults with this untimely moan;They might lament,—for I am oneWhom men love not,—and yet regret,Unlike this day, which, when the sunShall on its stainless glory set,Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.[Written in the spring of 1819, when suffering from physical depression, the precursor of his death, which happened soon after.]My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness painsMy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drainsOne minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,But being too happy in thy happiness,—That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,In some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of Summer in full-throated ease.O for a draught of vintage, that hath beenCooled a long age in the deep delvèd earth,Tasting of Flora and the country-green,Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,And purple-stainèd mouth,—That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;Where but to think is to be full of sorrowAnd leaden-eyed despairs,Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.Away! away! for I will fly to thee,Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,Clustered around by all her starry Fays;But here there is no light,Save what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;And mid-May's eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.Darkling I listen; and for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death.Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath;Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight, with no pain.While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad,In such an ecstasy!—Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—To thy high requiem become a sod.Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that oft-times hathCharmed magic casements opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.Forlorn! the very word is like a bell,To toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is famed to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades:Was it a vision or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?JOHN KEATS.
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
[Written in the spring of 1819, when suffering from physical depression, the precursor of his death, which happened soon after.]
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness painsMy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drainsOne minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,But being too happy in thy happiness,—That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,In some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of Summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath beenCooled a long age in the deep delvèd earth,Tasting of Flora and the country-green,Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,And purple-stainèd mouth,—That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;Where but to think is to be full of sorrowAnd leaden-eyed despairs,Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,Clustered around by all her starry Fays;But here there is no light,Save what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;And mid-May's eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death.Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath;Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight, with no pain.While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad,In such an ecstasy!—Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that oft-times hathCharmed magic casements opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell,To toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is famed to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades:Was it a vision or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?
JOHN KEATS.
PERISHED.CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.Wave after wave of greenness rolling downFrom mountain top to base, a whispering seaOf affluent leaves through which the viewless breezeMurmurs mysteriously.And towering up amid the lesser throng,A giant oak, so desolately grand,Stretches its gray imploring arms to heavenIn agonized demand.Smitten by lightning from a summer sky,Or bearing in its heart a slow decay,What matter, since inexorable fateIs pitiless to slay.Ah, wayward soul, hedged in and clothed about,Doth not thy life's lost hope lift up its head,And, dwarfing present joys, proclaim aloud,—"Look on me, I am dead!"MARY LOUISE RITTER.
PERISHED.
CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.
Wave after wave of greenness rolling downFrom mountain top to base, a whispering seaOf affluent leaves through which the viewless breezeMurmurs mysteriously.
And towering up amid the lesser throng,A giant oak, so desolately grand,Stretches its gray imploring arms to heavenIn agonized demand.
Smitten by lightning from a summer sky,Or bearing in its heart a slow decay,What matter, since inexorable fateIs pitiless to slay.
Ah, wayward soul, hedged in and clothed about,Doth not thy life's lost hope lift up its head,And, dwarfing present joys, proclaim aloud,—"Look on me, I am dead!"
MARY LOUISE RITTER.
BYRON'S LATEST VERSES."On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year."—MISSOLONGHI, JANUARY 23, 1824.'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,Since others it has ceased to move:Yet, though I cannot be beloved,Still let me love!My days are in the yellow leaf,The flowers and fruits of love are gone:The worm, the canker, and the grief,Are mine alone.The fire that in my bosom preysIs like to some volcanic isle;No torch is kindled at its blaze,—A funeral pile.The hope, the fear, the jealous care,The exalted portion of the painAnd power of love, I cannot share,But wear the chain.But 'tis notthus,—and 'tis nothere,Such thoughts should shake my soul, nornow,Where glory decks the hero's bier,Or binds his brow.The sword, the banner, and the field,Glory and Greece about us see;The Spartan borne upon his shieldWas not more free.Awake!—not Greece,—she is awake!Awake my spirit! think through whomThy life-blood tastes its parent lake,And then strike home!Tread those reviving passions down,Unworthy manhood! unto theeIndifferent should the smile or frownOf beauty be.If thou regrett'st thy youth,—why live?The land of honorable deathIs here:—up to the field, and giveAway thy breath!Seek out—less often sought than found—A soldier's grave, for thee the best;Then look around, and choose thy ground,And take thy rest!LORD BYRON.
BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.
"On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year."—MISSOLONGHI, JANUARY 23, 1824.
'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,Since others it has ceased to move:Yet, though I cannot be beloved,Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf,The flowers and fruits of love are gone:The worm, the canker, and the grief,Are mine alone.
The fire that in my bosom preysIs like to some volcanic isle;No torch is kindled at its blaze,—A funeral pile.
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,The exalted portion of the painAnd power of love, I cannot share,But wear the chain.
But 'tis notthus,—and 'tis nothere,Such thoughts should shake my soul, nornow,Where glory decks the hero's bier,Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field,Glory and Greece about us see;The Spartan borne upon his shieldWas not more free.
Awake!—not Greece,—she is awake!Awake my spirit! think through whomThy life-blood tastes its parent lake,And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down,Unworthy manhood! unto theeIndifferent should the smile or frownOf beauty be.
If thou regrett'st thy youth,—why live?The land of honorable deathIs here:—up to the field, and giveAway thy breath!
Seek out—less often sought than found—A soldier's grave, for thee the best;Then look around, and choose thy ground,And take thy rest!
LORD BYRON.
A DOUBTING HEART.Where are the swallows fled?Frozen and deadPerchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.O doubting heart!Far over purple seasThey wait, in sunny ease,The balmy southern breezeTo bring them to their northern homes once more.Why must the flowers die?Prisoned they lieIn the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.O doubting heart!They only sleep belowThe soft white ermine snowWhile winter winds shall blow,To breathe and smile upon you soon again.The sun has hid its raysThese many days;Will dreary hours never leave the earth?O doubting heart!The stormy clouds on highVeil the same sunny skyThat soon, for spring is nigh,Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.Fair hope is dead, and lightIs quenched in night;What sound can break the silence of despair?O doubting heart!The sky is overcast,Yet stars shall rise at last,Brighter for darkness past;And angels' silver voices stir the air.ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
A DOUBTING HEART.
Where are the swallows fled?Frozen and deadPerchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.O doubting heart!Far over purple seasThey wait, in sunny ease,The balmy southern breezeTo bring them to their northern homes once more.
Why must the flowers die?Prisoned they lieIn the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.O doubting heart!They only sleep belowThe soft white ermine snowWhile winter winds shall blow,To breathe and smile upon you soon again.
The sun has hid its raysThese many days;Will dreary hours never leave the earth?O doubting heart!The stormy clouds on highVeil the same sunny skyThat soon, for spring is nigh,Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.
Fair hope is dead, and lightIs quenched in night;What sound can break the silence of despair?O doubting heart!The sky is overcast,Yet stars shall rise at last,Brighter for darkness past;And angels' silver voices stir the air.
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
THE VOICELESS.We count the broken lyres that restWhere the sweet wailing singers slumber,But o'er their silent sister's breastThe wild-flowers who will stoop to number?A few can touch the magic string,And noisy Fame is proud to win them:Alas for those that never sing,But die with all their music in them!Nay grieve not for the dead aloneWhose song has told their hearts' sad story,—Weep for the voiceless, who have knownThe cross without the crown of glory!Not where Leucadian breezes sweepO'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,But where the glistening night-dews weepOn nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.O hearts that break and give no signSave whitening lip and fading tresses,Till Death pours out his longed-for wineSlow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,—If singing breath or echoing chordTo every hidden pang were given,What endless melodies were poured,As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
THE VOICELESS.
We count the broken lyres that restWhere the sweet wailing singers slumber,But o'er their silent sister's breastThe wild-flowers who will stoop to number?A few can touch the magic string,And noisy Fame is proud to win them:Alas for those that never sing,But die with all their music in them!
Nay grieve not for the dead aloneWhose song has told their hearts' sad story,—Weep for the voiceless, who have knownThe cross without the crown of glory!Not where Leucadian breezes sweepO'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,But where the glistening night-dews weepOn nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.
O hearts that break and give no signSave whitening lip and fading tresses,Till Death pours out his longed-for wineSlow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,—If singing breath or echoing chordTo every hidden pang were given,What endless melodies were poured,As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
A LAMENT.O World! O Life! O Time!On whose last steps I climb,Trembling at that where I had stood before;When will return the glory of your prime?No more,—O nevermore!Out of the day and nightA joy has taken flight:Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoarMove my faint heart with grief, but with delightNo more,—O nevermore!PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
A LAMENT.
O World! O Life! O Time!On whose last steps I climb,Trembling at that where I had stood before;When will return the glory of your prime?No more,—O nevermore!
Out of the day and nightA joy has taken flight:Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoarMove my faint heart with grief, but with delightNo more,—O nevermore!
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
"WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE?"Spring it is cheery,Winter is dreary,Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;When he's forsaken,Withered and shaken,What can an old man do but die?Love will not clip him,Maids will not lip him,Maud and Marian pass him by;Youth it is sunny,Age has no honey,—What can an old man do but die?June it was jolly,O for its folly!A dancing leg and a laughing eye!Youth may be silly,Wisdom is chilly,—What can an old man do but die?Friends they are scanty,Beggars are plenty,If he has followers, I know why;Gold's in his clutches(Buying him crutches!)—What can an old man do but die?THOMAS HOOD.
"WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE?"
Spring it is cheery,Winter is dreary,Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;When he's forsaken,Withered and shaken,What can an old man do but die?
Love will not clip him,Maids will not lip him,Maud and Marian pass him by;Youth it is sunny,Age has no honey,—What can an old man do but die?
June it was jolly,O for its folly!A dancing leg and a laughing eye!Youth may be silly,Wisdom is chilly,—What can an old man do but die?
Friends they are scanty,Beggars are plenty,If he has followers, I know why;Gold's in his clutches(Buying him crutches!)—What can an old man do but die?
THOMAS HOOD.
OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way—I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray—I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told,As many another woman that's only half as old.Over the hill to the poor-house—I can't quite make it clear!Over the hill to the poor-house—it seems so horrid queer!Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame?Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout;But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.I am willin' and anxious an' ready any dayTo work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way;For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound,If anybody only is willin' to have me round.Once I was young an' han'some—I was, upon my soul—Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal;And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say,For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free,But many a house an' home was open then to me;Many a ban'some offer I had from likely men,And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart,But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part;For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong,And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay,With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way;Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat,An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one;Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done;Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn,But every couple's child'rn 's heap the best to them.Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!—I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons;And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray,I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown,And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone;When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be,The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me.Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall—Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown,Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile—She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;But if I ever tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.She had an edication, an' that was good for her;But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur;An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick),That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a rithmetic.So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done—They was a family of themselves, and I another one;And a very little cottage one family will do,But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two.An' I could never speak to suit her, never could please her eye,An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try;But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three,'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot;But all the child'rn was on me—I couldn't stand their sauce—And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West,And to Isaac, not far from her—some twenty miles at best;And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old,And t' other had an opinion the climate was too cold.So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about—So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out;But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.Over the hill to the poor-house—my child'rn dear, good by!Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;And God'll judge between us; but I will al'ays prayThat you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.WILL CARLETON.
OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.
Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way—I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray—I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told,As many another woman that's only half as old.
Over the hill to the poor-house—I can't quite make it clear!Over the hill to the poor-house—it seems so horrid queer!Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.
What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame?Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout;But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.
I am willin' and anxious an' ready any dayTo work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way;For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound,If anybody only is willin' to have me round.
Once I was young an' han'some—I was, upon my soul—Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal;And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say,For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.
'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free,But many a house an' home was open then to me;Many a ban'some offer I had from likely men,And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.
And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart,But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part;For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong,And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.
And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay,With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way;Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat,An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.
So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one;Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done;Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn,But every couple's child'rn 's heap the best to them.
Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!—I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons;And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray,I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.
Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown,And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone;When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be,The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me.
Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall—Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown,Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.
She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile—She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;But if I ever tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.
She had an edication, an' that was good for her;But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur;An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick),That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a rithmetic.
So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done—They was a family of themselves, and I another one;And a very little cottage one family will do,But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two.
An' I could never speak to suit her, never could please her eye,An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try;But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.
I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three,'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.
An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot;But all the child'rn was on me—I couldn't stand their sauce—And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.
An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West,And to Isaac, not far from her—some twenty miles at best;And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old,And t' other had an opinion the climate was too cold.
So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about—So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out;But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.
Over the hill to the poor-house—my child'rn dear, good by!Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;And God'll judge between us; but I will al'ays prayThat you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.
WILL CARLETON.
OLD.By the wayside, on a mossy stone,Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;Oft I marked him sitting there alone.All the landscape, like a page perusing;Poor, unknown,By the wayside, on a mossy stone.Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat;Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding;Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat;Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding;There he sat!Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat.Seemed it pitiful he should sit there,No one sympathizing, no one heeding,None to love him for his thin gray hair,And the furrows all so mutely pleadingAge and care:Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.It was summer, and we went to school,Dapper country lads and little maidens;Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool,"—Its grave import still my fancy ladens,—"Here's a fool!"It was summer, and we went to school.When the stranger seemed to mark our play,Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,I remember well, too well, that day!Oftentimes the tears unbidden started,Would not stayWhen the stranger seemed to mark our play.One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,O, to me her name was always Heaven!She besought him all his grief to tell,(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,)Isabel!One sweet spirit broke the silent spell."Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told."Then his eyes betrayed a pearl of sorrow,Down it rolled!"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old."I have tottered here to look once moreOn the pleasant scene where I delightedIn the careless, happy days of yore,Ere the garden of ray heart was blightedTo the core:I have tottered here to look once more."All the picture now to me how dear!E'en this old gray rock where I am seated,Is a jewel worth my journey here;Ah that such a scene must be completedWith a tear!All the picture now to me how dear!"Old stone school-house! it is still the same;There's the very step I so oft mounted;There's the window creaking in its frame,And the notches that I cut and countedFor the game.Old stone school-house, it is still the same."In the cottage yonder I was born;Long my happy home, that humble dwelling;There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn;There the spring with limpid nectar swelling;Ah, forlorn!In the cottage yonder I was born."Those two gateway sycamores you seeThen were planted just so far asunderThat long well-pole from the path to free,And the wagon to pass safely under;Ninety-three!Those two gateway sycamores you see."There's the orchard where we used to climbWhen my mates and I were boys together,Thinking nothing of the flight of time,Fearing naught but work and rainy weather;Past its prime!There's the orchard where we used to climb."There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails,Bound the pasture where the flocks were grazingWhere, so sly, I used to watch for quailsIn the crops of buckwheat we were raising;Traps and trails!There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails."There's the mill that ground our yellow grain;Pond and river still serenely flowing;Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,Where the lily of my heart was blowing,—Mary Jane!There's the mill that ground our yellow grain."There's the gate on which I used to swing,Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;But alas! no more the morn shall bringThat dear group around my father's table;Taken wing!There's the gate on which I used to swing."I am fleeing,—all I loved have fled.Yon green meadow was our place for playingThat old tree can tell of sweet things saidWhen around it Jane and I were straying;She is dead!I am fleeing,—all I loved have fled."Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,Tracing silently life's changeful story,So familiar to my dim eye,Points me to seven that are now in gloryThere on high!Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky."Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,Guided hither by an angel mother;Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod;Sire and sisters, and my little brother,Gone to God!Oft the aisle of that old church we trod."There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways;Bless the holy lesson!—but, ah, neverShall I hear again those songs of praise,Those sweet voices silent now forever!Peaceful days!There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways."There my Mary blessed me with her handWhen our souls drank in the nuptial blessings,Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing;Broken band!There my Mary blessed me with her hand."I have come to see that grave once more,And the sacred place where we delighted,Where we worshipped, in the days of yore,Ere the garden of my heart was blightedTo the care!I have come to see that grave once more."Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow,Now, why I sit here thou hast been told."In his eye another pearl of sorrow,Down it rolled!"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old."By the wayside, on a mossy stone,Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;Still I marked him sitting there alone,All the landscape, like a page, perusing;Poor, unknown!By the wayside, on a mossy stone.RALPH HOYT.
OLD.
By the wayside, on a mossy stone,Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;Oft I marked him sitting there alone.All the landscape, like a page perusing;Poor, unknown,By the wayside, on a mossy stone.
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat;Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding;Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat;Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding;There he sat!Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat.
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there,No one sympathizing, no one heeding,None to love him for his thin gray hair,And the furrows all so mutely pleadingAge and care:Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.
It was summer, and we went to school,Dapper country lads and little maidens;Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool,"—Its grave import still my fancy ladens,—"Here's a fool!"It was summer, and we went to school.
When the stranger seemed to mark our play,Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,I remember well, too well, that day!Oftentimes the tears unbidden started,Would not stayWhen the stranger seemed to mark our play.
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,O, to me her name was always Heaven!She besought him all his grief to tell,(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,)Isabel!One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.
"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told."Then his eyes betrayed a pearl of sorrow,Down it rolled!"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old.
"I have tottered here to look once moreOn the pleasant scene where I delightedIn the careless, happy days of yore,Ere the garden of ray heart was blightedTo the core:I have tottered here to look once more.
"All the picture now to me how dear!E'en this old gray rock where I am seated,Is a jewel worth my journey here;Ah that such a scene must be completedWith a tear!All the picture now to me how dear!
"Old stone school-house! it is still the same;There's the very step I so oft mounted;There's the window creaking in its frame,And the notches that I cut and countedFor the game.Old stone school-house, it is still the same.
"In the cottage yonder I was born;Long my happy home, that humble dwelling;There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn;There the spring with limpid nectar swelling;Ah, forlorn!In the cottage yonder I was born.
"Those two gateway sycamores you seeThen were planted just so far asunderThat long well-pole from the path to free,And the wagon to pass safely under;Ninety-three!Those two gateway sycamores you see.
"There's the orchard where we used to climbWhen my mates and I were boys together,Thinking nothing of the flight of time,Fearing naught but work and rainy weather;Past its prime!There's the orchard where we used to climb.
"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails,Bound the pasture where the flocks were grazingWhere, so sly, I used to watch for quailsIn the crops of buckwheat we were raising;Traps and trails!There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails.
"There's the mill that ground our yellow grain;Pond and river still serenely flowing;Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,Where the lily of my heart was blowing,—Mary Jane!There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.
"There's the gate on which I used to swing,Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;But alas! no more the morn shall bringThat dear group around my father's table;Taken wing!There's the gate on which I used to swing.
"I am fleeing,—all I loved have fled.Yon green meadow was our place for playingThat old tree can tell of sweet things saidWhen around it Jane and I were straying;She is dead!I am fleeing,—all I loved have fled.
"Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,Tracing silently life's changeful story,So familiar to my dim eye,Points me to seven that are now in gloryThere on high!Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.
"Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,Guided hither by an angel mother;Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod;Sire and sisters, and my little brother,Gone to God!Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.
"There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways;Bless the holy lesson!—but, ah, neverShall I hear again those songs of praise,Those sweet voices silent now forever!Peaceful days!There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.
"There my Mary blessed me with her handWhen our souls drank in the nuptial blessings,Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing;Broken band!There my Mary blessed me with her hand.
"I have come to see that grave once more,And the sacred place where we delighted,Where we worshipped, in the days of yore,Ere the garden of my heart was blightedTo the care!I have come to see that grave once more.
"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow,Now, why I sit here thou hast been told."In his eye another pearl of sorrow,Down it rolled!"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old."
By the wayside, on a mossy stone,Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;Still I marked him sitting there alone,All the landscape, like a page, perusing;Poor, unknown!By the wayside, on a mossy stone.
RALPH HOYT.
THE LAST LEAF.I saw him once before,As he passed by the door;And againThe pavement-stones resoundAs he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning-knife of timeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the crier on his roundThrough the town.But now he walks the streets,And he looks at all he meetsSo forlorn;And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he had pressedIn their bloom;And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.My grandmamma has said—Poor old lady! she is deadLong ago—That he had a Roman nose,And his cheek was like a roseIn the snow.But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff;And a crook is in his back,And the melancholy crackIn his laugh.I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here,But the old three-cornered hat,And the breeches,—and all that,Are so queer!And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
THE LAST LEAF.
I saw him once before,As he passed by the door;And againThe pavement-stones resoundAs he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.
They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning-knife of timeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the crier on his roundThrough the town.
But now he walks the streets,And he looks at all he meetsSo forlorn;And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."
The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he had pressedIn their bloom;And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.
My grandmamma has said—Poor old lady! she is deadLong ago—That he had a Roman nose,And his cheek was like a roseIn the snow.
But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff;And a crook is in his back,And the melancholy crackIn his laugh.
I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here,But the old three-cornered hat,And the breeches,—and all that,Are so queer!
And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
THE LAST LEAF.YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA.I've overlived aspirings,My fancies I disdain;The fruit of hollow-heartedness,Sufferings alone remain.'Neath cruel storms of FateWith my crown of bay,A sad and lonely life I lead,Waiting my latest day.Thus, struck by latter coldWhile howls the wintry wind,Trembles upon the naked boughThe last leaf left behind.From the Russian of ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN.Translation of JOHN POLLEN.
THE LAST LEAF.
YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA.
I've overlived aspirings,My fancies I disdain;The fruit of hollow-heartedness,Sufferings alone remain.
'Neath cruel storms of FateWith my crown of bay,A sad and lonely life I lead,Waiting my latest day.
Thus, struck by latter coldWhile howls the wintry wind,Trembles upon the naked boughThe last leaf left behind.
From the Russian of ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN.Translation of JOHN POLLEN.
PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGERPIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGERFrom lithograph after a crayon-drawing by H. Alophe.
THE OLD VAGABOND.Here in the ditch my bones I'll lay;Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave."He's drunk," the passing crowd will say'T is well, for none will need to grieve.Some turn their scornful heads away,Some fling an alms in hurrying by;—Haste,—'t is the village holyday!The aged beggar needs no help to die.Yes! here, alone, of sheer old ageI die; for hunger slays not all.I hoped my misery's closing pageTo fold within some hospital;But crowded thick is each retreat,Such numbers now in misery lie.Alas! my cradle was the street!As he was born the aged wretch must die.In youth, of workmen, o'er and o'er,I've asked, "Instruct me in your trade.""Begone!—our business is not moreThan keeps ourselves,—go, beg!" they said.Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread,Of bones your tables gave me store,Your straw has often made my bed;—In death I lay no curses at your door.Thus poor, I might have turned to theft;—No!—better still for alms to pray!At most, I've plucked some apple, leftTo ripen near the public way,Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laidIn the king's name, they let me pine;They stole the only wealth I had,—Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine.What country has the poor to claim?What boots to me your corn and wine,Your busy toil, your vaunted fame,The senate where your speakers shine?Once, when your homes, by war o'erswept,Saw strangers battening on your land,Like any puling fool, I wept!The aged wretch was nourished by their hand.Mankind! why trod you not the worm,The noxious thing, beneath your heel?Ah! had you taught me to performDue labor for the common weal!Then, sheltered from the adverse wind,The worm and ant had learned to grow;Ay,—then I might have loved my kind;—The aged beggar dies your bitter foe!From the French of PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER.
THE OLD VAGABOND.
Here in the ditch my bones I'll lay;Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave."He's drunk," the passing crowd will say'T is well, for none will need to grieve.Some turn their scornful heads away,Some fling an alms in hurrying by;—Haste,—'t is the village holyday!The aged beggar needs no help to die.
Yes! here, alone, of sheer old ageI die; for hunger slays not all.I hoped my misery's closing pageTo fold within some hospital;But crowded thick is each retreat,Such numbers now in misery lie.Alas! my cradle was the street!As he was born the aged wretch must die.
In youth, of workmen, o'er and o'er,I've asked, "Instruct me in your trade.""Begone!—our business is not moreThan keeps ourselves,—go, beg!" they said.Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread,Of bones your tables gave me store,Your straw has often made my bed;—In death I lay no curses at your door.
Thus poor, I might have turned to theft;—No!—better still for alms to pray!At most, I've plucked some apple, leftTo ripen near the public way,Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laidIn the king's name, they let me pine;They stole the only wealth I had,—Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine.
What country has the poor to claim?What boots to me your corn and wine,Your busy toil, your vaunted fame,The senate where your speakers shine?Once, when your homes, by war o'erswept,Saw strangers battening on your land,Like any puling fool, I wept!The aged wretch was nourished by their hand.
Mankind! why trod you not the worm,The noxious thing, beneath your heel?Ah! had you taught me to performDue labor for the common weal!Then, sheltered from the adverse wind,The worm and ant had learned to grow;Ay,—then I might have loved my kind;—The aged beggar dies your bitter foe!
From the French of PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER.
THE BEGGAR.Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheekHas been the channel to a stream of tears.Yon house, erected on the rising ground,With tempting aspect drew me from my road,For plenty there a residence has found,And grandeur a magnificent abode.(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)Here craving for a morsel of their bread,A pampered menial drove me from the door,To seek a shelter in the humble shed.O, take me to your hospitable dome,Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,For I am poor and miserably old.Should I reveal the source of every grief,If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,And tears of pity could not be repressed.Heaven sends misfortunes,—why should we repine?'T is Heaven has brought me to the state you see:And your condition may be soon like mine,The child of sorrow and of misery.A little farm was my paternal lot,Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.My daughter,—once the comfort of my age!Lured by a villain from her native home,Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage,And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.My tender wife,—sweet soother of my care!—Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,Fell,—lingering fell, a victim to despair,And left the world to wretchedness and me.Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!Whose trembling limbs have born him to your door,Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.THOMAS MOSS.
THE BEGGAR.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheekHas been the channel to a stream of tears.
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,With tempting aspect drew me from my road,For plenty there a residence has found,And grandeur a magnificent abode.
(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)Here craving for a morsel of their bread,A pampered menial drove me from the door,To seek a shelter in the humble shed.
O, take me to your hospitable dome,Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,For I am poor and miserably old.
Should I reveal the source of every grief,If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,And tears of pity could not be repressed.
Heaven sends misfortunes,—why should we repine?'T is Heaven has brought me to the state you see:And your condition may be soon like mine,The child of sorrow and of misery.
A little farm was my paternal lot,Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter,—once the comfort of my age!Lured by a villain from her native home,Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage,And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife,—sweet soother of my care!—Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,Fell,—lingering fell, a victim to despair,And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!Whose trembling limbs have born him to your door,Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
THOMAS MOSS.
A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER.THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS.The merry brown hares came leapingOver, the crest of the hill,Where the clover and corn lay sleeping,Under the moonlight still.Leaping late and early,Till under their bite and their tread,The swedes, and the wheat, and the barleyLay cankered, and trampled, and dead.A poacher's widow sat sighingOn the side of the white chalk bank,Where, under the gloom of fire-woods,One spot in the lea throve rank.She watched a long tuft of clover,Where rabbit or hare never ran,For its black sour haulm covered overThe blood of a murdered man.She thought of the dark plantation,And the hares, and her husband's blood,And the voice of her indignationRose up to the throne of God:"I am long past wailing and whining,I have wept too much in my life:I've had twenty years of piningAs an English laborer's wife."A laborer in Christian England,Where they cant of a Saviour's name,And yet waste men's lives like the vermin'sFor a few more brace of game."There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,There's blood on your pointer's feet;There's blood on the game you sell, squire,And there's blood on the game you eat."You have sold the laboring man, squire,Both body and soul to shame,To pay for your seat in the House, squire,And to pay for the feed of your game."You made him a poacher yourself, squire,When you'd give neither work nor meat,And your barley-fed hares robbed the gardenAt our starving children's feet;"When, packed in one reeking chamber,Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay;While the rain pattered in on the rotten bride-bed,And the walls let in the day;"When we lay in the burning fever,On the mud of the cold clay floor,Till you parted us all for three months, squire,At the cursèd workhouse door."We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders?What self-respect could we keep,Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers,Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?"Our daughters, with base-born babies,Have wandered away in their shame;If your misses had slept, squire, where they did,Your misses might do the same."Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking,With handfuls of coals and rice,Or by dealing out flannel and sheetingA little below cost price?"You may tire of the jail and the workhouse,And take to allotments and schools,But you 've run up a debt that will neverBe repaid us by penny-club rules."In the season of shame and sadness,In the dark and dreary day.When scrofula, gout, and madnessAre eating your race away;"When to kennels and liveried varletsYou have cast your daughters' bread,And, worn out with liquor and harlots,Your heir at your feet lies dead;"When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector,Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave,You will find in your God the protectorOf the freeman you fancied your slave."She looked at the tuft of clover,And wept till her heart grew light;And at last, when her passion was over,Went wandering into the night.But the merry brown hares came leapingOver the uplands still,Where the clover and corn lay sleepingOn the side of the white chalk hill.CHARLES KINGSLEY.
A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER.
THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS.
The merry brown hares came leapingOver, the crest of the hill,Where the clover and corn lay sleeping,Under the moonlight still.
Leaping late and early,Till under their bite and their tread,The swedes, and the wheat, and the barleyLay cankered, and trampled, and dead.
A poacher's widow sat sighingOn the side of the white chalk bank,Where, under the gloom of fire-woods,One spot in the lea throve rank.
She watched a long tuft of clover,Where rabbit or hare never ran,For its black sour haulm covered overThe blood of a murdered man.
She thought of the dark plantation,And the hares, and her husband's blood,And the voice of her indignationRose up to the throne of God:
"I am long past wailing and whining,I have wept too much in my life:I've had twenty years of piningAs an English laborer's wife.
"A laborer in Christian England,Where they cant of a Saviour's name,And yet waste men's lives like the vermin'sFor a few more brace of game.
"There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,There's blood on your pointer's feet;There's blood on the game you sell, squire,And there's blood on the game you eat.
"You have sold the laboring man, squire,Both body and soul to shame,To pay for your seat in the House, squire,And to pay for the feed of your game.
"You made him a poacher yourself, squire,When you'd give neither work nor meat,And your barley-fed hares robbed the gardenAt our starving children's feet;
"When, packed in one reeking chamber,Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay;While the rain pattered in on the rotten bride-bed,And the walls let in the day;
"When we lay in the burning fever,On the mud of the cold clay floor,Till you parted us all for three months, squire,At the cursèd workhouse door.
"We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders?What self-respect could we keep,Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers,Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?
"Our daughters, with base-born babies,Have wandered away in their shame;If your misses had slept, squire, where they did,Your misses might do the same.
"Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking,With handfuls of coals and rice,Or by dealing out flannel and sheetingA little below cost price?
"You may tire of the jail and the workhouse,And take to allotments and schools,But you 've run up a debt that will neverBe repaid us by penny-club rules.
"In the season of shame and sadness,In the dark and dreary day.When scrofula, gout, and madnessAre eating your race away;
"When to kennels and liveried varletsYou have cast your daughters' bread,And, worn out with liquor and harlots,Your heir at your feet lies dead;
"When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector,Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave,You will find in your God the protectorOf the freeman you fancied your slave."
She looked at the tuft of clover,And wept till her heart grew light;And at last, when her passion was over,Went wandering into the night.
But the merry brown hares came leapingOver the uplands still,Where the clover and corn lay sleepingOn the side of the white chalk hill.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.