HECTOR TO HIS WIFE.FROM THE ILIAD, BOOK VI.[The following extract is given as showing a more modern style of translation. It embraces the bracketed portion of the foregoing from Pope's version.]I too have thought of all this, dear wife, but I fear the reproachesBoth of the Trojan youths and the long-robed maidens of Troja,If like a cowardly churl I should keep me aloof from the combat:Nor would my spirit permit; for well I have learnt to be valiant,Fighting aye 'mong the first of the Trojans marshalled in battle,Striving to keep the renown of my sire and my own unattainted.Well, too well, do I know,—both my mind and my spirit agreeing,That there will be a day when sacred Troja shall perish.Priam will perish too, and the people of Priam, the spear-armed.Still, I have not such care for the Trojans doomed to destruction,No, nor for Hecuba's self, nor for Priam, the monarch, my father,Nor for my brothers' fate, who, though they be many and valiant,All in the dust may lie low by the hostile spears of Achaia,As for thee, when some youth of the brazen-mailed AchæansWeeping shall bear thee away, and bereave thee forever of freedom.Translation of E.C. HAWTREY.
HECTOR TO HIS WIFE.
FROM THE ILIAD, BOOK VI.
[The following extract is given as showing a more modern style of translation. It embraces the bracketed portion of the foregoing from Pope's version.]
I too have thought of all this, dear wife, but I fear the reproachesBoth of the Trojan youths and the long-robed maidens of Troja,If like a cowardly churl I should keep me aloof from the combat:Nor would my spirit permit; for well I have learnt to be valiant,Fighting aye 'mong the first of the Trojans marshalled in battle,Striving to keep the renown of my sire and my own unattainted.Well, too well, do I know,—both my mind and my spirit agreeing,That there will be a day when sacred Troja shall perish.Priam will perish too, and the people of Priam, the spear-armed.Still, I have not such care for the Trojans doomed to destruction,No, nor for Hecuba's self, nor for Priam, the monarch, my father,Nor for my brothers' fate, who, though they be many and valiant,All in the dust may lie low by the hostile spears of Achaia,As for thee, when some youth of the brazen-mailed AchæansWeeping shall bear thee away, and bereave thee forever of freedom.
Translation of E.C. HAWTREY.
TO LUCASTA.If to be absent were to beAway from thee;Or that, when I am gone,You or I were alone;Then, my Lucasta, might I cravePity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.But I'll not sigh one blast or galeTo swell my sail,Or pay a tear to 'suageThe foaming blue-god's rage;For, whether he will let me passOr no, I'm still as happy as I was.Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both,Our faith and troth,Like separated souls,All time and space controls:Above the highest sphere we meet,Unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet.So, then, we do anticipateOur after-fate,And are alive i' the skies,If thus our lips and eyesCan speak like spirits unconfinedIn heaven,—their earthly bodies left behind.RICHARD LOVELACE.
TO LUCASTA.
If to be absent were to beAway from thee;Or that, when I am gone,You or I were alone;Then, my Lucasta, might I cravePity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.
But I'll not sigh one blast or galeTo swell my sail,Or pay a tear to 'suageThe foaming blue-god's rage;For, whether he will let me passOr no, I'm still as happy as I was.
Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both,Our faith and troth,Like separated souls,All time and space controls:Above the highest sphere we meet,Unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet.
So, then, we do anticipateOur after-fate,And are alive i' the skies,If thus our lips and eyesCan speak like spirits unconfinedIn heaven,—their earthly bodies left behind.
RICHARD LOVELACE.
TO HER ABSENT SAILOR.FROM "THE TENT ON THE BEACH."Her window opens to the bay,On glistening light or misty gray,And there at dawn and set of dayIn prayer she kneels:"Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a homeFrom wind and wave the wanderers come;I only see the tossing foamOf stranger keels."Blown out and in by summer gales,The stately ships, with crowded sails,And sailors leaning o'er their rails,Before me glide;They come, they go, but nevermore,Spice-laden from the Indian shore,I see his swift-winged IsidoreThe waves divide."O Thou! with whom the night is dayAnd one the near and far away,Look out on yon gray waste, and sayWhere lingers he.Alive, perchance, on some lone beachOr thirsty isle beyond the reachOf man, he hears the mocking speechOf wind and sea."O dread and cruel deep, revealThe secret which thy waves conceal,And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheelAnd tell your tale.Let winds that tossed his raven hairA message from my lost one bear,—Some thought of me, a last fond prayerOr dying wail!"Come, with your dreariest truth shut outThe fears that haunt me round about;O God! I cannot bear this doubtThat stifles breath.The worst is better than the dread;Give me but leave to mourn my deadAsleep in trust and hope, insteadOf life in death!"It might have been the evening breezeThat whispered in the garden trees,It might have been the sound of seasThat rose and fell;But, with her heart, if not her ear,The old loved voice she seemed to hear:"I wait to meet thee: be of cheer,For all is well!"JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
TO HER ABSENT SAILOR.
FROM "THE TENT ON THE BEACH."
Her window opens to the bay,On glistening light or misty gray,And there at dawn and set of dayIn prayer she kneels:"Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a homeFrom wind and wave the wanderers come;I only see the tossing foamOf stranger keels.
"Blown out and in by summer gales,The stately ships, with crowded sails,And sailors leaning o'er their rails,Before me glide;They come, they go, but nevermore,Spice-laden from the Indian shore,I see his swift-winged IsidoreThe waves divide.
"O Thou! with whom the night is dayAnd one the near and far away,Look out on yon gray waste, and sayWhere lingers he.Alive, perchance, on some lone beachOr thirsty isle beyond the reachOf man, he hears the mocking speechOf wind and sea.
"O dread and cruel deep, revealThe secret which thy waves conceal,And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheelAnd tell your tale.Let winds that tossed his raven hairA message from my lost one bear,—Some thought of me, a last fond prayerOr dying wail!
"Come, with your dreariest truth shut outThe fears that haunt me round about;O God! I cannot bear this doubtThat stifles breath.The worst is better than the dread;Give me but leave to mourn my deadAsleep in trust and hope, insteadOf life in death!"
It might have been the evening breezeThat whispered in the garden trees,It might have been the sound of seasThat rose and fell;But, with her heart, if not her ear,The old loved voice she seemed to hear:"I wait to meet thee: be of cheer,For all is well!"
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
I LOVE MY JEAN.Of a' the airts* the wind can blaw,I dearly like the west;For there the bonnie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best.There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And monie a hill's between;But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair;I hear her in the tunefu' birds,I hear her charm the air;There's not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green;There's not a bonnie bird that sings,But minds me of my Jean.ROBERT BURNS.* The points of the compass.
I LOVE MY JEAN.
Of a' the airts* the wind can blaw,I dearly like the west;For there the bonnie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best.There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And monie a hill's between;But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair;I hear her in the tunefu' birds,I hear her charm the air;There's not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green;There's not a bonnie bird that sings,But minds me of my Jean.
ROBERT BURNS.
* The points of the compass.
JEANIE MORRISON.I've wandered east, I've wandered west,Through mony a weary way;But never, never can forgetThe luve o' life's young day!The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'enMay weel be black gin Yule;But blacker fa' awaits the heartWhere first fond luve grows cule.O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,The thochts o' bygane yearsStill fling their shadows ower my path,And blind my een wi' tears:They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,And sair and sick I pine,As memory idly summons upThe blithe blinks o' langsyne.'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,'Twas then we twa did part;Sweet time—sad time! twa bairns at scule,Twa bairns, and but ae heart!'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,To leir ilk ither lear;And tones and looks and smiles were shed,Remembered evermair.I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,When sitting on that bink,Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,What our wee heads could think.When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,Wi' ae buik on our knee,Thy lips were on thy lesson, butMy lesson was in thee.O, mind ye how we hung our heads,How cheeks brent red wi' shame,Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', saidWe cleeked thegither hame?And mind ye o' the Saturdays,(The scule then skail't at noon,)When we ran off to speel the braes,—The broomy braes o' June?My head rins round and round about,—My heart flows like a sea,As ane by ane the thochts rush backO' scule-time, and o' thee.O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!O lichtsome days and lang,When hinnied hopes around our heartsLike simmer blossoms sprang!O, mind ye, luve, how aft we leftThe deavin', dinsome toun,To wander by the green burnside,And hear its waters croon?The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,The flowers burst round our feet,And in the gloamin' o' the woodThe throssil whusslit sweet;The throssil whusslit in the woods,The burn sang to the trees,—And we, with nature's heart in tune,Concerted harmonies;And on the knowe abune the burn,For hours thegither satIn the silentness o' joy, till baithWi' very gladness grat.Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,Tears trickled doun your cheekLike dew-beads on a rose, yet naneHad ony power to speak!That was a time, a blessed time,When hearts were fresh and young,When freely gushed all feelings forth,Unsyllabled—unsung!I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,Gin I hae been to theeAs closely twined wi' earliest thochtsAs ye hae been to me?O, tell me gin their music fillsThine ear as it does mine!O, say gin e'er your heart grows gritWi' dreamings o' langsyne?I've wandered east, I've wandered west,I've borne a weary lot;But in my wanderings, far or near,Ye never were forgot.The fount that first burst frae this heartStill travels on its way;And channels deeper, as it rins,The luve o' life's young day.O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,Since we were sindered youngI've never seen your face nor heardThe music o' your tongue;But I could hug all wretchedness,And happy could I dee,Did I but ken your heart still dreamedO' bygane days and me!WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.
JEANIE MORRISON.
I've wandered east, I've wandered west,Through mony a weary way;But never, never can forgetThe luve o' life's young day!The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'enMay weel be black gin Yule;But blacker fa' awaits the heartWhere first fond luve grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,The thochts o' bygane yearsStill fling their shadows ower my path,And blind my een wi' tears:They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,And sair and sick I pine,As memory idly summons upThe blithe blinks o' langsyne.
'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,'Twas then we twa did part;Sweet time—sad time! twa bairns at scule,Twa bairns, and but ae heart!'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,To leir ilk ither lear;And tones and looks and smiles were shed,Remembered evermair.
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,When sitting on that bink,Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,What our wee heads could think.When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,Wi' ae buik on our knee,Thy lips were on thy lesson, butMy lesson was in thee.
O, mind ye how we hung our heads,How cheeks brent red wi' shame,Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', saidWe cleeked thegither hame?And mind ye o' the Saturdays,(The scule then skail't at noon,)When we ran off to speel the braes,—The broomy braes o' June?
My head rins round and round about,—My heart flows like a sea,As ane by ane the thochts rush backO' scule-time, and o' thee.O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!O lichtsome days and lang,When hinnied hopes around our heartsLike simmer blossoms sprang!
O, mind ye, luve, how aft we leftThe deavin', dinsome toun,To wander by the green burnside,And hear its waters croon?The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,The flowers burst round our feet,And in the gloamin' o' the woodThe throssil whusslit sweet;
The throssil whusslit in the woods,The burn sang to the trees,—And we, with nature's heart in tune,Concerted harmonies;And on the knowe abune the burn,For hours thegither satIn the silentness o' joy, till baithWi' very gladness grat.
Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,Tears trickled doun your cheekLike dew-beads on a rose, yet naneHad ony power to speak!That was a time, a blessed time,When hearts were fresh and young,When freely gushed all feelings forth,Unsyllabled—unsung!
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,Gin I hae been to theeAs closely twined wi' earliest thochtsAs ye hae been to me?O, tell me gin their music fillsThine ear as it does mine!O, say gin e'er your heart grows gritWi' dreamings o' langsyne?
I've wandered east, I've wandered west,I've borne a weary lot;But in my wanderings, far or near,Ye never were forgot.The fount that first burst frae this heartStill travels on its way;And channels deeper, as it rins,The luve o' life's young day.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,Since we were sindered youngI've never seen your face nor heardThe music o' your tongue;But I could hug all wretchedness,And happy could I dee,Did I but ken your heart still dreamedO' bygane days and me!
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.
O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLIE?O, saw ye bonnie LeslieAs she gaed 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 forever;For nature made her what she is,And ne'er made sic anither!Thou art a queen, fair Leslie,Thy subjects we, before thee;Thou art divine, fair Leslie,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 lovelyThat ill they'll ne'er let near thee.Return again, fair Leslie,Return to Caledonie!That we may brag we hae a lassThere's nane again sae bonnie.ROBERT BURNS.* Harm.
O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLIE?
O, saw ye bonnie LeslieAs she gaed 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 forever;For nature made her what she is,And ne'er made sic anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Leslie,Thy subjects we, before thee;Thou art divine, fair Leslie,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 lovelyThat ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Leslie,Return to Caledonie!That we may brag we hae a lassThere's nane again sae bonnie.
ROBERT BURNS.
* Harm.
THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN.O, wad that my time were owre but,Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw,That I might see our house again,I' the bonnie birken shaw!For this is no my ain life,And I peak and pine awayWi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers,In the glad green month of May.I used to wauk in the morningWi' the loud sang o' the lark,And the whistling o' the ploughman lads,As they gaed to their wark;I used to wear the bit young lambsFrae the tod and the roaring stream;But the warld is changed, and a' thing nowTo me seems like a dream.There are busy crowds around me,On ilka lang dull street;Yet, though sae mony surround me,I ken na are I meet:And I think o' kind kent faces,And o' blithe an' cheery days,When I wandered out wi' our ain folk,Out owre the simmer braes.Waes me, for my heart is breaking!I think o' my brither sma',And on my sister greeting,When I cam frae hame awa.And O, how my mither sobbit,As she shook me by the hand,When I left the door o' our auld house,To come to this stranger land.There's nae hame like our ain hame—O, I wush that I were there!There's nae hame like our ain hameTo be met wi' onywhere;And O that I were back again,To our farm and fields sae green;And heard the tongues o' my ain folk,And were what I hae been!DAVID MACBETH MOIR.
THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN.
O, wad that my time were owre but,Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw,That I might see our house again,I' the bonnie birken shaw!For this is no my ain life,And I peak and pine awayWi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers,In the glad green month of May.
I used to wauk in the morningWi' the loud sang o' the lark,And the whistling o' the ploughman lads,As they gaed to their wark;I used to wear the bit young lambsFrae the tod and the roaring stream;But the warld is changed, and a' thing nowTo me seems like a dream.
There are busy crowds around me,On ilka lang dull street;Yet, though sae mony surround me,I ken na are I meet:And I think o' kind kent faces,And o' blithe an' cheery days,When I wandered out wi' our ain folk,Out owre the simmer braes.
Waes me, for my heart is breaking!I think o' my brither sma',And on my sister greeting,When I cam frae hame awa.And O, how my mither sobbit,As she shook me by the hand,When I left the door o' our auld house,To come to this stranger land.
There's nae hame like our ain hame—O, I wush that I were there!There's nae hame like our ain hameTo be met wi' onywhere;And O that I were back again,To our farm and fields sae green;And heard the tongues o' my ain folk,And were what I hae been!
DAVID MACBETH MOIR.
ABSENCEABSENCE"What shall I do with all the days and hoursThat must be counted ere I see thy face?"From a photograph by the Berlin Photographic Co., after a painting by R. Pötzelberger.
ABSENCE.What shall I do with all the days and hoursThat must be counted ere I see thy face?How shall I charm the interval that lowersBetween this time and that sweet time of grace?Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,Weary with longing?—shall I flee awayInto past days, and with some fond pretenceCheat myself to forget the present day?Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sinOf casting from me God's great gift of time?Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?O, how or by what means may I contriveTo bring the hour that brings thee back more near?How may I teach my drooping hope to liveUntil that blessèd time, and thou art here?I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay holdOf all good aims, and consecrate to thee,In worthy deeds, each moment that is toldWhile thou, belovèd one! art far from me.For thee I will arouse my thoughts to tryAll heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;For thy dear sake I will walk patientlyThrough these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.I will this dreary blank of absence makeA noble task-time; and will therein striveTo follow excellence, and to o'ertakeMore good than I have won since yet I live.So may this doomèd time build up in meA thousand graces, which shall thus be thine;So may my love and longing hallowed be,And thy dear thought an influence divine.FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.
ABSENCE.
What shall I do with all the days and hoursThat must be counted ere I see thy face?How shall I charm the interval that lowersBetween this time and that sweet time of grace?
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,Weary with longing?—shall I flee awayInto past days, and with some fond pretenceCheat myself to forget the present day?
Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sinOf casting from me God's great gift of time?Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?
O, how or by what means may I contriveTo bring the hour that brings thee back more near?How may I teach my drooping hope to liveUntil that blessèd time, and thou art here?
I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay holdOf all good aims, and consecrate to thee,In worthy deeds, each moment that is toldWhile thou, belovèd one! art far from me.
For thee I will arouse my thoughts to tryAll heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;For thy dear sake I will walk patientlyThrough these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.
I will this dreary blank of absence makeA noble task-time; and will therein striveTo follow excellence, and to o'ertakeMore good than I have won since yet I live.
So may this doomèd time build up in meA thousand graces, which shall thus be thine;So may my love and longing hallowed be,And thy dear thought an influence divine.
FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.
ROBIN ADAIR.What's this dull town to me?Robin's not near,—He whom I wished to see,Wished for to hear;Where's all the joy and mirthMade life a heaven on earth,O, they're all fled with thee,Robin Adair!What made the assembly shine?Robin Adair:What made the ball so fine?Robin was there:What, when the play was o'er,What made my heart so sore?O, it was parting withRobin Adair!But now thou art far from me,Robin Adair;But now I never seeRobin Adair;Yet him I loved so wellStill in my heart shall dwell;O, I can ne'er forgetRobin Adair!Welcome on shore again,Robin Adair!Welcome once more again,Robin Adair!I feel thy trembling hand;Tears in thy eyelids stand,To greet thy native land,Robin Adair!Long I ne'er saw thee, love,Robin Adair;Still I prayed for thee, love,Robin Adair;When thou wert far at sea,Many made love to me,But still I thought on thee,Robin Adair.Come to my heart again,Robin Adair;Never to part again,Robin Adair;And if thou still art true,I will be constant too,And will wed none but you,Robin Adair!LADY CAROLINE KEPPEL.
ROBIN ADAIR.
What's this dull town to me?Robin's not near,—He whom I wished to see,Wished for to hear;Where's all the joy and mirthMade life a heaven on earth,O, they're all fled with thee,Robin Adair!
What made the assembly shine?Robin Adair:What made the ball so fine?Robin was there:What, when the play was o'er,What made my heart so sore?O, it was parting withRobin Adair!
But now thou art far from me,Robin Adair;But now I never seeRobin Adair;Yet him I loved so wellStill in my heart shall dwell;O, I can ne'er forgetRobin Adair!
Welcome on shore again,Robin Adair!Welcome once more again,Robin Adair!I feel thy trembling hand;Tears in thy eyelids stand,To greet thy native land,Robin Adair!
Long I ne'er saw thee, love,Robin Adair;Still I prayed for thee, love,Robin Adair;When thou wert far at sea,Many made love to me,But still I thought on thee,Robin Adair.
Come to my heart again,Robin Adair;Never to part again,Robin Adair;And if thou still art true,I will be constant too,And will wed none but you,Robin Adair!
LADY CAROLINE KEPPEL.
DAISY.Where the thistle lifts a purple crownSix foot out of the turf,And the harebell shakes on the windy hill—O the breath of the distant surf!—The hills look over on the South,And southward dreams the sea;And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand,Came innocence and she.Where 'mid the gorse the raspberryRed for the gatherer springs,Two children did we stray and talkWise, idle, childish things.She listened with big-lipped surprise,Breast-deep mid flower and spine:Her skin was like a grape, whose veinsRun snow instead of wine.She knew not those sweet words she spake.Nor knew her own sweet way;But there's never a bird, so sweet a songThronged in whose throat that day!Oh, there were flowers in StorringtonOn the turf and on the sprays;But the sweetest flower on Sussex hillsWas the Daisy-flower that day!Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face!She gave me tokens three:—A look, a word of her winsome mouth,And a wild raspberry.A berry red, a guileless look,A still word,—strings of sand!And yet they made my wild, wild heartFly down to her little hand.For standing artless as the air,And candid as the skies,She took the berries with her hand,And the love with her sweet eyes.The fairest things have fleetest end:Their scent survives their close,But the rose's scent is bitternessTo him that loved the rose!She looked a little wistfully,Then went her sunshine way:—The sea's eye had a mist on it,And the leaves fell from the day.She went her unremembering way,She went and left in meThe pang of all the partings gone,And partings yet to be.She left me marvelling why my soulWas sad that she was glad;At all the sadness in the sweet,The sweetness in the sad.Still, still I seemed to see her, stillLook up with soft replies,And take the berries with her hand,And the love with her lovely eyes.Nothing begins, and nothing ends,That is not paid with moan;For we are born in others' pain,And perish in our own.FRANCIS THOMPSON.
DAISY.
Where the thistle lifts a purple crownSix foot out of the turf,And the harebell shakes on the windy hill—O the breath of the distant surf!—
The hills look over on the South,And southward dreams the sea;And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand,Came innocence and she.
Where 'mid the gorse the raspberryRed for the gatherer springs,Two children did we stray and talkWise, idle, childish things.
She listened with big-lipped surprise,Breast-deep mid flower and spine:Her skin was like a grape, whose veinsRun snow instead of wine.
She knew not those sweet words she spake.Nor knew her own sweet way;But there's never a bird, so sweet a songThronged in whose throat that day!
Oh, there were flowers in StorringtonOn the turf and on the sprays;But the sweetest flower on Sussex hillsWas the Daisy-flower that day!
Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face!She gave me tokens three:—A look, a word of her winsome mouth,And a wild raspberry.
A berry red, a guileless look,A still word,—strings of sand!And yet they made my wild, wild heartFly down to her little hand.
For standing artless as the air,And candid as the skies,She took the berries with her hand,And the love with her sweet eyes.
The fairest things have fleetest end:Their scent survives their close,But the rose's scent is bitternessTo him that loved the rose!
She looked a little wistfully,Then went her sunshine way:—The sea's eye had a mist on it,And the leaves fell from the day.
She went her unremembering way,She went and left in meThe pang of all the partings gone,And partings yet to be.
She left me marvelling why my soulWas sad that she was glad;At all the sadness in the sweet,The sweetness in the sad.
Still, still I seemed to see her, stillLook up with soft replies,And take the berries with her hand,And the love with her lovely eyes.
Nothing begins, and nothing ends,That is not paid with moan;For we are born in others' pain,And perish in our own.
FRANCIS THOMPSON.
SONG OF EGLA.Day, in melting purple dying;Blossoms, all around me sighing;Fragrance, from the lilies straying;Zephyr, with my ringlets playing;Ye but waken my distress;I am sick of loneliness!Thou, to whom I love to hearken,Come, ere night around me darken;Though thy softness but deceive me,Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee;Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,Let me think it innocent!Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure;All I ask is friendship's pleasure;Let the shining ore lie darkling,—Bring no gem in lustre sparkling;Gifts and gold are naught to me,I would only look on thee!Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,Ecstasy but in revealing;Paint to thee the deep sensation,Rapture in participation;Yet but torture, if comprestIn a lone, unfriended breast.Absent still! Ah! come and bless me!Let these eyes again caress thee.Once in caution, I could fly thee;Now, I nothing could deny thee.In a look if death there be,Come, and I will gaze on thee!MARIA GOWEN BROOKS (Maria del Occidente).
SONG OF EGLA.
Day, in melting purple dying;Blossoms, all around me sighing;Fragrance, from the lilies straying;Zephyr, with my ringlets playing;Ye but waken my distress;I am sick of loneliness!
Thou, to whom I love to hearken,Come, ere night around me darken;Though thy softness but deceive me,Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee;Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,Let me think it innocent!
Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure;All I ask is friendship's pleasure;Let the shining ore lie darkling,—Bring no gem in lustre sparkling;Gifts and gold are naught to me,I would only look on thee!
Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,Ecstasy but in revealing;Paint to thee the deep sensation,Rapture in participation;Yet but torture, if comprestIn a lone, unfriended breast.
Absent still! Ah! come and bless me!Let these eyes again caress thee.Once in caution, I could fly thee;Now, I nothing could deny thee.In a look if death there be,Come, and I will gaze on thee!
MARIA GOWEN BROOKS (Maria del Occidente).
WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?What ails this heart o' mine?What ails this watery ee?What gars me a' turn pale as deathWhen I take leave o' thee?Whea thou art far awa',Thou'lt dearer grow to me;But change o' place and change o' folkMay gar thy fancy jee.When I gae out at e'en,Or walk at morning air,Ilk rustling bush will seem to sayI used to meet thee there:Then I'll sit down and cry,And live aneath the tree,And when a leaf fa's i' my lap,I'll ca't a word frae thee.I'll hie me to the bowerThat thou wi' roses tied,And where wi' mony a blushing budI strove myself to hide.I'll doat on ilka spotWhere I ha'e been wi' thee;And ca' to mind some kindly wordBy ilka burn and tree.SUSANNA BLAMIRE.
WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?
What ails this heart o' mine?What ails this watery ee?What gars me a' turn pale as deathWhen I take leave o' thee?Whea thou art far awa',Thou'lt dearer grow to me;But change o' place and change o' folkMay gar thy fancy jee.
When I gae out at e'en,Or walk at morning air,Ilk rustling bush will seem to sayI used to meet thee there:Then I'll sit down and cry,And live aneath the tree,And when a leaf fa's i' my lap,I'll ca't a word frae thee.
I'll hie me to the bowerThat thou wi' roses tied,And where wi' mony a blushing budI strove myself to hide.I'll doat on ilka spotWhere I ha'e been wi' thee;And ca' to mind some kindly wordBy ilka burn and tree.
SUSANNA BLAMIRE.
LOVE'S MEMORY.FROM "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL," ACT I. SC. I.I am undone: there is no living, none,If Bertram be away. It were all one,That I should love a bright particular star,And think to wed it, he is so above me:In his bright radiance and collateral lightMust I be comforted, not in his sphere.The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:The hind that would be mated by the lionMust die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,To see him every hour; to sit and drawHis archèd brows, his hawking eye, his curls,In our heart's table,—heart too capableOf every line and trick of his sweet favor:But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancyMust sanctify his relics.SHAKESPEARE.
LOVE'S MEMORY.
FROM "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL," ACT I. SC. I.
I am undone: there is no living, none,If Bertram be away. It were all one,That I should love a bright particular star,And think to wed it, he is so above me:In his bright radiance and collateral lightMust I be comforted, not in his sphere.The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:The hind that would be mated by the lionMust die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,To see him every hour; to sit and drawHis archèd brows, his hawking eye, his curls,In our heart's table,—heart too capableOf every line and trick of his sweet favor:But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancyMust sanctify his relics.
SHAKESPEARE.
ABSENCE.When I think on the happy daysI spent wi' you, my dearie;And now what lands between us lie,How can I be but eerie!How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,As ye were wae and weary!It was na sae ye glinted byWhen I was wi' my dearie.ANONYMOUS.
ABSENCE.
When I think on the happy daysI spent wi' you, my dearie;And now what lands between us lie,How can I be but eerie!
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,As ye were wae and weary!It was na sae ye glinted byWhen I was wi' my dearie.
ANONYMOUS.
THINKIN' LONG.Oh thinkin' long's the weary work!It breaks my heart from dawnTill all the wee, wee, friendly starsCome out at dayli'gone.An' thinkin' long's the weary work,When I must spin and spin,To drive the fearsome fancies out,An' hold the hopeful in!Ah, sure my lad is far away!My lad who left our glenWhen from the soul of Ireland cameA call for fightin' men;I miss his gray eyes glancin' bright,I miss his liltin' song,And that is why, the lonesome day,I'm always thinkin' long.May God's kind angels guard himWhen the fray is fierce and grim,And blunt the point of every swordThat turns its hate on him.Where round the torn yet dear green flagThe brave and lovin' throng—But the lasses of Glenwherry smileAt me for thinkin' long.ANNA MAC MANUS (Ethna Carbery).
THINKIN' LONG.
Oh thinkin' long's the weary work!It breaks my heart from dawnTill all the wee, wee, friendly starsCome out at dayli'gone.An' thinkin' long's the weary work,When I must spin and spin,To drive the fearsome fancies out,An' hold the hopeful in!
Ah, sure my lad is far away!My lad who left our glenWhen from the soul of Ireland cameA call for fightin' men;I miss his gray eyes glancin' bright,I miss his liltin' song,And that is why, the lonesome day,I'm always thinkin' long.
May God's kind angels guard himWhen the fray is fierce and grim,And blunt the point of every swordThat turns its hate on him.Where round the torn yet dear green flagThe brave and lovin' throng—But the lasses of Glenwherry smileAt me for thinkin' long.
ANNA MAC MANUS (Ethna Carbery).
"TEARS, IDLE TEARS."FROM "THE PRINCESS."Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,Tears from the depth of some divine despairRise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,In looking on the happy autumn fields,And thinking of the days that are no more.Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,That brings our friends up from the under world;Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge,—So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awakened birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.Dear as remembered kisses after death,And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feignedOn lips that are for others; deep as love,Deep as first love and wild with all regret,—O Death in Life, the days that are no more.ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
"TEARS, IDLE TEARS."
FROM "THE PRINCESS."
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,Tears from the depth of some divine despairRise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,In looking on the happy autumn fields,And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,That brings our friends up from the under world;Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge,—So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awakened birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feignedOn lips that are for others; deep as love,Deep as first love and wild with all regret,—O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.I have had playmates, I have had companions,In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I have been laughing, I have been carousing,Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I loved a Love once, fairest among women:Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her,—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,Seeking to find the old familiar faces.Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?So might we talk of the old familiar faces.How some they have died, and some they have left me,And some are taken from me; all are departed;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.CHARLES LAMB.
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
I have had playmates, I have had companions,In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing,Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a Love once, fairest among women:Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her,—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?So might we talk of the old familiar faces.
How some they have died, and some they have left me,And some are taken from me; all are departed;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
CHARLES LAMB.
COME TO ME, DEAREST.Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee,Daytime and night-time, I'm thinking about thee;Night-time and daytime, in dreams I behold thee;Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee.Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten,Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten;Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly,Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy.Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin,Telling of spring and its joyous renewing;And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure,Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure.O Spring of my spirit, O May of my bosom,Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom;The waste of my life has a rose-root within it,And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it.Figure that moves like a song through the even;Features lit up by a reflex of heaven;Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother,Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other;Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple,Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple;—O, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seemingIs left to the exile to brighten his dreaming.You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened;Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened?Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love,As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love:I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing,You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing;I would not die without you at my side, love,You will not linger when I shall have died, love.Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow,Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow;Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love,With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love.Come, for my heart in your absence is weary,—Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary,—Come to the arms which alone should caress thee.Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee!JOSEPH BRENAN.
COME TO ME, DEAREST.
Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee,Daytime and night-time, I'm thinking about thee;Night-time and daytime, in dreams I behold thee;Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee.Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten,Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten;Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly,Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy.
Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin,Telling of spring and its joyous renewing;And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure,Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure.O Spring of my spirit, O May of my bosom,Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom;The waste of my life has a rose-root within it,And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it.
Figure that moves like a song through the even;Features lit up by a reflex of heaven;Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother,Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other;Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple,Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple;—O, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seemingIs left to the exile to brighten his dreaming.
You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened;Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened?Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love,As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love:I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing,You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing;I would not die without you at my side, love,You will not linger when I shall have died, love.
Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow,Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow;Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love,With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love.Come, for my heart in your absence is weary,—Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary,—Come to the arms which alone should caress thee.Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee!
JOSEPH BRENAN.
THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.Linger not long. Home is not home without thee:Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn.O, let its memory, like a chain about thee,Gently compel and hasten thy return!Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying,Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear,Compensate for the grief thy long delayingCosts the fond heart that sighs to have thee here?Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming,As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell;When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming,And silence hangs on all things like a spell!How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger,As night grows dark and darker on the hill!How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer!Ah! art thou absent, art thou absent still?Yet I shall grieve not, though the eye that seeth meGazeth through tears that makes its splendor dull;For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me,My cup of happiness is all too full.Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling,Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest!Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and swelling,Flies to its haven of securest rest!ANONYMOUS.
THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.
Linger not long. Home is not home without thee:Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn.O, let its memory, like a chain about thee,Gently compel and hasten thy return!
Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying,Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear,Compensate for the grief thy long delayingCosts the fond heart that sighs to have thee here?
Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming,As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell;When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming,And silence hangs on all things like a spell!
How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger,As night grows dark and darker on the hill!How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer!Ah! art thou absent, art thou absent still?
Yet I shall grieve not, though the eye that seeth meGazeth through tears that makes its splendor dull;For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me,My cup of happiness is all too full.
Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling,Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest!Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and swelling,Flies to its haven of securest rest!
ANONYMOUS.
MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME.NEGRO SONG.The sun shines bright on our old Kentucky home;'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay;The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom,While the birds make music all the day;The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,All merry, all happy, all bright;By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door,—Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!CHORUS.Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day!We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home,For our old Kentucky home far away.They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,On the bench by the old cabin door;The day goes by, like the shadow o'er the heart,With sorrow where all was delight;The time has come, when the darkeys have to part,Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!Weep no more, my lady, etc.The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,Wherever the darkey may go;A few more days, and the troubles all will end,In the field where the sugar-canes grow;A few more days to tote the weary load,No matter, it will never be light;A few more days till we totter on the road,Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day!We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home,For our old Kentucky home far away.STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.
MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME.
NEGRO SONG.
The sun shines bright on our old Kentucky home;'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay;The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom,While the birds make music all the day;The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,All merry, all happy, all bright;By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door,—Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!
CHORUS.
Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day!We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home,For our old Kentucky home far away.
They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,On the bench by the old cabin door;The day goes by, like the shadow o'er the heart,With sorrow where all was delight;The time has come, when the darkeys have to part,Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!
Weep no more, my lady, etc.
The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,Wherever the darkey may go;A few more days, and the troubles all will end,In the field where the sugar-canes grow;A few more days to tote the weary load,No matter, it will never be light;A few more days till we totter on the road,Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!
Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day!We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home,For our old Kentucky home far away.
STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.
OLD FOLKS AT HOME.Way down upon de Swanee Ribber,Far, far away,Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber,Dere's wha de old folks stay.All up and down de whole creationSadly I roam,Still longing for de old plantation,And for de old folks at home.All de world am sad and dreary,Ebery where I roam;Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,Far from de old folks at home!All round de little farm I wanderedWhen I was young,Den many happy days I squandered,Many de songs I sung.When I was playing wid my brudderHappy was I;Oh, take me to my kind old mudder!Dere let me live and die.One little hut among de bushes,One dat I love,Still sadly to my memory rushes,No matter where I rove.When will I see de bees a-hummingAll round de comb?When will I hear de banjo tumming,Down in my good old home?All de world am sad and dreary,Ebery where I roam;Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,Far from de old folks at home!STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.
OLD FOLKS AT HOME.
Way down upon de Swanee Ribber,Far, far away,Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber,Dere's wha de old folks stay.All up and down de whole creationSadly I roam,Still longing for de old plantation,And for de old folks at home.
All de world am sad and dreary,Ebery where I roam;Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,Far from de old folks at home!
All round de little farm I wanderedWhen I was young,Den many happy days I squandered,Many de songs I sung.When I was playing wid my brudderHappy was I;Oh, take me to my kind old mudder!Dere let me live and die.
One little hut among de bushes,One dat I love,Still sadly to my memory rushes,No matter where I rove.When will I see de bees a-hummingAll round de comb?When will I hear de banjo tumming,Down in my good old home?
All de world am sad and dreary,Ebery where I roam;Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,Far from de old folks at home!
STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.
THE PRESENT GOOD.FROM "THE TASK," BOOK VI.Not to understand a treasure's worthTill time has stol'n away the slighted good,Is cause of half the poverty we feel,And makes the world the wilderness it is.WILLIAM COWPER.
THE PRESENT GOOD.
FROM "THE TASK," BOOK VI.
Not to understand a treasure's worthTill time has stol'n away the slighted good,Is cause of half the poverty we feel,And makes the world the wilderness it is.
WILLIAM COWPER.
MAN.In his own image the Creator made,His own pure sunbeam quickened thee, O man!Thou breathing dial! since the day beganThe present hour was ever marked with shade!WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
MAN.
In his own image the Creator made,His own pure sunbeam quickened thee, O man!Thou breathing dial! since the day beganThe present hour was ever marked with shade!
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
THE WORLD.The World's a bubble, and the Life of ManLess than a span:In his conception wretched, from the womb,So to the tomb;Curst from his cradle, and brought up to yearsWith cares and fears.Who then to frail mortality shall trust,But limns on water, or but writes in dust.Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,What life is best?Courts are but only superficial schoolsTo dandle fools:The rural parts are turned into a denOf savage men:And where's a city from foul vice so free,But may be termed the worst of all the three?Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,Or pains his head:Those that live single, take it for a curse,Or do things worse:Some would have children: those that have them, moanOr wish them gone:What is it, then, to have or have no wife,But single thraldom, or a double strife?Our own affection still at home to pleaseIs a disease:To cross the seas to any foreign soil,Peril and toil:Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,We are worse in peace;—What then remains, but that we still should cryFor being born, or, being born, to die?FRANCIS, LORD BACON.
THE WORLD.
The World's a bubble, and the Life of ManLess than a span:In his conception wretched, from the womb,So to the tomb;Curst from his cradle, and brought up to yearsWith cares and fears.Who then to frail mortality shall trust,But limns on water, or but writes in dust.
Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,What life is best?Courts are but only superficial schoolsTo dandle fools:The rural parts are turned into a denOf savage men:And where's a city from foul vice so free,But may be termed the worst of all the three?
Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,Or pains his head:Those that live single, take it for a curse,Or do things worse:Some would have children: those that have them, moanOr wish them gone:What is it, then, to have or have no wife,But single thraldom, or a double strife?
Our own affection still at home to pleaseIs a disease:To cross the seas to any foreign soil,Peril and toil:Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,We are worse in peace;—What then remains, but that we still should cryFor being born, or, being born, to die?
FRANCIS, LORD BACON.
MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.Moan, moan, ye dying gales!The saddest of your talesIs not so sad as life;Nor have you e'er beganA theme so wild as man,Or with such sorrow rife.Fall, fall, thou withered leaf!Autumn sears not like grief,Nor kills such lovely flowers;More terrible the storm,More mournful the deform,When dark misfortune lowers.Hush! hush! thou trembling lyre,Silence, ye vocal choir,And thou, mellifluous lute,For man soon breathes his last,And all his hope is past,And all his music mute.Then, when the gale is sighing,And when the leaves are dying,And when the song is o'er,O, let us think of thoseWhose lives are lost in woes,Whose cup of grief runs o'er.HENRY NEELE.
MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.
Moan, moan, ye dying gales!The saddest of your talesIs not so sad as life;Nor have you e'er beganA theme so wild as man,Or with such sorrow rife.
Fall, fall, thou withered leaf!Autumn sears not like grief,Nor kills such lovely flowers;More terrible the storm,More mournful the deform,When dark misfortune lowers.
Hush! hush! thou trembling lyre,Silence, ye vocal choir,And thou, mellifluous lute,For man soon breathes his last,And all his hope is past,And all his music mute.
Then, when the gale is sighing,And when the leaves are dying,And when the song is o'er,O, let us think of thoseWhose lives are lost in woes,Whose cup of grief runs o'er.
HENRY NEELE.
THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.False world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lendThe least delight:Thy favors cannot gain a friend,They are so slight:Thy morning pleasures make an endTo please at night:Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'stWith heaven: fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.Thy babbling tongue tells golden talesOf endless treasure;Thy bounty offers easy salesOf lasting pleasure;Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,And swear'st to ease her;There's none can want where thou supply'st;There's none can give where thou deny'st.Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.What well-advisèd ear regardsWhat earth can say?Thy words are gold, but thy regardsAre painted clay:Thy cunning can but pack the cards,Thou canst not play:Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st:Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.Thy tinsel bosom seems a mintOf new-coined treasure;A paradise, that has no stint,No change, no measure;A painted cask, but nothing in 't,Nor wealth, nor pleasure:Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'stWith man; vain man! that thou rely'stOn earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st.What mean dull souls, in this high measure,To haberdashIn earth's base wares, whose greatest treasureIs dross and trash?The height of whose enchanting pleasureIs but a flash?Are these the goods that thou supply'stUs mortals with? Are these the high'st?Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st.FRANCIS QUARLES.
THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.
False world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lendThe least delight:Thy favors cannot gain a friend,They are so slight:Thy morning pleasures make an endTo please at night:Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'stWith heaven: fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.
Thy babbling tongue tells golden talesOf endless treasure;Thy bounty offers easy salesOf lasting pleasure;Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,And swear'st to ease her;There's none can want where thou supply'st;There's none can give where thou deny'st.Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.
What well-advisèd ear regardsWhat earth can say?Thy words are gold, but thy regardsAre painted clay:Thy cunning can but pack the cards,Thou canst not play:Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st:Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.
Thy tinsel bosom seems a mintOf new-coined treasure;A paradise, that has no stint,No change, no measure;A painted cask, but nothing in 't,Nor wealth, nor pleasure:Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'stWith man; vain man! that thou rely'stOn earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st.
What mean dull souls, in this high measure,To haberdashIn earth's base wares, whose greatest treasureIs dross and trash?The height of whose enchanting pleasureIs but a flash?Are these the goods that thou supply'stUs mortals with? Are these the high'st?Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st.
FRANCIS QUARLES.
BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT," ACT II. SC. 7.Blow, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man's ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keen,Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly;Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then, heigh-ho, the holly!This life is most jolly!Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,Thou dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remembered not.Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then, heigh-ho, the holly!This life is most jolly!SHAKESPEARE.
BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.
FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT," ACT II. SC. 7.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man's ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keen,Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly;Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then, heigh-ho, the holly!This life is most jolly!
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,Thou dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remembered not.Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then, heigh-ho, the holly!This life is most jolly!
SHAKESPEARE.
Wail of Prometheus BoundTHE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND"Behold me, a god, what I endure from gods!Behold, with throe on throe,How, wasted by this woe,I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!"From photograph after a painting by G. Graeff.
THE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND"Behold me, a god, what I endure from gods!Behold, with throe on throe,How, wasted by this woe,I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!"From photograph after a painting by G. Graeff.
THE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND
"Behold me, a god, what I endure from gods!Behold, with throe on throe,How, wasted by this woe,I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!"
From photograph after a painting by G. Graeff.
THE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND.FROM "PROMETHEUS."O holy Æther, and swift-winged Winds,And River-wells, and laughter innumerousOf yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all,And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you,—Behold me a god, what I endure from gods!Behold, with throe on throe,How, wasted by this woe,I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!Behold, how fast around meThe new King of the happy ones sublimeHas flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me!Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow'sI cover with one groan. And where is found meA limit to these sorrows?And yet what word do I say? I have fore-knownClearly all things that should be; nothing doneComes sudden to my soul—and I must bearWhat is ordained with patience, being awareNecessity doth front the universeWith an invincible gesture. Yet this curseWhich strikes me now, I find it hard to braveIn silence or in speech. Because I gaveHonor to mortals, I have yoked my soulTo this compelling fate. Because I stoleThe secret fount of fire, whose bubbles wentOver the ferrule's brim, and manward sentArt's mighty means and perfect rudiment,That sin I expiate in this agony,Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky.Ah, ah me! what a sound,What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseenOf a god, or a mortal, or nature between,Sweeping up to this rock where the earth has her bound,To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon obtain—Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the chain!The god Zeus hateth sore,And his gods hate again,As many as tread on his glorified floor,Because I loved mortals too much evermore.Alas me! what a murmur and motion I hear,As of birds flying near!And the air undersingsThe light stroke of their wings—And all life that approaches I wait for in fear.From the Greek of ÆSCHYLUS.Translation of ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
THE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND.
FROM "PROMETHEUS."
O holy Æther, and swift-winged Winds,And River-wells, and laughter innumerousOf yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all,And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you,—Behold me a god, what I endure from gods!Behold, with throe on throe,How, wasted by this woe,I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!Behold, how fast around meThe new King of the happy ones sublimeHas flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me!Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow'sI cover with one groan. And where is found meA limit to these sorrows?And yet what word do I say? I have fore-knownClearly all things that should be; nothing doneComes sudden to my soul—and I must bearWhat is ordained with patience, being awareNecessity doth front the universeWith an invincible gesture. Yet this curseWhich strikes me now, I find it hard to braveIn silence or in speech. Because I gaveHonor to mortals, I have yoked my soulTo this compelling fate. Because I stoleThe secret fount of fire, whose bubbles wentOver the ferrule's brim, and manward sentArt's mighty means and perfect rudiment,That sin I expiate in this agony,Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky.Ah, ah me! what a sound,What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseenOf a god, or a mortal, or nature between,Sweeping up to this rock where the earth has her bound,To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon obtain—Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the chain!The god Zeus hateth sore,And his gods hate again,As many as tread on his glorified floor,Because I loved mortals too much evermore.Alas me! what a murmur and motion I hear,As of birds flying near!And the air undersingsThe light stroke of their wings—And all life that approaches I wait for in fear.
From the Greek of ÆSCHYLUS.Translation of ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
SAMSON ON HIS BLINDNESS.FROM "SAMSON AGONISTES."O loss of sight, of thee I must complain!Blind among enemies, O, worse than chains,Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age!Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct,And all her various objects of delightAnnulled, which might in part my grief have eased.Inferior to the vilest now becomeOf man or worm; the vilest here excel me:They creep, yet see; I, dark in light, exposedTo daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong,Within doors or without, still as a fool,In power of others, never in my own;Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half.O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of moon,Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse,Without all hope of day!MILTON.
SAMSON ON HIS BLINDNESS.
FROM "SAMSON AGONISTES."
O loss of sight, of thee I must complain!Blind among enemies, O, worse than chains,Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age!Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct,And all her various objects of delightAnnulled, which might in part my grief have eased.Inferior to the vilest now becomeOf man or worm; the vilest here excel me:They creep, yet see; I, dark in light, exposedTo daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong,Within doors or without, still as a fool,In power of others, never in my own;Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half.O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of moon,Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse,Without all hope of day!
MILTON.