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THE
WORLD'S
BEST POETRY

IN TEN VOLUMES, ILLUSTRATED

VOLUME III

SORROW AND CONSOLATION

AN
INTERPRETER OF
LIFE

By
LYMAN ABBOTT

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Photogravure from a photograph by Hanstaingl, based on a portrait by Kramer.

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHTS
INTRODUCTORY ESSAY:
- "AN INTERPRETER OF LIFE." By Lyman Abbot
POEMS OF SORROW AND CONSOLATION:
INDEX: AUTHORS AND TITLES
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE
WORLD'S
BEST POETRY

IN TEN VOLUMES, ILLUSTRATED

Editor-in-Chief

BLISS CARMAN

Bliss Carman

Associate Editors

John Vance Cheney
Charles G.D. Roberts
Charles F. Richardson
Francis H. Stoddard

Managing Editor

John R. Howard

J.D. Morris and Company
Philadelphia
COPYRIGHT, 1904, by
J.D. Morris & Company

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHTS

I.

American poems in this volume within the legal protection of copyright are used by the courteous permission of the owners,—either the publishers named in the following list or the authors or their representatives in the subsequent one,—who reserve all their rights. So far as practicable, permission has been secured also for poems out of copyright.

American poems in this volume that are protected by copyright are used with the kind permission of the owners—either the publishers listed below or the authors or their representatives in the following list—who retain all their rights. Wherever possible, permission has also been obtained for poems that are in the public domain.

Publishers of THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY.

1904.

Messrs. D. Appleton & Co., New York.—W.C. Bryant: "Blessed are They that Mourn," "The Conqueror's Grave," "Thanatopsis."

Messrs. D. Appleton & Co., New York.—W.C. Bryant: "Blessed are Those Who Mourn," "The Conqueror's Grave," "Thanatopsis."

Messrs. E.P. Dutton & Co., New York.—Mary W. Howland: "Rest."

The Funk & Wagnalls Company, New York.—John W. Palmer: "For Charlie's Sake."

The Funk & Wagnalls, New York.—John W. Palmer: "For Charlie's Sake."

Messrs. Harper & Brothers, New York.—Will Carleton: "Over the Hill to the Poor House."

Messrs. HarperCollins, New York.—Will Carleton: "Over the Hill to the Poor House."

Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston.—Margaret Deland: "Love and Death;" John Hay: "A Woman's Love;" O.W. Holmes: "The Last Leaf," "The Voiceless;" Mary Clemmer A. Hudson: "Something Beyond;" H.W. Longfellow: "Death of Minnehaha," "Footsteps of Angels," "God's Acre," "The Rainy Day," "The Reaper and the Flowers," "Resignation;" J.R. Lowell: "Auf Wiedersehen," "First Snow Fall," "Palinode;" Harriet W. Preston: "Fidelity in Doubt;" Margaret E. Sangster: "Are the Children at Home?" E.R. Sill: "A Morning Thought;" Harriet E. Spofford: "The Nun and Harp;" Harriet B. Stowe: "Lines to the Memory of Annie." "Only a Year;" J.T. Trowbridge: "Dorothy in the Garret;" J.G. Whittier: "To Her Absent Sailor," "Angel of Patience," "Maud Muller."

Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, Boston.—Margaret Deland: "Love and Death;" John Hay: "A Woman's Love;" O.W. Holmes: "The Last Leaf," "The Voiceless;" Mary Clemmer A. Hudson: "Something Beyond;" H.W. Longfellow: "Death of Minnehaha," "Footsteps of Angels," "God's Acre," "The Rainy Day," "The Reaper and the Flowers," "Resignation;" J.R. Lowell: "Auf Wiedersehen," "First Snow Fall," "Palinode;" Harriet W. Preston: "Fidelity in Doubt;" Margaret E. Sangster: "Are the Children at Home?" E.R. Sill: "A Morning Thought;" Harriet E. Spofford: "The Nun and Harp;" Harriet B. Stowe: "Lines to the Memory of Annie," "Only a Year;" J.T. Trowbridge: "Dorothy in the Garret;" J.G. Whittier: "To Her Absent Sailor," "Angel of Patience," "Maud Muller."

Mr. John Lane, New York.—R. Le Gallienne: "Song," "What of the Darkness?"

Mr. John Lane, New York.—R. Le Gallienne: "Song," "What About the Darkness?"

Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., Boston.—J.W. Chadwick: "The Two Waitings;" Helen Hunt Jackson: "Habeas Corpus."

Messrs. Little, Brown, and Company, Boston.—J.W. Chadwick: "The Two Waitings;" Helen Hunt Jackson: "Habeas Corpus."

The Lothrop Publishing Company, Boston.—Paul H. Hayne: "In Harbor."

The Lothrop Publishing Co., Boston.—Paul H. Hayne: "In Harbor."

Messrs. G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York.—Elaine Goodale Eastman: "Ashes of Roses;" R.C. Rogers: "The Shadow Rose."

Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.—R. Bridges (Droch): "The Unillumined Verge;" Mary Mapes Dodge: "The Two Mysteries;" Julia C.R. Dorr: "Hush" (Afterglow).

Messrs. Scribner's, New York.—R. Bridges (Droch): "The Unillumined Verge;" Mary Mapes Dodge: "The Two Mysteries;" Julia C.R. Dorr: "Hush" (Afterglow).

II.

American poems in this volume by the authors whose names are given below are the copyrighted property of the authors, or of their representatives named in parenthesis, and may not be reprinted without their permission, which for the present work has been courteously granted.

American poems in this volume by the authors listed below are the copyrighted property of the authors, or their representatives named in parentheses, and cannot be reprinted without their permission, which has kindly been granted for this work.

Publishers of THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY.

1904.

W.R. Alger; Mrs. Amelia E. Barr; Henry A. Blood (Mrs. R.E. Whitman); Robert J. Burdette; John Burroughs; Mary A. De Vere; Nathan H. Dole; William C. Gannett; Dr. Silas W. Mitchell; Mrs. Sarah M. Piatt; Walt Whitman (H. Traubel, Literary Executor).

AN INTERPRETER OF LIFE.

BY LYMAN ABBOTT.

Poetry, music, and painting are three correlated arts, connected not merely by an accidental classification, but by their intrinsic nature. For they all possess the same essential function, namely, to interpret the uninterpretable, to reveal the undiscoverable, to express the inexpressible. They all attempt, in different forms and through different languages, to translate the invisible and eternal into sensuous forms, and through sensuous forms to produce in other souls experiences akin to those in the soul of the translator, be he poet, musician, or painter. That they are three correlated arts, attempting, each in its own way and by its own language, to express the same essential life, is indicated by their co-operation in the musical drama. This is the principle which Wagner saw so clearly, and has used to such effective purpose in his so-called operas, whose resemblance to the Italian operas which preceded them is more superficial than real. In the drama Wagner wishes you to consider neither the music apart from the scenery, nor the scenery apart from the acting, nor the three apart from the poetry. Poetry, music, and art combine with the actor to interpret truths of life which transcend philosophic definition. Thus in the first act of "Parsifal," innocence born of ignorance, remorse born of the experience of temptation and sin, and reverence bred in an atmosphere not innocent yet free from the experience of great temptation, mingle in a drama which elevates all hearts, because in some one of these three phases it touches every heart. And yet certain of the clergy condemned the presentation as irreverent, because it expresses reverence in a symbolism to which they were unaccustomed.

Poetry, music, and painting are three interconnected arts, linked not just by a random classification but by their core essence. They all serve the same fundamental purpose: to interpret the unexplainable, to reveal the hidden, and to express what cannot be put into words. Each art form tries, in its own way and using its own language, to translate the unseen and eternal into tangible forms and to evoke in others emotions similar to those felt by the creator, whether that be a poet, musician, or painter. Their unity as three related arts, each seeking to convey the same essential life, is demonstrated by their collaboration in musical drama. This principle was clearly recognized by Wagner, who effectively employed it in his so-called operas, which bear only a superficial resemblance to the Italian operas that came before them. In Wagner's drama, he wants you to appreciate neither the music without the scenery, nor the scenery without the acting, nor the three apart from the poetry. Poetry, music, and art work together with the actor to convey truths of life that go beyond philosophical definitions. Thus, in the first act of "Parsifal," innocence born from ignorance, remorse stemming from the experience of temptation and sin, and reverence developed in a context that isn't innocent yet is free from the weight of great temptation, come together in a drama that elevates all hearts because it touches upon one of these three aspects for everyone. Yet some members of the clergy condemned the performance as disrespectful, simply because it expresses reverence through a symbolism they were not familiar with.

But while it is true that these three arts are correlative and co-operative, they do not duplicate one another. Each not only speaks in a language of its own, but expresses in that language a life which the others cannot express. As color and fragrance combine to make the flower, but the color expresses what the fragrance cannot express, and the fragrance expresses what the color cannot express, so in the musical drama, music, poetry, and painting combine, not by duplicating but by supplementing each other. One may describe in language a symphony; but no description will produce the effect which the symphony produces. One may describe a painting; but no description will produce the effect which the painting will produce. So neither music, nor painting, nor both combined, can produce the same effect on the soul as poetry. The "Midsummer Night's Dream" enacted in pantomime, with Mendelssohn's music, would no more produce the same effect on the auditors which would be produced by the interpretation of the play in spoken words, than would the reading of the play at home produce the same effect as the enacting of the play with what are miscalled the accessories of music and scenery. The music and scenery are no more accessories to the words than the words are accessories to the music and scenery. The three combine in a triple language to express and produce one life, and it can be expressed and produced in no other way than by the combination of the three arts in harmonious action. This is the reason why no parlor readings can ever take the place of the theatre, and no concert performance can ever take the place of the opera. This is the reason why all attempts to suppress the theatre and opera are and always will be in vain. They are attempts to suppress the expression and awakening of a life which can neither be expressed nor awakened in any other way; and suppression of life, however successfully it may be accomplished for a time, is never permanently possible.

But while it's true that these three arts are related and work together, they don't duplicate each other. Each one speaks its own language and expresses a life that the others can't. Just as color and fragrance come together to create a flower—where the color conveys something the fragrance doesn't, and the fragrance conveys something the color doesn't—music, poetry, and painting in a musical drama combine not by repeating but by enhancing each other. You can describe a symphony in words, but no description can replicate the effect of the actual symphony. The same goes for a painting; describing it won't create the same impact as seeing it. Neither music, painting, nor both together can stir the soul like poetry can. "A Midsummer Night's Dream" performed as a pantomime with Mendelssohn's music won't have the same effect on the audience as a spoken interpretation of the play, just as reading the play at home won't create the same experience as performing it with what are mistakenly called the accessories of music and scenery. The music and scenery are not simply extras to the words, just as the words aren't extras to the music and scenery. Together, they create a unified expression of life, and it can only be formed through the combined action of these three arts. This is why no parlor readings can replace the theater, and no concert can substitute for opera. This is why attempts to eliminate theater and opera will always fail. They try to stifle the expression and awakening of a life that can’t be expressed or awakened in any other way. While it may seem possible to suppress life for a time, it can never be done permanently.

These arts do not truly create, they interpret. Man is not a creator, he is only a discoverer. The imagination is not creative, it is only reportorial. Ideals are realities; imagination is seeing. The musician, the artist, the poet, discover life which others have not discovered, and each with his own instrument interprets that life to those less sensitive than himself. Observe a musician composing. He writes; stops; hesitates; meditates; perhaps hums softly to himself; perhaps goes to the piano and strikes a chord or two. What is he doing? He is trying to express to himself a beauty which he has heard in the world of infinite phenomena, and to reproduce it as well as sensuous sounds can reproduce it, that those with duller hearing than himself may hear it also. Observe a painter before his easel. He paints; looks to see the effect; erases; adds; modifies; reexamines; and repeats this operation over and over again. What is he doing? He is copying a beauty which he has seen in the invisible world, and which he is attempting to bring out from its hiding so that the men who have no eyes except for the sensuous may also see it. In my library is an original sonnet by John G. Whittier. In almost every line are erasures and interlineations. In some cases the careful poet has written a new line and pasted it over the rejected one. What does this mean? It means that he has discovered a truth of moral beauty and is attempting to interpret his discovery to the world. His first interpretation of his vision did not suit him, nor his second, nor his third, and he has revised and re-revised in the attempt to make his verse a true interpretation of the truth which he had seen. He did not make the truth; it eternally was. Neither did the musician make the truth of harmony, nor the painter the truth of form and color. They also eternally were. Poet, musician, painter, have seen, heard, felt, realized in their own souls some experience of life, some potent reality which philosophy cannot formulate, nor creed contain, nor eloquence define; and each in his own way endeavors to give it to the world of men; each in his own way endeavors to lift the gauzy curtain, impenetrable to most souls, which hides the invisible, the inaudible, the eternal, the divine from men; and he gives them a glimpse of that of which he himself had but a glimpse.

These arts don’t truly create; they interpret. Humans aren't creators; they're discoverers. Imagination isn't creative; it's reportorial. Ideals are realities; imagination is about seeing. The musician, the artist, the poet discover aspects of life that others haven't seen, and each, using their own medium, interprets that life for those less sensitive to it. Watch a musician compose. He writes, stops, hesitates, thinks, maybe hums softly to himself, or goes to the piano and strikes a chord or two. What is he doing? He’s trying to express to himself a beauty he has heard in the world of endless phenomena and to recreate it as well as sensory sounds can, so that those who are less sensitive may hear it too. Now, look at a painter in front of his easel. He paints, checks the effect, erases, adds, changes, reconsiders, and repeats this process over and over. What is he doing? He’s copying a beauty he has seen in the invisible world and is trying to bring it to light so that those who can only see the physical may also perceive it. In my library, there’s an original sonnet by John G. Whittier. Almost every line has erasures and edits. In some cases, the meticulous poet has written a new line and pasted it over a rejected one. What does this mean? It shows that he has discovered a truth of moral beauty and is attempting to share his discovery with the world. His initial interpretation of his vision didn’t satisfy him, nor did his second or third, and he has revised and revised again in an effort to make his poem a true representation of the truth he has seen. He didn’t create the truth; it always existed. Neither did the musician create the truth of harmony, nor the painter the truth of form and color. They always existed too. The poet, musician, and painter have felt, seen, and realized some experience of life, some powerful reality that philosophy can't articulate, creed can't contain, or eloquence can't define; and each in their own way tries to present it to the world, each making an effort to lift the thin veil, which is impenetrable to most souls, that hides the invisible, the inaudible, the eternal, the divine from humanity; and they offer glimpses of what they themselves have only glimpsed.

In one sense and in one only can art be called creative: the artist, whether he be painter, musician, or poet, so interprets to other men the experience which has been created in him by his vision of the supersensible and eternal, that he evokes in them a similar experience. He is a creator only as he conveys to others the life which has been created in himself. As the electric wire creates light in the home; as the band creates the movement in the machinery; thus and only thus does the artist create life in those that wait upon him. He is in truth an interpreter and transmitter, not a creator. Nor can he interpret what he has not first received, nor transmit what he has not first experienced. The music, the painting, the poem are merely the instruments which he uses for that purpose. The life must first be in him or the so-called music, painting, poem are but dead simulacra; imitations of art, not real art. This is the reason why no mechanical device, be it never so skillfully contrived, can ever take the place of the living artist. The pianola can never rival the living performer; nor the orchestrion the orchestra; nor the chromo the painting. No mechanical device has yet been invented to produce poetry; even if some shrewd Yankee should invent a printing machine which would pick out rhymes as some printing machines seem to pick out letters, the result would not be a poem. This is the reason too why mere perfection of execution never really satisfies. "She sings like a bird." Yes! and that is exactly the difficulty with her. We want one who sings like a woman. The popular criticism of the mere musical expert that he has no soul, is profound and true. It is soul we want; for the piano, the organ, the violin, the orchestra, are only instruments for the transmission of soul. This is also the reason why the most flawless conductor is not always the best. He must have a soul capable of reading the soul of the composer; and the orchestra must receive the life of the composer as that is interpreted to them through the life of the conductor, or the performance will be a soulless performance.

In one sense and only one can we say that art is creative: the artist, whether a painter, musician, or poet, interprets the experience within him shaped by his perception of the beyond and eternal, so that he evokes a similar experience in others. He is a creator only to the extent that he shares the life that has been brought to life in him. Just like an electric wire creates light in a home or a band powers machinery, the artist creates life in those who interact with him. In truth, he is more of an interpreter and transmitter than a creator. He can't interpret what he hasn't first received, nor transmit what he hasn't first experienced. The music, painting, or poem are merely the tools he uses for this purpose. The life must reside within him; otherwise, the so-called music, painting, or poem are just lifeless copies—imitations of art, not real art. This is why no mechanical device, no matter how skillfully made, can ever replace a living artist. A player piano can never compare to a live performer; an orchestrion can’t match an orchestra; nor can a print imitate a painting. No mechanical invention has yet been created to generate poetry; even if some clever inventor does create a machine that selects rhymes like certain machines pick letters, the outcome wouldn't be a poem. This is also why sheer technical perfection never truly satisfies. "She sings like a bird." Yes! and that's precisely the issue with her. We want someone who sings like a woman. The common critique from musical experts that they lack soul is deep and true. What we want is soul; because the piano, organ, violin, and orchestra are simply instruments for conveying soul. This is also why the most technically flawless conductor isn't always the best. He must possess a soul that can understand the soul of the composer, and the orchestra must express the composer's spirit as interpreted through the conductor's life; otherwise, the performance will lack soul.

Into each of these arts, therefore—music, painting, poetry—enter two elements: the inner and the outer, the truth and the language, the reality and the symbol, the life and the expression. Without the electric current the carbon is a mere blank thread; the electric current is not luminous if there be no carbon. The life and the form are alike essential. So the painter must have something to express, but he must also have skill to express it; the musician must have music in his soul, but he must also have a power of instrumentation; the poet must feel the truth, or he is no poet, but he must also have power to express what he feels in such forms as will create a similar feeling in his readers, or he is still no poet. Multitudes of women send to the newspapers poetical effusions which are not poems. The feeling of the writer is excellent, but the expression is bad. The writer has seen, but she cannot tell what she has seen; she has felt, but she cannot express her experience so as to enkindle a like experience in others. These poetical utterances of inarticulate poets are sometimes whimsical but oftener pathetic; sometimes they are like the prattle of little children who exercise their vocal organs before they have anything to say; but oftener they seem to me like the beseeching eyes of a dumb animal, full of affection and entreaty for which he has no vocal expression. It is just as essential that poetical feeling should have poetical expression in order to constitute poetry as it is that musical feeling should have musical expression in order to constitute music. And, on the other hand, as splashes of color without artistic feeling which they interpret are not art, as musical, sounds without musical feeling which they interpret are not music, so poetical forms without poetical feeling are not poetry. Poetical feeling in unpoetical forms may be poetical prose, but it is still prose. And on the other hand, rhymes, however musical they may be to the ear, are only rhymes, not poetry, unless they express a true poetical life.

Into each of these arts—music, painting, poetry—there are two elements: the inner and the outer, the truth and the language, the reality and the symbol, the life and the expression. Without an electric current, carbon is just a blank thread; the electric current isn’t bright if there’s no carbon. Both life and form are equally essential. So, a painter needs something to express, but also the skill to express it; a musician has to have music in their soul, but also the ability to play instruments; a poet must feel the truth, or they aren’t really a poet, but they also need to convey what they feel in ways that spark similar feelings in their readers, or they still aren’t a poet. Many women send their poetic attempts to newspapers that aren’t actually poems. The writer’s feelings might be great, but the expression is poor. The writer has seen something, but she can’t articulate what she saw; she has felt something, but she can’t share her experience in a way that ignites a similar experience in others. These poetic attempts from inarticulate poets can be whimsical at times but are more often sad; sometimes they resemble the babbling of little children who practice making sounds before they have anything meaningful to say; but more often, they remind me of the pleading eyes of a silent animal, filled with love and a desire for connection that they can’t vocalize. It’s just as necessary for poetic feeling to have poetic expression to make poetry as it is for musical feelings to have musical expression to create music. Likewise, splashes of color without the artistic feeling they represent aren’t art, and musical sounds without the feeling they convey aren’t music. Similarly, poetic forms lacking poetic feeling are not poetry. Poetic feeling expressed in non-poetic forms may qualify as poetic prose, but it remains prose. On the other hand, rhymes, no matter how musical they might sound, are just rhymes, not poetry, unless they express genuine poetic life.

But these two elements are separable only in thought, not in reality. Poetry is not common thought expressed in an uncommon manner; it is not an artificial phrasing of even the higher emotions. The higher emotions have a phrasing of their own; they fall naturally—whether as the result of instinct or of habit need not here be considered—into fitting forms. The form may be rhyme; it may be blank verse; it may be the old Hebrew parallelism; it may even be the indescribable form which Walt Whitman has adopted. What is noticeable is the fact that poetical thought, if it is at its best, always takes on, by a kind of necessity, some poetical form. To illustrate if not to demonstrate this, it is only necessary to select from literature any fine piece of poetical expression of a higher and nobler emotion, or of clear and inspiring vision, and attempt to put it into prose form. The reader will find, if he be dealing with the highest poetry, that translating it into prose impairs its power to express the feeling, and makes the expression not less but more artificial. If he doubt this statement, let him turn to any of the finer specimens of verse in this volume and see whether he can express the life in prose as truly, as naturally, as effectively, as it is there expressed in rhythmical form.

But these two elements can only be separated in thought, not in reality. Poetry isn’t just regular thoughts expressed in a unique way; it’s not some artificial way of putting even the strongest emotions into words. The deeper emotions have their own way of being expressed; they naturally fit into appropriate forms—whether that's due to instinct or habit isn’t important here. The form could be rhyme, blank verse, the old Hebrew parallelism, or even the unique style that Walt Whitman uses. What’s important is that poetic thought, when it’s at its best, inevitably takes on some poetic form. To show this, it’s enough to pick any beautiful piece of poetry that expresses a strong and noble emotion, or a clear and inspiring vision, and try to rewrite it in prose. The reader will see that if they’re working with top-tier poetry, converting it into prose diminishes its ability to convey the feeling and makes it feel not less but even more artificial. If there’s any doubt about this, just look at some of the finer examples of verse in this volume and see if they can express that life in prose just as truly, naturally, and effectively as it’s expressed in rhythmic form.

These various considerations may help to explain why in all ages of the world the arts have been the handmaidens of religion. Not to amplify too much, I have confined these considerations to the three arts of music, painting, and poetry; but they are also applicable to sculpture and architecture. All are attempts by men of vision to interpret to the men who are not equally endowed with vision, what the invisible world about us and within us has for the enrichment of our lives. This is exactly the function of religion: to enrich human lives by making them acquainted with the infinite. It is true that at times the arts have been sensualized, the emphasis has been put on the form of expression, not on the life expressed; and then reformers, like the Puritans and the Quakers, have endeavored to exclude the arts from religion, lest they should contaminate it. But the exclusion has been accomplished with difficulty, and to maintain it has been impossible. It is neither an accident, nor a sign of decadence, that painting and sculpture are creeping back into the Protestant churches, to combine with poetry and music in expressing the religious life of man. For the intellect alone is inadequate either to express that life as it exists, or to call it into existence where it does not exist. The tendency to ritual in our time is a tendency not to substitute æsthetic for spiritual life, though there is probably always a danger that such a substitution may be unconsciously made, but to express a religious life which cannot be expressed without the aid of æsthetic symbols. The work of the intellect is to analyze and define. But the infinite is in the nature of the case indefinable, and it is with the infinite religion has to do. All that theology can hope to accomplish is to define certain provinces in the illimitable realm of truth; to analyze certain experiences in a life which transcends all complete analysis. The Church must learn to regard not with disfavor or suspicion, but with eager acceptance, the co-operation of the arts in the interpretation of infinite truth and the expression of infinite life. Certainly we are not to turn our churches into concert rooms or picture and sculpture galleries, and imagine that æsthetic enjoyment is synonymous with piety. But as surely we are not to banish the arts from our churches, and think that we are religious because we are barren. All language, whether of painting, sculpture, architecture, music, poetry, or oratory, is legitimately used to express the divine life, as all the faculties, whether of painter, sculptor, architect, musician, poet, orator, and philosopher, are to be used in reaching after a more perfect knowledge of Him who always transcends and always will transcend our perfect knowing.

These various points might help clarify why throughout history, the arts have supported religion. I won't go into too much detail; I've limited these points to the three arts of music, painting, and poetry, although they also apply to sculpture and architecture. All of them are efforts by visionary individuals to convey to those who lack such vision what the unseen world around us and within us offers to enrich our lives. This is precisely the role of religion: to enhance human life by connecting us with the infinite. While it’s true that at times the arts have become overly focused on sensuality, emphasizing the form of expression rather than the life being expressed, reformers like the Puritans and Quakers have tried to remove the arts from religion to prevent any possible contamination. However, this exclusion has been challenging to achieve, and even more difficult to maintain. It is neither a coincidence nor a sign of decline that painting and sculpture are increasingly finding their way back into Protestant churches, joining with poetry and music to express the religious experience of humanity. The intellect alone is insufficient to capture that experience as it is or to bring it into existence where it doesn't exist. The current tendency toward ritual isn’t about replacing spiritual life with aesthetic life—though there’s always the potential for such an unconscious substitution—but rather about expressing a religious life that requires aesthetic symbols. The role of intellect is to analyze and define. However, the infinite, by its very nature, cannot be defined, and this is what religion engages with. Theology can only aim to outline certain areas within the vast realm of truth; to analyze particular experiences in a life that exceeds complete analysis. The Church should embrace, rather than suspect or dismiss, the collaboration of the arts in interpreting infinite truth and expressing infinite life. Certainly, we shouldn’t turn our churches into concert halls or galleries and think that enjoying aesthetics equates to piety. But we also shouldn’t banish the arts from our churches and believe that our lack of them makes us more religious. All forms of expression, whether through painting, sculpture, architecture, music, poetry, or oratory, are valid ways to express divine life, just as all the talents of painters, sculptors, architects, musicians, poets, orators, and philosophers should be harnessed to seek a deeper understanding of the one who always transcends our full understanding.

Thus the study of poetry is the study of life, because poetry is the interpretation of life. Poetry is not a mere instrument for promoting enjoyment; it does not merely dazzle the imagination and excite the emotions. Through the emotions and the imagination it both interprets life and ministers to life. When the critic attempts to express that truth, that is, to interpret the interpreter, which he can do only by translating the poetry into prose, and the language of imagination and emotion into that of philosophy, he destroys the poem in the process, much as the botanist destroys the flower in analyzing it, or the musical critic the composition in disentangling its interwoven melodies and explaining the mature of its harmonic structure. The analysis, whether of music, art, or poetry, must be followed by a synthesis, which, in the nature of the case, can be accomplished only by the hearer or reader for himself. All that I can do here is to illustrate this revelatory character of poetry by some references to the poems which this volume contains. I do not attempt to explain the meaning of these poems; that is a task quite impossible. I only attempt to show that they have a meaning, that beneath their beauty of form is a depth of truth which philosophical statement in prose cannot interpret, but the essence of which such statement may serve to suggest. I do not wish to expound the truth of life which is contained in the poet's verse; I only wish to show that the poet by his verse reveals a truth of life which the critic cannot express, and that it is for this reason pre-eminently that such a collection of poetry as this is deserving of the reader's study.

So, studying poetry is really about studying life because poetry reflects life. Poetry isn’t just a tool for enjoyment; it doesn’t just capture the imagination and stir emotions. Instead, it interprets life through those emotions and that imagination. When a critic tries to explain that truth—essentially interpreting the interpreter—by translating poetry into prose and transforming the language of imagination and emotion into philosophical terms, they end up ruining the poem, much like how a botanist destroys a flower by dissecting it or a music critic dismantles a piece by untangling its melodies and explaining its harmonic structure. Any analysis—whether it’s of music, art, or poetry—needs to be followed up with a synthesis, which can only truly happen when the listener or reader engages with it themselves. All I can do here is to highlight the revealing nature of poetry by referencing the poems in this collection. I’m not trying to explain what these poems mean; that would be impossible. I just want to show that they do have meaning and that beneath their beautiful form lies a profound truth that philosophical prose can’t fully capture, although it might hint at it. I'm not aiming to articulate the truth of life found in the poet’s words; I just want to demonstrate that the poet reveals a truth about life that the critic can’t express, and that’s why this collection of poetry is so worthy of the reader's attention.

If for example the student turns to such a volume as Newman Smyth's "Christian Ethics," he will find there a careful though condensed discussion of the right and wrong of suicide. It is cool, deliberate, philosophical. But it gives no slightest hint of the real state of the man who is deliberating within himself whether he will commit suicide or no; no hint of the real arguments that pass in shadow through his mind:—the weariness of life which summons him to end all; the nameless, indefinable dread of the mystery and darkness and night into which death carries us, which makes him hesitate. If we would really understand the mind of the suicide, not merely the mind of the philosopher coolly debating suicide, we must turn to the poet.

If, for instance, a student looks at Newman Smyth's "Christian Ethics," they'll find a thoughtful yet brief discussion about the right and wrong of suicide. It's calm, measured, and philosophical. However, it offers no real insight into the mental state of someone considering suicide; there are no hints about the actual thoughts that flicker through their mind: the exhaustion of life that pushes them to end it all; the vague, unnameable fear of the mystery and darkness of death that makes them hesitate. To truly grasp the mindset of someone contemplating suicide, rather than just the detached reasoning of a philosopher discussing it, we need to turn to poetry.

"To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 't is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin! Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourne
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action."

"To be or not to be: that is the question:
Whether it's nobler in the mind to endure
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take up arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, it's a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: maybe to dream: ah, there's the catch;
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes the calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's insults,
The pangs of unreturned love, the law's delay,
The arrogance of office, and the rejections
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might find peace
With a simple dagger! Who would carry burdens,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
Except for the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from which
No traveler returns, puzzles the will
And makes us prefer to bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know nothing about?
Thus conscience makes cowards of us all;
And thus the natural spirit of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And great and important enterprises
With this in mind their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action."

This first the poet does: he draws aside the veil which hides the working of men's hearts, and lets us see their hidden life. But he does more. Not merely does he afford us knowledge, he imparts life. For we know feeling only by participating in the feeling; and the poet has the art not merely to describe the experiences of men but so to describe them that for the moment we share them, and so truly know them by the only process by which they can be known. Who, for instance, can read Thomas Hood's "The Bridge of Sighs" and not, as he reads, stand by the despairing one as she waits a moment upon the bridge just ready to take her last leap out of the cruelty of this world into, let us hope, the mercy of a more merciful world beyond?

This is what the poet does: he pulls back the curtain that hides what's going on in people's hearts and allows us to see their inner lives. But he does even more. Not only does he provide us with knowledge, he gives us life. We only understand feelings by actually experiencing them; and the poet has the skill to not just describe people's experiences but to present them in a way that makes us feel them too, allowing us to truly understand them through the only way they can be understood. For example, who can read Thomas Hood's "The Bridge of Sighs" and not, while reading, stand alongside the despairing woman as she pauses on the bridge, ready to take her final leap from the cruelty of this world into, hopefully, the mercy of a kinder world beyond?

"Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Homeless by night.

"Where the lights flicker
So far in the river,
With many lights
From windows and frames,
From attic to basement,
She stood, in awe,
Homeless at night."

"The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurled—
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world.

"The chilly wind of March
Made her shake and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Crazy from life's history,
Happy to death's mystery
Quick to be thrown—
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world."

"In she plunged boldly—
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,—
Over the brink of it!
Picture it—think of it,
Dissolute man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can.

"In she plunged boldly—
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,—
Over the edge of it!
Imagine it—consider it,
Dissolute man!
Bathe in it, drink from it,
Then, if you can."

"Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!"

"Pick her up gently,
Lift her with care;
Made so delicately,
Young, and so beautiful!"

No analysis of philosophy can make us acquainted with the tragedy of this life as the poet can; no exhortation of preacher can so effectively arouse in us the spirit of a Christian charity for the despairing wanderer as the poet.

No analysis of philosophy can help us understand the tragedy of life like the poet can; no sermon from a preacher can inspire in us the spirit of Christian charity for the lost and hopeless like the poet does.

Would you know the tragedy of a careless and supercilious coquetry which plays with the heart as the fisherman plays with the salmon? Read "Clara Vere de Vere." Would you know the dull heartache of a loveless married life, growing at times into an intolerable anguish which no marital fidelity can do much to medicate? Read "Auld Robin Gray." Who but a poet can interpret the pain of a parting between loving hearts, with its remorseful recollections of the wholly innocent love's joys that are past?

Would you understand the tragedy of a careless and arrogant flirtation that toy with the heart like a fisherman with a salmon? Read "Clara Vere de Vere." Would you grasp the dull heartache of a loveless marriage, sometimes turning into unbearable anguish that no loyalty can really alleviate? Read "Auld Robin Gray." Who but a poet can capture the pain of separation between loving hearts, filled with remorseful memories of the innocent joys of love that are gone?

"Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken hearted."

"Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We would have never been brokenhearted."

Who but a poet can depict the perils of an unconscious drifting apart, such as has destroyed many a friendship and wrecked many a married life, as Clough has depicted it in "Qua Cursum Ventus"? If you would know the life-long sorrow of the blind man at your side, would enter into his life and for a brief moment share his captivity, read Milton's interpretation of that sorrow in Samson's Lament. If you would find some message to cheer the blind man in his darkness and illumine his captivity, read the same poet's ode on his own blindness:

Who but a poet can capture the dangers of unconsciously drifting apart, which has ruined many friendships and shattered many marriages, as Clough has illustrated in "Qua Cursum Ventus"? If you want to understand the lifelong sorrow of the blind man next to you, to step into his world and briefly experience his confinement, read Milton's interpretation of that sorrow in Samson's Lament. If you're looking for a message to uplift the blind man in his darkness and light up his captivity, read the same poet's ode on his own blindness:

"God doth not need, Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

"God doesn't need," Either man's work or his own gifts; those who best
Bear his gentle yoke serve him best: his state
Is royal; thousands obey his command,
And travel over land and sea without pause;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

No prison statistics, no police reports, no reformer's documents, no public discussions of the question, What to do with the tramp, will ever so make the student of life participant of the innermost experience of the tramp, his experience of dull despair, his loss of his grip on life, as Béranger's "The Old Vagabond." No expert in nervous diseases, no psychological student of mental states, normal and abnormal, can give the reader so clear an understanding of that deep and seemingly causeless dejection, which because it seems to be causeless seems also to be well-nigh incurable, as Percy Bysshe Shelley has given in his "Stanzas written near Naples." No critical expounder of the Stoical philosophy can interpret the stoical temper which interposes a sullen but dauntless pride to attacking sorrow as William Ernest Henley has done:

No prison stats, no police reports, no reform documents, and no public debates on the issue of what to do with the homeless will ever give the life student the same deep understanding of the inner experience of the homeless person—their feelings of crushing despair and their struggle to hold on to life—as Béranger's "The Old Vagabond." No expert in nervous disorders or psychology can convey the profound and seemingly inexplicable sadness that feels almost incurable, as Percy Bysshe Shelley does in his "Stanzas Written Near Naples." No one explaining Stoic philosophy can capture the stoic attitude of resilient pride in the face of sorrow like William Ernest Henley has.

"Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

"Out of the night that surrounds me,
Dark as the abyss from one side to the other,
I’m grateful to whatever gods exist
For my indomitable spirit."

"In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed."

"In the harsh grip of circumstances
I have not flinched or yelled out.
Under the beatings of fate
My head is bloody, but unbroken."

Nor can any preacher put in so vital a contrast to this despairing defiance with which pride challenges sorrow, the joyous victory which a trusting love wins over it by submitting to it, as John Greenleaf Whittier has done in "The Eternal Goodness":

Nor can any preacher highlight as effectively the stark contrast between the despairing defiance with which pride confronts sorrow and the joyful victory that trusting love achieves by embracing it, as John Greenleaf Whittier has done in "The Eternal Goodness":

"I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise, Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies.

"I don't know what the future holds
When it comes to amazement or surprise, But I'm certain that life and death
Are supported by His grace.

"I know not where His islands lift
Their fronded palms in air: I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care."

"I don’t know where His islands rise
With their leafy palms raised in the air: I only know I can’t drift
Beyond His love and support.

No philosophical treatise can interpret bereavement as the great poets have interpreted it. The mystery of sorrow, the bewilderment it causes, the wonder whether there is any God or any good, the silence that is the only answer to our call for help, the tumult of emotion, the strange perplexity of mind, the dull despair, the inexplicable paralysis of feeling, intermingling in one wholly inconsistent and incongruous experience: where, in all the literature of Philosophy can we find such an exposition and echo and interpretation of this experience as in that great Hebrew epic—the Book of Job? And where in all the literature of Philosophy can we find such interpreters of the two great comforters of the soul, faith and hope, as one finds in the poets? They do not argue; they simply sing. And, as a note struck upon one of a chime of bells will set the neighboring bell vibrating, so the strong note of faith and hope sounded by the poet, sets a like note vibrating in the mourner's heart. The mystery is not solved, but the silence is broken. First we listen to the poet, then we listen to the same song sung in our own hearts,—the same, for it is God who has sung to him and who sings to us. And when the bereaved has found God, he has found light in his darkness, peace in his tempest, a ray in his night.

No philosophical work can explain grief like the great poets have. The mystery of sorrow, the confusion it brings, the questioning of whether there is a God or any goodness, the silence that is the only response to our pleas for help, the emotional turmoil, the strange confusion of thoughts, the dull despair, the inexplicable paralysis of feeling—all these mix together in one completely inconsistent and jarring experience: where in all philosophical literature can we find such an exposition, echo, and interpretation of this experience as in that great Hebrew epic—the Book of Job? And where in all philosophical literature can we find such interpreters of the two great comforts of the soul, faith and hope, as we find in the poets? They don’t argue; they just sing. And just like a note played on one bell will make the others resonate, the strong notes of faith and hope expressed by the poet resonate in the mourner’s heart. The mystery isn’t solved, but the silence is broken. First, we listen to the poet, then we hear the same song sung in our own hearts—the same song, because it is God who has sung to him and who sings to us. And when the bereaved finds God, he finds light in his darkness, peace in his storm, and a ray in his night.

"As a child, Whose song-bird seeks the wood forevermore,
Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth;
Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,
He sleep the faster that he wept before."

"As a kid, Whose songbird looks for the woods endlessly,
Is sung to in its place by his mother's voice;
Until, resting on her chest, feeling loved,
He sleeps more soundly for having cried before."

The visitor to the island of Catalina, off the coast of California, is invited to go out in a glass-bottomed boat upon the sea. If he accepts the invitation and looks about him with careless curiosity, he will enjoy the blue of the summer sky and ocean wave, and the architectural beauty of the island hills; but if he turns his gaze downward and looks through the glass bottom of the boat in which he is sailing, he will discover manifold phases of beauty in the life beneath the sea waves: in goldfish darting hither and thither, in umbrella-shaped jellyfish lazily swimming by, in starfish and anemones of infinite variety, in sea-urchins brilliant in color, and in an endless forest of water-weeds exquisitely delicate in their structure. Perhaps he will try to photograph them; but in vain: his camera will render him no report of the wealth of life which he has seen. So he who takes up such a volume of poetry as this will find ample repayment in the successive pictures which it presents to his imagination, and the transient emotions which it will excite in him. But besides this there is a secret life which the careless reader will fail to see, and which the critic cannot report, but which will be revealed to the thoughtful, patient, meditative student. In this power to reveal an otherwise unknown world, lies the true glory of poetry. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear what the poet has to say to him.

The visitor to Catalina Island, off the coast of California, is invited to take a ride on a glass-bottomed boat out on the sea. If he accepts the invitation and looks around with casual curiosity, he’ll enjoy the blue of the summer sky and ocean waves, as well as the stunning beauty of the island's hills. But if he looks down through the glass bottom of the boat he’s riding in, he’ll discover a multitude of beautiful sights in the life beneath the waves: goldfish darting around, umbrella-shaped jellyfish lazily floating by, starfish and anemones of countless varieties, brightly colored sea urchins, and a vast forest of delicately structured water plants. He might try to photograph them, but it will be pointless: his camera won’t capture the richness of life he’s observed. So, anyone who picks up a volume of poetry like this will be richly rewarded by the successive images it brings to his imagination, along with the fleeting emotions it stirs within him. Additionally, there’s a hidden depth that the casual reader might overlook and that critics can’t fully convey, but which will be revealed to those who are thoughtful, patient, and reflective. In this ability to unveil an otherwise unknown world lies the true brilliance of poetry. He who has ears to hear, let him hear what the poet has to say to him.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Frontispiece

Photogravure from photograph by Hanfstaengl after portrait by Kramer.

Photogravure from a photograph by Hanfstaengl after a portrait by Kramer.

PENELOPE AWAITING ULYSSES

The patient grief and endurance of Absence: while the tapestry woven by day stands on the frame to be unravelled by night, as the loyal wife puts off her suitors.

Painting by Rudolph von Deutsch.

The quiet pain and strength of being away: while the day’s tapestry hangs on the frame, ready to be unraveled by night, as the faithful wife turns away her suitors.

Painting by Rudolph von Deutsch.

ABSENCE

"What shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?"

"What should I do with all the days and hours
That have to pass before I see you?"

From a photograph by the Berlin Photographic Co., after a painting by R. Pötzelberger.

From a photo by the Berlin Photographic Co., based on a painting by R. Pötzelberger.

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!"

"Look at me, a god, what I suffer from other gods!
See how, in agony upon agony,
Wasted by this grief,
I struggle against the countless years of Time!"

From photograph after a painting by G. Graeff.

From a photograph of a painting by G. Graeff.

PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER

From lithograph after a crayon-drawing by H. Alophe.

From a lithograph based on a crayon drawing by H. Alophe.

THOMAS HOOD

After an engraving from contemporary portrait.

After an engraving from a modern portrait.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

After a photograph from life by Talfourd, London.

After a photo taken by Talfourd, London.

THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

"Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."
After an original drawing by Harry Fenn.

"Beneath those rugged elm trees, in the shade of that yew tree,
Where the turf rises in many decaying piles,
Each one in his narrow grave forever rests,
The rough ancestors of the village sleep."
After an original drawing by Harry Fenn.

LOVE AND DEATH

Death comes in,
Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,
Would bar the way."

Death intervenes,
Even though Love, with arms wide open and wings spread,
Tries to block the path."

From photogravure after the painting by George Fredeick Watts.

From a photogravure of the painting by George Frederick Watts.

WALT WHITMAN

After a life-photograph by Rockwood, New York.

After a life photo by Rockwood, New York.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

From an engraving after the drawing by George Richmond.

From an engraving based on the drawing by George Richmond.

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD

After a life-photograph by Elliott and Fry, London.

After a life photo by Elliott and Fry, London.

PENELOPE WAITING FOR ULYSSES
The quiet sorrow and patience of being apart: as the tapestry created during the day hangs on the frame to be unraveled at night, the devoted wife keeps her suitors at bay.
Painting by Rudolph von Deutsch.

POEMS OF SORROW AND CONSOLATION.

I. DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE.

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

THE PATH OF TRUE LOVE.

FROM "MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM," ACT I. SC. 1.

For aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth:
But, either it was different in blood,
Or else misgraffèd in respect of years,
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say,—Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
So quick bright things come to confusion.

For everything I've ever read,
Or heard from stories or history,
The path of true love never goes smoothly:
It's often complicated by family differences,
Or mismatched ages,
Or dependent on friends' choices;
Or even if there’s mutual attraction,
War, death, or illness can attack it,
Making it as fleeting as a sound,
Fast as a shadow, short as a dream;
Brief like lightning on a dark night,
That, in a flash, reveals both heaven and earth,
And before someone can say, “Look!”
The darkness consumes it:
So quickly do bright things fall apart.

SHAKESPEARE.

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
Of me you shall not win renown; You thought to break a country heart
For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled
I saw the snare, and I retired: The daughter of a hundred Earls,
You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
You won't get any fame from me; You thought you could toy with a country heart
Just for fun before going to the city. You smiled at me, but I wasn’t fooled
I noticed the trap, so I took a step back: The daughter of a hundred Earls,
You're not someone I want to pursue.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
I know you proud to bear your name; Your pride is yet no mate for mine,
Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake
A heart that dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower
Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
I know you're proud to have your name. Your pride can't compare to mine,
Too proud to care about my background. And I wouldn't break for your sweet sake
A heart that loves more authentic qualities. A simple girl in her bloom
Is worth a hundred family coats of arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is,
I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love,
And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates
Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
You need to find a more obedient student, Because even if you were queen of everything,
I couldn't bring myself to think that way. You tried to show how I could love,
My disdain speaks for itself. The lion on your ancient stone gates
Isn't any colder to you than I am.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching lines have blown
Since I beheld young Laurence dead. O your sweet eyes, your low replies:
A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat
Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
You bring back such strange memories for me. Not three times have your spreading branches swayed
Since I last saw young Laurence when he died. Oh your lovely eyes, your soft responses:
You could be a powerful sorceress; But there was something across his throat
You probably wouldn’t have wanted to see that.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,
She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word
That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose
Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
When he saw his mother, She had the emotions typical of her kind,
She shared some harsh realities about you. I actually heard one harsh word
That's not really something you should be hearing; Her demeanor lacked that calmness
That defines the Vere de Vere group.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door:
You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse,
To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,
And slew him with your noble birth.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
There's a ghost in your hallway: The guilt of blood is knocking at your door:
You turned a healthy heart into bitterness. You continued on your path without regret,
To help him see his true worth, And finally, you gave a blank look,
And ended his life with your noble status.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,
From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife
Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
'T is only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,
From the blue skies above us The great old gardener and his wife
Appreciate the significance of a noble background. Whatever the case, it seems to me,
Being good is the only real way to be noble. Kind hearts matter more than crowns,
Simple faith is better than royal lineage.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:
You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes
Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time,
You needs must play such pranks as these.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:
You’re stuck in your halls and towers: The tired light of your proud eyes
Is worn out by the passing hours. In vibrant health, with endless wealth,
But feeling an undefined discomfort, You struggle to cope with time,
You can't help but behave like this.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,
If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate.
Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read,
Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart,
And let the foolish yeoman go.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,
If you're feeling bored, Are there no beggars at your door?
Or any needy people on your property? Oh! help the orphan boy learn to read,
Or teach the orphan girl how to sew, Pray for a caring heart,
And just ignore the foolish farmer.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

LINDA TO HAFED.

FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS."

"How sweetly," said the trembling maid,
Of her own gentle voice afraid,
So long had they in silence stood,
Looking upon that moonlight flood,—
"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile
To-night upon yon leafy isle!
Oft in my fancy's wanderings,
I've wished that little isle had wings,
And we, within its fairy bowers,
Were wafted off to seas unknown, Where not a pulse should beat but ours,
And we might live, love, die alone! Far from the cruel and the cold,—
Where the bright eyes of angels only Should come around us, to behold
A paradise so pure and lonely! Would this be world enough for thee?"—
Playful she turned, that he might see
The passing smile her cheek put on; But when she marked how mournfully
His eyes met hers, that smile was gone; And, bursting into heartfelt tears,
"Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears,
My dreams, have boded all too right,—
We part—forever part—to-night!
I knew, I knew it could not last,—
'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 't is past!
O, ever thus, from childhood's hour,
I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower
But 't was the first to fade away. I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die! Now, too, the joy most like divine
Of all I ever dreamt or knew, To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,—
O misery! must I lose that too?"

"How sweetly," said the trembling maid,
Afraid of her own gentle voice,
They had stood in silence for so long,
Looking at that moonlit scene,—
"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile
Tonight upon that leafy isle!
Often in my daydreams,
I've wished that little isle had wings,
And we, within its magical spaces,
Could be taken away to unknown seas, Where only our heartbeats would be heard,
And we could live, love, and die alone! Far from the cruel and the cold,—
Where only the shining eyes of angels Could come around us, to watch
A paradise so clean and isolated! Would this be enough for you?"—
She playfully turned, so he could see
The brief smile on her face; But when she saw how sadly
When his eyes locked onto hers, that smile vanished. And, bursting into genuine tears,
"Yes, yes," she cried, "my constant fears,
My dreams have spoken too truly,—
We part—forever part—tonight!
I knew, I knew it could not last,—
It was bright, it was heavenly, but it is over!
Oh, always like this, from childhood's hour,
I've watched my deepest hopes disappear; I never loved a tree or flower
Without being the first to fade away. I never cared for a dear gazelle,
To please me with its gentle black eyes, But when it got to know me well,
And loved me, it was destined to end! Now, too, the joy most like divine
Of everything I've ever dreamed or known, To see you, hear you, call you mine—
Oh no! Must I lose that too?

THOMAS MOORE.

LOVE NOT.

Don't love.

Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay!
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers,—
Things that are made to fade and fall away
Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours.
Love not!

Love not, love not, you unfortunate people!
Hope’s brightest wreaths are made of earthly flowers—
Things that are created to fade and fall away
Before they have bloomed for just a few short hours.
Don't love!

Love not! the thing ye love may change;
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you,
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.
Love not!

Don't love! The thing you love may change;
The rosy lips may stop smiling at you,
The kindly shining eyes may grow cold and unfamiliar,
The heart may still beat warmly, yet not be genuine.
No love!

Love not! the thing you love may die,—
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth.
Love not!

Don't love! The thing you adore might die,—
It might vanish from this bright and joyful world;
The silent stars, the blue and cheerful sky,
Shine down on its grave, just like they did at its birth.
Don't fall in love!

Love not! O warning vainly said
In present hours as in years gone by!
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head,
Faultless, immortal, till they change or die.
Love not!

Love not! Oh, what a useless warning
In the present time just like in the past!
Love creates a glow around the beloved's head,
Perfect, eternal, until they change or pass.
No love!

CAROLINE ELIZABETH SHERIDAN.(HON. MRS. NORTON.)

CAROLINE ELIZABETH SHERIDAN (HON. MRS. NORTON)

THE PRINCESS.

The Princess sat lone in her maiden bower,
The lad blew his horn at the foot of the tower.
"Why playest thou alway? Be silent, I pray,
It fetters my thoughts that would flee far away.
As the sun goes down."

The Princess sat alone in her room,
The boy blew his horn at the base of the tower.
"Why do you always play? Please be quiet,
It traps my thoughts that want to escape far away.
As the sun goes down.

In her maiden bower sat the Princess forlorn,
The lad had ceased to play on his horn.
"Oh, why art thou silent? I beg thee to play!
It gives wings to my thought that would flee far away,
As the sun goes down."

In her private chamber sat the Princess feeling sad,
The boy had stopped playing his horn.
"Oh, why are you silent? Please play for me!
It lifts my thoughts that want to escape,
"As the sun sets."

In her maiden bower sat the Princess forlorn,
Once more with delight played the lad on his horn.
She wept as the shadows grew long, and she sighed:
"Oh, tell me, my God, what my heart doth betide,
Now the sun has gone down."

In her first chamber sat the Princess feeling sad,
Once again, the boy played his horn with joy.
She cried as the shadows stretched out, and she sighed:
"Oh, tell me, my God, what’s going to happen to my heart,
"Now that the sun has gone down."

From the Norwegian of BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON.
Translation of NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.

From the Norwegian of Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson.
Translation by Nathan Haskell Dole.

UNREQUITED LOVE.

FROM "TWELFTH NIGHT," ACT I. SC. 4.

VIOLA.—Ay, but I know,— DUKE.—What dost thou know? VIOLA.—Too well what love women to men may owe: In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
DUKE.—And what's her history? VIOLA.—A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

VIOLA.—Yeah, but I get it— DUKE.—What do you know? VIOLA.—I fully understand the kind of love women can have for men: Honestly, they're as genuine in their feelings as we are.
My father had a daughter who loved a man,
And if I were a woman, maybe I would love you too.
DUKE.—So, what's her story? VIOLA.—It's empty, my lord. She never expressed her feelings, But let her silence, like a worm in the bud,
Eat away at her rosy cheeks; she faded in thought;
And with a mix of sadness and despair,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling through her grief. Wasn't that love, truly?
We men can say more, swear more: but honestly,
Our displays are greater than our intentions; we always show
Much in our promises, but less in our love.

SHAKESPEARE.

FAIR INES.

O saw ye not fair Ines? she's gone into the west,
To dazzle when the sun is down, and rob the world of rest;
She took our daylight with her, the smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek, and pearls upon her breast.

O did you not see beautiful Ines? she's gone out west,
To shine when the sun goes down, and take the world's rest;
She took our daylight with her, the smiles we love the best,
With morning blushes on her cheek, and pearls upon her chest.

O turn again, fair Ines, before the fall of night,
For fear the moon should shine alone, and stars unrivalled bright;
And blessèd will the lover be that walks beneath their light,
And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write!

O turn again, beautiful Ines, before night falls,
For fear the moon might shine alone, and stars shine unmatched bright;
And blessed will be the lover who walks beneath their light,
And breathes the love against your cheek I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines, that gallant cavalier
Who rode so gayly by thy side and whispered thee so near!
Were there no bonny dames at home, or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win the dearest of the dear?

Would I have been, fair Ines, that brave knight
Who rode so joyfully by your side and whispered to you so close!
Were there no lovely ladies at home, or no true lovers here,
That he should travel across the seas to win the one he loves most?

I saw thee, lovely Ines, descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen, and banners waved before;
And gentle youth and maidens gay, and snowy plumes they wore;—
It would have been a beauteous dream—if it had been no more!

I saw you, beautiful Ines, walking along the shore,
With groups of noble gentlemen and banners waving in front;
And gentle young men and cheerful maidens, wearing snowy plumes;—
It would have been a beautiful dream—if it were nothing more!

Alas! alas! fair Ines! she went away with song,
With music waiting on her steps, and shoutings of the throng;
But some were sad, and felt no mirth, but only Music's wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell to her you've loved so long.

Alas! alas! beautiful Ines! she left with a song,
With music following her every step, and cheers from the crowd;
But some were downcast, feeling no joy, just Music's pain,
In melodies that sang Goodbye, Goodbye to the one you've loved for so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! that vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck, nor danced so light before—
Alas for pleasure on the sea, and sorrow on the shore!
The smile that blest one lover's heart has broken many more!

Farewell, farewell, beautiful Ines! That ship never carried
Such a lovely lady on its deck, nor danced so lightly before—
Oh, the joy on the sea, and the sadness on the shore!
The smile that blessed one lover's heart has shattered many more!

THOMAS HOOD.

THE BANKS O' DOON.

THE BANKS OF DOON.

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary, fu' o' care?

You banks and hills of lovely Doon,
How do you look so fresh and beautiful? How can you sing, you little birds,
When I'm really tired and overwhelmed with worries?

Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn; Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed—never to return.

You’ll break my heart, you singing bird,
That dances around the blooming thorn; You remind me of lost joys,
Lost—never coming back.

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wistna o' my fate.

You'll break my heart, you lovely bird,
That sings next to your friend; For so I sat, and so I sang,
And didn't know my future.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And, fondly, sae did I o' mine.

Aft have I wandered by beautiful Doon,
To see the rose and honeysuckle twist together; And every bird sang of its love,
And, fondly, so did I of mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pou'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

With a cheerful heart, I picked a rose,
So lovely on its thorny bush; And my untrue lover took my rose,
But oh! he left the thorn with me.

ROBERT BURNS.

Robert Burns.

SONNET.

FROM "ASTROPHEL AND STELLA."

With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

With sad steps, oh Moon! you climb the skies,
So quietly, and with such a pale face!
What could it be, that even in a heavenly place
That busy Archer tries his sharp arrows?
Sure, if those long-familiar eyes
Can judge of love, you know a lover's struggle;
I can see it in your expression; your weary grace
Reveals to me, who feels the same, your state.
Then, out of camaraderie, oh Moon, tell me,
Is constant love seen there as just a lack of sense?
Are beauties there as proud as they are here?
Do they up there want to be loved, and yet
Scorn the lovers who hold their affection?
Do they call virtue there ingratitude?

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

AGATHA.

Agatha.

She wanders in the April woods,
That glisten with the fallen shower; She leans her face against the buds,
She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. She feels the ferment of the hour: She broodeth when the ringdove broods;
The sun and flying clouds have power Upon her cheek and changing moods.
She cannot think she is alone, As over her senses warmly steal Floods of unrest she fears to own And almost dreads to feel.

She wanders through the April woods,
That glisten from the recent rain; She leans her face against the buds,
She stops, leans down, and picks a flower. She feels the excitement of the moment: She reflects when the dove reflects;
The sun and moving clouds influence Her cheeks and shifting feelings.
She can't believe she's alone, As waves of restlessness slowly come in Feelings she's scared to admit And almost fears to experience.

Among the summer woodlands wide
Anew she roams, no more alone; The joy she feared is at her side,
Spring's blushing secret now is known. The primrose and its mates have flown, The thrush's ringing note hath died;
But glancing eye and glowing tone Fall on her from her god, her guide.
She knows not, asks not, what the goal, She only feels she moves towards bliss, And yields her pure unquestioning soul To touch and fondling kiss.

Among the wide summer woodlands
She wanders again, no longer by herself; The joy she worried about is now beside her,
Spring's delightful secret is now unveiled. The primrose and its companions have withered, The thrush's clear song has gone;
But bright eyes and warm tones Shine on her from her god, her guide.
She doesn't know or ask where they're headed, She just feels like she’s on her way to happiness, And gives her pure, trusting spirit To a gentle touch and a loving kiss.

And still she haunts those woodland ways,
Though all fond fancy finds there now To mind of spring or summer days,
Are sodden trunk and songless bough. The past sits widowed on her brow, Homeward she wends with wintry gaze,
To walls that house a hollow vow, To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze;
Watches the clammy twilight wane, With grief too fixed for woe or tear; And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, Envies the dying year.

And still she wanders through those wooded paths,
Although all the sweet memories are now found there Bring thoughts of spring or summer days,
There are wet trunks and quiet branches. The past weighs heavily on her mind, She heads home with a wintery look,
To walls that bear a broken promise, To a hearth where love has stopped burning;
Watches the cold twilight fade, With a sadness too profound for tears or mourning; And with her forehead pressed against the glass, She envies the passing year.

ALFRED AUSTIN.

THE SUN-DIAL.

The Sundial.

'T is an old dial, dark with many a stain;
In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain,
And white in winter like a marble tomb.

It's an old clock, dark with many stains;
In summer, adorned with floating orchard blossoms, Deceived in autumn by the yellow rain,
And white in winter like a marble grave.

And round about its gray, time-eaten brow
Lean letters speak,—a worn and shattered row: I am a Shade; a Shadowe too art thou:
I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?

And around its gray, weathered edge
Faded letters read—a damaged and broken line: I am a Shade; you are a Shadow too:
I see the time: do you, Gossip?

Here would the ring-doves linger, head to head;
And here the snail a silver course would run, Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread
His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun.

Here, the doves would hang out, side by side;
And here the snail would slowly move along, Marking the passage of time; and here the peacock flaunted
His bright green feathers blocked the sunlight.

The tardy shade moved forward to the noon;
Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept, That swung a flower, and, smiling hummed a tune,—
Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt.

The late shadow moved toward noon;
Amid the paths, a beautiful figure stepped, Swinging a flower and smiling as she hummed a tune,—
Before whose feet a barking spaniel jumped.

O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed;
About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone; And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed,
Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone.

Over her blue dress, an endless flower drifted;
Sunlight shimmered on her curly hair; And around her train, the tiger lilies swayed,
Like courtiers bowing until the queen departs.

She leaned upon the slab a little while,
Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, Scribbled a something with a frolic smile,
Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone.

She leaned on the stone for a moment,
Then she took a stylish pencil from her belt, Jotted down something with a playful smile,
I folded it, wrote on it, and tucked it into the stone.

The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail;
There came a second lady to the place, Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale,—
An inner beauty shining from her face.

The shadow came on, no faster than a snail;
Another woman showed up at the location, With gentle eyes and dressed in gray, somewhat weak and pale,—
An inner beauty radiating from her face.

She, as if listless with a lonely love,
Straying among the alleys with a book,— Herrick or Herbert,—watched the circling dove,
And spied the tiny letter in the nook.

She, feeling aimless with a lonely love,
Wandering through the alleys with a book— Herrick or Herbert,—watched the dove flying around,
And saw the small letter tucked away in the corner.

Then, like to one who confirmation found
Of some dread secret half-accounted true,— Who knew what hearts and hands the letter bound,
And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two,—

Then, like someone who has uncovered
A frightening secret that was only partly true,— Who understood the hearts and hands connected by the letter,
And thought about the affectionate interaction between the two,—

She bent her fair young forehead on the stone;
The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head; And 'twixt her taper fingers pearled and shone
The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed.

She leaned her smooth young forehead against the stone;
The dark shadow stayed on her head for a moment; And between her slender fingers, a single tear
Shined like the tear that tired eyes will cry.

The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom;
Then came a soldier gallant in her stead, Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume,
A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head.

The shadow moved ahead into the growing darkness;
Then a courageous soldier stepped in her place, Waving a hat with a fluttering feather,
A ribboned strand of hair flowing from his head.

Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow,
Scar-seamed a little, as the women love; So kindly fronted that you marvelled how
The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove;

Blue-eyed, honest-looking, with a clear and open forehead,
A little rough around the edges, just how women prefer it; So warmly welcoming that you wondered how
The old sword handle had frayed his glove;

Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun;
Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge; And standing somewhat widely, like to one
More used to "Boot and Saddle" than to cringe

Who changed at Psyche diving into the sun;
Uncrowned three lilies with a backward motion; And standing a bit apart, like someone
More comfortable with "Boot and Saddle" than to bow

As courtiers do, but gentleman withal,
Took out the note;—held it as one who feared The fragile thing he held would slip and fall;
Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard;

As courtiers do, but still a gentleman,
He pulled out the note and held it like someone who was scared. The delicate thing he held would slip and drop;
He read and re-read, tugging at his brown beard;

Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast;
Laughed softly in a flattered, happy way, Arranged the broidered baldrick on his crest,
And sauntered past, singing a roundelay.

Kissed it, I think, and tucked it in his shirt;
Chuckled gently in a happy, cheerful manner, Adjusted the embroidered strap on his shoulder,
And walked by, humming a tune.

· · · · · ·

I'm sorry, but it seems like there's no text provided to modernize. Could you please provide the text you want me to work on?

The shade crept forward through the dying glow;
There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; But for a little time the brass will show
A small gray spot,—the record of a tear.

The shadow moved in closer as the light faded;
There were no more ladies or knights left; But for a brief moment, the metal will reveal
A small gray spot—a remnant of a tear.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

LOCKSLEY HALL.

Locksley Hall.

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn,—
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn.

Comrades, leave me here for a bit, while it's still early morning,—
Leave me here, and when you need me, blow the bugle horn.

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,
Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over Locksley Hall:

'This is the place, and all around it, just like before, the curlews call,
Gloomy glimmers around the moorland, flying over Locksley Hall:

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts,
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.

Locksley Hall, which in the distance overlooks the sandy areas,
And the hollow ocean waves crashing into waterfalls.

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest,
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the west.

Many nights from that ivy-covered window, before I went to sleep,
I watched great Orion gradually moving westward.

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.

Many nights I watched the Pleiads rise through the soft shadows,
Sparkling like a bunch of fireflies caught in a silver braid.

Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a youth sublime
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of time;

Here by the beach, I strolled, nurturing a wonderful youth
With the enchanting stories of science and the endless results of time;

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed;
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed;

When the centuries behind me felt like a rich, resting land;
When I held onto everything in the present for the promise it held;

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see,—
Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.

When I dipped into the future as far as the human eye could see,—
I saw a vision of the world, and all the wonders that would be.

In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;
In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;

In the spring, the robin's breast turns a deeper shade of red;
In the spring, the playful lapwing grows a new crest;

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove;
In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

In spring, a brighter iris transforms on the polished dove;
In spring, a young man's thoughts effortlessly shift to love.

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young,
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung.

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than it should be for someone so young,
And her eyes watched all my movements with a silent attention.

And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me;
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee."

And I said, "My cousin Amy, talk to me and be honest;
Trust me, cousin, everything I feel is directed towards you."

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light,
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night.

On her pale cheek and forehead appeared a hue and a glow,
Like the rosy red I’ve seen lighting up the northern night.

And she turned,—her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs;
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes,—

And she turned,—her chest filled with a sudden wave of sighs;
All the emotion shining brightly in the depths of her hazel eyes,—

Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong;"
Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long."

Saying, "I've hidden my feelings, afraid they would hurt me;"
Saying, "Do you love me, cousin?" crying, "I've loved you for a long time."

Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in his glowing hands;
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

Love picked up the glass of time and turned it in his glowing hands;
Every moment, gently shaken, flowed like golden sand.

Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

Love picked up the harp of life and struck all the strings with strength;
Struck the string of self, which, quivering, played a tune that faded away.

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring,
And her whisper thronged my pulses with the fulness of the spring.

Many mornings on the moorland, we heard the woods echo,
And her whispers filled my heart with the fullness of spring.

Many an evening by the water did we watch the stately ships,
And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.

Many evenings by the water, we watched the majestic ships,
And our spirits connected in the moment our lips touched.

O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more!
O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore!

Oh my cousin, shallow-hearted! Oh my Amy, not mine anymore!
Oh the dreary, dreary moorland! Oh the barren, barren shore!

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,—
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue!

Falser than all imagined depths, falser than all the songs ever sung,—
A puppet to a father's threats, and submissive to a nagging voice!

Is it well to wish thee happy?—having known me; to decline
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine!

Is it really good to wish you happiness?—after knowing me; to settle
For a lower range of feelings and a smaller heart than mine!

Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay.

Yet it will be: you will lower yourself to his level day by day,
What is fine within you becoming rough to relate to the common.

As the husband is, the wife is; thou art mated with a clown,
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

As the husband is, so is the wife; you're paired with a fool,
And the coarseness of his nature will weigh you down.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

He will hold you when his passion has run its course,
Something better than his dog, a little more precious than his horse.

What is this? his eyes are heavy,—think not they are glazed with wine.
Go to him; it is thy duty,—kiss him; take his hand in thine.

What is this? His eyes are heavy—don’t think they’re glazed with wine.
Go to him; it’s your duty—kiss him; take his hand in yours.

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is over wrought,—
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought.

It might be that my lord is tired, that he's mentally exhausted,—
Calm him with your better ideas, engage him with your lighter thoughts.

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand,—
Better thou wert dead before me, though I slew thee with my hand.

He will serve the purpose, things that are easy to grasp,—
It’s better for you to be dead before me, even if I killed you myself.

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace,
Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.

Better you and I were lying, hidden from the shame of our hearts,
Tangled in each other's arms, and quiet in one final embrace.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!

Cursed be the social needs that betray the strength of youth!
Cursed be the social lies that pull us away from the living truth!

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest nature's rule
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened forehead of the fool!

Damn the frail shapes that stray from the true nature's path
Damn the gold that covers the narrow brow of the fool!

Well—'t is well that I should bluster!—Hadst thou less unworthy proved,
Would to God—for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved.

Well—it’s good that I should rant!—If you had been less undeserving,
I wish to God—for I had loved you more than any wife has ever been loved.

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit?
from my bosom, though my heart be at the root.

Am I crazy to hold on to something that only brings me pain?
from my heart, even if my feelings run deep.

Never! though my mortal summers to such length of years should come
As the many-wintered crow that leads the clanging rookery home.

Never! Even if my human summers were to stretch for many years
Like the crow that has lived through many winters, guiding the noisy rookery home.

Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind?
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind?

Where can I find comfort? In the split of the mind's records?
Can I separate her from who she is and love her, like I once knew her, kind?

I remember one that perished; sweetly did she speak and move;
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love.

I remember one who passed away; she spoke and moved so sweetly;
I remember her so well, that just looking at her made you fall in love.

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore?
No,—she never loved me truly; love is love forevermore.

Can I think of her as gone and love her for the love she had?
No, she never truly loved me; love is love forever.

Comfort? comfort scorned of devils; this is truth the poet sings,
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.

Comfort? comfort mocked by devils; this is the truth the poet expresses,
That the heaviest sorrow comes from remembering happier times.

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof,
In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof.

Drug your memories, so you don’t learn it, so your heart isn’t tested,
In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain is falling on the roof.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams; and thou art staring at the wall,
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall.

Like a dog, he chases dreams; and you’re staring at the wall,
Where the fading night lamp flickers, and the shadows dance and shift.

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep,
To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep.

Then a hand will pass before you, pointing to his drunken sleep,
To your widowed marriage pillows, to the tears that you will cry.

Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whispered by the phantom years,
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears;

You will hear the "Never, never," whispered by the phantom years,
And a song from the distance in the ringing of your ears;

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain.
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again.

And an eye will trouble you, watching with old kindness as you hurt.
Turn over, turn over on your pillow; go back to sleep again.

Nay, but nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry;
'Tis a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy trouble dry.

No, but nature gives you comfort; because a gentle voice will call;
It's a better life than yours, a pair of lips to take away your worries.

Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest rival brings thee rest,—
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast.

Baby lips will laugh at me; my newest competitor gives you peace,—
Baby fingers, soft caresses, pull me away from the mother's embrace.

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due.
Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two.

O, the child also gives the father a love he doesn't deserve.
Half is yours and half is his: it will be worthy of both.

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part,
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.

Oh, I see you old and serious, suited to your small role,
With a little stash of sayings lecturing a daughter's heart.

"They were dangerous guides, the feelings—she herself was not exempt—
Truly, she herself had suffered"—Perish in thy self-contempt!

"They were dangerous guides, the emotions—she was not immune—
Honestly, she had suffered herself"—Perish in your self-hatred!

Overlive it—lower yet—be happy! wherefore should I care?
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair.

Overcome it—dig deeper—find happiness! Why should I worry?
I have to engage in action, or else I'll wither away in despair.

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these?
Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys.

What should I turn to on days like this?
Every door is locked with gold and only opens with golden keys.

Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the markets overflow.
I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do?

Every entrance is crowded with admirers, and all the markets are overflowing.
I can only think of my frustration: what should I do?

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground,
When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound.

I was fine with dying, falling on the enemy's land,
When the armies faded into mist, and the winds were filled with noise.

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that honor feels,
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels.

But the jingling of money eases the pain that honor feels,
And the nations just grumble, snapping at each other's heels.

Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page.
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous mother-age!

Can I only live in sadness? I will turn that earlier page.
Hide me from my intense feelings, oh you amazing mother of time!

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife,
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life;

Make me feel the wild beat I experienced before the struggle,
When I could hear my days ahead of me, and the chaos of my life;

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield,
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field,

Yearning for the big thrill that the upcoming years would bring,
Eager-hearted like a boy when he first leaves his father's farm,

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn,
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn;

And at night along the dark highway, getting closer and closer,
He sees the light of London shining in the sky like a gloomy dawn;

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then,
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men;

And his spirit jumps inside him, wanting to leave before him then,
Under the light he gazes at, among the crowds of people;

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new:
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do:

Men, my brothers, the workers, always achieving something new:
What they have accomplished is just a glimpse of what they will achieve:

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,
Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;

For I looked into the future, as far as the eye could see,
Saw a vision of the world, and all the amazing things that would happen;

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales;

Saw the skies filled with trade, ships with magical sails,
Captains of the purple twilight, arriving with valuable goods;

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue;

Heard the skies filled with shouting, and a horrible dew fell
From the nations' lofty fleets clashing in the deep blue;

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm,
With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunder-storm;

Far along the global murmur of the warm south wind,
With the flags of the nations sailing through the thunderstorm;

Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle flags were furled
In the parliament of man, the federation of the world.

Until the war drum stopped beating, and the battle flags were put away
In the assembly of humanity, the united nations of the world.

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.

There, the common sense of most people will hold a troubled world in respect,
And the gentle earth will rest, wrapped in universal law.

So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping through me left me dry,
Left me with a palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye;

So I succeeded before my intense feelings overwhelmed me and left me empty,
Left me with a shaky heart, and left me with a weary gaze;

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint.
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point:

Eye, where all chaos gathers, everything here is out of whack.
Science progresses, but slowly, slowly, inching forward from one point to another:

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher,
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly dying fire.

Slowly, a hungry crowd approaches like a lion, creeping closer,
Staring at someone who nods and winks behind a dying fire.

Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs,
And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.

Yet I have no doubt that throughout the ages, one evolving purpose persists,
And the thoughts of people expand with the cycles of the sun.

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys,
Though the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's?

What does it matter to him who doesn't reap the harvest of his youthful joys,
Even if the core of existence keeps beating like a young man's heart?

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers; and I linger on the shore
And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.

Knowledge comes, but wisdom stays; and I stay by the shore
And the person fades, while the world keeps growing.

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast,
Full of sad experience moving toward the stillness of his rest.

Knowledge comes, but wisdom stays, and he carries a heavy heart,
Filled with painful experiences moving toward the calm of his rest.

Hark! my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle horn,—
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn;

Hey! My cheerful friends are calling me, sounding the bugle horn,—
Those who saw my foolish passion as a reason to mock me;

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string?
I am shamed through all my nature to have loved so slight a thing.

Is it not beneath me to play on such a worn-out string?
I feel ashamed deep down to have loved something so insignificant.

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain—
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain;

Weakness to be angry with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain—
Nature created them as more instinctive actions limited by a less complex mind;

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, matched with mine,
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine—

Woman is the lesser man, and all your passions, compared to mine,
Are like moonlight to sunlight, and like water to wine—

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah for some retreat
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat!

Here, at least, where nature is fading, nothing. Oh for some escape
Deep in that shining East, where my life first began!

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father, evil-starred;
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward.

Where in the wild battle of Mahratta my father fell, cursed by fate;
I was left an orphan, trampled and a ward of my selfish uncle.

Or to burst all links of habit,—there to wander far away,
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day,

Or to break all ties of habit, there to wander far away,
From one island to another at the break of day,

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies,
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise.

Big constellations shining, soft moons and cheerful skies,
Expanses of tropical shade and clusters of palms, patches of Paradise.

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag,—
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag,—

Never does the trader arrive, never does a European flag fly,—
The bird glides over the shiny forest, hanging from the cliff with a swing,—

Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree,—
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea.

There, methinks, would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind—
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind.

There, I think, would be more enjoyment than in this march of intellect—
In the steamship, in the railway, in the ideas that stir humanity.

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing-space;
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.

There, the passions, no longer restricted, will have room to grow and breathe;
I will find a wild woman, and she will raise my dark-skinned children.

Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and they shall run,
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun,

Iron-strong, flexible-bodied, they will dive, and they will run,
Catch the wild goat by its hair, and throw their spears in the sun,

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks,
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books—

Whistle back the parrot's call, and jump over the rainbows of the streams,
Not with blind eyes staring at depressing books—

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild,
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child.

Fool, here it is again, the dream, the fantasy! But I realize my words are reckless,
Yet I see the gray barbarian as lesser than the Christian child.

I, to herd with narrow foreheads vacant of our glorious gains,
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains!

I, to gather with dull minds empty of our amazing achievements,
Like an animal focused on simple pleasures, like an animal feeling simple pains!

Mated with a squalid savage,—what to me were sun or clime?
I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time,—

Mated with a filthy brute—what do the sun or climate mean to me?
I, the heir of all ages, in the leading ranks of time,—

I, that rather held it better men should perish one by one,
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon!

I think it’s better for good people to die one by one
Than for the world to just sit still like Joshua's moon in Ajalon!

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range;
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change.

Not without reason the distance calls. Let's move forward, forward;
Let the world keep spinning endlessly along the bright paths of change.

Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day:
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

Through the shadow of the world, we move into a brighter day:
Better fifty years in Europe than a lifetime in China.

Mother-age, (for mine I knew not,) help me as when life begun,—
Rift the hills and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the sun,

Mother, I don't know your age, but help me like you did when life began,—
Open the mountains and let the waters flow, light up the skies, and measure the sun,

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set;
Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy yet.

Oh, I see the crescent promise of my spirit has not faded;
Ancient sources of inspiration flow through all my imagination still.

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall!
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall.

How things may be, it’s a long goodbye to Locksley Hall!
Now the woods can dry up, and the roof can collapse for all I care.

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt,
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt.

A cloud rises from the edge, darkening over the moor and woods,
Filling all the wind before it, carrying a thunderbolt within.

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow;
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, whether it's rain, hail, fire, or snow;
For the strong wind picks up, roaring toward the sea, and I'm off.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

SONG.

Track.

"A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine! A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green—
No more of me you knew, My love! No more of me you knew.

"A heavy burden is yours, fair maid,
A heavy weight is yours! To remove the thorn from your brow,
And ask for wine! A sparkling eye, a soldier's demeanor,
A blue feather, A jacket of Lincoln green—
You didn't know me anymore, My love! You didn’t know me anymore.

"The morn is merry June, I trow—
The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again." He turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore; He gave his bridle-rein a shake,
Said, "Adieu for evermore, My love! And adieu for evermore."

"It's a cheerful morning in June, I believe—
The rose is beginning to bloom; But it will blossom in winter's snow
Before we meet up again. He turned his horse as he spoke,
By the riverbank; He shook the reins gently,
And said, "Bye for good, My love! "Goodbye forever."

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Sir Walter Scott.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

When the sheep are in the fauld and the kye a' at hame,
When a' the weary world to sleep are gane,
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.

When the sheep are in the fold and the cows are all home,
When all the tired world has gone to sleep,
The sorrows of my heart fall like rain from my eye,
While my husband lies sound asleep next to me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
But saving a crown, he had naething else beside.
To mak' the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea;
And the crown and the pound, they were baith for me!

Young Jamie loved me well and wanted me to be his bride;
But besides a crown, he had nothing else to his name.
To turn the crown into a pound, my Jamie went to sea;
And the crown and the pound, they were both for me!

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,
When my mither she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa;
My father brak his arm—my Jamie at the sea—
And Auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.

He had only been gone a week, not even two,
When my mom got sick, and the cow was stolen;
My dad broke his arm—my Jamie's at sea—
And Old Robin Gray came to court me.

My father couldna work,—my mither couldna spin;
I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
And Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e,
Said, "Jennie for their sakes, will you marry me?"

My dad couldn't work,—my mom couldn't spin;
I worked day and night, but I couldn't bring home their bread;
And Rob supported them both, and, with tears in his eyes,
Said, "Jennie for their sake, will you marry me?"

My heart it said na, for I looked for Jamie back;
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack;
His ship was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee?
Or why was I spared to cry, Wae is me!

My heart said no, because I searched for Jamie;
But the winds blew hard, and his ship was wrecked;
His ship was wrecked! Why didn’t Jamie die?
Or why was I spared to cry, Woe is me!

My father argued sair—my mither didna speak,
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break;
They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea;
And so Auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me.

My father argued hard—my mother didn’t say a word,
But she looked at my face until my heart was about to break;
They gave him my hand, but my heart was in the sea;
And so Old Robin Gray, he became my husband.

I hadna been his wife, a week but only four,
When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie's ghaist—I couldna think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, for to marry thee!"

I had only been his wife for a week, but just four days,
When, feeling sad as I sat on the stone at the door,
I saw my Jamie's ghost—I couldn't believe it was him,
Until he said, "I've come home, love, to marry you!"

O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say:
Ae kiss we took—nae mair—I bad him gang away.
I wish that I were dead, but I 'm no like to dee,
And why do I live to say, Wae is me!

O when we said goodbye, we talked a lot:
We shared one kiss—nothing more—I told him to leave.
I wish I were dead, but I’m not ready to die,
And why do I live to say, Woe is me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin.
But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For Auld Robin Gray, he is kind unto me.

I creep around like a ghost, and I don’t care to laugh;
I can’t even think of Jamie, because that would be wrong.
But I'll try my best to always be a good wife,
For Old Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

LADY ANNE BARNARD.

Lady Anne Barnard.

TO A PORTRAIT.

A pensive photograph
Watches me from the shelf— Ghost of old love, and half
Ghost of myself!

A thoughtful photo
Staring at me from the shelf— Memory of lost love, and half
Self-identity!

How the dear waiting eyes
Watch me and love me yet— Sad home of memories,
Her waiting eyes!

How those beloved waiting eyes
Still watch me and love me— Melancholy place of memories,
Her eager eyes!

Ghost of old love, wronged ghost,
Return: though all the pain Of all once loved, long lost,
Come back again.

Ghost of a past love, hurt ghost,
Come back: even with all the hurt Of everything that was once loved, now gone,
Return once more.

Forget not, but forgive!
Alas, too late I cry. We are two ghosts that had their chance to live,
And lost it, she and I.

Forget not, but forgive!
Unfortunately, I shout out too late. We are two ghosts who had our chance to live,
And we both lost it.

ARTHUR SYMONS.

Arthur Symons.

MAUD MULLER.

Maud Muller, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Maud Muller, on a summer day,
Raked the meadow fresh with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Beneath her tattered hat shone the richness
Of natural beauty and rural vitality.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

Singing, she worked, and her joyful happiness
The mockingbird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

But, when she looked over at the distant town,
White from its hillside looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast,—

The sweet song faded away, and a sense of unease
And an indescribable longing filled her heart,—

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

A wish, that she barely felt she could admit,
For something better than what she had experienced.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Running his hand through his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

He pulled his reins in the shade
Of the apple trees, to greet the girl,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow, across the road.

And ask for a drink from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow, across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

She bent down to where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled her small tin cup for him,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her bare feet and her torn dress.

"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter drink
From a prettier hand was never sipped."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

He talked about the grass, flowers, and trees,
About the singing birds and buzzing bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

Then they talked about the haymaking and wondered if the cloud in the west would bring bad weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown,

And Maud forgot her torn dress,
And her lovely bare ankles, tanned and brown,

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

And listened, while a happy surprise
Shone from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

At last, like someone who is stalling
Looking for a meaningless excuse, he rode off.

Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!

Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Oh, how I wish I could be the Judge's bride!"

"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.

"He would dress me in the finest silks,
And toast and praise me over his wine."

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat,
My brother should sail a painted boat.

"My dad should wear a nice coat,
My brother should sail a colorful boat."

"I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.

"I'd dress my mom in a stylish and cheerful way,
And the baby would get a new toy every day."

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door."

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And everyone would bless me for opening our door."

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still:

"A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"A form more beautiful, a face more sweet,
I have never had the chance to meet."

"And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.

"And her humble response and charming demeanor
Show how wise and good she is, just like her beauty."

"Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay.

"Would she be mine, and today,
Like her, I'd be harvesting hay."

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"No uncertain balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor tired lawyers with endless chatter,

"But low of cattle, and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words."

"But the sound of cattle, and the song of birds,
And good health, and peace, and kind words."

But he thought of his sister, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

But he thought of his sister, proud and distant,
And his mother, who took pride in her status and wealth.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

So, shutting himself off emotionally, the Judge rode away,
And Maud was left alone in the field.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love tune;

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed an old love song in court;

And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

And the young girl pondered by the well,
Until the rain fell on the untamed clover.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

He married a wife with a huge inheritance,
Who lived for style, just as he lived for influence.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go;

Yet often, in the warm glow of his marble fireplace,
He watched a picture appear and disappear;

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead,

Oftentimes, when the wine in his glass was red,
He wished he was at the wayside well instead,

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover blooms;

And closed his eyes on his decorated rooms,
To dream of fields and clover flowers;

And the proud man sighed with a secret pain,
"Ah, that I were free again!

And the proud man sighed with a hidden pain,
"Ah, if only I were free again!

"Free as when I rode that day
Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay."

"Free like I felt that day
When the barefoot girl was raking the hay."

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.

She married an uneducated and broke man,
And many kids played around her door.

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

But worry and grief, and the pain of childbirth,
Left their marks on heart and mind.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And often, when the summer sun shone bright
On the freshly cut hay in the meadow field,

And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,

And she heard the small stream flowing
By the side of the road, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,

In the shade of the apple tree again
She saw a rider pull up his reins,

And, gazing down with a timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

And, looking down with a shy elegance,
She sensed his happy gaze scanning her expression.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched out into grand hallways;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned;

The tired wheel turned to a spinnet,
The candle made of tallow burned like a star;

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

And for the guy sitting by the chimney,
Napping and complaining over his pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.

A strong figure by her side she saw,
And happiness was responsibility and love was the rule.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been."

Then she picked up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It could have been."

Alas for maiden, alas for judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

Alas for the young woman, alas for the judge,
For the wealthy complainer and the household worker!

God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;

God help them both! And help us all,
Who foolishly remember the dreams of youth;

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

For all the sad words said or written,
The saddest are these: "It could have been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

Ah, well! For all of us, some sweet hope is hidden
Deeply buried from human sight;

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

And, in the afterlife, angels might
Roll the stone away from its grave!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

THE PALM AND THE PINE.

Beneath an Indian palm a girl
Of other blood reposes; Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl
Amid that wild of roses.

Beneath an Indian palm, a girl
Of different backgrounds rests; Her cheek is clear and pale like a pearl
In that jungle of roses.

Beside a northern pine a boy
Is leaning fancy-bound. Nor listens where with noisy joy
Awaits the impatient hound.

Beside a northern pine, a boy
Is daydreaming. He isn't paying attention to where
The excited dog waits with loud enthusiasm.

Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,
Relaxed the frosty twine.— The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,
The palm-tree of the pine.

Cool calms the sick and feverish peace,
Chilled in the frosty grip. The pine tree dreams of the palm,
The palm tree longs for the pine.

As soon shall nature interlace
Those dimly-visioned boughs, As these young lovers face to face
Renew their early vows.

As soon will nature intertwine
Those barely visible branches, As these young lovers stand face to face
Reconfirm their initial promises.

From the German of HEINRICH HEINE.
Translation of RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD HOUGHTON.

From the German of HEINRICH HEINE.
Translation by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD HOUGHTON.

CUMNOR HALL.

[SAID TO HAVE BEEN THE SUGGESTIVE ORIGIN OF SCOTT'S "KENILWORTH."]

[SAID TO HAVE BEEN THE INSPIRATIONAL ORIGIN OF SCOTT'S "KENILWORTH."]

The dews of summer night did fall;
The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.

The summer night's dew fell;
The moon, gentle ruler of the night sky, Shined silver on the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And on many nearby oaks.

Now naught was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of busy life were still, Save an unhappy lady's sighs,
That issued from that lonely pile.

Now nothing was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of a bustling life were silent, Except for the sighs of an unhappy lady,
That came from that lonely spot.

"Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love
That thou so oft hast sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?

"Leicester," she exclaimed, "is this your love
That you have promised me so many times, To abandon me in this empty grove,
Trapped in shameful secrecy?

"No more thou com'st with lover's speed,
Thy once belovèd bride to see; But be she alive, or be she dead,
I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.

"No more do you come with the speed of a lover,
To see your former bride; But whether she is alive or dead,
I’m afraid, serious Earl, it’s the same for you.

"Not so the usage I received
When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved,
No chilling fears did me appal.

"Not so the treatment I got
When I was happy in my dad's house; No unfaithful husband hurt me then,
No fear of freezing troubled me.

"I rose up with the cheerful morn,
No lark more blithe, no flower more gay And like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the livelong day.

"I woke up with the bright morning,
No lark is more cheerful, no flower is more vibrant. And like the bird that hangs around the thorn,
I sang joyfully all day long.

"If that my beauty is but small,
Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall,
Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized?

"If my beauty is really that insignificant,
Among the noble ladies who were looked down upon, Then why did you take me from that place,
Where, arrogant Earl, was it truly valued?

"And when you first to me made suit,
How fair I was, you oft would say! And proud of conquest, plucked the fruit,
Then left the blossom to decay.

"And when you first came to me,
You often said how beautiful I am! And proud of your victory, you took the prize,
Then allowed the flower to wilt.

"Yes! now neglected and despised,
The rose is pale, the lily's dead; But he, that once their charms so prized,
Is sure the cause those charms are fled.

"Yes! now overlooked and scorned,
The rose has wilted, and the lily is gone; But he, who once valued their beauty,
Knows he's the reason their charm has faded.

"For know, when sick'ning grief doth prey,
And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay,—
What floweret can endure the storm?

"For know, when aching grief takes hold,
And tender love is met with scorn, The sweetest beauty will fade away,—
Which small flower can withstand the storm?

"At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,
Where every lady's passing rare, That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not so fair.

"At court, I hear, is beauty's throne,
Where every woman is unique, Those Eastern flowers that put the sun to shame,
Are not as bright, not as good.

"Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds
Where roses and where lilies vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken when those gauds are by?

"Then, Earl, why did you leave the beds
Where roses and lilies clash, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must you wither when those decorations are around?

"'Mong rural beauties I was one,
Among the fields wild flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won,
And thought my beauty passing rare.

"'Among rural beauties, I was one,
Amid the fields, the wildflowers were stunning; Some country guy might have won me,
And thought my beauty was quite unique.

"But, Leicester, (or I much am wrong,)
Or 't is not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

"But, Leicester, (or I could be mistaken,)
Or it's not beauty that attracts your promises; Rather, it's ambition's shiny crown
That makes you forget your modest partner.

"Then, Leicester, why, again I plead,
(The injured surely may repine,)— Why didst thou wed a country maid,
When some fair princess might be thine?

"Then, Leicester, I ask again,
(The pain can surely lament,) Why did you marry a country girl,
When could you have had a beautiful princess?

"Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
And, oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave to mourn the livelong day?

"Why did you praise my humble charms,
And, oh! are we just going to let them fall apart? Why did you win me to your arms,
Then spend the whole day grieving?

"The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as they go; Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a Countess can have woe.

"The village girls of the plain
Greet me respectfully as they walk by; Jealous, they notice my silky gown,
Not understanding that a Countess can feel sad.

"The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happy 's their estate; To smile for joy than sigh for woe
To be content—than to be great.

"The simple nymphs! They have no idea
How much happier their lives are now; To smile with joy than to sigh with sorrow
It’s better to be content than to be powerful.

"How far less blest am I than them
Daily to pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that, from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.

"How much less fortunate am I than them
Every day I struggle and feel like I'm fading away! Like the weak plant, that, from its stem
Separated, feels the chill.

"Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy
The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy,
By sullen frowns or pratings rude.

"Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy
The simple joys of being by yourself; Your arrogant followers ruin my peace,
With their sulky expressions and rude conversations.

"Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear; They winked aside, and seemed to say,
'Countess, prepare, thy end is near.'

"Last night, as I wandered sadly,
The village death bell rang in my ear; They looked away and seemed to say,
'Countess, prepare yourself; your time is running out.'

"And now, while happy peasants sleep,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn; No one to soothe me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

"And now, while joyful villagers sleep,
Here I am, feeling lonely and abandoned; No one to comfort me as I cry,
Except for Philomel on that thorn over there.

"My spirits flag—my hopes decay—
Still that dread death-bell smites my ear, And many a boding seems to say,
'Countess, prepare, thy end is near!'"

"My spirits are low—my hopes are fading—
That haunting deathbell still echoes in my ears, And many ominous signs seem to say,
"Countess, get ready, your time is almost here!"

Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear, And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.

Thus sore and sad, that lady mourned,
In Cumnor Hall, so lonely and dreary, And she let out many a heartfelt sigh,
And shed many bitter tears.

And ere the dawn of day appeared,
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.

And before the dawn broke,
In the empty and dark Cumnor Hall, Many chilling screams were heard,
And countless screams of pure terror.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped its wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The death bell was heard ringing three times,
A mysterious voice called out, And three times the raven flapped its wings
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The mastiff bowled at village door,
The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour, for nevermore
That hapless Countess e'er was seen.

The mastiff crashed at the village door,
The oaks were damaged on the green; What a tragic time, for never again
Would that poor Countess be seen.

And in that manor now no more
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

And in that manor, there’s no more
A joyful celebration and spirited dance; Ever since that gloomy time,
Ghosts have haunted Cumnor Hall.

The village maids, with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall, Nor ever lead the merry dance,
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

The village girls, with wary eyes,
Stay away from the old, mossy wall, And never join in the joyful dance,
In the gardens of Cumnor Hall.

Full many a traveller oft hath sighed,
And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wandering onward they've espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

Many travelers have sighed,
And sadly cried over the Countess' downfall, As they wandered on and spotted
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

WALY, WALY.

O waly, waly, up the bank,
O waly, waly, doun the brae, And waly, waly, yon burn-side,
Where I and my love were wont to gae! I leaned my back unto an aik,
I thocht it was a trustie tree, But first it bowed and syne it brak',—
Sae my true love did lichtlie me.

Oh woe, woe, up the bank,
Oh no, no, down the hill, And woe, woe, by that riverside,
Where my partner and I used to go! I leaned my back against an oak,
I thought it was a strong tree, But first it bent and then it broke,—
So my true love didn't take me seriously.

O waly, waly, but love be bonnie
A little time while it is new! But when it's auld it waxeth cauld,
And fadeth awa' like the morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my heid.
Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true love has me forsook,
And says he'll never lo'e me mair.

Oh woe, woe, but love is beautiful
Just for a short time while it's new! But when it gets old, it turns cold,
And disappears like the morning dew. Oh, why should I fix my hair,
Or why should I brush my hair? For my true love has abandoned me,
And says he’ll never love me again.

Noo Arthur's Seat sall be my bed,
The sheets sall ne'er be pressed by me; Saint Anton's well sall be my drink;
Since my true love's forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves off the tree? O gentle death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearie.

Noo Arthur's Seat will be my bed,
I will never touch the sheets; Saint Anton's well will be my drink;
Since my true love has left me. Martinmas wind, when will you blow,
And shake the green leaves off the tree? O gentle death, when will you come?
I'm tired of my life.

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie, 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;
But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we cam' in by Glasgow toun,
We were a comely sicht to see; My love was clad in the black velvet,
An' I mysel' in cramasie.

It's not the frost that freezes harsh,
Nor the harshness of snow, It's not such cold that makes me cry;
But my lover's heart has become cold towards me. When we came into Glasgow town,
We looked really charming to see; My love was dressed in black velvet,
And I in red.

But had I wist before I kissed
That love had been so ill to win, I 'd locked my heart in a case o' goud,
And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee; And I mysel' were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!

But if I had known before I kissed
That love would be so difficult to attain, I would have locked my heart in a case of gold,
And fastened it with a silver pin. Oh, oh! if my young baby were born,
And placed on the nurse's lap; And I myself were dead and gone,
And the green grass growing over me!

ANONYMOUS.

Anonymous.

LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.

Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

A Scottish tune.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;
If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy!
Thy father breides me great annoy.
Balow, my 'babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

Balow, my babe, lie still and sleep!
It pains me so to see you cry;
If you’re quiet, I’ll be glad,
Your whimpering makes my heart very sad.
Balow, my boy, your mother’s joy!
Your father causes me great annoyance.
Hey, my love, just relax and sleep!
It hurts me so much to see you cry.

When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals and flattering cheire
To me that time did not appeire:
But now I see, most cruell hee,
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.
Balow, etc.

When he started to woo my love,
And used his sweet words to charm,
His deceitful and flattering demeanor
Didn’t seem obvious to me then:
But now I see, how cruel he is,
Not caring for my child or me.
Balow, etc.

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile:
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid!
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.
Balow, etc.

Lay still, my darling, sleep for a bit,
And when you wake, smile sweetly:
But don’t smile like your father did,
To trick girls; no, God forbid!
But still I fear, you’ll get closer,
To your father's heart and face to bear.
Balow, etc.

I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde,
My luve with him maun stil abyde:
In weil or wae, whaireir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frae.
Balow, etc.

I can’t help it, but I will always
Love your father still:
Wherever he goes, wherever he rides,
My love must stay with him:
In good times or bad, wherever he goes,
My heart can never leave him.
Balow, etc.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline;
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new;
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For womens banning's wonderous sair.
Balow, etc.

But don’t, don’t, my pretty one,
Let pretending turn your heart;
Be loyal to your true lover,
And never trade her for someone new;
If she’s good or beautiful, take care of her,
For a woman’s scorn is truly painful.
Balow, etc.

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine;
My babe and I 'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve;
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forgeit man's cruelty.
Balow, etc.

Bairne, now that your cruel father is gone,
Your charming smiles must ease my pain;
My baby and I will live together,
He'll comfort me when worries distress me;
My baby and I will lie down softly,
And completely forget about man's cruelty.
Balow, etc.

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth
That ever kist a woman's mouth!
I wish all maids be warned by mee,
Nevir to trust man's curtesy;
For if we doe but chance to bow,
They'll use us then they care not how.
Balow, my 'babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

Farewell, farewell, you most deceitful young man
Who ever kissed a woman's lips!
I hope all girls take my advice,
Never to trust a man's kindness;
For if we happen to lower our guard,
They'll treat us whatever way they like.
Quiet, my baby, just lie still and sleep!
It really hurts me to see you cry.

ANONYMOUS.

Anonymous.

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

MY HEAD IS ABOUT TO EXPLODE, WILLIE.

My heid is like to rend, Willie,
My heart is like to break; I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,
I'm dyin' for your sake! O, say ye'll think on me, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane,— O, say ye'll think of me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane!

My head feels like it's going to explode, Willie,
My heart is about to shatter; I'm wearing my feet out, Willie,
I'm dying for you! Oh, please say you'll think of me, Willie,
Your hand on my heart,— Oh, please say you'll remember me, Willie,
When I’m gone!

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun ha'e its will; But let me rest upon your briest
To sab and greet my fill. Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair, And look into the face, Willie,
I never sall see mair!

It's pointless to try and comfort me, Willie,
Deep grief has to run its course; But let me rest against your chest
To cry and let my heart out. Let me sit on your lap, Willie,
Let me bury my face in your hair. And look into your face, Willie,
I'll never see it again!

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life,— A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae wife. Ay, press your hand upon my heart,
And press it mair and mair, Or it will burst the silken twine,
Sae strang is its despair.

I'm sitting on your knee, Willie,
For the last time ever,— A poor heartbroken thing, Willie,
A mother, but not a wife. Yes, press your hand on my heart,
And push it harder and harder, Or it will burst the silken thread,
Its despair is so strong.

O, wae's me for the hour, Willie,
When we thegither met,— O, wae's me for the time, Willie,
That our first tryst was set! O, wae's me for the loanin' green
Where we were wont to gae,— And wae's me for the destinie
That gart me luve thee sae!

O, woe is me for the hour, Willie,
When we were together— O, woe is me for the time, Willie,
Our first meeting is scheduled! O, woe is me for the grassy path
Where we used to hang out,— And woe is me for the fate
That made me love you so much!

O, dinna mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame; But O, it's hard to live, Willie,
And dree a warld's shame! Het tears are hailin' ower our cheek,
And hailin' ower your chin: Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,
For sorrow, and for sin?

O, don’t mind what I say, Willie,
I can't fault you; But oh, it’s tough to get by, Willie,
And endure the world’s shame! Hot tears are falling down our cheeks,
And down your chin: Why are you crying so over feeling worthless,
Over grief, and over sin?

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,
And sick wi' a' I see, I canna live as I ha'e lived,
Or be as I should be. But fauld unto your heart, Willie,
The heart that still is thine, And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek
Ye said was red langsyne.

I'm tired of this world, Willie,
And tired of everything I see, I can't live the way I've lived,
Or be who I'm meant to be. But fold your heart to mine, Willie,
The heart that still belongs to you, And kiss once more the white, white cheek
You said it was red a long time ago.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,
A sair stoun' through my heart; O, haud me up and let me kiss
Thy brow ere we twa pairt. Anither, and anither yet!—
How fast my life-strings break!— Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard
Step lichtly for my sake!

A heavy pain goes through my head, Willie,
A sharp pain in my heart; Oh, hold me up and let me kiss
Your brow before we say goodbye. Another, and another still!—
How quickly my life’s threads break!— Goodbye! goodbye! through that graveyard
Please walk softly for me!

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,
That lifts far ower our heid, Will sing the morn as merrilie
Abune the clay-cauld deid; And this green turf we're sittin' on,
Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, Will hap the heart that luvit thee
As warld has seldom seen.

The skylark in the sky, Willie,
That soars high above us, Will sing tomorrow just as happily
Above the cold, lifeless dead; And this green grass we're sitting on,
With dewdrops sparkling brightly, Will cover the heart that loved you
Like the world has rarely witnessed.

But O, remember me, Willie,
On land where'er ye be; And O, think on the leal, leal heart,
That ne'er luvit ane but thee! And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools
That file my yellow hair, That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin
Ye never sall kiss mair!

But oh, remember me, Willie,
Wherever you are, And oh, think of the loyal, loyal heart,
That loved no one except you! And oh, think of the cold, cold graves
That's covering my blonde hair, That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin
You'll never kiss again!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

ASHES OF ROSES.

Ashes of Roses.

Soft on the sunset sky
Bright daylight closes, Leaving, when light doth die,
Pale hues that mingling lie,—
Ashes of roses.

Soft on the sunset sky
Daylight fades, Leaving, when light fades away,
Pale colors that blend together,—
Like rose ashes.

When love's warm sun is set,
Love's brightness closes; Eyes with hot tears are wet,
In hearts there linger yet
Ashes of roses.

When the warm sun of love goes down,
Love's light dims; Eyes are filled with hot tears,
And in our hearts, it lingers
Like rose ashes.

ELAINE GOODALE EASTMAN.

Elaine Goodale Eastman.

A WOMAN'S LOVE.

A Woman's Love.

A sentinel angel, sitting high in glory,
Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory:
"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

A guardian angel, perched up high in glory,
Heard this piercing cry echo from Purgatory:
"Have mercy, powerful angel, listen to my tale!

"I loved,—and, blind with passionate love, I fell.
Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell;
For God is just, and death for sin is well.

"I loved—and, blinded by intense love, I fell.
Love led me to death, and death to Hell;
For God is just, and dying for sin is right."

"I do not rage against his high decree,
Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be;
But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

"I don't fight against his high decree,
Nor do I ask for grace for myself;
But for my love on earth who grieves for me."

"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again
And comfort him one hour, and I were fain
To pay a thousand years of fire and pain."

"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again
And comfort him for just one hour; I would gladly
Endure a thousand years of fire and pain."

Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent
That wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bent
Down to the last hour of thy punishment!"

Then the compassionate angel said, "No, take back
That reckless vow! Look, the clock's hand is pointed
Down to the final hour of your punishment!"

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go!
I cannot rise to peace and leave him so.
O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!"

But she cried out, "Please, let me go!
I can't find peace if I leave him like this.
Oh, let me comfort him in his deep sorrow!"

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar,
And upwards, joyous, like a rising star,
She rose and vanished in the ether far.

The bold gates creaked open reluctantly,
And high above, joyful, like a shining star,
She soared and disappeared into the distance.

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing,
And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing,
She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing.

But soon down the fading sunset she sailed,
And like a wounded bird with her wings dragging,
She fluttered back, crying out with a broken heart.

She sobbed, "I found him by the summer sea
Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee,—
She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!"

She cried, "I found him by the summer sea
Lying back, his head on a girl's knee,—
She played with his hair and kissed him. Oh, how sad!"

She wept, "Now let my punishment begin!
I have been fond and foolish. Let me in
To expiate my sorrow and my sin."

She cried, "Now let my punishment start!
I have been loving and naive. Let me in
To make up for my sorrow and my sin."

The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher!
To be deceived in your true heart's desire
Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"

The angel replied, "No, troubled soul, aim higher!
To be misled about your true heart's desire
Is more painful than a thousand years of fire!"

JOHN HAY.

THE SHADOW ROSE.

A noisette on my garden path
An ever-swaying shadow throws; But if I pluck it strolling by,
I pluck the shadow with the rose.

A hazelnut on my garden path
A constantly swaying shadow casts; But if I pick it while I walk,
I embrace the shadow along with the rose.

Just near enough my heart you stood
To shadow it,—but was it fair In him, who plucked and bore you off,
To leave your shadow lingering there?

Just close enough to my heart you stood
To put a damper on it—was that the right thing to do? For him, who picked you and took you away,
Are you just going to leave your shadow there?

ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS.

HAS SUMMER COME WITHOUT THE ROSE?

Has summer come without the rose,
Or left the bird behind? Is the blue changed above thee,
O world! or am I blind? Will you change every flower that grows,
Or only change this spot, Where she who said, I love thee,
Now says, I love thee not?

Has summer come without the rose,
Or left the bird behind? Has the sky changed above you,
Oh world! Am I blind? Will you change every flower that blooms,
Or just change this spot, Where she who said, I love you,
Now says, "I don’t love you?"

The skies seemed true above thee,
The rose true on the tree; The bird seemed true the summer through,
But all proved false to me. World, is there one good thing in you,
Life, love, or death—or what? Since lips that sang, I love thee,
Have said, I love thee not?

The skies looked real above you,
The rose is real on the tree; The bird seemed genuine all summer long,
But everything turned out to be a lie for me. World, is there anything good in you,
Life, love, or death—or what else? Since the lips that sang, I love you,
Have I not just said, I love you?

I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall
Into one flower's gold cup; I think the bird will miss me,
And give the summer up. O sweet place, desolate in tall
Wild grass, have you forgot How her lips loved to kiss me,
Now that they kiss me not?

I think the sun's warmth won’t touch
One flower's golden bloom; I think the bird will miss me,
And let go of summer. Oh sweet place, lonely in tall
Wild grass, have you forgotten? How her lips used to kiss me,
Now that they don't kiss me anymore?

Be false or fair above me;
Come back with any face, Summer!—do I care what you do?
You cannot change one place,— The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew,
The grave I make the spot,— Here, where she used to love me,
Here, where she loves me not.

Be fake or genuine with me;
Come back with any phrase, Summer!—does it matter to me what you do?
You can't change this spot,— The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew,
I choose the place for the grave,— Here, where she used to love me,
Here, where she no longer loves me.

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy.

THE DIRTY OLD MAN.

The Creepy Old Man.

A LAY OF LEADENHALL.

A Song of Leadenhall.

[A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large hardware-shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best know as Dirty Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably), and his place of business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.]

[A man named Nathaniel Bentley ran a large hardware store on Leadenhall Street in London for many years. He was best known as Dirty Dick (the “Dick” was likely added for alliteration), and his shop was called the Dirty Warehouse. He passed away around 1809. These verses match the stories about him and his establishment.]

In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man;
Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan.
For forty long years, as the neighbors declared,
His house never once had been cleaned or repaired.

In a rundown old house lived a Grimy Old Man;
Soap, towels, or brushes weren't part of his plan.
For forty long years, as the neighbors said,
His house had never been cleaned or fixed up, instead.

'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street,
One terrible blot in a ledger so neat:
The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse,
And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.

It was a scandal and shame to the business-like street,
One terrible blot in a ledger so neat:
The shop full of hardware, but dark as a hearse,
And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.

Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain,
Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain;
The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass,
And the panes from being broken were known to be glass.

Outside, the old plaster, all splattered and stained,
Looked blotchy in the sunshine and streaky in the rain;
The window sills were overgrown with moldy grass,
And the panes, being broken, were recognized as glass.

On the rickety sign-board no learning could spell
The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell;
But for house and for man a new title took growth,
Like a fungus,—the Dirt gave its name to them both.

On the shaky signboard, no one could read
The merchant who sold or the goods he had to sell;
But for house and for man, a new name began to spread,
Like a fungus—Dirt gave its name to them both.

Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,
The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust.
Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;
'T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof.

Inside, there were dusty carpets and cushions,
The wood was half rotten, and the metal was half rusted.
Old curtains, partially covered in cobwebs, hung sadly aloof;
It was a Spider's Paradise from the basement to the rooftop.

There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can;
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.

There, the king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and messy as he can;
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt is no disgrace.

From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,
His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;
The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,—
Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding.

From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,
His clothes are a saying, a wonder of dirt;
The dirt is everywhere, unchanging, extreme,—
Yet the Dirty Old Man has both knowledge and class.

Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,
Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare;
And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful,
The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful.

Elegant ladies from their carriages, noble and graceful,
Have come into his shop, not to buy but to gawk;
And later remarked, even though the mess was appalling,
The Dirty Man’s manners were genuinely charming.

Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom,
To peep at the door of the wonderful room
Such stories are told about, none of them true!—
The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through.

They might go upstairs, into dirt and darkness,
To sneak a peek at the door of the amazing room
That everyone talks about, but none of it is real!—
No one has ever looked through the keyhole.

That room,—forty years since, folk settled and decked it.
The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected,
The handsome young host he is gallant and gay,
For his love and her friends will be with him today.

That room—forty years ago, people settled in and decorated it.
Lunch is ready, and the guests are on their way,
The charming young host is cheerful and bright,
Because his love and her friends will be with him today.

With solid and dainty the table is drest,
The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best;
Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear,
For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.

With a sturdy yet elegant table set,
The wine shines at its brightest, the flowers are at their best;
But the host doesn't need to smile, and no guests will show up,
Because his sweetheart is gone, and soon he'll find out.

Full forty years since turned the key in that door.
'T is a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar.
The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread,
May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead.

It's been a full forty years since I turned the key in that door.
It's a room silent and still amidst the city's noise.
The guests, for whom that table was set, may now come in as ghosts, because they're all gone.

Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go;
The seats are in order, the dishes a-row:
But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the mouse
Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House.

Through a gap in the shutter, dim lights flicker in and out;
The seats are arranged, the dishes lined up:
But the lunch was a feast for the rat and the mouse
Whose descendants have long abandoned the Dirty Old House.

Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust;
The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust;
A nosegay was laid before one special chair,
And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there.

Cup and plate are covered in thick layers of dust;
The flowers have crumbled to powder, the wine is coated in crust;
A bouquet was placed in front of one special chair,
And the faded blue ribbon that held it is still there.

The old man has played out his part in the scene.
Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean.
Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban
To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.

The old man has done his part in the scene.
Wherever he is now, I hope he's more clean.
But let's take a moment without mocking or scorn
For that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

HOME, WOUNDED.

HOME, INJURED.

Wheel me into the sunshine,
Wheel me into the shadow.
There must be leaves on the woodbine,
Is the kingcup crowned in the meadow?

Wheel me into the sunlight,
Wheel me into the shade.
There has to be leaves on the honeysuckle,
Is the buttercup blooming in the field?

Wheel me down to the meadow,
Down to the little river,
In sun or in shadow
I shall not dazzle or shiver,
I shall be happy anywhere,
Every breath of the morning air
Makes me throb and quiver.

Wheel me down to the meadow,
Down to the little river,
Whether it's sunny or cloudy
I won't be dazzled or shiver,
I'll be happy anywhere,
Every breath of the morning air
Makes me feel alive and shiver.

Stay wherever you will,
By the mount or under the hill,
Or down by the little river:
Stay as long as you please,
Give me only a bud from the trees,
Or a blade of grass in morning dew,
Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,
I could look on it forever.

Stay wherever you want,
By the mountain or under the hill,
Or down by the small river:
Stay as long as you want,
Just give me a bud from the trees,
Or a blade of grass covered in morning dew,
Or a violet that’s turning from cloudy to blue,
I could look at it forever.

Wheel, wheel through the sunshine,
Wheel, wheel through the shadow;
There must be odors round the pine,
There must be balm of breathing kine,
Somewhere down in the meadow.
Must I choose? Then anchor me there
Beyond the beckoning poplars, where
The larch is snooding her flowery hair
With wreaths of morning shadow.

Wheel, wheel through the sunlight,
Wheel, wheel through the shade;
There must be scents around the pine,
There must be the soothing smell of cows,
Somewhere down in the meadow.
Do I have to choose? Then settle me there
Beyond the inviting poplars, where
The larch is wrapping her flowery hair
With wreaths of morning shade.

Among the thickest hazels of the brake
Perchance some nightingale doth shake
His feathers, and the air is full of song;
In those old days when I was young and strong,
He used to sing on yonder garden tree,
Beside the nursery.
Ah, I remember how I loved to wake,
And find him singing on the self-same bough
(I know it even now)
Where, since the flit of bat,
In ceaseless voice he sat,
Trying the spring night over, like a tune,
Beneath the vernal moon;
And while I listed long,
Day rose, and still he sang,
And all his stanchless song,
As something falling unaware,
Fell out of the tall trees he sang among,
Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang,—
Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair.

Among the thickest hazels in the thicket
Maybe some nightingale is shaking
His feathers, and the air is filled with song;
In those old days when I was young and strong,
He used to sing on that garden tree,
Next to the nursery.
Ah, I remember how I loved to wake,
And find him singing on the same branch
(I know it even now)
Where, since the flutter of the bat,
In constant voice he sat,
Practicing the spring night over, like a melody,
Under the spring moon;
And while I listened long,
Day rose, and he still sang,
And all his endless song,
As something falling unaware,
Dropped out of the tall trees he sang among,
Fell ringing down the ringing morning, and rang,—
Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair.

· · · · · ·

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My soul lies out like a basking hound,—
A hound that dreams and dozes;
Along my life my length I lay,
I fill to-morrow and yesterday,
I am warm with the suns that have long since set,
I am warm with the summers that are not yet,
And like one who dreams and dozes
Softly afloat on a sunny sea,
Two worlds are whispering over me,
And there blows a wind of roses
From the backward shore to the shore before,
From the shore before to the backward shore,
And like two clouds that meet and pour
Each through each, till core in core
A single self reposes,
The nevermore with the evermore
Above me mingles and closes;
As my soul lies out like the basking hound,
And wherever it lies seems happy ground,
And when, awakened by some sweet sound,
A dreamy eye uncloses,
I see a blooming world around,
And I lie amid primroses,—
Years of sweet primroses,
Springs of fresh primroses,
Springs to be, and springs for me
Of distant dim primroses.

My soul sprawls out like a sunbathing dog,—
A dog that dreams and snoozes;
I stretch along my life,
I encompass both tomorrow and yesterday,
I feel the warmth of the suns that have long set,
I feel the warmth of summers yet to come,
And like one who dreams and dozes
Gently floating on a sunny sea,
Two worlds are whispering over me,
And a breeze filled with roses blows
From the past shore to the future shore,
From the future shore to the past shore,
And like two clouds that meet and merge
Each into the other, until deep within
A single self rests,
The never-ending mingles with the eternal
Above me, intertwining and blending;
As my soul sprawls out like the sunbathing dog,
And wherever it rests feels like happy ground,
And when, stirred by some lovely sound,
A dreamy eye opens,
I see a blooming world around,
And I lie among primroses,—
Years of sweet primroses,
Springs of fresh primroses,
Springs to come, and springs for me
Of distant, dim primroses.

O, to lie a-dream, a-dream,
To feel I may dream and to know you deem
My work is done forever,
And the palpitating fever,
That gains and loses, loses and gains,
And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a thousand pains,
Cooled at once by that blood-let
Upon the parapet;
And all the tedious taskèd toil of the difficult long endeavor
Solved and quit by no more fine
Than these limbs of mine,
Spanned and measured once for all
By that right-hand I lost,
Bought up at so light a cost
As one bloody fall
On the soldier's bed,
And three days on the ruined wall
Among the thirstless dead.

O, to lie dreaming,
To feel I can dream and to know you think
My work is done forever,
And the racing fever,
That wins and loses, loses and wins,
And drives the rushing blood through the weight of countless pains,
Cooled at once by that bloodletting
On the parapet;
And all the tedious, hard work of the long, difficult struggle
Resolved and finished without more fine
Than these limbs of mine,
Spanned and measured once and for all
By that right hand I lost,
Purchased at such a light cost
As one bloody fall
On the soldier's bed,
And three days on the ruined wall
Among the thirstless dead.

O, to think my name is crost
From duty's muster-roll;
That I may slumber though the clarion call,
And live the joy of an embodied soul
Free as a liberated ghost.
O, to feel a life of deed
Was emptied out to feed
That fire of pain that burned so brief awhile,—
That fire from which I come, as the dead come
Forth from the irreparable tomb,
Or as a martyr on his funeral pile
Heaps up the burdens other men do bear
Through years of segregated care,
And takes the total load
Upon his shoulders broad,
And steps from earth to God.

O, to think my name is crossed off
From duty's roll call;
That I can rest even after the bugle sounds,
And enjoy the joy of a living soul
Free like a liberated spirit.
O, to feel that a life of action
Was poured out to stoke
That fire of pain that flickered for a moment,—
That fire from which I emerge, like the dead emerge
From the unchangeable grave,
Or like a martyr on his funeral pyre
Takes on the burdens others carry
Through years of isolated care,
And takes on the whole load
Upon his strong shoulders,
And moves from earth to God.

O, to think, through good or ill,
Whatever I am you'll love me still;
O, to think, though dull I be,
You that are so grand and free,
You that are so bright and gay,
Will pause to hear me when I will,
As though my head were gray;
A single self reposes,
The nevermore with the evermore
Above me mingles and closes;
As my soul lies out like the basking hound,
And wherever it lies seems happy ground,
And when, awakened by some sweet sound,
A dreamy eye uncloses,
I see a blooming world around,
And I lie amid primroses,—
Years of sweet primroses,
Springs of fresh primroses.
Springs to be, and springs for me
Of distant dim primroses.

Oh, to think, through good times or bad,
No matter what I am, you'll still love me;
Oh, to think, even if I'm dull,
You, who are so grand and free,
You, who are so bright and cheerful,
Will stop to listen to me whenever I speak,
As if my hair were gray;
A single self rests,
The never-ending with the eternal
Above me blends and closes;
As my soul lies out like a basking dog,
And wherever it lies feels like happy ground,
And when awakened by some sweet sound,
A dreamy eye opens,
I see a blooming world around,
And I lie among primroses,—
Years of sweet primroses,
Springs of fresh primroses.
Springs to come, and springs for me
Of distant, dim primroses.

O, to lie a-dream, a-dream,
To feel I may dream and to know you deem
My work is done forever,
And the palpitating fever,
That gains and loses, loses and gains,
And she,
Perhaps, O even she
May look as she looked when I knew her
In those old days of childish sooth,
Ere my boyhood dared to woo her.
I will not seek nor sue her,
For I'm neither fonder nor truer
Than when she slighted my lovelorn youth,
My giftless, graceless, guinealess truth,
And I only lived to rue her.
But I'll never love another,
And, in spite of her lovers and lands,
She shall love me yet, my brother!

Oh, to lie here dreaming,
To feel I can dream and know you believe
My work is done forever,
And the throbbing passion,
That gains and loses, loses and gains,
And she,
Maybe, oh even she
Will look as she did when I knew her
In those old days of innocent truth,
Before my youth had the courage to pursue her.
I won't seek or plead with her,
Because I'm neither more fond nor more true
Than when she ignored my lovesick youth,
My lacking, awkward, empty truth,
And I only lived to regret her.
But I'll never love another,
And despite her lovers and lands,
She will love me yet, my brother!

As a child that holds by his mother,
While his mother speaks his praises,
Holds with eager hands,
And ruddy and silent stands
In the ruddy and silent daisies,
And hears her bless her boy,
And lifts a wondering joy,
So I'll not seek nor sue her,
But I'll leave my glory to woo her,
And I'll stand like a child beside,
And from behind the purple pride
I'll lift my eyes unto her,
And I shall not be denied.
And you will love her, brother dear,
And perhaps next year you'll bring me here
All through the balmy April tide,
And she will trip like spring by my side,
And be all the birds to my ear.

As a child who clings to his mother,
While she praises him,
He holds with eager hands,
And stands quietly among
The bright and silent daisies,
Listening as she blesses her boy,
Feeling a sense of wonder and joy,
So I won’t seek or beg her,
But I’ll let my achievements win her over,
And I’ll stand like a child beside her,
And from behind the bold blooms
I’ll lift my eyes to her,
And I won’t be turned away.
And you will love her, dear brother,
And maybe next year you'll bring me back here
All through the warm April days,
And she’ll dance like spring by my side,
And be all the music to my ears.

And here all three we'll sit in the sun,
And see the Aprils one by one,
Primrosed Aprils on and on,
Till the floating prospect closes
In golden glimmers that rise and rise,
And perhaps are gleams of Paradise,
And perhaps too far for mortal eyes,
New springs of fresh primroses,
Springs of earth's primroses,
Springs to be, and springs for me
Of distant dim primroses.

And here all three we'll sit in the sun,
And watch the Aprils come and go,
Primrosed Aprils, one after another,
Until the view starts to fade
Into golden glimmers that keep rising,
And maybe they're glimpses of Paradise,
And maybe they're too far for human eyes,
New springs of fresh primroses,
Springs of earth's primroses,
Springs to be, and springs for me
Of distant, dim primroses.

SYDNEY DOBELL.

Sydney Dobell.

DIVIDED.

An empty sky, a world of heather,
Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom: We two among them wading together,
Shaking out honey, treading perfume.

An empty sky, a world of heather,
Purple from foxglove, yellow from broom: Just the two of us wading together,
Shaking out honey, treading fragrance.

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover,
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet: Crowds of larks at their matins hang over,
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.

Crowds of bees are buzzing with clover,
Crowds of grasshoppers jump at our feet: Crowds of larks at their morning song hover,
Thanking the Lord for a life that's so wonderful.

Flusheth the rise with her purple favor,
Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver,
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing.

Flushes the dawn with her purple hue,
Shines the split with her golden band, Between the two brown butterflies flutter,
Resting gently and swaying lazily.

We two walk till the purple dieth,
And short dry grass under foot is brown, But one little streak at a distance lieth
Green, like a ribbon, to prank the down.

We walk until the purple fades,
And the short dry grass under our feet is brown, But one little thin green strip in the distance lies
Green, like a ribbon, to adorn the hill.

II.

Over the grass we stepped unto it,
And God, He knoweth how blithe we were! Never a voice to bid us eschew it;
Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!

Over the grass, we walked onto it,
And God knows how happy we were! Not a single voice to warn us away;
Hey, that green ribbon looked so pretty!

Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it,
We parted the grasses dewy and sheen: Drop over drop there filtered and slided
A tiny bright beck that trickled between.

Hey, the green ribbon! We knelt beside it,
We pushed through the wet, shiny grass: Drop by drop, it filtered and slid
A small, clear stream that flowed gently in between.

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us,
Light was our talk as of faery bells— Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us,
Down in their fortunate parallels.

Tinkle, tinkle, it sang sweetly to us,
Our conversation was as light as fairy bells— Fairy wedding bells faintly rang to us,
Down in their lucky spots.

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over,
We lapped the grass on that youngling spring, Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover,
And said, "Let us follow it westering."

Hand in hand, as the sun peeked over,
We walked on the grass in that early spring, Pushed aside the rushes, flattened the clover,
And said, "Let’s go west."

III.

A dappled sky, a world of meadows;
Circling above us the black rooks fly, Forward, backward: lo, their dark shadows
Flit on the blossoming tapestry—

A mottled sky, a land of fields;
Circling overhead, the black crows fly, Backward, forward: look, their dark shapes
Glide over the blooming landscape—

Flit on the beck—for her long grass parteth,
As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back; And lo, the sun like a lover darteth
His flattering smile on her wayward track.

Flit on the stream—for her long grass parts,
Like hair swept back from a young woman's bright eyes; And look, the sun like a lover shines
His charming smile on her unpredictable journey.

Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather,
Till one steps over the tiny strand, So narrow, in sooth, that still together
On either brink we go hand in hand.

Sing on! We sing in the beautiful weather,
Until one crosses that small boundary, So narrow, truly, that still together
On both sides, we move forward together.

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever,
On either margin, our songs all done, We move apart, while she singeth ever,
Taking the course of the stooping sun.

The creek gets wider, our hands have to let go,
On both sides, our songs are all done, We drift apart, while she keeps singing,
Following the route of the setting sun.

He prays, "Come over"—I may not follow;
I cry, "Return"—but he cannot come: We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow;
Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb.

He prays, "Come over"—I might not follow;
I call out, "Come back"—but he can't come back: We talk, we laugh, but our voices sound empty;
Our hands are down, and our hearts feel numb.

IV.

A breathing sigh—a sigh for answer;
A little talking of outward things: The careless beck is a merry dancer,
Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.

A deep breath—a breath for a response;
A little chat about everyday topics: The relaxed wave is a joyful dancer,
Moving in perfect sync with the song she sings.

A little pain when the beck grows wider—
"Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell:" "I may not cross" and the voice beside her
Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.

A little pain when the stream gets wider—
"Come to me now, because her waves are getting stronger:" "I can't cross" and the voice beside her
She reaches out softly while listening intently.

No backward path; ah! no returning:
No second crossing that ripple's flow: "Come to me now, for the west is burning:
Come ere it darkens."—"Ah, no! ah, no!"

No turning back; oh! no way to return:
No second chance to cross that flowing water: "Come to me now, because the west is on fire:
"Come before it gets dark." — "Oh, no! Oh, no!"

Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching—
The beck grows wider and swift and deep; Passionate words as of one beseeching—
The loud beck drowns them: we walk and weep.

Then cries of pain, and arms reaching out—
The stream gets wider, faster, and deeper; Desperate words like someone pleading—
The loud stream drowns them out: we walk and cry.

A yellow moon in splendor drooping,
A tired queen with her state oppressed, Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping,
Lies she soft on the waves at rest.

A yellow moon shines brightly, drooping,
A tired queen burdened by her worries, Low by rushes and sharp grass bending,
She lies softly on the waves, peaceful.

The desert heavens have felt her sadness;
Her earth will weep her some dewy tears; The wild beck ends her tune of gladness,
And goeth stilly as soul that fears.

The desert sky has shared in her sorrow;
The earth will shed a few gentle tears for her; The wild beck stops its joyful tune,
And moves silently like a scared soul.

We two walk on in our grassy places,
On either marge of the moonlit flood, With the moon's own sadness in our faces,
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.

We two walk on in our grassy spots,
On both sides of the moonlit river, With the moon's own sadness on our faces,
Where joy has faded, new blossoms and buds emerge.

VI.

A shady freshness, chafers whirring,
A little piping of leaf-hid birds; A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring,
A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.

A cool shade and buzzing beetles,
A gentle melody from birds hidden in the leaves; A flurry of wings, a restless movement,
A cloud to the east as white as cheese.

Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered,
Bound valleys like nests all ferny-lined; Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered,
Swell high in their freckled robes behind.

Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tied,
Valleys enclosed like nests, all lined with ferns; Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops adorned,
Stand tall in their spotted outfits at the back.

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver,
When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide; A flashing edge for the milk-white river,
The beck, a river—with still sleek tide.

A soft pink glow, an excitement, a shiver,
When golden rays reach the treetops; A bright shimmer for the pure white river,
The beck is a river with a peaceful, gentle flow.

Broad and white, and polished as silver,
On she goes under fruit-laden trees; Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver,
And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties.

Broad and white, and polished like silver,
She walks on beneath trees laden with fruit; Nestled in the leaves coos the dove,
And complains about love’s betrayals.

Glitters the dew, and shines the river;
Up comes the lily and dries her bell; But two are walking apart forever,
And wave their hands for a mute farewell.

Dew glistens, and the river sparkles;
The lily blossoms and then wilts its bell; But two are walking separate forever,
And wave goodbye without saying a word.

VII.

A braver swell, a swifter sliding;
The river hasteth, her banks recede; Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding
Bear down the lily, and drown the reed.

A bolder wave, a quicker slide;
The river rushes as her banks recede; Sail-like wings on her surface gliding
Push down the lily and submerge the reed.

Stately prows are rising and bowing—
(Shouts of mariners winnow the air)— And level sands for banks endowing
The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair.

Stately boats are rising and bowing—
(Sailors' shouts fill the air)— And flat sands are creating banks
The small green strip that seemed so pleasant.

While, O my heart! as white sails shiver,
And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide, How hard to follow, with lips that quiver,
That moving speck on the far-off side!

While, oh my heart! as white sails flutter,
People are walking by, and the banks are wide, How hard it is to follow, with trembling lips,
That small dot on the far side!

Farther, farther—I see it—know it—
My eyes brim over, it melts away: Only my heart to my heart shall show it,
As I walk desolate day by day.

Farther, farther—I can see it—I know it—
My eyes are filled with tears, and then it disappears: Only my heart can reveal it to my heart,
As I walk alone day after day.

VIII.

And yet I know past all doubting, truly,—
A knowledge greater than grief can dim— I know, as he loved, he will love me duly—
Yea, better—e'en better than I love him:

And yet I know without a doubt, truly,—
A knowledge deeper than sorrow can diminish— I know that as he loved, he will love me back—
Yes, even better than I love him:

And as I walk by the vast calm river,
The awful river so dread to see, I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth forever
Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me."

And as I walk by the wide, peaceful river,
The awful river that's really hard to see, I say, "Your width and your depth forever
"His thoughts that reach me connect us."

JEAN INGELOW.

Jean Ingelow.

TO DIANE DE POITIERS.

To Diane de Poitiers.

Farewell! since vain is all my care,
Far, in some desert rude, I'll hide my weakness, my despair:
And, 'midst my solitude, I'll pray, that, should another move thee,
He may as fondly, truly love thee.

Farewell! since all my worries are pointless,
Far away, in a tough wilderness, I'll hide my weakness and despair:
And, in my alone time, I'll pray that if someone else captures your heart,
He may love you just as deeply and sincerely.

Adieu, bright eyes, that were my heaven!
Adieu, soft cheek, where summer blooms! Adieu, fair form, earth's pattern given,
Which Love inhabits and illumes! Your rays have fallen but coldly on me:
One far less fond, perchance, had won ye!

Goodbye, bright eyes that were my paradise!
Goodbye, gentle cheek, where summer blooms! Goodbye, lovely figure, the model of earth,
Which Love resides in and illuminates! Your light has touched me, but only coldly:
Someone less devoted, perhaps, would have captured you!

From the French of CLEMENT MAROT.
Translation of LOUISE STUART COSTELLO.

From the French of CLEMENT MAROT.
Translation by LOUISE STUART COSTELLO.

THE SPINNER.

The spinner twisted her slender thread
As she sat and spun:
"The earth and the heavens are mine," she said,
"And the moon and sun;
Into my web the sunlight goes,
And the breath of May,
And the crimson life of the new-blown rose
That was born to-day."

The spinner twirled her thin thread
As she sat and spun:
"The earth and the sky are mine," she said,
"And the moon and sun;
Into my web the sunlight flows,
And the breath of May,
And the vibrant life of the fresh-bloomed rose
That was born today."

The spinner sang in the hush of noon
And her song was low:
"Ah, morning, you pass away too soon,
You are swift to go.
My heart o'erflows like a brimming cup
With its hopes and fears.
Love, come and drink the sweetness up
Ere it turn to tears."

The spinner sang in the quiet of noon
And her song was soft:
"Ah, morning, you go by too fast,
You’re quick to leave.
My heart is full like an overflowing cup
With its hopes and fears.
Love, come and savor the sweetness
Before it turns to tears."

The spinner looked at the falling sun:
"Is it time to rest?
My hands are weary,—my work is done,
I have wrought my best;
I have spun and woven with patient eyes
And with fingers fleet.
Lo! where the toil of a lifetime lies
In a winding-sheet!"

The spinner looked at the setting sun:
"Is it time to rest?
My hands are tired—my work is finished,
I have done my best;
I have spun and woven with careful eyes
And quick fingers.
Look! There lies the work of a lifetime
In a winding sheet!"

MARY AINGE DE VERE (Madeline Bridges).

TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.*

Please, take those lips away.*

Take, O, take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, like break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn; But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but sealed in vain.

Take, oh, take those lips away,
That was so sweetly untrue; And those eyes, like the dawn,
Lights that mislead the morning; But my kisses bring back,
Seals of love, yet sealed in vain.

Hide, O, hide those hills of snow
Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are yet of those that April wears! But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.

Hide, oh, hide those snowy hills
That your cold heart holds, On whose peaks the flowers that bloom
Are still the ones that April reveals! But first, set my heart free,
Trapped in those icy chains by you.

SHAKESPEARE and JOHN FLETCHER.

* The first stanza of this song appears in Shakespeare's "Measure for Measure," Activ. Sc. I.; the same, with the second, stanza added, is found in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Bloody Brother," Act v. Sc. 2.

* The first verse of this song can be found in Shakespeare's "Measure for Measure," Act I, Scene 1; the same, with the second verse added, is found in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Bloody Brother," Act V, Scene 2.

WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

WOMAN'S UNRELIABILITY.

I loved thee once, I'll love no more,
Thine be the grief as is the blame; Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same? He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain: God sends me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away.

I loved you once, but I won't love you anymore,
You carry the sorrow just like the blame; You are not who you used to be,
Why should I remain unchanged? The person who can love again after feeling unloved, Has a greater ability to love than to think: God gives me love to pay off my debts, While the wasteful throw their love away.

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,
If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom didst recall, That if thou might elsewhere inthrall; And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain?

Nothing could have destroyed my love,
If you had still been with me; Yeah, if you had stayed your own,
I could have still been yours. But you took back your freedom, So you might be able to enslave someone else; And then, how could I feel anything other than resentment? Being trapped in someone else's confinement?

When new desires had conquered thee,
And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me,
Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so, Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray.

When new desires have taken over you,
And changed what you wanted, It would have been laziness on my part,
Not loyalty, just still loving you. Yes, it would have been wrong to go. And make my feelings seem unimportant like that, Since we don’t learn any prayers to say For those who need to pray to others.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice.
Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice,
To see him gain what I have lost; The height of my disdain shall be, To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A begging to a beggar's door.

Yet take pride in your choice.
Brag about his good luck; I won't feel sad or happy,
To watch him take what I've lost; The height of my dislike will be, To laugh at him, to feel embarrassed for you; To still love you, but not come back. To start at a beggar's door.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.

TIME'S REVENGE.

Time's Revenge.

She, who but late in beauty's flower was seen,
Proud of her auburn curls and noble mien—
Who froze my hopes and triumphed in my fears,
Now sheds her graces in the waste of years.
Changed to unlovely is that breast of snow,
And dimmed her eye, and wrinkled is her brow;
And querulous the voice by time repressed,
Whose artless music stole me from my rest.
Age gives redress to love; and silvery hair
And earlier wrinkles brand the haughty fair.

She, who not long ago was at the peak of beauty,
Proud of her auburn curls and dignified presence—
Who crushed my hopes and reveled in my fears,
Now loses her charm in the passage of time.
That once lovely snow-white skin is now unappealing,
Her eyes have lost their luster, and her brow is wrinkled;
And her voice, now weary with age,
Once had a melody that kept me awake at night.
Time brings a change to love; and with silvery hair
And early wrinkles, the once proud beauty shows her age.

From the Greek of AGATHIAS.
Translation of ROBERT BLAND.

From the Greek of AGATHIAS.
Translation by ROBERT BLAND.

THE DREAM.

Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past,—they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power,—
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not,—what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by.
The dread of vanished shadows.—Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow? What are they?
Creations of the mind?—The mind can make
Substances, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep,—for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.

Our life is twofold; sleep has its own world,
A boundary between what’s mistakenly called
Death and existence: sleep has its own world,
And a vast realm of wild reality,
And dreams as they unfold have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight on our waking thoughts,
They take a weight off our waking labors,
They divide our being; they become
A part of ourselves as much as our time,
And appear like messengers of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past—they speak
Like oracles of the future; they hold power—
The rule of pleasure and of pain;
They make us who we weren’t—what they will,
And shake us with visions of what’s gone by.
The fear of vanished shadows.—Are they real?
Isn’t the past just a shadow? What are they?
Creations of the mind?—The mind can create
Substances, and people its own planets
With beings brighter than what has existed, and give
Life to forms that can outlast all flesh.
I would like to recall a vision I dreamed
Maybe in sleep—for within itself a thought,
A resting thought, can last for years,
And condense a long life into a single hour.

I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of a mild declivity, the last
As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing,—the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself,—but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful;
And both were young,—yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had looked
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers;
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which colored all his objects;—he had ceased
To live with himself: she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all; upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously;—his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother,—but no more; 'twas much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him;
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honored race. It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not,—and why?
Time taught him a deep answer—when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of the hill she stood,
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

I saw two young people
Standing on a gentle hill,
Green and sloping, the last
Like the end of a long ridge,
Except there was no sea at its base,
But a lively landscape, with the wave
Of woods and fields, and homes of people
Scattered here and there, with smoke
Rising from those rustic roofs; the hill
Was topped with a unique crown
Of trees, arranged in a circle, so fixed,
Not by nature’s hand, but by man:
These two, a girl and a boy, were there
Gazing—the girl at everything below
As beautiful as she was—but the boy looked at her;
And both were young, and one was stunning;
And both were young—but not the same in youth.
Like the sweet moon on the horizon,
The girl was on the brink of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was only one beloved face on earth,
And that face shone on him; he had looked
At it until it was unforgettably imprinted;
He had no breath, no being but hers;
She was his voice; he didn't speak to her,
But trembled at her words; she was his sight,
For his eyes followed hers and saw through hers,
Which colored everything for him;—he had stopped
Living for himself: she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Where everything ended; with her tone,
A touch from her, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheeks would change wildly;—his heart
Unaware of the cause of its pain.
But she did not share these deep feelings:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Like a brother—but nothing more; it was a lot,
For she was brotherless, except for the name
Her childhood friendship had given him;
She was the last surviving heir
Of a time-honored family. It was a name
That pleased him, yet also troubled him—why?
Time revealed a profound answer—when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the top of the hill, she stood,
Looking far away to see if her lover’s horse
Could keep up with her yearning, and raced.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned;
Within an antique oratory stood
The boy of whom I spake;—he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned
His bowed head on his hands and shook, as 'twere
With a convulsion,—then arose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears,
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet; as he paused,
The lady of his love re-entered there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved; she knew—
For quickly comes such knowledge—that his heart
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.

A change came over the spirit of my dream.
There was an old mansion, and outside
Its walls stood a decorated horse;
Inside, an old chapel held
The boy I mentioned;—he was alone,
Pale, and pacing back and forth: soon
He sat down, grabbed a pen, and wrote
Words that I couldn't understand; then he leaned
His bowed head on his hands and shook, as if
With a tremor,—then he stood up again,
And with his teeth and shaking hands tore
What he had written, but he shed no tears,
And he calmed himself, fixing his brow
Into a kind of tranquility; as he paused,
The lady he loved came back in;
She was calm and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was loved by him; she knew—
For such knowledge comes quickly—that his heart
Was darkened by her shadow, and she saw
That he was unhappy, but she didn’t see everything.
He stood up, and with a cold but gentle grip
He took her hand; for a moment,
A look of unspoken thoughts
Crossed his face, only to fade away;
He dropped her hand, and with slow steps
Walked away, but not as if saying goodbye,
For they parted with shared smiles; he passed
Through the heavy gate of that old Hall,
And climbed onto his horse, going his way;
And he never crossed that ancient threshold again.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The boy was sprung to manhood; in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer;
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruined walls that had survived the names
Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fastened near a fountain; and a man,
Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumbered around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.

A change came over the spirit of my dream.
The boy had grown into a man; in the wilds
Of fiery lands, he made a home for himself,
And his soul soaked up their sunlight; he was surrounded
By strange and dark features; he was not
The same as he had been; on the sea
And on the shore, he was a wanderer;
There was a swirl of many images
Crowded like waves around me, but he was
A part of it all; and in the end, he lay
Resting from the midday heat,
Lying among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruined walls that had outlived the names
Of those who built them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some fine horses
Were tied near a fountain; and a man,
Dressed in flowing robes, watched over them,
While many of his tribe slept around:
And they were sheltered by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and beautifully pure,
That only God could be seen in heaven.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love was wed with one
Who did not love her better: in her home,
A thousand leagues from his,—her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy,
Daughters and sons of beauty,—but behold!
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lids were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be?—she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be?—she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which preyed
Upon her mind—a spectre of the past.

A change came over the spirit of my dream.
The lady he loved was married to someone
Who didn’t love her more; in her home,
A thousand miles from his—her hometown,
She lived, surrounded by growing little ones,
Daughters and sons of beauty—but look!
On her face, there was a hint of sadness,
The lingering shadow of an inner struggle,
And a restless droop in her eyes,
As if their lids were heavy with unshed tears.
What could her sadness be?—she had everything she wanted,
And he who had loved her so deeply was not there
To trouble her pure thoughts with false hopes, bad wishes,
Or suppressed pain.
What could her sadness be?—she hadn’t loved him,
Nor given him any reason to think he was loved,
And he couldn’t be a part of what tormented
Her mind—a ghost of the past.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was returned.—I saw him stand
Before an altar—with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The starlight of his boyhood;—as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock
That in the antique oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then—
As in that hour—a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced,—and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reeled around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been,—
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back
And thrust themselves between him and the light;
What business had they there at such a time?

A change swept over the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer had returned.—I saw him stand
Before an altar—with a gentle bride;
Her face was lovely, but it wasn't the one that lit
The starlight of his youth;—as he stood
Even at the altar, a familiar look and a trembling shock
Came over him, like in the old chapel that stirred
His heart in solitude; and then—
Just like then—a moment flashed across his face
The weight of unspoken thoughts
Was written there,—then faded just as quickly,
And he stood calm and composed, and he spoke
The appropriate vows, but didn’t hear his own words,
And everything spun around him; he couldn't see
Neither what was, nor what could have been,—
Only the old house, the familiar hall,
The remembered rooms, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunlight, and the shade,
Everything related to that time and place,
And her who was his fate, came back
And pushed themselves between him and the light;
What were they doing there at such a moment?

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love;—O, she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul! her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things,
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth,
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!

A change came over the spirit of my dream.
The lady he loved—oh, she was different,
As if stricken with a sickness of the soul! Her mind
Had drifted from its home, and her eyes,
No longer sparkled with their own light, but carried
A gaze that seemed otherworldly; she had become
The queen of a strange realm; her thoughts
Were a mix of disconnected things,
And forms invisible to others
Were familiar to her.
And this is what the world calls madness; but the wise
Have a much deeper insanity, and the look
Of melancholy is a heavy gift;
What is it but the lens of truth,
Which removes the distance of illusions,
And brings life close in stark reality,
Making the cold truth too real!

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compassed round
With hatred and contention; pain was mixed
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains: with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret.—Be it so.

A change came over the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was alone as before,
The beings that surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a target
For decay and desolation, surrounded
By hatred and conflict; pain was mixed
In everything served to him, until,
Like the ancient king of Pontus,
He fed on poisons, which lost their power,
Becoming a sort of nourishment; he lived
Through what had been death for many men,
And made friends with mountains: with the stars
And the vibrant Spirit of the universe
He held his conversations; and they taught
Him the magic of their mysteries;
The book of Night was opened wide for him,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A wonder and a secret.—So be it.

My dream was past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality,—the one
To end in madness—both in misery.

My dream was over; it didn’t change anymore.
It was weird how the fate
Of these two beings seemed to be laid out
Almost like it was real—one
Ending in madness—both in suffering.

LORD BYRON.

Lord Byron.

ALAS! HOW LIGHT A CAUSE MAY MOVE.

WOW! HOW EASILY A SMALL REASON CAN INFLUENCE THINGS.

FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM."

Alas! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain has tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity!

Alas! how trivial a reason can create
Conflict between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world has tried in vain,
And sorrow has only brought them closer;
That weathered the storm when the waves were high,
Yet in a calm moment fall apart,
Like ships that have sunk at sea,
When the sky was completely serene!

A something light as air,—a look,
A word unkind or wrongly taken,— O, love that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch like this has shaken! And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds,—or like the stream,
That smiling left the mountain's brow,
As though its waters ne'er could sever, Yet, ere it reach the plain below,
Breaks into floods that part forever.

A something light as air—a glance,
A harsh word or one that’s misunderstood— O, love that storms could never shake,
A breath, a touch like this has stirred things up! And coarser words will soon come rushing in
To widen the rift that words have started;
And eyes forget the gentle light
They had in the joyful days of love;
And voices lose the warmth that surrounded
Everything they said;
Until, quickly fading, one by one,
The joys of love are gone,
And hearts, once so closely intertwined, seem
Like broken clouds—or like the stream,
That happily left the mountain's peak,
As if its waters would never split, Yet, before it reaches the valley below,
It splits into floods that separate forever.

O you, that have the charge of Love,
Keep him in rosy bondage bound, As in the Fields of Bliss above
He sits, with flowerets fettered round;— Loose not a tie that round him clings,
Nor ever let him use his wings;
For even an hour, a minute's flight
Will rob the plumes of half their light.
Like that celestial bird,—whose nest
Is found beneath far Eastern skies,— Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,
Lose all their glory when he flies!

Oh you who are in charge of Love,
Keep him in pleasant restraints, Just like in the Fields of Bliss above
Where he sits, surrounded by flowers; Don't loosen a tie that holds him tight,
And never let him spread his wings;
Because even for an hour, a minute in flight
Will dim the shine of half his light.
Like that heavenly bird,—whose nest
Is found under distant Eastern skies,— Whose wings, although brilliant when still,
They lose all their glory when he takes off!

THOMAS MOORE.

BLIGHTED LOVE.

Cursed Love.

Flowers are fresh, and bushes green,
Cheerily the linnets sing; Winds are soft, and skies serene;
Time, however, soon shall throw Winter's snow O'er the buxom breast of Spring!

Flowers are fresh, and bushes are green,
The linnets sing happily; Winds are soft, and the skies are clear;
But soon, time will come Winter snow Over the beautiful breast of Spring!

Hope, that buds in lover's heart,
Lives not through the scorn of years; Time makes love itself depart;
Time and scorn congeal the mind,— Looks unkind Freeze affection's warmest tears.

Hope, that blossoms in a lover's heart,
Doesn’t endure the contempt of years; Time causes love to fade away;
Time and contempt harden the mind,— Unkind stares Freeze affection's warmest tears.

Time shall make the bushes green;
Time dissolve the winter snow; Winds be soft, and skies serene;
Linnets sing their wonted strain: But again Blighted love shall never blow!

Time will make the bushes green;
Time will melt the winter snow; Winds will be gentle, and skies clear;
Linnets will sing their regular song: But one more time Unrequited love will never bloom!

From the Portuguese of LUIS DE CAMOENS.
Translation of LORD STRANGFORD.

THE NEVERMORE.

The Nevermore.

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I'm also known as No-more, Too-late, Goodbye; To your ear, I hold the shell from the dead sea. Washed up by the foam-flecked waves of your Life;
To your eyes, the glass where what once was
Which had the form of Life and Love, but through my magic Is now an unbearable, trembling shadow, A fragile screen of unspoken ultimate truths.

Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through my soul the soft surprise Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,— Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

Mark me, how quiet I am! But if just
For a moment, my soul experiences a gentle surprise. Of that winged Peace that soothes the sighs,— Then you will see me smile and turn your face
Away from the hidden turmoil in your heart
Wide awake with cold, remembering eyes.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

THE PORTRAIT.

Midnight past! Not a sound of aught
Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. I sat by the dying fire, and thought
Of the dear dead woman upstairs.

Midnight has passed! Not a sound at all
In the quiet house, the only sound is the wind as he prays. I sat by the fading fire, and thought
About the beloved woman upstairs who has passed away.

A night of tears! for the gusty rain
Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain,
With her face all white and wet:

A night of tears! because the gusty rain
It had stopped, but the eaves were still dripping; And the moon peeked out, as if in pain,
With her face pale and wet:

Nobody with me, my watch to keep,
But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: And grief had sent him fast to sleep
In the chamber up above.

Nobody is with me, just my watch to keep,
Except for my closest friend, the guy I love: And grief had quickly sent him to sleep
In the upstairs room.

Nobody else, in the country place
All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face,
Who confessed her when she died.

Nobody else, in the countryside
Everyone around me who knew about my loss, Except for the kind young Priest with the Raphael face,
Who heard her confession before she passed away.

That good young Priest is of gentle nerve,
And my grief had moved him beyond control; For his lips grew white, as I could observe,
When he speeded her parting soul.

That good young priest is calm and kind,
And my sadness impacted him greatly; For his lips turned pale, as I could see,
When he assisted her soul in leaving.

I sat by the dreary hearth alone:
I thought of the pleasant days of yore: I said, "The staff of my life is gone:
The woman I loved is no more.

I sat by the sad fireplace alone:
I reminisced about the happy days of the past: I said, "The support of my life is gone:
The woman I loved isn't here anymore.

"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies,
Which next to her heart she used to wear— Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes
When my own face was not there.

"On her cold dead chest my portrait rests,
Which she kept close to her heart— Gazing at it with her loving eyes
When my own face wasn't there.

"It is set all round with rubies red,
And pearls which a Peri, might have kept. For each ruby there my heart hath bled:
For each pearl my eyes have wept."

"It’s surrounded by red rubies,
And pearls that a fairy might have kept. For every ruby, my heart has bled:
"For every pearl, I have shed tears."

And I said—"The thing is precious to me:
They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay; It lies on her heart, and lost must be
If I do not take it away."

And I said—"This thing means a lot to me:
They'll soon bury her in the churchyard. It rests on her heart, and it will be lost
"If I don't remove it."

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,
And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, Till into the chamber of death I came,
Where she lay all in white.

I lit my lamp at the fading flame,
And quietly climbed the stairs that creaked with unease, Until I reached the room of death,
Where she was lying all dressed in white.

The moon shone over her winding-sheet,
There stark she lay on her carven bed: Seven burning tapers about her feet,
And seven about her head.

The moon shone over her shroud,
There she lay on her fancy bed: Seven flickering candles around her feet,
And seven around her head.

As I stretched my hand, I held my breath;
I turned as I drew the curtains apart: I dared not look on the face of death:
I knew where to find her heart.

As I reached out my hand, I held my breath;
I turned as I opened the curtains: I couldn't bear to look at death's face:
I knew how to reach her heart.

I thought at first, as my touch fell there,
It had warmed that heart to life, with love; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear,
And I could feel it move.

I initially thought, as my hand made contact there,
It had brought that heart to life, full of love; Because the thing I touched was warm, I promise,
And I could feel it shifting.

'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow
O'er the heart of the dead,—from the other side: And at once the sweat broke over my brow.
"Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.

It was the hand of a man, moving slowly
Over the heart of the dead—from the other side: And suddenly I felt a sweat forming on my brow.
"Who is stealing from the body?" I shouted.

Opposite me by the tapers' light,
The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white,
And neither of us moved.

Opposite me in the candlelight,
The closest friend of my heart, the man I loved, Stood over the body, both as pale,
And neither of us budged.

"What do you here, my friend?" ... The man
Looked first at me, and then at the dead. "There is a portrait here," he began;
"There is. It is mine," I said.

"What are you doing here, my friend?" ... The man
First looked at me, then at the dead. "There’s a portrait here," he began;
"Yes, it's mine," I said.

Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,
The portrait was, till a month ago, When this suffering angel took that out,
And placed mine there, I know."

Said my closest friend, "Without a doubt,
The portrait was, until a month ago, When this suffering angel switched it out,
"And put mine where it belongs, I get it."

"This woman, she loved me well," said I.
"A month ago," said my friend to me: "And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"
He answered, ... "Let us see."

"This woman, she loved me well," I said.
"A month ago," my friend told me: "And in your throat," I groaned, "you're lying!"
He replied, "... Let's check."

"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide:
And whosesoever the portrait prove, His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
Where Death is arraigned by Love."

"Enough!" I replied, "let the dead decide:
And whoever owns the portrait, It will be his when the case is heard,
"Where Death is put on trial by Love."

We found the portrait there, in its place:
We opened it by the tapers' shine: The gems were all unchanged: the face
Was—neither his nor mine.

We found the portrait there, where it belonged:
We opened it in the candlelight. The gems were all just as before: the face
Was—neither his nor mine.

"One nail drives out another, at least!
The face of the portrait there," I cried, "Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest,
Who confessed her when she died."

"One nail drives out another, at least!
"The face in the portrait there," I said, "Is our friend's, the young Priest with a face like Raphael,
Who heard her confession when she died?

The setting is all of rubies red,
And pearls which a Peri might have kept. For each ruby there my heart hath bled:
For each pearl my eyes have wept.

The scene is filled with bright red rubies,
And pearls that a fairy might have cherished. For every ruby, my heart has bled:
For every pearl, I have shed tears.

ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON (Owen Meredith).

ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON (Owen Meredith).

ONLY A WOMAN.

JUST A WOMAN.

"She loves with love that cannot tire: And if, ah, woe! she loves alone, Through passionate duty love flames higher, As grass grows taller round a stone." —COVENTRY PATMORE.

"She loves with an everlasting love:" And if, oh, how sad! she loves alone, With intense dedication, love shines even brighter, "Like grass getting taller around a rock." —COVENTRY PATMORE.

So, the truth's out. I'll grasp it like a snake,—
It will not slay me. My heart shall not break
Awhile, if only for the children's sake.

So, the truth is out. I'll hold it tight like a snake,—
It won’t kill me. My heart won't break
For a while, at least for the kids' sake.

For his, too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed;
None say, he gave me less than honor claimed,
Except—one trifle scarcely worth being named—

For him, too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed;
No one says he gave me less than what was deserved,
Except—one small thing hardly worth mentioning—

The heart. That's gone. The corrupt dead might be
As easily raised up, breathing,—fair to see,
As he could bring his whole heart back to me.

The heart. That's lost. The corrupt dead might be
As easily brought back to life, breathing,—pretty to look at,
As he could return his whole heart to me.

I never sought him in coquettish sport,
Or courted him as silly maidens court,
And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short.

I never pursued him playfully,
Or chased after him like foolish girls do,
And I wonder when the desired prize doesn’t come through.

I only loved him,—any woman would:
But shut my love up till he came and sued,
Then poured it o'er his dry life like a flood.

I only loved him—any woman would:
But kept my love hidden until he came and asked for it,
Then I let it flow over his barren life like a flood.

I was so happy I could make him blest!—
So happy that I was his first and best,
As he mine,—when he took me to his breast.

I was so happy I could make him blessed!—
So happy that I was his first and best,
As he was mine,—when he held me close.

Ah me! if only then he had been true!
If for one little year, a month or two,
He had given me love for love, as was my due!

Ah, if only he had been honest back then!
If for just a year, maybe a month or two,
He had given me love in return for mine, as he should have!

Or had he told me, ere the deed was done,
He only raised me to his heart's dear throne—
Poor substitute—because the queen was gone!

Or had he told me, before it was too late,
He only lifted me to his heart's beloved throne—
A poor replacement—since the queen was gone!

O, had he whispered, when his sweetest kiss
Was warm upon my mouth in fancied bliss,
He had kissed another woman even as this,—

O, if he had whispered, when his sweetest kiss
Was warm on my lips in imagined happiness,
He had kissed another woman just like this,—

It were less bitter! Sometimes I could weep
To be thus cheated, like a child asleep;—
Were not my anguish far too dry and deep.

It would be less bitter! Sometimes I could cry
To be so deceived, like a sleeping child;—
Wasn't my pain far too dry and deep?

So I built my house upon another's ground;
Mocked with a heart just caught at the rebound,—
A cankered thing that looked so firm and sound.

So I built my house on someone else's land;
Joking around with a heart just recovering,—
A corrupted thing that seemed so strong and solid.

And when that heart grew colder,—colder still,
I, ignorant, tried all duties to fulfil,
Blaming my foolish pain, exacting will,

And when that heart became colder—colder still,
I, unaware, tried to do all I could,
Blaming my silly pain, demanding my will,

All,—anything but him. It was to be
The full draught others drink up carelessly
Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me.

All,—anything but him. It was to be
The full drink others sip so easily
Was turned into this bitter Tantalus cup for me.

I say again,—he gives me all I claimed,
I and my children never shall be shamed:
He is a just man,—he will live unblamed.

I say again—he gives me everything I asked for,
I and my children will never be ashamed:
He is a fair man—he will live without blame.

Only—O God, O God, to cry for bread.
And get a stone! Daily to lay my head
Upon a bosom where the old love's dead!

Only—O God, O God, to cry for bread.
And get a stone! Every day to lay my head
On a chest where the old love's gone!

Dead?—Fool! It never lived. It only stirred
Galvanic, like an hour-cold corpse. None heard:
So let me bury it without a word.

Dead?—Idiot! It never lived. It just moved
Like a body cold for an hour. No one heard:
So let me bury it without saying anything.

He'll keep that other woman from my sight.
I know not if her face be foul or bright;
I only know that it was his delight—

He'll keep that other woman away from me.
I don't know if her face is ugly or pretty;
I only know that he enjoyed her—

As his was mine; I only know he stands
Pale, at the touch of their long-severed hands,
Then to a flickering smile his lips commands,

As mine was his; I only know he stands
Pale, at the touch of their long-separated hands,
Then a flickering smile suddenly appears on his lips,

Lest I should grieve, or jealous anger show.
He need not. When the ship 's gone down, I trow,
We little reck whatever wind may blow.

Lest I feel sad, or show jealous anger.
He doesn't need to. Once the ship has sunk, I bet,
We hardly care about whatever wind may blow.

And so my silent moan begins and ends,
No world's laugh or world's taunt, no pity of friends
Or sneer of foes, with this my torment blends.

And so my quiet suffering starts and finishes,
No laughter or teasing from the world, no friends' pity
Or enemies' sneers, all mix with my torment.

None knows,—none heeds. I have a little pride;
Enough to stand up, wifelike, by his side,
With the same smile as when I was his bride.

No one knows,—no one cares. I have a bit of pride;
Enough to stand up, like a wife, by his side,
With the same smile I had when I was his bride.

And I shall take his children to my arms;
They will not miss these fading, worthless charms;
Their kiss—ah! unlike his—all pain disarms.

And I will hold his children close;
They won't miss these fading, worthless charms;
Their kiss—oh! unlike his—all pain disappears.

And haply as the solemn years go by,
He will think sometimes, with regretful sigh,
The other woman was less true than I.

And perhaps as the serious years pass,
He will sometimes think, with a regretful sigh,
The other woman was less faithful than I.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

DOROTHY IN THE GARRET.

DOROTHY IN THE ATTIC.

In the low-raftered garret, stooping
Carefully over the creaking boards, Old Maid Dorothy goes a-groping
Among its dusty and cobwebbed hoards; Seeking some bundle of patches, hid
Far under the eaves, or bunch of sage, Or satchel hung on its nail, amid
The heirlooms of a bygone age.

In the low-ceilinged attic, bent over
Quietly on the creaky floorboards, Old Maid Dorothy is rummaging
Through its dusty, cobweb-covered finds; Looking for some hidden bundle of scraps,
Deep under the eaves, or a bunch of sage, Or a bag hanging on a nail, among
The souvenirs of a bygone era.

There is the ancient family chest,
There the ancestral cards and hatchel; Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest,
Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel. Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom
Of the chimney, where with swifts and reel, And the long-disused, dismantled loom,
Stands the old-fashioned spinning-wheel.

There’s the old family chest,
There are the ancestral cards and hatchel; Dorothy, sighing, sits down to rest,
Forget about patches, sage, and satchel. Ghosts of faces peek from the shadows
Of the chimney, where swifts and reels, And the long-unused, broken loom,
Here stands the vintage spinning wheel.

She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen,
A part of her girlhood's little world; Her mother is there by the window, stitching;
Spindle buzzes, and reel is whirled With many a click: on her little stool
She sits, a child, by the open door, Watching, and dabbling her feet in the pool
Of sunshine spilled on the gilded floor

She sees it again in the spotless kitchen,
A part of her childhood world; Her mom is by the window, sewing;
The spindle buzzes and the reel spins. With lots of clicking: on her little stool,
She sits, a kid, by the open door, Watching and dipping her feet in the pool
Sunlight poured onto the golden floor.

Her sisters are spinning all day long;
To her wakening sense the first sweet warning Of daylight come is the cheerful song
To the hum of the wheel in the early morning. Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy.
On his way to school, peeps in at the gate; In neat white pinafore, pleased and coy,
She reaches a hand to her bashful mate;

Her sisters are spinning all day long;
The first gentle glow of morning light Is the cheerful song
That blends with the sound of the wheel in the early morning. Benjie, the gentle, rosy-cheeked boy.
On his way to school, he glances through the gate; In a neat white dress, happy and shy,
She extends her hand to her shy friend;

And under the elms, a prattling pair.
Together they go, through glimmer and gloom:— It all comes back to her, dreaming there
In the low-raftered garret room; The hum of the wheel, and the summer weather.
The heart's first trouble, and love's beginning, Are all in her memory linked together;
And now it is she herself that is spinning.

And under the elms, a chatty couple.
Together they walk, through light and shadow:— It all comes back to her, dreaming there
In the attic with low beams; The sound of the wheel, and the summer days.
The heart's initial struggles and the beginning of love, Are all linked in her memory;
And now it's her who is turning.

With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip.
Turning the spokes with the flashing pin, Twisting the thread from the spindle-tip,
Stretching it out and winding it in. To and fro, with a blithesome tread,
Singing she goes, and her heart is full, And many a long-drawn golden thread
Of fancy is spun with the shining wool.

With the bloom of youth on her cheek and lips.
Turning the wheel with the shining pin, Spinning the thread from the spindle's tip,
Stretching it out and wrapping it in. To and fro, with a cheerful step,
She sings along, her heart is full, And many long, shimmering threads
Imagination is woven with shiny wool.

Her father sits in his favorite place,
Puffing his pipe by the chimney-side; Through curling clouds his kindly face
Glows upon her with love and pride. Lulled by the wheel, in the old arm-chair
Her mother is musing, cat in lap, With beautiful drooping head, and hair
Whitening under her snow-white cap.

Her dad sits in his favorite spot,
Smoking his pipe by the fireplace; Through the swirling smoke, his gentle face
Shines on her with love and pride. Rocked by the wheel, in the old armchair,
Her mom is daydreaming with a cat in her lap, With her lovely head drooping, and hair
Turning gray beneath her snow-white cap.

One by one, to the grave, to the bridal,
They have followed her sisters from the door; Now they are old, and she is their idol:—
It all comes back on her heart once more. In the autumn dusk the hearth gleams brightly,
The wheel is set by the shadowy wall,— A hand at the latch,—'tis lifted lightly,
And in walks Benjie, manly and tall.

One by one, they’ve gone to the grave and to the altar,
They’ve followed her sisters out the door; Now they’re older, and she’s their idol:—
It all comes flooding back to her heart again. In the autumn twilight, the fire glows brightly,
The spinning wheel is by the dark wall,— A hand on the latch,—it’s lifted gently,
Then Benjie walks in, strong and tall.

His chair is placed; the old man tips
The pitcher, and brings his choicest fruit; Benjie basks in the blaze, and sips,
And tells his story, and joints his flute: O, sweet the tunes, the talk, the laughter!
They fill the hour with a glowing tide; But sweeter the still, deep moments after,
When she is alone by Benjie's side.

His chair is set; the old man leans back
The pitcher, serving his best fruit; Benjie soaks up the warmth and drinks,
He shares his story while playing his flute: Oh, how lovely the music, the conversation, the laughter!
They fill the time with a vibrant energy; But even nicer are the quiet, deep moments after,
When she's alone with Benjie.

But once with angry words they part:
O, then the weary, weary days! Ever with restless, wretched heart,
Plying her task, she turns to gaze Far up the road; and early and late
She harks for a footstep at the door, And starts at the gust that swings the gate,
And prays for Benjie, who comes no more.

But after parting in anger:
Oh, those tiring, never-ending days! Always with a restless, miserable heart,
While working, she looks up the road. Early and late;
She listens for footsteps at the door, And jumps at the wind that swings the gate,
And hopes for Benjie, who no longer comes around.

Her fault? O Benjie, and could you steel
Your thoughts towards one who loved you so?— Solace she seeks in the whirling wheel,
In duty and love that lighten woe; Striving with labor, not in vain,
To drive away the dull day's dreariness,— Blessing the toil that blunts the pain
Of a deeper grief in the body's weariness.

Her fault? O Benjie, could you harden
What do you think about someone who loved you like that? — She finds comfort in the spinning wheel,
In duty and love that relieve the sadness; Working hard, not in vain,
To shake off the dreariness of the day, — Thankful for the effort that dulls the ache
Of a deeper sorrow in the body's fatigue.

Proud and petted and spoiled was she:
A word, and all her life is changed! His wavering love too easily
In the great, gay city grows estranged: One year: she sits in the old church pew;
A rustle, a murmur,—O Dorothy! hide Your face and shut from your soul the view—
'Tis Benjie leading a white-veiled bride!

Proud, pampered, and spoiled was she:
Just one word, and her entire life changes! His uncertain love quickly
In the bustling, vibrant city, everything feels far away: One year: she sits in the old church pew;
A rustle, a whisper—Oh Dorothy! hide. Your face and close off your heart’s view—
It's Benjie leading a bride in a white veil!

Now father and mother have long been dead,
And the bride sleeps under a churchyard stone, And a bent old man with a grizzled head
Walks up the long dim aisle alone. Years blur to a mist; and Dorothy
Sits doubting betwixt the ghost she seems, And the phantom of youth, more real than she,
That meets her there in that haunt of dreams.

Now dad and mom have long been gone,
And the bride lies beneath a gravestone, And a hunched old man with gray hair
Walks down the long dark aisle alone. Years fade into fog; and Dorothy
Sits caught between the ghost she seems to be, And the phantom of youth, more real than herself,
That finds her in that place of dreams.

Bright young Dorothy, idolized daughter,
Sought by many a youthful adorer, Life, like a new-risen dawn on the water,
Shining an endless vista before her! Old Maid Dorothy, wrinkled and gray,
Groping under the farm-house eaves,— And life was a brief November day
That sets on a world of withered leaves!

Bright young Dorothy, adored daughter,
Much sought after by numerous young fans, Life, like a new dawn over the water,
Showing her an endless view ahead! Old Maid Dorothy, wrinkled and gray,
Groping her way beneath the farmhouse eaves, — And life was a short November day
That concludes in a world of dried leaves!

Yet faithfulness in the humblest part
Is better at last than proud success, And patience and love in a chastened heart
Are pearls more precious than happiness; And in that morning when she shall wake
To the spring-time freshness of youth again, All trouble will seem but a flying flake,
And lifelong sorrow a breath on the pane.

Yet being faithful in the smallest tasks
Is ultimately better than achieving proud success, And having patience and love in a humbled heart
Is more valuable than joy; And on that morning when she wakes
To the new feelings of youth again, All troubles will feel like fleeting moments,
And lifetime sadness is just a breath on the glass.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

John Townsend Trowbridge.

THE NUN AND HARP.

What memory fired her pallid face,
What passion stirred her blood, What tide of sorrow and desire
Poured its forgotten flood Upon a heart that ceased to beat,
Long since, with thought that life was sweet,
When nights were rich with vernal dusk,
And the rose burst its bud?

What memory lit up her pale face,
What passion stirred her blood, What wave of sorrow and longing
Spilled its secret flood On a heart that stopped beating,
Long ago, believing life was sweet,
When nights were filled with springtime dusk,
And the rose bloomed its bud?

Had not the western glory then
Stolen through the latticed room, Her funeral raiment would have shed
A more heart-breaking gloom; Had not a dimpled convent-maid
Hung in the doorway, half afraid,
And left the melancholy place
Bright with her blush and bloom!

Had the western light not then
Slipped through the window room, Her funeral clothes would have cast
A deeper, sadder vibe; Had not a shy convent girl
Stood in the doorway, feeling unsure,
And left the gloomy room
Radiant with her blush and glow!

Beside the gilded harp she stood,
And through the singing strings Wound those wan hands of folded prayer
In murmurous preludings. Then, like a voice, the harp rang high
Its melody, as climb the sky,
Melting against the melting blue,
Some bird's vibrating wings.

Beside the golden harp she stood,
And through the playing strings Wove those pale hands of quiet prayer
In gentle, whispering beginnings. Then, like a voice, the harp rang out
Its melody, as it rises up,
Blending with the fading blue,
Like a bird's fluttering wings.

Ah, why, of all the songs that grow
Forever tenderer, Chose she that passionate refrain
Where lovers 'mid the stir Of wassailers that round them pass
Hide their sweet secret? Now, alas,
In her nun's habit, coifed and veiled,
What meant that song to her!

Ah, why, of all the songs that grow
Always more caring, Did she choose that passionate refrain
Where lovers, in the chaos Of revelers passing by
Hide their sweet secret? Now, unfortunately,
In her nun's outfit, coifed and veiled,
What did that song mean to her!

Slowly the western ray forsook
The statue in its shrine; A sense of tears thrilled all the air
Along the purpling line. Earth seemed a place of graves that rang
To hollow footsteps, while she sang,
"Drink to me only with thine eyes.
And I will pledge with mine!"

Slowly, the setting sun abandoned
The statue in its display; A feeling of sorrow filled the air
Along the purple horizon. The earth felt like a graveyard that echoed
With empty footsteps, while she sang,
"Just drink to me with your eyes.
"And I’ll raise a glass!"

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

FIDELITY IN DOUBT.

Come, lady, to my song incline, The last that shall assail thine ear. None other cares my strains to hear, And scarce thou feign'st thyself therewith delighted!
Nor know I well if I am loved or slighted;
But this I know, thou radiant one and sweet,
That, loved or spurned, I die before thy feet!
Yea, I will yield this life of mine In every deed, if cause appear, Without another boon to cheer. Honor it is to be by thee incited
To any deed; and I, when most benighted
By doubt, remind me that times change and fleet,
And brave men still do their occasion meet.

Come, lady, listen to my song, This is the last message you'll get from me. No one else wants to listen to my songs, And you barely pretend to enjoy them!
I really can’t tell if you love me or ignore me;
But I do know this, you shining and sweet one,
That whether loved or rejected, I’d fall at your feet!
Sure, I’d give up this life of mine. If it makes sense for any reason, Without needing another reward. It’s an honor to be inspired by you
To do anything; and when I’m most lost
In doubt, I remind myself that times change quickly,
And brave men always rise to the occasion.

From the French of GUIRAUD LEROUX.
Translation of HARRIET WATERS PRESTON.

From the French of GUIRAUD LEROUX.
Translation by HARRIET WATERS PRESTON.

FAITH.

Belief.

Better trust all and be deceived,
And weep that trust and that deceiving,
Than doubt one heart that, if believed,
Had blessed one's life with true believing.

It's better to trust everyone and get tricked,
And to cry over that trust and the trickery,
Than to doubt one heart that, if you believed,
Would have filled your life with real faith.

O, in this mocking world too fast
The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth;
Better be cheated to the last
Than lose the blessed hope of truth.

O, in this mocking world so fast
The doubting fiend catches up with our youth;
It’s better to be deceived to the end
Than to lose the blessed hope of truth.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE-BUTLER.

II. PARTING AND ABSENCE

PARTING.

Goodbye.

If thou dost bid thy friend farewell,
But for one night though that farewell may be,
Press thou his hand in thine.
How canst thou tell how far from thee
Fate or caprice may lead his steps ere that to-morrow comes?
Men have been known to lightly turn the corner of a street,
And days have grown to months, and months to lagging years,
Ere they have looked in loving eyes again.
Parting, at best, is underlaid
With tears and pain.
Therefore, lest sudden death should come between.
Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure firm
The hand of him who goeth forth;
Unseen, Fate goeth too.
Yes, find thou always time to say some earnest word
Between the idle talk,
Lest with thee henceforth,
Night and day, regret should walk.

If you say goodbye to your friend,
Even if it's just for one night,
Grip his hand tightly.
How can you know how far away
Fate or chance might take him before tomorrow arrives?
People have been known to casually turn a corner,
And days can turn into months, and months into long years,
Before they look into loving eyes again.
Saying goodbye is always filled
With tears and pain.
So, before sudden death intervenes,
Or time or distance do, hold firmly
The hand of the one who is leaving;
Unseen, Fate goes along too.
Yes, always take the time to say something meaningful
Amidst the small talk,
So that from now on,
Regret doesn’t walk with you day and night.

COVENTRY PATMORE.

TO LUCASTA.

ON GOING TO THE WARS.

Going to War.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde,
That from the nunnerie Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,
To warre and armes I flee.

Tell me not, sweetheart, that I am unkind,
That from the convent Of your pure heart and peaceful mind,
I rush to battle and arms.

True, a new mistresse now I chase.—
The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

True, I'm now pursuing a new mistress.—
The first enemy on the battlefield; And with a stronger faith, I embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore; I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

Yet this inconsistency is such
That you will love too; I couldn't love you, dear, as much,
If I didn't value honor more.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

Richard Lovelace.

GOOD-BYE.

Goodbye.

"Farewell! farewell!" is often heard
From the lips of those who part: 'Tis a whispered tone,—'tis a gentle word,
But it springs not from the heart. It may serve for the lover's closing lay,
To be sung 'neath a summer sky; But give to me the lips that say
The honest words, "Good-bye!"

"Goodbye! Goodbye!" is often said
From those who are leaving: It’s a soft tone—it’s a kind word,
But it doesn’t come from the heart. It might work for a lover’s final song,
To be sung beneath a summer sky; But I prefer the lips that say
The heartfelt words, "Goodbye!"

"Adieu! adieu!" may greet the ear,
In the guise of courtly speech: But when we leave the kind and dear,
'Tis not what the soul would teach. Whene'er we grasp the hands of those
We would have forever nigh, The flame of Friendship bursts and glows
In the warm, frank words, "Good-bye."

"Goodbye! goodbye!" might sound sweet,
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It’s not what the heart wants. Whenever we hold the hands of friends
We want to stay nearby, The light of Friendship shines and blends
In the sincere and comforting words, "Goodbye."

The mother, sending forth her child
To meet with cares and strife, Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears
For the loved one's future life. No cold "adieu," no "farewell," lives
Within her choking sigh, But the deepest sob of anguish gives,
"God bless thee, boy! Good-bye!"

The mother, sending off her child
To deal with worries and struggles, Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears
For the future life of the loved one. No cold "goodbye," no "farewell," lingers
In her gasping sigh, But the deepest sob of anguish says,
"God bless you, kid! Bye!"

Go, watch the pale and dying one,
When the glance hast lost its beam; When the brow is cold as the marble stone,
And the world a passing dream; And the latest pressure of the hand,
The look of the closing eye, Yield what the heart must understand,
A long, a last Good-bye.

Go, see the pale and fading one,
When the gaze has lost its sparkle; When the forehead is cold like marble,
And the world feels like a fleeting dream; And the final touch of the hand,
The expression in the closing eye, Gives what the heart has to understand,
A long, final goodbye.

ANONYMOUS.

Anonymous.

AE FOND KISS BEFORE WE PART.

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee;
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

A loving kiss, and then we part;
A goodbye, oh, forever!
Deep in heart-wrenching tears I'll promise you;
With painful sighs and groans, I'll confront you.
Who can say that fate makes him sad,
While the star of hope abandons him?
No cheerful light shines on me;
Dark despair surrounds me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy—
Naething could resist my Nancy:
But to see her was to love her,
Love but her, and love forever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

I'll never blame my fleeting feelings—
Nothing could stand against my Nancy:
But to see her was to love her,
Love just her, and love forever.
If we had never loved so kindly,
If we had never loved so blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We would have never been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

Goodbye to you, the first and prettiest!
Goodbye to you, the best and dearest!
May you have every joy and treasure,
Peace, happiness, love, and pleasure!
One last kiss, and then we part;
One last goodbye, sadly, forever!
Deep in my heart, through tearful pledges, I'll remember you,
Fighting through sighs and groans for you!

ROBERT BURNS.

Robert Burns.

O, MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE.

Oh, my love is like a red, red rose.

O, my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June: O, my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.

O, my love's like a red, red rose
That just bloomed in June: O, my love's like the melody
That’s beautifully played in key.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

As beautiful as you are, my lovely girl,
I'm really in love with you. And I will love you still, my dear,
Until all the seas are completely dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear.
And the rocks melt wi' the sun: And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

Till all the seas run dry, my dear.
And the rocks melt in the sun: And I will love you still, my dear,
As long as time goes on.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

And farewell, my only Love!
See you later! And I will come again, my Love,
Even if it's ten thousand miles away.

ROBERT BURNS.

Robert Burns.

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.

MAID OF ATHENS, BEFORE WE SAY GOODBYE.

Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, O, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Zὡῃ μου σἁς ἀγαπω*

Maid of Athens, before we say goodbye,
Please, oh please, give me back my heart!
Or, since it’s already gone from my chest,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my promise before I leave,
I love you.

By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Zὡῃ μου σἁς ἀγαπω

By those flowing locks,
Swayed by every Aegean breeze;
By those eyelids with their dark fringe
Touching your soft, rosy cheeks;
By those wild eyes like a deer,
I love you, my life.

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Zὡῃ μου σἁς ἀγαπω

By that lip I can't wait to kiss;
By that waist wrapped in a belt;
By all the flowers that symbolize
What words can never express as perfectly;
By love's ups and downs,
I love you, my life.

Maid of Athens! I am gone.
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!
Zὡῃ μου σἁς ἀγαπω

Maid of Athens! I'm leaving.
Think of me, my dear, when you're on your own.
Even though I'm off to Istanbul,
Athens has my heart and soul:
Can I stop loving you? Absolutely not!
I love you, my life.

LORD BYRON.

Lord Byron.

* Zóë mou, sas ágap[-o]; My life. I love thee.

* My dear, I love you; My life. I love you.

SONG.

Song.

OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM HIS BRIDE BY THE "FIERY CROSS OF RODERICK DHU."

FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE."

The heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder's tread,
Far, far from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!

The heath tonight has to be my bed,
The bracken will serve as my pillow,
My lullaby will be the guard's footsteps,
Far, far away from love and you, Mary; Tomorrow evening, more quietly laid
My bed might be my bloody plaid,
My evening song, your cry, sweet girl!
It won't wake me up, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,
I dare not think upon thy vow,
And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary!

I can’t, I won’t, imagine right now
The sorrow that darkens your beautiful face,
I can’t allow myself to think about your promise,
And everything it meant to me, Mary. Norman must not feel any tender regret;
When Clan-Alpine attacks the enemy,
His heart must be like a bent bow,
His foot is like a free arrow, Mary!

A time will come with feeling fraught!
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought
Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. And if returned from conquered foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose,
To my young bride and me, Mary!

A time will come when feelings are overwhelming!
For, if I fall in battle,
Your unfortunate lover's last thought
I will be thinking of you, Mary. And if I return from defeating enemies,
How happily will the evening end,
How sweetly the linnet will sing in peace,
For my young wife and me, Mary!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Sir Walter Scott.

BLACK-EYED SUSAN.

Black-eyed Susan.

All in the Downs the fleet was moored,
The streamers waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came aboard;
"O, where shall I my true-love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true
If my sweet William sails among the crew."

All in the Downs, the fleet was anchored,
The flags are waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came on board;
"Oh, where can I find my true love?" Tell me, you cheerful sailors, tell me honestly
If my sweet William is sailing with the crew."

William, who high upon the yard
Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard
He sighed, and cast his eyes below: The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,
And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.

William, who was up high on the yard
Rocked back and forth by the waves, As soon as he heard her familiar voice
He sighed and looked down. The rope slid quickly through his warm hands,
And faster than lightning, he stood on the deck.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,
And drops at once into her nest:— The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet.

So the lovely lark, soaring high in the sky,
Holds his wings close to his body If he happens to hear his mate's loud call,
And she immediately drops down to her nest:— The greatest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William those sweet kisses on his lips.

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,
My vows shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear;
We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,
My promises will always be reliable; Let me wipe away that falling tear;
We only say goodbye so we can meet again. Change as you wish, winds; my heart will be
The loyal compass that always points to you."

"Believe not what the landmen say
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,
In every port a mistress find; Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

"Don’t trust what the landlubbers say
Who try to disturb your calm mind; They'll tell you, sailors, when they're gone,
You'll find a girl in every port; Yes, yes, believe them when they say that,
For you’re with me wherever I go."

"If to fair India's coast we sail,
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,
Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

"If we set sail to the beautiful coast of India,
Your eyes sparkle like bright diamonds, Your breath is the spicy breeze from Africa,
Your skin is as white as ivory. So every beautiful thing I see
Awakens in my soul some memory of lovely Sue."

"Though battle call me from thy arms,
Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms
William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye."

"Though battle calls me away from you,
Don't let my sweet Susan feel down; Though cannons roar, I'll stay safe from harm
William will return to his loved one. Love deflects the bullets that fly around me,
So that precious tears don't fall from Susan's eye."

The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard:
They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land;
"Adieu!" she cried; and waved her lily hand.

The boatswain called out the terrible news,
The sails caught the wind; She could no longer remain on board:
They kissed, she sighed, and he looked down. Her shrinking boat reluctantly heads to shore;
"Goodbye!" she shouted, waving her fragile hand.

JOHN GAY.

John Gay.

THE PARTING LOVERS.

The Farewell Lovers.

She says, "The cock crows,—hark!"
He says, "No! still 'tis dark."

She says, "The rooster's crowing—listen!"
He says, "No! it’s still dark."

She says, "The dawn grows bright,"
He says, "O no, my Light."

She says, "The morning is getting bright,"
He says, "Oh no, my Light."

She says, "Stand up and say,
Gets not the heaven gray?"

She says, "Stand up and say,
Doesn't the sky look gray?"

He says, "The morning star
Climbs the horizon's bar."

He says, "The morning star
Rises over the horizon."

She says, "Then quick depart:
Alas! you now must start;

She says, "Then hurry and leave:
Oh no! you have to go now;

But give the cock a blow
Who did begin our woe!"

But give the rooster a hit
Who started our trouble!"

ANONYMOUS. From the Chinese.
Translation of WILLIAM. R. ALGER.

ANONYMOUS. From the Chinese.
Translation by WILLIAM R. ALGER.

LOCHABER NO MORE.

Farewell to Lochaber! and farewell, my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I hae mony day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more!
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,
And no for the dangers attending on wear,
Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Farewell to Lochaber! And goodbye, my Jean,
Where I've spent many happy days with you;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We might never come back to Lochaber again!
These tears I’m shedding are all for my dear,
Not for the dangers that come with wear,
Though carried on rough seas to a distant bloody shore,
Maybe we’ll never return to Lochaber again.

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind,
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind;
Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained;
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained;
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave,
And I must deserve it before I can crave.

Though hurricanes come and winds blow strong,
They'll never create a storm as fierce as what's in my mind;
Though the loudest thunder crashes on the high waves,
It's nothing compared to leaving my love on the shore.
Leaving you behind causes my heart great pain;
No glory comes from a life of ease;
Beauty and love are rewards for the brave,
And I have to earn them before I can wish for them.

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse;
Since honor commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,
And without thy favor I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame,
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

Then glory, my Jeany, has to be my excuse;
Since honor demands it, how can I say no?
Without it, I can never have worth for you,
And without your favor, I’d be better off not existing.
So I’m off, my girl, to earn honor and fame,
And if I happen to come back home in glory,
I’ll bring a heart to you overflowing with love,
And then I won’t leave you or Lochaber ever again.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

AS SLOW OUR SHIP.

As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving. Her trembling pennant still looked back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving. So loath we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us; So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
To those we've left behind us!

As our ship slowly cut through the foamy waves
Into the wind. Her fluttering flag still looked back
We were leaving that cherished island. We hate to part from everyone we love,
From all the connections that bring us together; So our hearts turn, as we move on,
To those we've lost!

When, round the bowl, of vanished years
We talk with joyous seeming,— With smiles that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad their beaming; While memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us, O, sweet's the cup that circles then
To those we've left behind us!

When we gather around the bowl of lost years
We talk with apparent joy,— With smiles that could just as easily be tears,
Their glow is so faint and sad; As memory takes us back again
To every early bond that connected us, Oh, how sweet the cup that passes then
To those we've lost!

And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
And naught but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss
If Heaven had but assigned us To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!

And when we meet in other places,
Some beautiful island or valley, Where everything looks beautiful, wild, and sweet,
All we need is love; We think about how amazing our happiness would have been
If Heaven had simply placed us To live and die in scenes like this,
With some of those we've left behind!

As travellers oft look back at eve
When eastward darkly going, To gaze upon that light they leave
Still faint behind, them glowing,— So, when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consigned us, We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.

As travelers often look back at night
When going darkly east, To see the light they're leaving behind
Still faintly glowing— So, when the end of a joyful day
Is about to plunge us into darkness, We try to catch one last glimpse
Of the happiness that remains.

THOMAS MOORE.

QUA CURSUM VENTUS.

What direction is the wind?

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day
Are scarce long leagues apart descried.

As ships, stuck in still water at dusk, that lay
With sails hanging loosely, side by side, Two tall masts at the break of day
Are rarely seen far apart from each other.

When fell the night, up sprang the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas
By each was cleaving, side by side:

When night fell, a breeze rose up,
And they worked throughout all the dark hours, Not realizing they were sailing the same seas
As they swam through the water, side by side:

E'en so,—but why the tale reveal
Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel,
Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

Even so,—but why share the story
Of those who remain the same year after year, A short absence brings back to feel,
Amazed, soul separated from soul?

At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered;— Ah! neither blame, for neither willed
Or wist what first with dawn appeared.

At midnight, their sails caught the wind,
And each one continued on their journey, celebrating; Ah! don’t blame them, for neither intended
Or knew what would appear first at dawn.

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compass guides;
To that and your own selves be true.

To drift, how foolish! Go, keep going,
Brave ships! In the light and in the dark, Through winds and waves one compass leads;
Stay true to that and to yourselves.

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas!
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again,—
Together lead them home at last.

But oh happy breeze! and oh vast oceans!
Even since that first farewell, On your expansive waters do they meet again,—
Finally, bring them home together.

One port, methought, alike they sought,—
One purpose hold where'er they fare; O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
At last, at last, unite them there!

One harbor, I thought, they both sought,—
One goal wherever they travel; Oh, powerful wind, oh, wild waves,
Finally, finally, get them all together there!

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

Arthur Hugh Clough.

ADIEU, ADIEU! MY NATIVE SHORE.

GOODBYE, GOODBYE! MY HOMETOWN.

Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land—Good Night!

Adieu, adieu! my homeland
Fades over the blue waters; The night winds sigh, the waves crash,
And the wild seagull cries. That sun setting over the sea
We follow its path; Goodbye for now to him and you,
My country—Good Night!

A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.

A few short hours, and he will rise
To make tomorrow a reality; And I will greet the sea and sky,
But not my home. My own good hall is empty,
Its fireplace is unlit; Wild weeds are taking over the wall;
My dog is barking at the gate.

LORD BYRON.

Lord Byron.

FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE.

Fare thee well! and if forever,
Still forever, fare thee well; Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Goodbye! And if it's forever,
Still, forever, goodbye. Even if unforgiving, never
Will my heart betray you?

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast were exposed before you
Where your head has frequently rested, While that peaceful sleep came over you
Which you can never know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.

If only that breast, touched by you,
Could expose every hidden thought! Then you would finally see
It wasn’t fair to dismiss it like that.

Though the world for this commend thee,—
Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:

Though the world praises you for this,—
Even though it looks like it celebrates your misfortune, Even its compliments will hurt you,
Built on someone else's pain:

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Though my many flaws marred my appearance,
Couldn’t anyone else be found? Than the one that once held me,
To cause an incurable wound?

Yet, O, yet thyself deceived not:
Love may sink by slow decay; But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:

Yet, oh, don’t fool yourself:
Love can slowly fade over time; But don’t believe that
Hearts can be easily shattered:

Still thy own its life retaineth,—
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth
Is—that we no more may meet.

Still its own life it retains,—
Still, my heart must beat, even though it's bleeding; And the eternal thought that pains
Is—that we can't hang out again.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the call for the deceased; Both will live, but every tomorrow
Will wake us from a lonely bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?

And when you would gather comfort,
When our child begins to speak their first words, Will you teach her to say "Father!"
Does she really have to let him go?

When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had blessed!

When her little hands touch you,
When her lips touch yours, Think of the one whose prayer will bless you,
Think of the one your love has favored!

Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou nevermore mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

Should her features resemble
Those you will never see again, Then your heart will gently tremble
With a heartbeat that still feels like mine.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.

All my faults, maybe you know,
No one knows all my craziness; All my hopes, wherever you go,
They fade, but with you they stay.

Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee,—by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now;

Every feeling has been stirred;
Pride that no power could break, Bows to you,—by you abandoned,
Even my soul is leaving me now;

But 't is done; all words are idle,—
Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.

But it's done; all words are meaningless,—
My words are even more pointless; But the thoughts we can't control
Find their own way without our consent.

Fare thee well!—thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

Farewell!—thus separated,
Torn from every close bond, Burned in heart, and alone, and destroyed,
I can barely handle more than this.

LORD BYRON.

COME, LET US KISSE AND PARTE.

Come, let's kiss and say goodbye.

Since there's no helpe,—come, let us kisse and parte,
Nay, I have done,—you get no more of me; And I am glad,—yea, glad with all my hearte,
That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free. Shake hands forever!—cancel all our vows;
And when we meet at any time againe, Be it not seene in either of our brows,
That we one jot of former love retaine.

Since there's no help—come, let's kiss and part,
No, I'm finished—you won't get anything else from me; And I am glad—yes, glad with all my heart,
That I can free myself so easily. Shake hands forever!—let's cancel all our promises;
And when we meet again at any time, Let it not show on either of our faces,
That we cling to even a little bit of our past love.

Now—at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath—
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now! if thou wouldst—when all have given him over—
From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.

Now—at the final gasp of Love's last breath—
When his pulse slows and Passion becomes quiet; When Faith is kneeling by his deathbed,
And Innocence is shutting his eyes, Now! If you would—when everyone else has given up on him—
You could still bring him back to life from the dead.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

FAREWELL! THOU ART TOO DEAR.

Goodbye! You are too dear.

SONNET LXXXVII.

SONNET 87.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing?
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter;
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.

Goodbye! You're too precious for me to keep,
And you probably know your value:
The proof of your worth sets you free;
My ties to you are all clear-cut.
How can I hold onto you without your consent?
And for that wealth, what do I deserve?
The reason for this lovely gift isn't in me,
So my permission is slipping away.
Did you give yourself, not knowing your own worth?
Or did you mistakenly give it to me?
So your great gift, growing from misunderstanding,
Returns to you, based on better judgment.
Thus I've had you, like a dream that flatters;
In sleep, a king, but when I wake, it's not true.

SHAKESPEARE.

KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN.

Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill; The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,—
Kathleen Mavourneen! what, slumbering still?

Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking,
The hunter's horn is heard on the hill; The lark shakes the bright dew from her light wing,—
Kathleen Mavourneen! Why are you still sleeping?

Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?
Oh! hast thou forgotten this day we must part? It may be for years, and it may be forever!
Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? Oh! why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

Oh, have you forgotten how soon we have to say goodbye?
Oh! Have you forgotten that we have to say goodbye today? It could be for years, or it could be forever!
Oh, why are you quiet, you voice of my heart? Oh! why are you silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers!
The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light; Ah, where is the spell that once hung on my numbers?
Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night!

Kathleen Mavourneen, wake up from your dreams!
The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light; Ah, where is the magic that used to surround my words?
Shine brightly in your beauty, you star of my night!

Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling,
To think that from Erin and thee I must part! It may be for years, and it may be forever!
Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my tears are falling,
I can't believe I have to leave Erin and you! It might be for years, or it might be forever!
So why are you quiet, you voice of my heart? So why are you silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

JULIA (OR LOUISA MACARTNEY) CRAWFORD.

Julia (or Louisa Macartney) Crawford.

WE PARTED IN SILENCE.

We split in silence.

We parted in silence, we parted by night,
On the banks of that lonely river; Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite,
We met—and we parted forever! The night-bird sung, and the stars above
Told many a touching story, Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love,
Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.

We said goodbye in silence, we said goodbye at night,
By the edge of that lonely river; Where the fragrant limes arch their branches,
We met—and said goodbye forever! The nightingale sang, and the stars above
Told many touching stories, Of friends who have long gone to the realm of love,
Where the soul puts on its cloak of glory.

We parted in silence,—our cheeks were wet
With the tears that were past controlling; We vowed we would never, no, never forget,
And those vows at the time were consoling; But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine
Are as cold as that lonely river; And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine,
Has shrouded its fires forever.

We said goodbye in silence,—our faces were wet
With tears we couldn't stop; We promised we would never, no, never forget,
And those promises felt reassuring back then; But those lips that once echoed my words
Are as cold as that solitary river; And that eye, the beautiful center of her spirit,
Has turned off its light forever.

And now on the midnight sky I look,
And my heart grows full of weeping; Each star is to me a sealèd book,
Some tale of that loved one keeping. We parted in silence,—we parted in tears,
On the banks of that lonely river: But the odor and bloom of those bygone years
Shall hang o'er its waters forever.

And now I look at the midnight sky,
And my heart is filled with tears; Each star feels like a sealed book,
Holding onto a story of that loved one. We said goodbye in silence—we parted in tears,
By the banks of that desolate river: But the scent and beauty of those past years
Will stay over its waters forever.

JULIA (OR LOUISA MACARTNEY) CRAWFORD.

Julia (or Louisa Macartney) Crawford.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN.

See you later.

SUMMER.

The little gate was reached at last,
Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she past,
A wistful look she backward cast,
And said,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

The little gate was finally reached,
Partially concealed among the lilacs down the lane; She swung it open wide, and, as she walked by,
She cast a longing look back,
And said,—"Catch you later!"

With hand on latch, a vision white
Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright,
Soft as the dews that fell that night,
She said,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

With her hand on the latch, a pale vision
Hung back hesitantly, and once again Half unsure if she did the right thing,
Gentle as the dews that fell that night,
She said, "Goodbye!"

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair;
I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare,
Thinks she,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

The lamp's bright glow dances up the stairs;
I hold on in sweet pain; Ah, in that room, with its luxurious air
Breathing it in feels almost too much for me,
She thinks,—"Catch you later!"

'Tis thirteen years; once more I press
The turf that silences the lane; I hear the rustle of her dress,
I smell the lilacs, and—ah, yes,
I hear,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

It's been thirteen years; once again I touch
The ground that silences the way; I hear the swish of her dress,
I smell the lilacs, and—oh, yes,
I hear, “Goodbye!”

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art!
The English words had seemed too fain, But these—they drew us heart to heart,
Yet held us tenderly apart;
She said,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

Sweet piece of shy young woman art!
The English words seemed too eager, But these—they pulled us close emotionally,
Yet kept us gently apart;
She said, “See you later!”

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

James Russell Lowell.

PALINODE.

Palinode.

AUTUMN.

FALL.

Still thirteen years: 't is autumn now
On field and hill, in heart and brain; The naked trees at evening sough;
The leaf to the forsaken bough
Sighs not,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

Still thirteen years: it's autumn now
On the field and hill, in spirit and thought; The bare trees whisper in the evening;
The leaf to the abandoned branch
Sighs not,—"See you!"

Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome,
That now is void, and dank with rain, And one,—oh, hope more frail than foam!
The bird to his deserted home
Sings not,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

Two watched that oriole's hanging nest,
Now empty and drenched by rain, And one—oh, hope as fragile as foam!
The bird doesn’t sing to his lonely home
"See you!"

The loath gate swings with rusty creak;
Once, parting there, we played at pain; There came a parting, when the weak
And fading lips essayed to speak
Vainly,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

The old gate swings open with a rusty creak;
Once, when we separated here, we joked about pain; There came a goodbye, when the weak
And fading lips tried to speak
In vain,—"Catch you later!"

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith,
Though thou in outer dark remain; One sweet sad voice ennobles death,
And still, for eighteen centuries saith
Softly,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

Somewhere there is comfort, somewhere there is faith,
Even if you stay in the outer darkness; One sweet, sad voice dignifies death,
And still, for eighteen centuries, it says
"See you later!"

If earth another grave must bear,
Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, And something whispers my despair,
That, from an orient chamber there,
Floats down,—"Auf wiedersehen!"

If the earth has to hold another grave,
Yet heaven has gained a sweeter melody, And something is telling me of my despair,
That, from an eastern chamber there,
Floats down, —"Bye!"

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Jame Russell Lowell.

FAREWELL!—BUT WHENEVER.

FAREWELL!—BUT ANYTIME.

Farewell!—but whenever you welcome the hour
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower.
Then think of the friend that once welcomed it too.
And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you.
His griefs may return—not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain—
But he ne'er can forget the short vision that threw
Its enchantment around him while lingering with you!

Farewell!—but whenever you embrace the moment
That brings to life the joyful songs in your garden.
Then think of the friend who once embraced it too.
And forgot his own sorrows, to share happiness with you.
His sorrows may come back—not a hope may remain
Of the few that have illuminated his journey of pain—
But he can never forget the brief glimpse that wrapped
Its magic around him while spending time with you!

And still on that evening when Pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends! will be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles—
Too blest if it tell me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice has murmured, "I wish he were here!"

And still on that evening when joy fills up To the highest sparkle in every heart and every cup, Wherever my path leads, whether it's dark or bright, My soul, dear friends! will be with you that night; I'll join in your celebrations, your fun, and your tricks, And come back to me, shining all over with your smiles— How blessed I'll feel if, through the happy cheer, Some kind voice whispers, "I wish he were here!"

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features which joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled!
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled—
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

Let fate do her worst; there are memories of joy,
Bright dreams of the past that she can't erase;
They come in the night during times of sorrow and worry,
And bring back the feelings that joy used to bring.
May my heart be filled with such memories for a long time!
Like the vase that once held roses—
You can break or shatter the vase if you want,
But the scent of the roses will linger around it still.

THOMAS MOORE.

PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

Hector and Andromache Say Goodbye.

FROM "THE ILIAD," BOOK VI.

"Too daring prince! ah whither dost thou run? Ah too forgetful of thy wife and son!
And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be,
A widow I, a helpless orphan he!
For sure such courage length of life denies,
And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice.
Greece in her single heroes strove in vain;
Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain!
Oh grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom,
All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb!
So shall my days in one sad tenor run,
And end with sorrows as they first begun.
No parent now remains, my griefs to share,
No father's aid, no mother's tender care.
The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire,
Laid Thebè waste, and slew my warlike sire!
His fate compassion in the victor bred;
Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead,
His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil,
And laid him decent on the funeral pile;
Then raised a mountain where his bones were burned;
The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorned;
Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow
A barren shade, and in his honor grow.

"Hey, bold prince! Where are you hurrying off to?" Ah, too forgetful of your wife and son!
And don’t you realize how miserable we’ll be,
A widow I, a helpless orphan he!
For surely such bravery won't lead to a long life,
And you must fall, your virtue a sacrifice.
Greece struggled in vain with its single heroes;
Now armies are against you, and you must be slain!
Oh, grant me this, gods! Before Hector meets his fate,
All I can ask from heaven, a quick grave!
This way, my days will run in one sad monotony,
And end with sorrows just as they began.
No parent is left now to share my grief,
No father's support, no mother's loving care.
The fierce Achilles set our walls on fire,
Destroyed Thebè, and killed my battle-hardened father!
His fate stirred compassion in the victor;
Harsh as he was, he still honored the dead,
His shining armor kept safe from enemy plunder,
And he laid him respectfully on the funeral pyre;
Then he raised a mound where his bones were burned;
The mountain nymphs adorned the rural tomb;
Jove's woodland daughters made their elms provide
A barren shade and grow in his honor.

· · · · · ·

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"Yet while my Hector still survives, I see My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee.
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all,
Once more will perish if my Hector fall.
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share;
Oh prove a husband's and a father's care!
That quarter most the skillful Greeks annoy,
Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy:
Thou, from this tower defend th'important post;
There Agamemnon points his dreadful host,
That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain,
And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train.
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given,
Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven.
Let others in the field their arms employ,
But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy."
The chief replied: "That post shall be my care, Nor that alone, but all the works of war.
[How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned,
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground,
Attaint the lustre of my former name,
Should Hector basely quit the field of fame?
My early youth was bred to martial pains,
My soul impels me to th' embattled plains:
Let me be foremost to defend the throne,
And guard my father's glories, and my own.
Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates;
(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates)
The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend,
And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end.
And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind,
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind,
Not Priam's hoary hairs denied with gore,
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore;
As thine, Andromachè! thy griefs I dread;
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led!]
In Argive looms our battles to design,
And woes of which so large a part was thine!
To bear the victor's hard commands or bring
The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring.
There, while you groan beneath the load of life,
They cry, Behold the mighty Hector's wife!
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see,
Embitters all thy woes by naming me.
The thoughts of glory past, and present shame,
A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name!
May I lie cold before that dreadful day,
Pressed with a load of monumental clay!
Thy Hector, wrapped in everlasting sleep,
Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep."
Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy.
The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast,
Scared at the dazzling helm, and nodding crest.
With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled,
And Hector hastèd to relieve his child;
The glittering terrors from his brows unbound,
And placed the beaming helmet on the ground.
Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air,
Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer:
"O thou whose glory fills th' ethereal throne, And all ye deathless powers! protect my son!
Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown,
To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown,
Against his country's foes the war to wage,
And rise the Hector of the future age!
So when, triumphant from successful toils,
Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils,
Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim,
And say, This chief transcends his father's fame:
While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy,
His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy."
He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms Restored the pleasing burden to her arms;
Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid,
Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed.
The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear,
She mingled with the smile a tender tear.
The softened chief with kind compassion viewed,
And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued:
"Andromachè! my soul's far better part, Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart?
No hostile hand can antedate my doom,
Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb.
Fixed is the term to all the race of earth,
And such the hard condition of our birth.
No force can then resist, no flight can save;
All sink alike, the fearful and the brave.
No more—but hasten to thy tasks at home,
There guide the spindle, and direct the loom:
Me glory summons to the martial scene,
The field of combat is the sphere for men.
Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim,
The first in danger as the first in fame."
Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes His towery helmet, black with shading plumes.
His princess parts with a prophetic sigh,
Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye,
That streamed at every look: then, moving slow,
Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe.
There, while her tears deplored the godlike man,
Through all her train the soft infection ran;
The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed,
And mourn the living Hector as the dead.

"As long as my Hector is alive, I see My father, mother, brothers, all in you.
Oh no! my parents, brothers, relatives, all,
Will perish again if my Hector falls.
Your wife, your child, share in your danger;
Oh show you care as a husband and a father!
That part of the wall is where the skilled Greeks attack the most,
Where those wild fig trees meet the wall of Troy:
You must defend this crucial position from this tower;
That's where Agamemnon leads his fearsome army,
That pass Tydeus and Ajax are trying to take,
And there the vengeful Spartan sets his fire.
Three times our brave enemies have launched fierce attacks,
Either driven by hope or commanded from above.
Let others take up arms in the field,
But keep my Hector here to guard his Troy."
The chief replied, "I'll focus on that position, Not just that, but all the works of war.
[How would the sons of Troy, famous in battle,
And Troy's proud women, whose dresses sweep the ground,
Dim the brightness of my former name,
If Hector cowardly leaves the field of glory?
I was raised from youth to endure the pains of war,
My spirit drives me to the battlefield:
Let me be the first to defend our throne,
And protect my father's glories, as well as my own.
But eventually, the day determined by fate will come;
(How my heart shakes while I speak)
The day when you, mighty Troy! must bow,
And witness your warriors fall, your glory end.
And yet nothing troubles my mind as much,
As your grief, Andromache! I fear your pain;
Not Priam’s gray hair soaked in blood,
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore;
As I see you trembling, crying, led away in chains!]
In Argive looms, they’ll weave our battles,
And the sorrows that were once so much yours!
To endure the conqueror's harsh commands or bring
The burdens of water from Hyperia's spring.
There, as you struggle beneath the load of life,
They’ll say, Look at the mighty Hector’s wife!
Some arrogant Greek, who enjoys watching your tears,
Will worsen all your suffering by mentioning me.
The memories of past glory, and present shame,
A thousand sorrows will rise at the name!
May I lie cold before that terrible day,
Burdened by a grave of clay!
Your Hector, wrapped in eternal sleep,
Will neither hear your sighs, nor see your tears."
Having said this, the renowned leader of Troy Stretched his loving arms to embrace the beautiful boy.
The baby clung to his nurse’s breast in tears,
Frightened by the shining helmet, and swaying crest.
With hidden delight, each proud parent smiled,
And Hector hurried to comfort his child;
He took off the shining terror from his head,
And placed the shining helmet on the ground.
Then he kissed the child, lifting him high in the air,
And said a father's prayer to the gods:
"O you whose glory fills the heavenly throne, And all you immortal powers! protect my son!
Grant him, like me, the chance to earn true glory,
To protect the Trojans, to defend the crown,
To fight against his country's enemies,
And rise as Hector of the future age!
So when, triumphant from victorious battles,
He bears the bloodied spoils of slain heroes,
Whole armies may shout his deserved praise,
And say, This chief surpasses his father's fame:
While pleased, amidst the general cheers of Troy,
His mother’s proud heart overflows with joy."
He spoke while admiring her beauty. Returned the sweet burden to her arms;
Soft on her fragrant chest, she laid the babe,
Quieted to sleep, and smiled at him.
The troubled pleasure quickly mixed with fear,
As she added a tender tear to her smile.
The softened chief, with kind compassion, looked,
Wiped away the falling tears, and said:
"Andromache! my soul's better half, Why does your heart heave with untimely sorrows?
No enemy can hasten my fate,
Until destiny leads me to the silent grave.
The end is set for all of mankind,
And such is the harsh condition of our birth.
No force can resist then, no flight can save;
All fall equally, the coward and the brave.
No more—just hurry to your tasks at home,
There guide the spindle, and handle the loom:
Glory calls me to the battlefield,
The field of combat is where men truly belong.
Where heroes fight, I claim the leading role,
The first in danger, as the first in fame."
Having said that, the glorious leader continues. His towering helmet, black with shading plumes.
His princess parts with a prophetic sigh,
Hesitantly parts, and often looks back,
Tears streaming at every glance: then, moving slowly,
She sought her own palace, allowing herself to grieve.
There, while her tears mourned the godlike man,
Through all her attendants, the soft sadness spread;
The devoted maids shed their mixed sorrows,
And mourn the living Hector as if he were dead.

From the Greek of HOMER.
Translation of ALEXANDER POPE.

From the Greek of HOMER.
Translation by ALEXANDER POPE.

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.]

[The following extract is included to show a more contemporary style of translation. It includes the bracketed section from Pope's version above.]

I too have thought of all this, dear wife, but I fear the reproaches
Both 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 Achæans
Weeping shall bear thee away, and bereave thee forever of freedom.

I’ve thought about all this too, dear wife, but I worry about the blame
From the Trojan youths and the long-robed maidens of Troy,
If I act like a coward and stay away from the fight:
My spirit won’t allow it either; I’ve learned to be brave,
Always fighting among the first of the Trojans gathered in battle,
Trying to preserve the honor of my father and my own name.
I know all too well—my mind and spirit agree,
That there will come a day when sacred Troy will fall.
Priam will fall too, along with his armed people.
Still, I don’t care much for the doomed Trojans,
Not for Hecuba herself, nor for King Priam, my father,
Nor for my brothers’ fate, who, no matter how many or brave,
May all end up on the ground, defeated by the Achaeans’ spears,
As for you, when some young warrior of the bronze-armored Achaeans
Comes weeping to take you away, robbing you of your freedom forever.

Translation of E.C. HAWTREY.

Translation of E.C. Hawtrey.

TO LUCASTA.

To Lucasta.

If to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that, when I am gone, You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.

If being away meant Being away from you; Or that when I'm not around, You or I would feel lonely; Then, my Lucasta, I could ask for Compassion from the howling wind or the crashing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue-god's rage; For, whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

But I won’t sigh for a single gust or breeze. To catch the wind, Or cry a little to feel calmer The furious sea god's wrath; Because, whether he allows me to pass through Or not, I’m just 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.

Even though there are oceans and lands separating us, Our faith and commitment, Like souls that are separated, Are controlled by time and space: Above the highest realm, we connect, Unseen, unknown; and greet each other like angels do.

So, then, we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In heaven,—their earthly bodies left behind.

So, we're expecting What comes after this life? And we’re living in the skies, If our mouths and eyes Can speak like free spirits In heaven,—having left their earthly bodies behind.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

Richard Lovelace.

TO HER ABSENT SAILOR.

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 day
In prayer she kneels: "Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a home
From wind and wave the wanderers come;
I only see the tossing foam
Of stranger keels.

Her window faces the bay,
Bathed in bright light or cloudy gray,
And there at dawn and dusk each day
She kneels to pray: "Dear Lord!" she says, "to many a home
From wind and waves the travelers come;
I only see the crashing foam
Of unknown ships.

"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 Isidore
The waves divide.

"Blown in and out by summer winds,
The majestic ships, with full sails,
And sailors leaning over their rails,
Glide in front of me; They come and go, but never again,
Carrying spices from the Indian coast,
I see his fast-winged Isidore
Parting the sea.

"O Thou! with whom the night is day
And one the near and far away,
Look out on yon gray waste, and say
Where lingers he. Alive, perchance, on some lone beach
Or thirsty isle beyond the reach
Of man, he hears the mocking speech
Of wind and sea.

"O You! with whom the night is day
And one the near and far away,
Look out at that gray wasteland, and say
Where is he now? Alive, perhaps, on some lonely beach
Or thirsty island beyond the reach
Of man, he hears the mocking words
Of wind and sea.

"O dread and cruel deep, reveal
The secret which thy waves conceal,
And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel
And tell your tale. Let winds that tossed his raven hair
A message from my lost one bear,—
Some thought of me, a last fond prayer
Or dying wail!

"O dread and cruel deep, reveal
The secret that your waves hide,
And, you wild sea-birds, come here
Share your story. Let the winds that tossed his dark hair
Carry a message from my lost one,—
Some thought of me, a last loving prayer
Or dying scream!

"Come, with your dreariest truth shut out
The fears that haunt me round about;
O God! I cannot bear this doubt
That stifles breath. The worst is better than the dread;
Give me but leave to mourn my dead
Asleep in trust and hope, instead
Of life in death!"

"Come, with your saddest truth shut out
The fears that surround me;
O God! I can’t handle this doubt
That takes my breath away. The worst is better than the anxiety;
Just allow me to grieve for my dead
Asleep in trust and hope, instead
Of living in death!

It might have been the evening breeze
That whispered in the garden trees,
It might have been the sound of seas
That 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!"

It could have been the evening breeze
That whispered through the garden trees,
It might have been the sound of the sea
That came and went. But with her heart, if not her ear,
She thought she heard a familiar voice say:
"I'm here to meet you: don't be sad,
For everything is good!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

I LOVE MY JEAN.

I LOVE MY JEANS.

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 flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

Of all the directions the wind can blow,
I really like the West; Because that’s where my beautiful girl lives,
The girl I love the most. There are wild woods growing, and rivers flowing,
And many hills in between; But day and night my thoughts take flight
Always with my jeans.

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 springs
By fountain, shaw, or green; There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me of my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her as sweet and lovely; I hear her in the cheerful birds,
I hear her captivating the atmosphere; There’s not a beautiful flower that blooms
By the fountain, grove, or park; There’s not a lovely bird that sings,
But it reminds me of my Jean.

ROBERT BURNS.

Robert Burns.

* The points of the compass.

* The directions on a compass.

JEANIE MORRISON.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget
The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en
May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

I've traveled east, I've traveled west,
Through many tiring paths; But I'll never, ever forget
The love of youthful days! The fire that's kindled on Beltane night
It could be cold by Christmas; But a deeper darkness awaits the heart
Where first true love becomes distant.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years Still 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 up
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thoughts of past years Still throw their shadows over my path,
And fill my eyes with tears: They blind my eyes with salty, salty tears,
And in pain and sickness, I yearn, As memory quietly brings back
The happy moments from the past.

'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.

It was then we loved each other well,
That's when we both went our separate ways; Sweet time—sad time! two kids at school,
Two kids, and only one heart! It was then we sat on a low bench,
To learn from each other; And tones and looks and smiles were shared,
Always remembered.

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, but
My lesson was in thee.

I wonder, Jeanie, even now,
When sitting on that seat, Cheek to cheek, hands locked together,
What our young minds could imagine. When both leaning down over one long page,
With a book on our lap, Your lips were on your lesson, but
My lesson was in you.

O, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said
We 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?

Oh, remember how we hung our heads,
How our faces turned red with embarrassment, Whenever the school kids, laughing, said
We walked home together. And remember the Saturdays,
School ended at noon then. When we ran off to climb the hills,—
The grassy hills in June?

My head rins round and round about,—
My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' scule-time, and o' thee. O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
O lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang!

My head spins round and round,
My heart flows like the ocean, As one by one the thoughts rush back
About school days, and about you. Oh morning life! Oh morning love!
Oh bright days and long, When sweet hopes surrounded our hearts
Like summer flowers bloomed!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The 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 wood
The throssil whusslit sweet;

Oh, remember, love, how often we left
The lively, busy town, To stroll by the green stream,
And listen to the waters sing? The summer leaves hung over our heads,
The flowers bloomed around our feet, And in the twilight of the woods
The thrush sang beautifully;

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 sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

The thrush sang in the woods,
The stream beckoned to the trees, — And we, with nature's heart in sync,
Shared our tunes; And on the hill above the stream,
We sat together for hours. In the quiet of joy, until both
Cried with pure happiness.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had 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!

Oh, oh, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears ran down your cheek Like dew drops on a rose, but none
If only I could speak! Those were the days, a wonderful time,
When hearts were new and youthful, When all feelings freely poured out,
Unnoticed—unrecognized!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me? O, tell me gin their music fills
Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I wonder, Jeanie Morrison,
If I have been to you As deeply connected with my earliest thoughts
As you have been for me? Oh, tell me if their music reaches
Your ears are just like mine! Oh, say if ever your heart feels heavy
Are you reminiscing about the past?

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 heart
Still travels on its way; And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

I've traveled east, I've traveled west,
I've shouldered a heavy burden; But in my journeys, far or near,
You were never forgotten. The spring that first flowed from this heart
Still travels along its path; And runs deeper, as it cleans,
The love from the early days of life.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young I've never seen your face nor heard
The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were so young I've never seen your face nor heard
The sound of your voice; But I could embrace all my misery,
And I could be happy. If I only knew your heart still dreamed
Of old times and me!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLIE?

O, have you seen Bonnie Leslie?

O, saw ye bonnie Leslie
As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.

O, have you seen the pretty Leslie
As she crossed the border? She's gone, like Alexander,
To expand her wins further.

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!

To see her is to love her,
And love her forever; For nature created her as she is,
And never made anyone else like her!

Thou art a queen, fair Leslie,
Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Leslie,
The hearts o' men adore thee.

You are a queen, beautiful Leslie,
We are your subjects, in your presence; You are divine, lovely Leslie,
The hearts of people adore you.

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 devil couldn't hurt you,
Or anything that would be yours; He'd look into your beautiful face,
And say, "I can't let you down!"

The Powers aboon will tent thee;
Misfortune sha' na steer* thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

The powers above will protect you;
Bad luck won't lead you; You're just as beautiful as they are
So evil will never be near you.

Return again, fair Leslie,
Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonnie.

Return again, lovely Leslie,
Return to Scotland! So we can boast we have a girl
No one is as beautiful as you.

ROBERT BURNS.

Robert Burns.

* Harm.

THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN.

THE RUSTIC GUY'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 away Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers,
In the glad green month of May.

Oh, if only my time would pass,
With this winter sleet and snow, So I could see our home again,
In the beautiful birch grove! Because this isn’t my real life,
And I fade away With thoughts of home and the young flowers,
In the cheerful month of May.

I used to wauk in the morning
Wi' 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 lambs
Frae the tod and the roaring stream; But the warld is changed, and a' thing now
To me seems like a dream.

I used to walk in the morning
With the loud song of the lark, And the whistling of the farm boys,
As they went to work; I used to carry the little young lambs
From the fox and the roaring river; But the world has changed, and everything now
It feels like a dream to me.

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.

There are busy crowds around me,
On every long, boring street; Yet, even though so many surround me,
I’m not sure if I’ll make a connection: And I think of familiar friendly faces,
And of happy, joyful days, When I wandered out with our own people,
Out over the summer hills.

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.

Woe is me, for my heart is breaking!
I think about my little brother, And my sister crying,
When I moved out. And oh, how my mother sobbed,
As she shook my hand, When I left the door of our old house,
To arrive in this unfamiliar land.

There's nae hame like our ain hame—
O, I wush that I were there! There's nae hame like our ain hame
To 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!

There's no place like our own home—
Oh, I wish I was there! There's no place like our own home
To be found everywhere; And oh that I were back again,
To our farm and fields so green; And heard the voices of my own people,
And look at what I have become!

DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

David Macbeth Moir.

ABSENCE
"What am I supposed to do with all the days and hours
That need to be counted before I see your 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 hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face? How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

What am I supposed to do with all the days and hours
Do I have to wait before I can see you? How can I make the time pass
Between now and that beautiful moment?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing?—shall I flee away Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall I fall into a deep sleep, every tired sense,
Tired of longing?—should I run away To days gone by, and with some sweet illusion
Trick myself into forgetting today?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God's great gift of time? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?

Shall my love for you weigh on my soul as a sin
For wasting God's valuable gift of time? Will I, keeping these memories locked inside,
Forget about and abandon the true goals of life?

O, how or by what means may I contrive
To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live
Until that blessèd time, and thou art here?

O, how can I find a way
To bring the time that brings you back closer? How can I keep my fading hope alive
Until that wonderful time when you’re here?

I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
While thou, belovèd one! art far from me.

I'll tell you; for your sake I will take hold
Of all the good goals, I dedicate this to you, In worthy actions, every moment that passes
While you, my dear, are far away from me.

For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try
All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.

For you, I will lift my thoughts to attempt
All divine journeys, all uplifting and sacred melodies; For your sake, I will endure
These long hours, with each minute feeling heavy.

I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time; and will therein strive To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won since yet I live.

I will turn this dull emptiness into
A great effort; and I will put in a lot of work. To pursue greatness and achieve
More good than I've received during my life.

So may this doomèd time build up in me
A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.

So let this doomed time grow within me
A thousand gifts, which will then belong to you; So may my love and longing be made sacred,
And your beloved idea a divine inspiration.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

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 mirth
Made life a heaven on earth,
O, they're all fled with thee,
Robin Adair!

What's this boring town to me?
Robin's not here— The one I wanted to see,
Want to listen; Where's all the joy and fun
That made life feel like heaven on earth?
Oh, they've all disappeared with you,
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 with
Robin Adair!

What made the gathering sparkle?
Robin Adair What made the party so great?
Robin was present: What, when the show was done,
What made my heart so heavy?
Oh, it was saying goodbye to
Robin Adair!

But now thou art far from me,
Robin Adair; But now I never see
Robin Adair; Yet him I loved so well
Still in my heart shall dwell;
O, I can ne'er forget
Robin Adair!

But now you are far from me,
Robin Adair But now I never see
Robin Adair Yet I loved him so much
He will always live in my heart;
Oh, I can never forget
Robin 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!

Welcome ashore again,
Robin Adair! Welcome once more,
Robin Adair! I feel your trembling hand;
Tears in your eyes stand,
To greet your homeland,
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.

Long I haven't seen you, love,
Robin Adair Still I prayed for you, love,
Robin Adair When you were far at sea,
Many tried to woo me,
But I still thought of you,
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!

Come back to my heart,
Robin Adair Never to be apart again,
Robin Adair; And if you're still faithful,
I’ll stay loyal too,
And I’ll marry no one but you,
Robin Adair!

LADY CAROLINE KEPPEL.

Lady Caroline Keppel.

DAISY.

Where the thistle lifts a purple crown
Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill—
O the breath of the distant surf!—

Where the thistle raises a purple crown
Six feet off the ground, And the harebell sways on the windy hill—
Oh, the smell of the faraway 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.

The hills overlook the south,
And to the south, the sea is dreaming; And, with the sea breeze by its side,
Innocence came along with her.

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry
Red for the gatherer springs, Two children did we stray and talk
Wise, idle, childish things.

Where among the gorse the raspberry
Red for the picker increases, Two kids wandered, chatting
About smart, lazy, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise,
Breast-deep mid flower and spine: Her skin was like a grape, whose veins
Run snow instead of wine.

She listened with wide-eyed surprise,
Knee-deep in flowers and thorns: Her skin was like a grape, whose veins
Flowed with 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 song
Thronged in whose throat that day!

She didn't realize the lovely words she was saying.
Nor did she acknowledge her own appealing manner; But no bird ever sang such a sweet song
As the people who filled the air that day!

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington
On the turf and on the sprays; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington
On the grass and on the branches; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
It was 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.

Her beauty softened the roughness of the earth!
She gave me three gifts: A glance, a word from her charming lips,
And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look,
A still word,—strings of sand! And yet they made my wild, wild heart
Fly down to her little hand.

A deep red, an innocent expression,
A quiet word—sand chains! And still, they made my wild, wild heart
Rush down to her small 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.

For standing simple as the air,
And clear as the sky, She picked the berries with her hand,
And the love in her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end:
Their scent survives their close, But the rose's scent is bitterness
To him that loved the rose!

The most beautiful things fade the fastest:
Their scent lingers even after they're gone, But the scent of the rose is painful
For the person who 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 looked a bit sadly,
Then she carried on her bright path:— The sea's surface was cloudy,
And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way,
She went and left in me The pang of all the partings gone,
And partings yet to be.

She carried on without a second thought,
She left something in me The ache of all the farewells past,
And goodbyes yet to come.

She left me marvelling why my soul
Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet,
The sweetness in the sad.

She left me wondering why my soul
It was sad that she was happy; At all the sadness in the sweetness,
The bittersweet in the sadness.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still
Look up with soft replies, And take the berries with her hand,
And the love with her lovely eyes.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still
Look up with kind responses, And take the berries with her hand,
And the love in her beautiful eyes.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others' pain,
And perish in our own.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
That's not paid with a sigh; For we are born from others' suffering,
And we die in our own way.

FRANCIS THOMPSON.

Francis Thompson.

SONG OF EGLA.

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!

Day, in fading purple light;
Blossoms, all around me sighing;
Fragrance, from the lilies drifting;
Breeze, playing with my hair;
You only bring up my pain; I'm tired of being alone!

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!

You, whom I love to listen to,
Come before night surrounds me;
Even if your gentleness misleads me,
Say you're sincere, and I'll trust you;
If you intend to cause harm, conceal your true feelings, Let me believe they’re genuine!

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!

Save your effort, keep your treasure;
All I want is the joy of friendship;
Let the shiny gold stay hidden,—
Bring no gem that’s brightly glimmering;
Gifts and gold don't matter to me, I just want to see you!

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing;
Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation;
Yet but torture, if comprest In a lone, unfriended breast.

Tell you of the intense feeling,
Ecstasy only in revealing;
Show you the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation;
But just torture, if confined In a lonely, friendless heart.

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!

Absent still! Ah! come and bless me!
Let these eyes hold you again.
Once I could avoid you out of caution;
Now, I can't refuse you anything.
If a look can kill, Come here, and I’ll check you out!

MARIA GOWEN BROOKS (Maria del Occidente).

WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?

WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY HEART?

What ails this heart o' mine?
What ails this watery ee? What gars me a' turn pale as death
When I take leave o' thee? Whea thou art far awa',
Thou'lt dearer grow to me; But change o' place and change o' folk
May gar thy fancy jee.

What’s wrong with this heart of mine?
What's causing these watery eyes? What makes me turn pale as death
When do I say goodbye to you? When you’re far away,
You’ll become more valuable to me; But a change of place and people
May change your feelings.

When I gae out at e'en,
Or walk at morning air, Ilk rustling bush will seem to say
I 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.

When I go out at evening,
Or take a walk in the morning air, Every rustling bush will seem to say
I used to meet you there: Then I'll sit down and cry,
And live under the tree, And when a leaf falls in my lap,
I’ll consider it your word.

I'll hie me to the bower
That thou wi' roses tied, And where wi' mony a blushing bud
I strove myself to hide. I'll doat on ilka spot
Where I ha'e been wi' thee; And ca' to mind some kindly word
By ilka burn and tree.

I'll hurry to the arbour
That you tied with flowers, And where with many a blushing bud
I tried to hide. I'll cherish every spot
Where I've been with you; And recall some kind words
By every river and tree.

SUSANNA BLAMIRE.

LOVE'S MEMORY.

Memory of Love.

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 light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His archèd brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table,—heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.

I'm a mess: I can't live at all,
If Bertram is gone. It’s all the same,
As if I should love a bright star,
And think I could marry it; he is too far above me:
In his bright light and surrounding glow
I must find comfort, but not in his presence.
The ambition in my love torments itself:
The doe that wants to mate with the lion
Must die for love. It was sweet, though a curse,
To see him every hour; to sit and sketch
His arched brows, his piercing gaze, his curls,
In my heart's memory,—a heart too open
To every detail and charm of his sweet face:
But now he’s gone, and my idolizing thoughts
Must honor his memory.

SHAKESPEARE.

Shakespeare.

ABSENCE.

OUT OF OFFICE.

When I think on the happy days
I spent wi' you, my dearie; And now what lands between us lie,
How can I be but eerie!

When I think about the happy days
I spent time with you, my dear; And now what distance separates us,
How can I not feel anxious!

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,
As ye were wae and weary! It was na sae ye glinted by
When I was wi' my dearie.

How slowly you move, you heavy hours,
As if you were feeling sad and exhausted! It wasn't like this when you passed by
When I was with my sweetheart.

ANONYMOUS.

ANON.

THINKIN' LONG.

Thinking Deeply.

Oh thinkin' long's the weary work!
It breaks my heart from dawn
Till all the wee, wee, friendly stars
Come 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!

Oh, thinking for a long time is such a tiring job!
It breaks my heart from dawn
Until all the tiny, friendly stars
Come out at nightfall.
And thinking for a long time is such a tiring job,
When I have to keep spinning and spinning,
To push away the scary thoughts,
And keep the hopeful ones in!

Ah, sure my lad is far away!
My lad who left our glen
When from the soul of Ireland came
A 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.

Ah, my boy is so far away!
My boy who left our valley
When a call for fighters came
From the heart of Ireland;
I miss his bright gray eyes,
I miss his cheerful song,
And that's why, on this lonely day,
I'm always thinking about him.

May God's kind angels guard him
When the fray is fierce and grim,
And blunt the point of every sword
That turns its hate on him.
Where round the torn yet dear green flag
The brave and lovin' throng—
But the lasses of Glenwherry smile
At me for thinkin' long.

May God’s kind angels watch over him
When the battle is tough and brutal,
And dull the edge of every sword
That aims its hatred at him.
Where around the tattered yet cherished green flag
The brave and loving crowd—
But the girls of Glenwherry smile
At me for daydreaming.

ANNA MAC MANUS (Ethna Carbery).

"TEARS, IDLE TEARS."

"Idle tears."

FROM "THE PRINCESS."

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Tears, meaningless tears, I’m not sure what they signify, Tears from the bottom of some deep sadness
Well up in my heart and fill my eyes,
As I gaze at the joyful autumn fields,
And think about the days that are gone.

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 one
That sinks with all we love below the verge,—
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Bright like the first light reflecting off a sail, That brings our friends back from the underworld;
Melancholic like the last light that shines red over one
That disappears with everything we love beneath the horizon,—
So melancholic, so bright, the days that are gone.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange like dark summer mornings. The first notes from half-awake birds
To fading ears, when to fading eyes
The window slowly becomes a bright square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are gone.

Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On 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.

Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those imagined by hopeless longing
On lips that belong to others; deep as love,
Deep as first love and filled with all regret,—
O Death in Life, the days that are gone.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

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’ve had playmates, I’ve had friends,
In my childhood, in my happy 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’ve been laughing, I’ve been partying,
Drinking late, hanging out late, with my close friends;
Now they’re all gone, all the 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 once loved someone beautiful, the best of all women:
Her doors are shut to me now, I can’t see her—
Everyone is gone, all the 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.

I have a friend, there's no kinder friend than him:
Like an ungrateful person, I left my friend suddenly;
Left him to think about 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.

Like a ghost, I wandered through the places of my childhood,
The earth felt like a desert I had to cross,
Looking for 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.

Friend of my heart, you’re more than a brother,
Why weren’t you born in my father’s house?
Then we could talk about 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.

How some have died, and some have left me,
And some have been taken from me; all have departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

CHARLES LAMB.

COME TO ME, DEAREST.

Come here, my love.

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.

Come to me, my dearest, I’m lonely without you,
Day and night, I’m thinking about you;
Night and day, in dreams, I see you;
Awake is unwelcome when it stops holding you.
Come to me, sweetheart, to ease my sorrows,
Come in your beauty to bless and brighten tomorrows;
Come in your womanhood, gentle and humble,
Come in your lovingness, regal and noble.

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.

Swallows will dart around the empty ruins,
Bringing news of spring and its joyful renewal;
And thoughts of your love, and its many treasures,
Are filling my heart with a promise of happiness.
O Spring of my spirit, O May of my heart,
Shine on my soul, until it blooms and flourishes;
The wasteland of my life has a rose rooted in it,
And only your affection can bring it to the sunlight.

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 seeming
Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming.

Figure that flows like a melody through the evening;
Features illuminated by a glimpse of heaven;
Eyes like the skies of our mother, Ireland,
Where shadows and sunshine are playing tag;
Smiles appearing rarely, but innocent and pure,
Leaving a sweet dimple on each rosy cheek;—
O, thanks to the Savior, that even your appearance
Is left for the exile to brighten his dreams.

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.

You felt happy when you knew I was happy;
Honey, are you sad now to hear I'm feeling down?
Our hearts always respond together, love,
Like notes to notes, and rhymes to rhymes, love:
I can’t cry without your tears falling,
You can’t smile without my cheek lighting up;
I wouldn't want to die without you by my side, love,
You won’t stay when I’m gone, 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!

Come to me, my dear, before I die from my sadness,
Rise above my gloom like the sun of tomorrow;
Strong, quick, and affectionate like the words I say, love,
With a song on your lips and a smile on your face, love.
Come, for my heart is tired without you,—
Hurry, for my spirit feels weak and dreary,—
Come to the arms that should be holding you.
Come to the heart that beats to embrace you!

JOSEPH BRENAN.

THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.

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!

Don't stay away too long. Home isn't home without you:
Its most valued memories just make me feel sad. Oh, let its memories wrap around you like a chain,
Kindly encourage and expedite your 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 delaying
Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here?

Linger not too long. Even if crowds try to keep you,
Think about it, can your friends' happiness, no matter how close they are, Make up for the sorrow your extended stay
What brings to the loving heart that longs for you 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!

Linger not long. How will I watch for you,
As evening shadows lengthen over the moor and valley; When the wild bee has stopped her busy buzzing,
And silence hangs over everything like a magic 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?

How will I wait for you when my fears become overwhelming,
As the night gets darker and darker on the hill!
How will I cry when I can’t wait any longer?
Hey! Are you still gone, are you still gone?

Yet I shall grieve not, though the eye that seeth me
Gazeth 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.

Yet I won't be sad, even though the eye that sees me
Gazes through tears that dim its shine; Because oh! I sometimes worry when you're with me,
My cup of happiness is overflowing.

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!

Hurry, hurry back to your mountain home,
Hurry, like a bird to its warm nest! Hurry, like a small boat, through the raging storms,
That hurries to its safest place to rest!

ANONYMOUS.

ANON.

MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME.

My Old Kentucky Home.

NEGRO SONG.

Black 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!

The sun shines bright on our old Kentucky home;
It's summer, and everyone is in a good mood; The corn is ready to harvest and the meadow is in bloom,
While the birds sing all day long; The young people roll around on the cabin floor,
All cheerful, all content, all radiant; Soon enough, tough times come knocking at the door,—
Then, good night to my old Kentucky home!

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.

Don't cry anymore, my lady; please, don't cry today!
We'll sing a song for the old Kentucky home,
For our distant home in Kentucky.

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!

They don't hunt for the possum and the raccoon anymore,
On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; They don't sing by the moonlight anymore,
On the bench near the old cabin door; The day passes, like a shadow over the heart,
With sadness replacing the joy that used to be there; The time has come when the folks have to say goodbye,
So, goodnight, my old Kentucky home!

Weep no more, my lady, etc.

Don't cry anymore, 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!

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,
Wherever the person goes; Just a few more days, and the troubles will all be over,
In the area where the sugar canes grow; A few more days to carry the heavy load,
No worries, it will never be bright; A few more days until we stagger on the road,
Then, good night to my old Kentucky home!

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.

Don’t cry anymore, my lady; please, don’t cry today!
We’ll sing a song for the old Kentucky home,
For our old Kentucky home that's far away.

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

Stephen Foster.

OLD FOLKS AT HOME.

Seniors 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 creation
Sadly I roam, Still longing for de old plantation,
And for de old folks at home.

Way down by the Swanee River,
Once upon a time, That’s where my heart keeps turning,
That's where the elderly are. All across this whole wide world
Sadly, I wander. Still yearning for the old plantation,
And for the elderly 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!

The whole world feels sad and gloomy, Wherever I go; Oh, friends, my heart feels so heavy, So far from the old people back home!

All round de little farm I wandered
When I was young, Den many happy days I squandered,
Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder
Happy was I; Oh, take me to my kind old mudder!
Dere let me live and die.

All around the little farm I wandered
When I was a kid, Then many happy days I wasted,
Many songs I've sung. When I was playing with my brother
I was really happy; Oh, take me to my kind old mother!
Let me live and die here.

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-humming
All round de comb? When will I hear de banjo tumming,
Down in my good old home?

One small hut among the bushes,
Someone I love, Still sadly rushes to my memory,
Wherever I go. When will I see the bees buzzing
All around the beehive? When will I hear the banjo playing,
Are you asking about my hometown?

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!

Everyone in the world feels down and gloomy, Wherever I go; Oh, friends, how exhausted my heart feels, So far from family back home!

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

Stephen Collins Foster.

THE PRESENT GOOD.

FROM "THE TASK," BOOK VI.

Not to understand a treasure's worth Till time has stol'n away the slighted good,
Is cause of half the poverty we feel,
And makes the world the wilderness it is.

Not seeing a treasure's worth Until time has taken away what we overlooked,
Is behind much of the poverty we experience,
And turns the world into the wilderness it is.

WILLIAM COWPER.

William Cowper.

III. ADVERSITY.

MAN.

In his own image the Creator made,
His own pure sunbeam quickened thee, O man! Thou breathing dial! since the day began The present hour was ever marked with shade!

In His own image, the Creator made,
His own pure sunlight gave you life, O man! You breathing clock! Ever since the day started The current hour has always been marked with shade!

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Walter Savage Landor.

THE WORLD.

The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
Less than a span: In his conception wretched, from the womb,
So to the tomb; Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years
With cares and fears. Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

The world is a bubble, and human life
Is shorter than a while: From a miserable beginning in the womb,
To the grave; Cursed from infancy, and raised to adulthood
Loaded with worries and fears. So who would trust in fragile mortality,
But paints on water, or writes in dust?

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
What life is best? Courts are but only superficial schools
To dandle fools: The rural parts are turned into a den
Of savage men: And where's a city from foul vice so free,
But may be termed the worst of all the three?

Yet while we live here in sorrow, oppressed,
Which life is best? Courts are just superficial places
To pamper fools: The countryside has become a den
Of fierce men: And where is a city completely free from vice,
That can't be called the worst of all 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, moan
Or wish them gone: What is it, then, to have or have no wife,
But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Domestic worries trouble the husband's bed,
Or give him stress. Those who live alone see it as a curse,
Or do even worse things: Some want kids: those who have them complain
Or wish they didn’t exist: So what is it, then, to have or not have a wife,
But single bondage, or a double struggle?

Our own affection still at home to please
Is 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 cry
For being born, or, being born, to die?

Our own love, still at home to please
It's a disease: To cross the seas to any foreign land,
Risk and struggle: Wars with their noise scare us; when they end,
We're worse in peace;— So what’s left, but that we keep crying
For being born, or, having been born, to die?

FRANCIS, LORD BACON.

Francis, Lord Bacon.

MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.

MOAN, MOAN, YOU DYING WINDS.

Moan, moan, ye dying gales!
The saddest of your tales
Is not so sad as life; Nor have you e'er began
A theme so wild as man,
Or with such sorrow rife.

Moan, moan, you fading winds!
The saddest of your stories
Is nowhere near as depressing as life; Nor have you ever started
A theme as wild as humanity,
Or filled with such profound sadness.

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.

Fall, fall, you withered leaf!
Autumn doesn’t hurt like grief,
It doesn't destroy such beautiful flowers either; The storm is more terrifying,
The sadness is more distressing,
When bad luck strikes.

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.

Hush! Hush! you trembling lyre,
Silence, you singing choir,
And you, lovely-sounding lute, Because man will soon take his last breath,
And all his hope is gone,
And all his music is quiet.

Then, when the gale is sighing,
And when the leaves are dying,
And when the song is o'er, O, let us think of those
Whose lives are lost in woes,
Whose cup of grief runs o'er.

Then, when the wind is blowing,
And when the leaves are falling,
And when the song ends, Oh, let’s remember those
Whose lives are filled with sorrow,
Whose pain is overwhelming.

HENRY NEELE.

THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.

False world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend
The least delight: Thy favors cannot gain a friend,
They are so slight: Thy morning pleasures make an end
To please at night: Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,
And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st
With heaven: fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

False world, you lie: you can’t offer
The tiniest joy: Your gifts can’t win a friend,
They're so petty: Your morning pleasures come to an end
When night comes: The needs you meet are poor,
And yet you brag, and yet you compete
With heaven: foolish earth, you boast; false world, you lie.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales
Of endless treasure; Thy bounty offers easy sales
Of 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.

Your chatting voice tells amazing stories
Of infinite wealth; Your gifts make easy deals
Everlasting joy; You ask the heart what’s wrong,
And promise to help her. No one goes without where you provide;
No one can give where you withhold.
Alas! naive world, you brag; deceitful world, you lie.

What well-advisèd ear regards
What earth can say? Thy words are gold, but thy regards
Are 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.

What wise ear listens to
What can the earth express? Your words are valuable, but your looks
Just painted clay: Your cleverness can only shuffle the cards,
You can't play: Even at your weakest, you still compete;
If noticed and then challenged, you deny:
You are not what you appear to be; false world, you lie.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint
Of 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'st
With man; vain man! that thou rely'st
On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st.

Your glittering chest looks like a mint
Full of newly minted treasures; A paradise, with no limits,
No change, no action; A painted barrel, but empty inside,
No wealth, no pleasures: Foolish earth! that deceives like this,
With humans; foolish humans! that you trust
In earth; foolish human, you do; foolish earth, you lie.

What mean dull souls, in this high measure,
To haberdash In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure
Is dross and trash? The height of whose enchanting pleasure
Is but a flash? Are these the goods that thou supply'st
Us mortals with? Are these the high'st?
Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st.

What boring souls, at this high level,
To experiment In the cheap goods of the earth, whose greatest treasure
Is it worthless junk? The peak of whose enticing pleasure
Is it just a moment? Are these the things you provide
To us humans? Is this the best?
Can these bring true peace? Deceptive world, you're lying.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

Francis Quarles.

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.

BLOW, BLOW, O WINTER WIND.

FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT," ACT II. SC. 7.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As 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!

Blow, blow, winter wind, You're not so strict As human ungratefulness; Your bite isn't that sharp, Since you can’t be found, Even though your breath is harsh. Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! to the green holly;
Most friendships are fake, most love is just foolishness:
So, here we go! This life is so much fun!

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As 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!

Chill, chill, you cold sky, You don't hurt as much anymore. As overlooked kindness: Even if you distort the waters, Your sting isn't as intense As a friend who's lost. Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! to the green holly:
Most friendships are fake, most love is just foolishness:
So, here we go, the holly! This life is so joyful!

SHAKESPEARE.

THE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND

THE CRY 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!"

"Look at me, a god, what I suffer from other gods!
See how, in agony upon agony,
I, weakened by this sadness,
Struggle against the countless years of Time!"

From photograph after a painting by G. Graeff.

From a photograph of a painting by G. Graeff.

THE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND.

FROM "PROMETHEUS."

O holy Æther, and swift-winged Winds,
And River-wells, and laughter innumerous
Of 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 me The new King of the happy ones sublime
Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me!
Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's
I cover with one groan. And where is found me A limit to these sorrows? And yet what word do I say? I have fore-known Clearly all things that should be; nothing done Comes sudden to my soul—and I must bear What is ordained with patience, being aware Necessity doth front the universe With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse Which strikes me now, I find it hard to brave In silence or in speech. Because I gave Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul To this compelling fate. Because I stole The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went Over the ferrule's brim, and manward sent Art'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 unseen
Of 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 undersings The light stroke of their wings— And all life that approaches I wait for in fear.

O holy Aether, and swift-winged Winds,
And River-wells, and endless laughter
From the Sea-waves! Earth, our mother,
And all-seeing cyclic Sun, I call upon you,—
Look at me, a god, suffering at the hands of other gods!
See how, with one pain after another, Consumed by this sorrow, I struggle against the countless years of Time!
See how fast I am The new King of the blessed has
Thrown the chain he made, has humiliated and bound me!
Woe, woe! today's grief and tomorrow's
I cover with a single groan. And where is __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__? Is this the end of the sorrows? And what can I say? I have known __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Clearly, everything that was going to happen; nothing happened. Comes suddenly to my soul—and I have to bear it. What is destined through patience, understanding Necessity faces the universe With an unstoppable force. But this curse That hits me now; I find it difficult to confront. In silence or in conversation. Because I respected __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Mortals, I have tied my soul To this unavoidable fate. Because I took The secret source of fire, where bubbles overflowed Over the edge of the ferrule, I send Art's powerful tools and perfect beginnings, That sin I endure in this torment, Hanging here in chains beneath the pale sky. Oh, what a sound, What a fragrance rises from an unseen wing Of a god, or a mortal, or something in between, Rising to this rock where the earth is trapped, To witness my pain or earn some reward— Look, a god in distress, a god in chains! The god Zeus despises me deeply, And his gods return the hatred, As many as tread on his revered floor, Because I loved mortals far too much forever. Oh, what a murmur and movement I hear, Like birds flying close by! And the air gently sings With the soft beat of their wings— And all life that approaches, I await eagerly in fear.

From the Greek of ÆSCHYLUS.
Translation of ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

From the Greek of Aeschylus.
Translation by 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 delight
Annulled, which might in part my grief have eased.
Inferior to the vilest now become
Of man or worm; the vilest here excel me:
They creep, yet see; I, dark in light, exposed
To 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!

O loss of sight, I can’t help but complain!
Blind among enemies, oh, worse than being chained,
Locked away, or begging, or old and frail!
Light, the greatest creation of God, is gone for me,
And all its various sources of joy
Have vanished, which could have eased my sorrow.
I’ve become lower than the most wretched
Of man or worm; even the lowest surpass me:
They crawl, yet see; I, lost in light, am exposed
To daily lies, scorn, mistreatment, and injustice,
Inside or outside, still treated like a fool,
At the mercy of others, never in control;
I barely seem to live, dead more than half.
Oh dark, dark, dark, amidst the brightness of the moon,
Irrecoverably dark, a total eclipse,
With no hope of day!

MILTON.

LINES.

[Written in the Tower, the night before his probably unjust execution for treason.]

[Written in the Tower, the night before his likely unfair 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 youth feels like a cold burden,
My happiness is nothing but a source of suffering, My harvest is just a field of weeds,
Everything I have is just empty dreams of making money. The day is gone, and I didn’t see the sun;
And now I’m alive, but my life is over!

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!

My spring is over, yet it hasn't arrived,
The fruit is gone, but the leaves are still green. My youth is behind me, yet I’m still young,
I watched the world, but no one paid attention to me. My thread is cut, yet it hasn't been woven;
And now I live, and now my life is finished!

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!

I searched for death and found it in the womb,
I searched for life, but all I found was just a shadow, I walked the ground, and realized it was my tomb,
And now I’m dying, and now I’ve been brought to life. The glass is full, and yet my time is up;
And now I live, and now my life is over!

CHEDIOCK TICHEBORNE.

HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS.

HENCE, ALL YOU VAIN DELIGHTS.

FROM "THE NICE VALOUR," ACT III. SC. 3.

Hence, all ye vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly! There's naught in this life sweet, If man were wise to see't But only melancholy, O, sweetest melancholy!

So, all you empty pleasures,
As brief as the nights
Where you waste your time! There's nothing in this life that's enjoyable, If someone were wise enough to recognize it Except for sadness, Oh, sweetest sorrow!

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!

Welcome, arms crossed and eyes focused,
A sigh that deeply hurts,
A gaze fixed on the ground,
A tongue tied up with no sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are 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.

Fountainheads and untamed groves,
Places favored by fading love!
Moonlit strolls, when all the birds
Are snugly tucked away except for bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a farewell sigh!
These are the sounds we thrive on;
Then we stretch out in a quiet, dark valley:
Nothing's as delicately sweet as beautiful sadness.

JOHN FLETCHER.

THE FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY.

FROM "KING HENRY VIII.," ACT III. SC. 2.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In 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 mention
Of 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 all
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

Cromwell, I never thought I would shed a tear
Through all my suffering; but you've forced me,
With your honesty, to act like a woman.
Let's dry our eyes: and hear me out, Cromwell;
And—when I'm forgotten, as I will be,
And rest in dull, cold marble, where no one
Will speak of me again—just say I taught you,
Say, Wolsey—that once walked the paths of glory,
And explored all the depths and shallows of honor—
Found you a way, out of his wreck, to rise;
A sure and safe one, even though your master missed it.
Just look at my fall, and what brought me down.
Cromwell, I urge you, abandon ambition:
By that sin fell the angels; how can man,
The image of his Maker, hope to gain from it?
Put yourself last: value those who hate you:
Corruption doesn't achieve more than honesty.
Always carry gentle peace in your right hand,
To silence envious voices. Be fair, and fear not:
Let all your goals be for your country,
Your God, and the truth; then if you fall, O Cromwell!
You fall as a blessed martyr.
Serve the king; and—please, lead me in:
There, take stock of everything I have,
To the last penny; it's the king's: my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I can now truly call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
If I had served my God with even half the passion
I served my king, He wouldn't have left me
Vulnerable to my enemies in my old age!

· · · · · ·

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Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The 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 surely
His 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 pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of 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 wretched
Is 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.

Goodbye, a long goodbye, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: today he shows
The tender leaves of hope; tomorrow he blossoms,
And wears his proud honors thick on him:
The third day comes with frost, a killing frost;
And—when he thinks, good easy man, for sure
His greatness is maturing—nips his root,
And then he falls, just like I do. I have dared,
Like little mischievous boys who float on bladders,
To swim for many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my inflated pride
Finally broke beneath me; and now has left me,
Tired and old from service, to the mercy
Of a rough stream, that must always hide me.
Empty pride and glory of this world, I despise you:
I feel my heart newly opened. Oh, how miserable
Is that poor man who relies on princes' favors!
There is, between that smile we wish for,
That sweet look from princes, and their downfall,
More pain and fear than from wars or women:
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE APPROACH OF AGE.

AGING APPROACHES.

FROM "TALES OF THE HALL."

FROM "STORIES 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 dread
The 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 brute
Was 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.

Six years had gone by, and forty before those six,
When Time started to pull his usual tricks:
The hair that once looked good to a young woman,
Hair of pure brown, now showed signs of grey;
The blood, once hot, began to cool down,
And Time's strong push was starting to wear me out.
I rode or walked just like I did before,
But now the lively spirit was gone;
A moderate pace was enough to raise my body heat,
A walk of just a bit longer would tire my feet.
I showed my guest those amazing hills,
But said, "The view isn’t great, we don’t need to hike up."
At a friend's house, I started to dread
The cold, tidy parlor and the bright, fancy bed;
At home, I felt a stronger preference,
And had to have everything in its place.
I stopped hunting; my horses brought me less joy—
I enjoyed dinner more; I learned to play chess.
I took my dog and gun, but saw my dog
Was let down because I didn’t shoot anything.
I could now bear to miss my morning walks,
And was grateful for the rain that made me stay in.
In fact, I felt a weariness creeping in;
The strong arm, the nimble hand, were gone;
Small everyday tasks turned into habits,
And I developed a dislike for new trends and fashions.
I loved my trees and liked to organize;
I counted peaches, watched how stock grew;
Told the same story often—in short, I began to ramble.

GEORGE CRABBE.

George Crabbe.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.

Written in despair near Naples.

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light: The breath of the moist air is light Around 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.

The sun is warm, and the sky is clear, The waves are moving quickly and shimmering. Blue islands and snowy mountains display The bright noon's clear light: The feel of the humid air is gentle. Around its unopened buds; Like many voices sharing the same joy,— The winds, the birds, the ocean waves— The city's voice itself is soft like solitude's.

I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown: I sit upon the sands alone; The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion,— How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion!

I see the pristine ocean floor. Draped in green and purple seaweed; I see the waves hitting the shore. Like light spread out in bursts of stars: I sit here on the sand by myself; The bright waves of the mid-day ocean Flashing all around me, and a sound Rises from its steady beat,— How wonderful it would be if someone shared my feelings!

Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that Content surpassing wealth The 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.

Unfortunately, I have neither hope nor health, Neither peace inside nor calm outside, Nor is there content that is better than wealth. That wise people discover during meditation, And walk with inner glory shining bright,— Neither fame, nor power, nor love, nor free time. I see other people who have these things; They smile as they live and call life enjoyable; To me, that cup has been served in a different way.

Yet now despair itself is mild Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

But now even despair feels soft. Just like the winds and waters do; I could lie down like a tired child, And cry away all your burdens. That I have carried, and still need to carry, Until death, like sleep, takes over me, And I might feel the warm breeze Cool my cheek and listen to the sea. Breathe its last monotony over my fading mind.

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 one Whom men love not,—and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

Some might say that I'm aloof, As I, when this beautiful day comes to an end, Which my lost heart, aged too quickly, Mocked with this unnecessary sigh; They might feel sorry for me because I’m someone __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__. Who isn’t loved by others, and yet I feel regret, Unlike today, when the sun Focus on its pure beauty, Will stay, even though it’s been enjoyed, like joy in our memories.

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.]

[Written in the spring of 1819, during a time of physical depression, the forerunner of his death, which occurred shortly after.]

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One 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 plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of Summer in full-throated ease.

My heart aches, and a heavy numbness hurts
My senses feel like I've taken hemlock, Or taken some dull painkiller to the end
One minute ago, I was zoning out: It's not because I'm jealous of your happy life,
But because I'm so aware of your happiness— That you, quick Dryad of the trees, In a beautiful place Of beech trees, green, and countless shadows, Sing about Summer with a full, relaxed voice.

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cooled 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:

O for a drink of vintage that’s been
Chilled for a long time in the deep, excavated ground, Tasting of flowers and the countryside green,
Dance, Provencal songs, and sunlit happiness! O for a glass full of the warm South,
Filled with the genuine, vibrant Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles glistening at the edge, And a purple-stained mouth,— So I could drink and escape from the world, And as you disappear into the shadowy forest:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, 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 sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Fade far away, dissolve, and completely forget
What you've never felt among the leaves, The exhaustion, the anxiety, and the struggle
Here, where people sit and listen to each other moan; Where trembling hands shake a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth fades, becomes ghostly pale, and dies; Where simply thinking brings sadness And deep sadness, Where Beauty cannot keep her sparkling eyes, Or our new love will fade away before tomorrow.

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 blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

Away! Away! I'm going to fly to you,
Not transported by Bacchus and his leopards, But on the invisible wings of poetry,
Even though my foggy mind confuses and slows me down: I'm already with you! The night is gentle,
And maybe Queen Moon is on her throne, Surrounded by all her sparkling fairies; But there’s no light here, Except for what comes from heaven, carried by the winds Through thick shadows and twisting moss-covered paths.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows The 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.

I can't see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what pleasant fragrance lingers on the branches, But in the preserved darkness, I can guess each lovely
Gifted by the current month To the grass, the bushes, and the wild fruit trees;
White hawthorn and the lovely eglantine; Violets quickly fading, hidden by leaves; And the first bloom of May, The upcoming musk-rose, full of rich wine, The buzzing swarm of flies on summer evenings.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time I 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.

Darkling I listen; and for a long time I've been pretty much in love with peaceful Death. Called him gentle names in many thoughtful poems,
To let my gentle breath move into the air; Now, more than ever, it feels rich to die,
To die at midnight, without any pain. While you express your deepest feelings to the world, In such bliss!— You would still sing, and I would listen without any hope— I would turn to soil for your grand farewell.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

You were not born for death, immortal Bird!
No starving generations will step on you; The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient times, among emperors and fools: Maybe it's the same song that found its way
Through Ruth's sorrowful heart, as she yearned for home, She stood in tears among the unfamiliar corn; The same that often has Charmed magical windows opening to the foam Of perilous oceans, in lost enchanted realms.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell,
To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?

Forlorn! That word is like a bell,
To bring me back from you to my lonely self! Goodbye! Imagination can't deceive as well
As it's known for, that trickster. Goodbye! goodbye! your sad song fades
Beyond the nearby meadows, across the calm stream, Up the hill; and now it's buried deep. In the next valley clearings: Was it a vision or a daydream? That music is gone—am I awake or dreaming?

JOHN KEATS.

John Keats.

PERISHED.

CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.

Catskill Mountain House.

Wave after wave of greenness rolling down
From mountain top to base, a whispering sea
Of affluent leaves through which the viewless breeze
Murmurs mysteriously.

Wave after wave of green rolling down
From mountain top to base, a whispering sea
Of abundant leaves through which the unseen breeze
Whispers mysteriously.

And towering up amid the lesser throng,
A giant oak, so desolately grand,
Stretches its gray imploring arms to heaven
In agonized demand.

And standing tall among the smaller crowd,
A giant oak, incredibly impressive yet lonely,
Reaches its gray, begging branches toward the sky
In dire need.

Smitten by lightning from a summer sky,
Or bearing in its heart a slow decay,
What matter, since inexorable fate
Is pitiless to slay.

Smitten by lightning from a summer sky,
Or holding in its core a slow decline,
What difference does it make, since unavoidable fate
Is ruthless to kill.

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!"

Ah, lost soul, trapped and wrapped tight,
Doesn't your life's lost hope raise its head,
And, overshadowing current joys, shout out,—
"Check it out, I’m dead!"

MARY LOUISE RITTER.

BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.

BYRON'S NEWEST POEMS.

"On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year." —MISSOLONGHI, JANUARY 23, 1824.

"Today, 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!

It’s time for this heart to stay still,
Since it no longer impacts anyone else: Yet, even though I can't be loved,
Let me love you still!

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.

My days are in their decline,
The flowers and fruits of love have faded away: The worm, the decay, and the sorrow,
Are mine only.

The fire that in my bosom preys
Is like to some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze,—
A funeral pile.

The fire that burns in my heart
It's like a volcanic island; No flame is lit at its heat,—
A cremation pyre.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The most intense part of the pain And power of love, I can't share,
But I bear the weight.

But 'tis not thus,—and 'tis not here,
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

But it's not like this,—and it's not here,
Such thoughts shouldn’t trouble my soul, not now, Where glory decorates the hero's grave,
Or crowns his head.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece about us see; The Spartan borne upon his shield
Was not more free.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece are all around us; The Spartan carried on his shield
Was not freer.

Awake!—not Greece,—she is awake!
Awake my spirit! think through whom Thy life-blood tastes its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Awake!—not Greece,—she is awake!
Awaken my spirit! Reflect on who Your life-blood tastes its source,
Now go take action!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood! unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

Suppress those renewing feelings,
Unworthy manhood! To you It shouldn’t matter whether the beauty
Happy or sad.

If thou regrett'st thy youth,—why live?
The land of honorable death Is here:—up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

If you regret your youth—why live?
The land of noble death Is here:—head to the field, and give
Catch your 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!

Seek out—less often looked for than discovered—
A soldier's grave is the best place for you; Then look around, and pick your spot,
And find your calm!

LORD BYRON.

Lord Byron.

A DOUBTING HEART.

A Doubting Heart.

Where are the swallows fled?
Frozen and dead Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.
O doubting heart! Far over purple seas They wait, in sunny ease, The balmy southern breeze To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Where have the swallows gone?
Cold and motionless Maybe on some cold and stormy coast.
Oh, uncertain heart! Way over the purple seas They are waiting, soaking up the sun, The soft southern breeze To bring them back to their northern homes again.

Why must the flowers die?
Prisoned they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.
O doubting heart! They only sleep below The soft white ermine snow While winter winds shall blow, To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

Why do the flowers have to die?
Trapped, they’re lying In the cold grave, unaware of tears or rain.
Oh, restless heart! They're just sleeping down below The fluffy white snow While winter winds blow, To wake up and smile at you again soon.

The sun has hid its rays
These many days; Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
O doubting heart! The stormy clouds on high Veil the same sunny sky That soon, for spring is nigh, Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

The sun has hidden its light
For so many days; Will these gloomy hours ever end?
Oh, restless heart! The storm clouds overhead Cover the same bright sky That will happen soon, since spring is coming up, Will bring summer's joyful warmth.

Fair hope is dead, and light
Is 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.

Fair hope is gone, and light
Is extinguished in darkness; What noise can pierce the silence of despair?
O anxious heart! The sky is overcast, But stars will shine again, Brighter because of the darkness that came before; And angels' silver voices fill the air.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

Adelaide Anne Procter.

THE VOICELESS.

We count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast
The 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!

We count the broken harps that lie still
Where the sweet, sorrowful singers rest, But over their silent sister's body
Who will kneel down to count the wildflowers? A few can play the magic chord,
And loud Fame is eager to recognize them: But what a shame for those who never sing,
But leave this world with all their music still inside!

Nay grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,— Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

Do not mourn only for the dead
Whose song has expressed their heartache,— Weep for the voiceless, who have experienced
The fight without the promise of glory! Not where Leucadian winds blow
Over Sappho's memory-laden waves, But where the shining night dewdrops weep
On the pillow of an unnamed sorrow's grave.

O hearts that break and give no sign
Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his longed-for wine
Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,— If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

O hearts that break and show no signs
Other than pale lips and thinning hair, Until Death shares his anticipated drink
Slowly dripped from Misery's heavy presses,— If there were singing breaths or reverberating chords
For every hidden pain we experienced, What endless melodies would flow,
As sad as the earth, as sweet as heaven!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

A LAMENT.

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!

O World! O Life! O Time!
On whose final steps I climb,
Shaking where I was standing; When will the glory of your prime return?
Not anymore—oh, never again!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight:
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more,—O nevermore!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken off:
Fresh spring, summer, and the chill of winter Will move my weak heart with sadness, but also with happiness
Never again!

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Perry 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?

Spring is joyful, Winter is boring, Green leaves are here, but the brown must go;
When he’s left behind, Withered and trembling, What can an old man do but pass on?

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?

Love won't hold him back, Girls won't show interest in him, Maud and Marian walk on by;
Youth shines bright, Old age isn't sweet,— 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?

June was happy, Oh, it’s so much fun! A dancing leg and a laughing eye!
Young people can be reckless, Wisdom is distant,— 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?

Friends are scarce, Beggars are everywhere. If he has supporters, I understand why;
He's holding onto gold. (Buying his support!)— What else can an old man do but die?

THOMAS HOOD.

OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.

OVER THE HILL TO THE POORHOUSE.

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 nursing home I'm trudging my tired way—
I, a seventy-year-old woman, and just a little gray—
I, who am sharp and lively, despite the years I've shared,
Like many other women who are 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.

Over the hill to the homeless shelter—I can't explain it well!
Over the hill to the homeless shelter—it feels so incredibly strange!
I've taken many steps working hard back and forth,
But this is a kind of journey I never expected to take.

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.

What’s the point of loading me up with a poor man's shame?
Am I lazy or nuts? Am I blind or lame?
Sure, I’m not very flexible, and I’m not really strong;
But charity isn’t a favor if someone can get by without.

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day
To 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.

I’m willing and eager and ready any day
To work for a decent living and pay my fair share;
Because I can earn my food and more, I’m sure,
If anyone is just willing to have me around.

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.

Once I was young and handsome—I swear I was—
Once my cheeks were rosy, my eyes as black as coal;
And I can't remember, back in those days, hearing people say,
For any reason at all, 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.

'Tain't no use bragging or chatting about being free,
But a lot of houses and homes welcomed me back then;
I got many good offers from promising guys,
And nobody ever suggested 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 when I married John, he was really good and smart,
But he and all the neighbors would say I did my part;
Because life was all ahead of me, and I was young and strong,
And I worked as hard as I could to try 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.

And so we worked together: life was tough, but joyful,
With a baby now and then to cheer us on our way;
Until we had half a dozen, all raised well and neat,
And they went to school like everyone else, and 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.

So we worked for the kids and raised each one;
Worked for them in the summer and winter, just like we should have;
Maybe we spoiled them a bit, which some good people criticize,
But to every couple, their kids are the best.

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 how much we think about our precious kids!—
I’d have given my life for my daughters, I’d have given my life for my sons;
And God created that rule of love; but when we’re old and gray,
I’ve noticed that sometimes it doesn’t seem 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.

Strange, another thing: when our boys and girls were grown,
And when, except for Charley, they'd left us there alone;
When John came closer and closer, and felt so dear to me,
The Lord of Hosts came one day and 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.

Still, I had to fight, never to back down or give up—
I kept working for Charley because he was everything to me;
And Charley was mostly kind to me, hardly ever complaining,
Until finally, he started dating and brought home 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 was dressed up and didn't have a nice smile—
She was pretty full of herself and had a lot of style;
But if I ever tried to be friends with her, I sure did;
But she was tough and proud, and I just couldn't make it work.

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.

She had an education, and that was good for her;
But when she teased me about mine, it was taking things too far;
And I told her once, in front of others (and it nearly made her sick),
That I never learned grammar, or did arithmetic.

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.

So it was only a few days before it was finished—
They were a family of their own, and I was another one;
And a very small cottage will work for one family,
But I’ve never 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.

And I could never talk in a way that satisfied her, never could catch her eye,
And it made me self-reliant, so I stopped trying;
But I was really taken aback, and it hit me hard,
When Charley turned against me, and said I could leave.

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.

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,
And she was always hinting how cozy it was for all of us;
And with her husband's sisters and with three kids,
It was clear 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 went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,
For Thomas's buildings would cover half an acre;
But all the kids were on me—I couldn't deal with their attitude—
And Thomas said I shouldn't think I was coming there to boss him around.

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.

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 them said it was too warm there for anyone so old,
And the 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.

So they've neglected and disrespected me, and pushed me around—
So they've almost broken me, and worn my old heart out;
But I've still managed pretty well, and didn't let it get to me too much,
Until Charley went to the welfare officer, and 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 pray
That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.

Over the hill to the poorhouse—my dear children, goodbye!
I’ve spent many nights watching over you when only God was near;
And God will judge between us; but I will always pray
That you will never suffer even half of what I do today.

WILL CARLETON.

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.

By the roadside, on a mossy rock,
An old pilgrim sat, deep in thought; I often saw him sitting there by himself.
The entire scene felt like a story being told; Invisible and overlooked, By the roadside, on a mossy rock.

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.

Buckled knee and shoe, and wide-brimmed hat;
A coat as old as the shape it was folded into; Silver buttons, ponytail, and crimped necktie;
A wooden cane in his shaky hand for support; He was sitting there! Buckled knee and shoe, and wide-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 pleading Age and care: Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.

It seemed sad that he should just sit there,
With no one showing any sympathy and no one paying attention, No one to love him for his thin gray hair,
And the lines on his face are silently asking for help. From age and stress: It seemed sad that he should just 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.

It was summer, and we went to school,
Well-dressed boys from the countryside and little girls; Learned the lesson of the "Dunce's Stool,"—
Its serious meaning still weighs heavily on my mind, "Here's an idiot!" 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 stay When the stranger seemed to mark our play.

When the stranger appeared to watch our game,
Some of us were happy, while others were sad, I remember that day all too clearly!
There were many times when tears would come unexpectedly, Couldn't hold back When the stranger appeared to watch our game.

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.

One kind soul broke the silence,
Oh, to me, her name was always Heaven! She begged him to share all his sadness,
(I was 13, and she was 11,) Isabel! One kind soul broke the silence.

"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.

"Angel," he said with a sigh, "I'm old;
Earthly hope doesn’t have a future anymore; But I'll explain why I'm sitting here."
Then his eyes showed a tear of sadness, It fell down! "Angel," he said with a sigh, "I'm old."

"I have tottered here to look once more
On the pleasant scene where I delighted In the careless, happy days of yore,
Ere the garden of ray heart was blighted To the core: I have tottered here to look once more.

"I have stumbled back to take one more look
At the beautiful place that once brought me happiness In the carefree, happy days of the past,
Before the garden of my heart was damaged To the heart: I have stumbled back to take one more look."

"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 completed With a tear! All the picture now to me how dear!

"All this scenery means so much to me now!
Even this old gray rock I'm sitting on, Is a treasure worth my trip here;
Ah, that this view has to be completed. With a tear! All this scenery means so much to me now!"

"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 counted For the game. Old stone school-house, it is still the same.

"Old stone schoolhouse! It's still the same;
That's the exact step I used to climb; There's the window creaking in its frame,
And the notches I made and counted For the game. Old stone schoolhouse, it's 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.

"In the cottage over there I was born;
For a long time, that simple place was my happy home; There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn;
There the spring was filled with clear, sweet nectar; Ah, that's so sad! In the cottage over there I was born."

"Those two gateway sycamores you see
Then were planted just so far asunder That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the wagon to pass safely under; Ninety-three! Those two gateway sycamores you see.

"Those two sycamore trees at the entrance you see
Back then, they were planted just far enough apart. For the long well-pole to be clear from the path,
And for the wagon to go through safely; Ninety-three! Those two gateway sycamores you see.

"There's the orchard where we used to climb
When 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's the orchard where we used to climb
When my friends and I were kids, Not worrying about how quickly time passed,
Just focused on work and bad weather; It's past its heyday! There's the orchard where we used to climb."

"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails,
Bound the pasture where the flocks were grazing Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising; Traps and trails! There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails.

"There the rough, triangular chestnut rails,
Enclosed in the area where the sheep were grazing. Where I used to quietly watch for quails
In the buckwheat we were growing; Traps and paths! There the rough, triangular 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 mill that ground our yellow grain;
The pond and river are still flowing calmly; Cottage tucked in the shaded lane,
Where the flower of my heart was blooming,— MJ! 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 bring
That dear group around my father's table; Taken wing! There's the gate on which I used to swing.

"There's the gate I used to swing on,
Brook, bridge, barn, and that old red barn; But sadly, the morning will no longer bring
That cherished group gathered around my dad's table; Gone! There's the gate I used to swing on."

"I am fleeing,—all I loved have fled.
Yon green meadow was our place for playing That old tree can tell of sweet things said
When around it Jane and I were straying; She is dead! I am fleeing,—all I loved have fled.

"I'm running away—everyone I loved is gone.
That green meadow was where we hung out. That old tree holds memories of sweet things said
When Jane and I walked around it; She's left! I'm running away—everyone I loved is gone.

"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 glory There on high! Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.

"That white spire, like a pencil in the sky,
Quietly recording life's changing story, So familiar to my distant gaze,
Leads me to seven who are now in glory. Up there! That white spire, like a pencil in 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.

"Often we walked down the aisle of that old church,
Guided here by our heavenly mother; Now she rests beneath its holy ground;
Dad, sisters, and my little brother, Passed away. Often we walked down the aisle of that old church."

"There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways;
Bless the holy lesson!—but, ah, never Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
Those sweet voices silent now forever! Peaceful days! There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.

"There I learned about the enjoyable paths of Wisdom;
Thank goodness for the important lesson!—but, oh, I will never Hear those songs of praise again,
Those sweet voices are silent now, for good! Chill days! There I learned about the enjoyable paths of Wisdom."

"There my Mary blessed me with her hand
When 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.

There my Mary blessed me with her hand
When our souls received the wedding blessings, Before she rushed to the spirit world,
That gentle body of hers touching the ground; Failed connection! 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 blighted To the care! I have come to see that grave once more.

"I have come to visit that grave again,
And the holy place where we discovered happiness, Where we cherished, in the old days,
Before the garden of my heart was ruined Oh no! I have come to visit that grave again."

"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."

"Angel," he said sadly, "I'm old;
Earthly hope no longer has a future, Now, you've been told why I'm sitting here."
Another tear of sadness glistened in his eye, And it rolled down! "Angel," he said sadly, "I'm 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.

By the roadside, on a mossy stone,
The old pilgrim sat, deep in thought; I noticed him sitting there alone,
Examining the landscape like it’s a page. Poor, unknown person! By the roadside, on a mossy stone.

RALPH HOYT.

THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door;
And again The pavement-stones resound
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.

I saw him once before,
As he walked by the door;
And once more The pavement stones echo
As he stumbles over the ground
With his walking stick.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of time
Cut him down, Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round
Through the town.

They say that in his prime,
Before time took its toll
On him, There wasn't a better man
The town crier could find
While exploring the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
So forlorn; And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at everyone he passes
So confused; And he shakes his weak head,
Making it seem like he’s saying,
"They're gone."

The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he had pressed
In their bloom; And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.

The mossy marbles lie
On the lips he once kissed
At their peak; And the names he liked to hear
Have been etched for many years
At the gravesite.

My grandmamma has said—
Poor old lady! she is dead
Long ago— That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.

My grandma used to say—
Poor old lady! she's gone
Long ago— That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff; And a crook is in his back,
And the melancholy crack
In his laugh.

But now his nose is slim,
And it rests on his chin
Like a cane; And a hunch is in his back,
And the sad crack
In his laughter.

I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here, But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches,—and all that,
Are so queer!

I know it's wrong
For me to sit and smile
At him now, But the old three-cornered hat,
And the pants,—and all that,
They're so odd!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.

And if I make it to be
The last leaf on the tree
In spring, Let them smile, like I do now,
At the old abandoned branch
Where I hang on.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

THE LAST LEAF.

YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA.

I’ve lived through my desires.

I've overlived aspirings,
My fancies I disdain; The fruit of hollow-heartedness,
Sufferings alone remain.

I've outlived my aspirations,
I scoff at my daydreams; The result of being hollow-hearted,
Only pain remains.

'Neath cruel storms of Fate
With my crown of bay, A sad and lonely life I lead,
Waiting my latest day.

'Under the harsh storms of Fate
With my laurel wreath, I live a sad and lonely life,
Waiting for my last day.

Thus, struck by latter cold
While howls the wintry wind, Trembles upon the naked bough
The last leaf left behind.

Thus, hit by the cold later on
As the winter wind howls, It shivers on the bare branch
The last leaf remains.

From the Russian of ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN.
Translation of JOHN POLLEN.

From the Russian of ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH PUSHKIN.
Translation by JOHN POLLEN.

PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER
From a lithograph based on 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.

Here in the ditch, I'll rest my bones; Weak, tired, and old, I'm saying goodbye to this world. "He's drunk," the crowd will say as they walk by; That's okay, because no one will mourn. Some turn their disdainful heads away; Some people flip a coin as they rush past;— Hurry up—it's the town festival! The old beggar doesn’t need help to die.

Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age I die; for hunger slays not all. I hoped my misery's closing page To 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.

Yes! Here, all by myself, from simply growing old. I'm struggling; not everyone dies from hunger. I hoped to end the final chapter of my suffering. In a hospital; But every shelter is filled to capacity, So many people are hurting now. Unfortunately, I was born on the street! As he was born, the old 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 more Than 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.

In my younger days, when I spoke with workers, I'd say, "Show me how you do what you do." "Go away! Our work is just enough." "To take care of ourselves—just go and beg!" they said. You rich people who advised me to work for my meals, Your leftovers often filled my plate, Your straw has often been my bed;— In death, I place 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, left
To ripen near the public way, Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laid In 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.

I was so broke that I might have considered stealing. No!—it's better to ask for help instead! At most, I've picked some apples, left
To ripen by the curb, Yet for weeks on end, locked away In the king's name, they allowed me to suffer; They took 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.

Which country can the poor call their own? What good are your grain and wine to me, Your dedication and your proud reputation, The senate where your speakers stand out? Once, when war destroyed your homes, And outsiders prospered on your land, Like any helpless idiot, I cried! The old miserable man was fed by their hand.

Mankind! why trod you not the worm, The noxious thing, beneath your heel? Ah! had you taught me to perform Due 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!

Hey humanity! Why didn’t you step on the worm, That harmful creature under your foot? Ah! if you had shown me how to do The right job for the greater good! Then, shielded from the harsh wind, The worm and ant would have prospered; Yes, I might have loved my fellow humans then;— The old beggar dies hating you!

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.

Feel sorry for the troubles of an old man!
Whose trembling body has brought him to your door, Whose days are left so few,
Oh, help him out, and you'll be rewarded by Heaven for your generosity.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

These worn-out clothes show my poverty,
These gray hairs show I've lived for a long time; And many lines on my sorrowful face
Have been the road for a flow 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.

That house, built on the hill,
With an inviting appearance, it drew me off my trail, For there is where abundance has settled,
And grandeur has an impressive home.

(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.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)
Here, yearning for a slice of bread, A spoiled servant kicked me out the door,
To seek refuge in a simple 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.

Oh, take me to your welcoming home,
The wind is sharp, and the cold is harsh! My time is brief as I make my way to the kind grave,
Because I have no money and, unfortunately, I'm getting 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.

Should I share the cause of every pain,
If compassion ever touched your heart, Your hands would offer the gentle help,
And tears of sympathy couldn't be stopped.

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.

Heaven sends troubles—why should we complain?
It's Heaven that has put me in this situation: And your situation might soon be like mine,
The offspring of sadness and suffering.

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.

A small farm was my father's land,
Then, like the lark, I happily welcomed the morning; But sadly, hardship drove me from my home;
My animals died, and my crops were destroyed.

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 daughter—once the joy of my life!
Deceived by a con artist from her home, She's left behind, alone on this chaotic stage,
And compelled to roam in severe poverty.

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.

My loving wife,—gentle comforter of my worries!—
Filled with intense sadness from the difficult choice, She fell,—slowly fell, a casualty of hopelessness,
And left the world filled with pain and myself.

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.

Feel sorry for the troubles of a poor old man!
Whose unsteady arms have led him to your door, Whose days have been trimmed down to the shortest time, Oh, offer assistance, and Heaven will bless what you possess.

THOMAS MOSS.

A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER.

A ROUGH RHYME ABOUT A TOUGH SUBJECT.

THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS.

The merry brown hares came leaping
Over, the crest of the hill, Where the clover and corn lay sleeping,
Under the moonlight still.

The happy brown hares came jumping
Over the top of the hill, Where the clover and corn were resting,
Under the calm moonlight.

Leaping late and early,
Till under their bite and their tread, The swedes, and the wheat, and the barley
Lay cankered, and trampled, and dead.

Jumping around day and night,
Until under their bite and their footsteps, The turnips, the wheat, and the barley
Lying damaged, trampled, and lifeless.

A poacher's widow sat sighing
On the side of the white chalk bank, Where, under the gloom of fire-woods,
One spot in the lea throve rank.

A poacher's widow sat sighing
On the edge of the white chalk bank, Where, under the shade of firewood,
One area in the valley was full of lush growth.

She watched a long tuft of clover,
Where rabbit or hare never ran, For its black sour haulm covered over
The blood of a murdered man.

She looked at a long clump of clover,
Where rabbits or hares have never roamed, Because its dark, bitter stems were covered over
With the blood of a killed man.

She thought of the dark plantation,
And the hares, and her husband's blood, And the voice of her indignation
Rose up to the throne of God:

She thought about the dark plantation,
And the hares, along with her husband's blood, And the voice of her anger
Ascended 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 pining
As an English laborer's wife.

"I've moved on from crying and complaining,
I've cried too many times in my life: I've spent twenty years longing
As the wife of an English worker.

"A laborer in Christian England,
Where they cant of a Saviour's name, And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's
For a few more brace of game.

"A worker in Christian England,
Where they talk about the name of a Savior, And yet squander people's lives like pests
For a few more birds to capture.

"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.

"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 consume.

"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've sold the working man, squire,
Both body and soul are ashamed, To pay for your seat in the House, squire,
And to cover the expense 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 garden
At our starving children's feet;

"You turned him into a poacher yourself, squire,
When you provided neither work nor food, And your barley-fed hares raided the garden
At the feet of our hungry children;

"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 crammed into one foul room,
Man, woman, mother, and kids lie down; While the rain dripped onto the decaying marriage bed,
And the walls let in the daylight;

"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.

"When we lay there with a burning fever,
On the cold, muddy clay ground, Until you kept us apart for three months, sir,
At the haunted 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?

"We fought like animals, and who could blame us?
What dignity could we cling to, Living in worse conditions than your horses and your dogs,
Being fed worse than your pigs and 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.

"Our daughters, with children out of wedlock,
Have wandered off in their shame; If your wives had slept, sir, where they did,
Your wives might do the same.

"Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking,
With handfuls of coals and rice, Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting
A little below cost price?

"Can your lady mend hearts that are breaking,
With handfuls of coal and rice, Or by handing out flannel and sheets
A bit below the 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 never
Be repaid us by penny-club rules.

"You might get fed up with the jail and the workhouse,
And look to community gardens and schools, But you've accumulated a debt that will never
Be settled under penny-saving rules.

"In the season of shame and sadness,
In the dark and dreary day. When scrofula, gout, and madness
Are eating your race away;

"In the season of embarrassment and sorrow,
On the dark and dreary day. When illness, pain, and insanity
Are consuming your people?

"When to kennels and liveried varlets
You have cast your daughters' bread, And, worn out with liquor and harlots,
Your heir at your feet lies dead;

"When to kennels and liveried servants
You have spread your daughters' opportunities, And, worn out with booze and prostitutes,
Your heir lies dead at your feet;

"When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector,
Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave, You will find in your God the protector
Of the freeman you fancied your slave."

"When your youngest, the wishy-washy rector,
Let your soul wither and fade away. You will find in your God the protector
"Of the free person you believed was 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.

She stared at the patch of clover,
And cried until she felt a weight lifted from her heart; And finally, when her emotions settled,
She began to roam into the night.

But the merry brown hares came leaping
Over the uplands still, Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
On the side of the white chalk hill.

But the cheerful brown hares came bounding
Across the hills still, Where the clover and corn were resting
On the slope of the white chalk hill.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

"THEY ARE DEAR FISH TO ME."

"THEY MEAN A LOT TO ME."

The farmer's wife sat at the door,
A pleasant sight to see; And blithesome were the wee, wee bairns
That played around her knee.

The farmer's wife sat at the door,
A beautiful view to see; And cheerful were the little, little kids
That played around her knee.

When, bending 'neath her heavy creel,
A poor fish-wife came by, And, turning from the toilsome road,
Unto the door drew nigh.

When, bending under her heavy basket,
A struggling fish vendor walked by, And, turning from the hard road,
Approached the door.

She laid her burden on the green,
And spread its scaly store; With trembling hands and pleading words,
She told them o'er and o'er.

She placed her load on the grass,
And display its scaled treasure; With shaking hands and desperate words,
She told her story over and over.

But lightly laughed the young guidwife,
"We're no sae scarce o' cheer; Tak' up your creel, and gang your ways,—
I'll buy nae fish sae dear."

But lightly laughed the young wife,
"We're not lacking in cheer; Pick up your basket and go on your way,—
"I won't buy fish for that price."

Bending beneath her load again,
A weary sight to see; Right sorely sighed the poor fish-wife,
"They are dear fish to me!

Bending under her burden again,
A sad sight to see; The poor fish-wife sighed deeply,
"These fish are really important to me!"

"Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night,
And when the storm blew o'er, My husband, and my three brave sons,
Lay corpses on the shore.

"Our boat was out on a terrible night,
And when the storm went by, My husband and my three brave sons,
Laying dead on the shore.

"I've been a wife for thirty years,
A childless widow three; I maun buy them now to sell again,—
They are dear fish to me!"

"I've been a wife for thirty years,
A widow without children for three; I have to buy them now to sell again,—
"They really matter to me!"

The farmer's wife turned to the door,—
What was't upon her cheek? What was there rising in her breast,
That then she scarce could speak?

The farmer's wife turned to the door,—
What was on her cheek? What was rising in her chest,
That she could hardly speak?

She thought upon her ain guidman,
Her lightsome laddies three; The woman's words had pierced her heart,—
"They are dear fish to me!"

She thought about her own good man,
Her three cheerful boys; The woman's words had pierced her heart,—
"They mean the world to me!"

"Come back," she cried, with quivering voice,
And pity's gathering tear; "Come in, come in, my poor woman,
Ye 're kindly welcome here.

"Come back," she cried, her voice trembling,
And a tear of compassion is forming; "Come in, come in, my dear woman,
You're warmly welcomed here.

"I kentna o' your aching heart,
Your weary lot to dree; I'll ne'er forget your sad, sad words:
'They are dear fish to me!'"

"I know about your aching heart,
Your heavy load to carry; I'll never forget your sad, sad words:
"They are precious fish to me!"

Ay, let the happy-hearted learn
To pause ere they deny The meed of honest toil, and think
How much their gold may buy,—

Sure, let those who are happy-hearted learn
To pause before saying no The reward of honest work, and consider
What their money can buy,—

How much of manhood's wasted strength,
What woman's misery,— What breaking hearts might swell the cry:
"They are dear fish to me!"

How much of a man's wasted strength,
What women endure,— What shattered hearts might shout:
"They mean a lot to me!"

ANONYMOUS.

ANON.

GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER.

GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOM.

THE IRISH FAMINE.

THE GREAT IRISH FAMINE.

Give me three grains of corn, mother,—
Only three grains of corn; It will keep the little life I have
Till the coming of the morn. I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,—
Dying of hunger and cold; And half the agony of such a death
My lips have never told.

Give me three kernels of corn, Mom,—
Just three kernels of corn; It will keep me alive
Until morning arrives. I’m dying of hunger and cold, Mom,—
Starving and freezing; And I’ve never told anyone
Half of the pain from such a death.

It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,—
A wolf that is fierce for blood; All the livelong day, and the night beside,
Gnawing for lack of food. I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother,
And the sight was heaven to see, I awoke with an eager, famishing lip,
But you had no bread for me.

It has eaten away at my heart, Mom,—
A wolf that's craving blood; All day long, and through the night,
Ravenous from hunger. I dreamed of bread while I slept, Mom,
And it was a stunning view, I woke up with an eager, hungry mouth,
But you didn’t have any bread for me.

How could I look to you, mother,—
How could I look to you For bread to give to your starving boy,
When you were starving too? For I read the famine in your cheek,
And in your eyes so wild, And I felt it in your bony hand,
As you laid it on your child.

How could I look to you, mom,—
How could I appear to you For food to give to your hungry boy,
When you were hungry also? Because I saw the hunger in your face,
And in your wild eyes, And I felt it in your skinny hand,
As you placed it on your child.

The Queen has lands and gold, mother,
The Queen has lands and gold, While you are forced to your empty breast
A skeleton babe to hold,— A babe that is dying of want, mother,
As I am dying now, With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
And famine upon its brow.

The Queen has land and wealth, mom,
The Queen has land and riches, While you’re left with your empty arms
Holding a tiny baby,— A baby that's starving, mom,
Just like I am today, With a haunting look in its sunken eye,
And hunger on its mind.

What has poor Ireland done, mother,—
What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve,
Perishing one by one? Do the men of England care not, mother,—
The great men and the high,— For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,
Whether they live or die?

What has poor Ireland done, mom,—
What has poor Ireland done? That the world watches us starve,
Dying off one by one? Do the men of England not care, mom,—
The important people and the elite,— About the struggling sons of Ireland,
Live or die?

There is many a brave heart here, mother,
Dying of want and cold, While only across the Channel, mother,
Are many that roll in gold; There are rich and proud men there, mother,
With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night
Would give life to me and you.

There are many brave souls here, mom,
Hungry and cold, While just across the Channel, mom,
Many people are living in luxury; There are wealthy and arrogant men there, mom,
With amazing wealth to display, And the bread they toss to their dogs tonight
Would sustain me and you.

Come nearer to my side, mother.
Come nearer to my side, And hold me fondly, as you held
My father when he died; Quick, for I cannot see you, mother,
My breath is almost gone; Mother! dear mother! ere I die,
Give me three grains of corn.

Come closer to me, Mom.
Come closer to me, And hold me tightly, like you did
With Dad when he died; Hurry, because I can barely see you, Mom,
I'm losing my breath quickly; Mom! dear Mom! before I die,
Please give me three kernels of corn.

AMELIA BLANDFORD EDWARDS.

Amelia Blandford Edwards.

THOMAS HOOD
Based on a current portrait engraving.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,— Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

With tired and worn-out fingers,
With swollen and red eyelids, A woman sat, in tattered clothes,
Sewing with her needle and thread, — Sew! sew! sew! In poverty, hunger, and mess;
And yet, with a voice full of pain She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work! work! work
While the cock is crowing aloof! And work—work—work
Till the stars shine through the roof! It's, O, to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!

"Work! work! work
While the rooster crows in the background! And work—work—work
Until the stars shine through the ceiling! It's, oh, to be a slave
Along with the ruthless Turk, Where a woman has no soul to save,
If this is what it means to be a Christian!

"Work—work—work
Till the brain begins to swim! Work—work—work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,— Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!

"Work—work—work
Until my head starts to spin! Work—work—work
Until my eyes feel heavy and blurry! Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, gusset, and seam,— Until I nod off over the buttons,
And stitch them into my dreams!

"O men with sisters dear!
O men with mothers and wives! It is no linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives! Stitch! stitch! stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt,— Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt!

"Oh men with dear sisters!
Oh, men with mothers and wives! You're not just wearing out linen,
But the lives of real people! Stitch! stitch! stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt,— Sewing at the same time, with a double thread,
A burial cloth and a shirt!

"But why do I talk of death,—
That phantom of grisly bone? I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own,— It seems so like my own
Because of the fasts I keep; O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"But why am I talking about death,—
That spooky skeleton? I barely fear his dreadful form,
It looks a lot like mine— It looks so much like mine
Because of the fasting I follow; Oh God! that bread should be so expensive,
And human life is so cheap!

"Work—work—work
My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread—and rags, That shattered roof—and this naked floor—
A table—a broken chair— And a wall so blank my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Work—work—work
I never stop working; And what do I get for it? A bed of straw,
A slice of bread—and rags, That broken roof—and this bare floor—
A table—a damaged chair— And a wall so empty I’m grateful to see
My shadow falls there sometimes!

"Work—work—work
From weary chime to chime! Work—work—work
As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,— Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

"Work—work—work
From tired bell to bell! Work—work—work
Like inmates serving their sentence! Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, gusset, and band,— Until the heart feels heavy and the mind goes numb, Just like the tired hand.

"Work—work—work
In the dull December light! And work—work—work—
When the weather is warm and bright! While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the Spring.

"Work—work—work
In the gloomy December light! And work—work—work—
When the weather is warm and sunny! While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs,
And tease me with the Spring.

"O, but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,— With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet! For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh, but to breathe the scent
Of the cowslip and sweet primrose,— With the sky over my head,
And the grass beneath my feet! If only for one short hour
To feel like I used to feel, Before I experienced the struggles of need
And the walk that costs a meal!

"O but for one short hour,—
A respite, however brief! No blessèd leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart;
But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

"O but for one short hour,—
A quick break! No blessed time for love or hope,
But only time for mourning! A little crying would ease my heart;
But in their salty ocean My tears must stop, for every drop
"Blocks my sewing!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,— Stitch! stitch! stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch—
Would that its tone could reach the rich!—
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

With tired and worn fingers,
With heavy red eyelids, A woman sat, in tattered clothes,
Sewing with her needle and thread,— Sew! sew! sew, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; Yet still with a voice full of sorrow—
If only its sound could reach the wealthy!—
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

THOMAS HOOD.

THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot—
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings;
Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!

There's a grim one-horse hearse moving along cheerfully—
To the graveyard, a poor person is heading, I know;
The road is bumpy, and the hearse has no shocks;
And listen to the funeral song that the crazy driver mocks;
Shake his bones over the stones! He's just a nobody that no one cares about!

O, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none,
He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone,—
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man;
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can:
Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!

O, where are the mourners? Oh no! There are none,
He's left no mark on the world now that he's gone,—
Not a tear in the eye of any child, woman, or man;
To the grave with his body as quickly as you can:
Shake his bones over the rocks! He's just a nobody that no one claims!

What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din!
The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin!
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled!
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!
Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!

What a jolt, creak, splash, and noise!
Listen to that whip crack! And those wheels, how they spin!
Look at the dirt flying left and right over the hedges!
The poor guy finally makes a noise in the world!
Rattle his bones over the stones! He's just a guy in need that no one supports!

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach!
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last!
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast:
Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!

Poor dead beggar! He’s finally made a little progress
Toward gentility, now that he’s lying in a coach!
He’s taking a ride in his carriage at last!
But it won’t be long if he keeps this up too fast:
Shake his bones over the stones! He's just a nobody that no one knows!

You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed,
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid!
And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low,
You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go!
Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!

You fools! who look at your brother like that,
See how much respect is given to a fool!
And be glad to know that when death comes for you,
You get a chance to the grave just like a gentleman!
Shake his bones on the stones! He's just a nobody that nobody claims!

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brute, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend!
Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!

But let's pause on this heavy thought; it makes my soul sad,
To think that a heart wrapped in humanity
Could meet, like a beast, such a lonely end,
And leave the world without a friend!
Shake his bones over the stones!
He's just a homeless person that no one wants!

THOMAS NOEL.

UNSEEN SPIRITS.

The shadows lay along Broadway,
'T was near the twilight-tide, And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride. Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,
Walked spirits at her side.

The shadows stretched across Broadway,
It was almost dusk, And there walked a beautiful lady
With confidence in her walk. She walked alone; yet, unseen,
Spirits walked with her.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charmed the air; And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good as fair,— For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.

Peace lit up the street below her,
And honor filled the air; And everything around seemed friendly to her,
And praised her beauty. For all that God ever gave to her,
She was very careful.

She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true, For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo,— But honored well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.

She carefully protected her rare beauties
From genuine and loving partners, Because her heart was only open to gold,
And the rich didn’t come to pursue her,— But it's well respected to sell charms
If the priests are the ones selling them.

Now walking there was one more fair,—
A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail,— 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,
And nothing could avail.

Now walking there was one more beautiful girl,
A slight girl, as pale as a lily; And she had unseen companions
To make the spirit shake,— Between Want and Scorn she walked alone,
And nothing could save her.

No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way!— But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
By man is cursed alway!

No forgiveness can now clear her forehead
To pray for peace in this world; For, just as love's desperate prayer vanished into thin air,
Her heart broke!— But the sin that Christ forgives in heaven
Is always cursed by humans!

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

Nathaniel Parker Willis.

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

GORGEOUS SNOW.

O the snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and the earth below!
Over the house-tops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet,
Dancing, Flirting, Skimming along. Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong.
Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek;
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak;
Beautiful snow, from the heavens above,
Pure as an angel and fickle as love!

Oh the snow, the lovely snow,
Filling the sky and the ground below!
Over the rooftops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet,
Dancing, Flirting Gliding along. Beautiful snow! it can do no wrong.
Flying to kiss a pretty lady's cheek;
Clinging to lips in a playful peek;
Beautiful snow, from the heavens above,
Pure as an angel and changeable as love!

O the snow, the beautiful snow!
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go!
Whirling about in its maddening fun,
It plays in its glee with every one.
Chasing, Laughing, Hurrying by, It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye;
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound,
Snap at the crystals that eddy around.
The town is alive, and its heart in a glow,
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.

Oh, the snow, the lovely snow!
Look how the flakes gather and giggle as they fall!
Spinning around in its wild excitement,
It plays happily with everyone.
Chasing, Laughing, Rushing by, It brightens faces and sparkles in eyes;
Even the dogs, barking and bounding,
Snap at the crystals swirling around.
The town is alive, its heart glowing,
Ready to celebrate the arrival of beautiful snow.

How the wild crowd go swaying along,
Hailing each other with humor and song!
How the gay sledges like meteors flash by,—
Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye!
Ringing, Swinging, Dashing they go Over the crest of the beautiful snow:
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,
To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by;
To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet
Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street.

How the wild crowd sways along,
Greeting each other with laughter and song!
How the bright sledges flash by like meteors,—
Shining for a moment, then gone from sight!
Calling, Swinging, They dash away Over the top of the beautiful snow:
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,
Only to be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by;
To be crushed and marked by thousands of feet
Until it mixes with the awful filth in the street.

Once I was pure as the snows,—but I fell:
Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven—to hell:
Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street:
Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat.
Pleading, Cursing, Dreading to die, Selling my soul to whoever would buy,
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,
Hating the living and fearing the dead.
Merciful God! have I fallen so low?
And yet I was once like this beautiful snow!

Once I was as pure as snow—but I fell:
Fell, like the snowflakes, from heaven to hell:
Fell, to be trampled like the filth of the street:
Fell, to be mocked, to be spat on, and beaten.
Begging, Swearing, Afraid to die, Selling my soul to anyone who would buy,
Dealing in shame for a piece of bread,
Hating the living and fearing the dead.
Merciful God! have I fallen so low?
And yet I was once like this beautiful snow!

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,
With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow;
Once I was loved for my innocent grace,—
Flattered and sought for the charm of my face.
Father, Mother, Sisters all, God, and myself, I have lost by my fall.
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by
Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh;
For all that is on or about me, I know
There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful snow.

Once I was as beautiful as fresh snow,
With eyes like its crystals and a heart that glowed;
Once I was cherished for my innocent grace,—
Admired and pursued for the charm of my face.
Dad, Mom, All my sisters, God, and myself, I've lost due to my fall.
The absolute poorest soul that passes by
Will take a wide berth, afraid I might come too close;
Because all that's around me, I understand
Is that nothing remains pure except the beautiful snow.

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!
How strange it would be, when the night comes again,
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain!
Fainting, Freezing, Dying alone, Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan
To be heard in the crash of the crazy town,
Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down;
To lie and to die in my terrible woe,
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow!

How strange it is that this beautiful snow
Should fall on someone lost with nowhere to go!
How odd it would be, when night comes again,
If the snow and the ice overwhelmed my mind!
Passing out, Cold, Dying by yourself, Too sinful to pray, too weak to moan
So that I'm heard in the chaos of the crazy town,
Gone wild with joy at the snow coming down;
To lie and to die in my deep sorrow,
With a bed and a shroud made of beautiful snow!

JAMES W. WATSON.

LONDON CHURCHES.

I stood, one Sunday morning,
Before a large church door,
The congregation gathered,
And carriages a score,—
From one out stepped a lady
I oft had seen before.

I stood, one Sunday morning,
In front of a large church door,
The congregation gathered,
And about twenty carriages,—
From one stepped out a lady
I had often seen before.

Her hand was on a prayer-book,
And held a vinaigrette;
The sign of man's redemption
Clear on the book was set,—
But above the cross there glistened
A golden Coronet.

Her hand was on a prayer book,
And held a small perfume bottle;
The symbol of mankind's salvation
Clearly displayed on the book,—
But above the cross there shimmered
A golden crown.

For her the obsequious beadle
The inner door flung wide;
Lightly, as up a ball-room,
Her footsteps seemed to glide,—
There might be good thoughts in her,
For all her evil pride.

For her, the servile beadle
The inner door swung wide;
Lightly, like in a ballroom,
Her footsteps appeared to glide,—
There might be good thoughts in her,
Despite all her spiteful pride.

But after her a woman
Peeped wistfully within,
On whose wan face was graven
Life's hardest discipline,—
The trace of the sad trinity
Of weakness, pain, and sin.

But after her a woman
Looked longingly inside,
On whose pale face was marked
Life's toughest lessons,—
The mark of the sad trio
Of weakness, pain, and sin.

The few free-seats were crowded
Where she could rest and pray;
With her worn garb contrasted
Each side in fair array,—
"God's house holds no poor sinners,"
She sighed, and crept away.

The few open seats were packed
Where she could rest and pray;
Her worn clothes stood out
Against the well-dressed around,—
"God's house doesn't welcome poor sinners,"
She sighed and slipped away.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON.)

Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton)

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

"Drowned! drowned!"—HAMLET.

One more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

One more unfortunate,
Weary and out of breath,
Too boldly persistent,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Take her gently,
Lift her with care!
Made so delicately,
Young, and so beautiful!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing!

Look at her clothes
Clinging like shrouds,
While the wave constantly
Drips from her outfit;
Pick her up right away,
Loving, not hating!

Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly,—
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her with sadness,
Gently and compassionately,—
Not of her flaws;
All that’s left of her
Now is simply human.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny,
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Make no deep examination
Into her rebellion,
Impulsive and disrespectful;
Beyond all disgrace,
Death has left her with
Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,—
One of Eve's family,—
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.

Still, for all her mistakes,—
One of Eve's family,—
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammy.

Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,—
Her fair auburn tresses,—
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

Loop up her hair
Escaped from the comb,—
Her beautiful auburn hair,—
While curiosity wonders
Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?

Who was her dad?
Who was her mom?
Did she have a sister?
Did she have a brother?
Or was there someone even closer
And more special
Than anyone else?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh, it was tragic!
In a city so full,
She had no home.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed,—
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed,—
Love, through harsh evidence,
Cast down from its high place;
Even God's guidance
Feeling distant.

Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

Where the lamps flicker
So far in the river,
With many lights
From window and frame,
From attic to basement,
She stood, in awe,
Homeless by night.

The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black floating river;
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled—
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!

The cold March wind
Made her shake and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black, floating river;
Mad from life’s story,
Happy to face death’s mystery,
Ready to be thrown—
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,—
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran—
Over the brink of it!
Picture it—think of it,
Dissolute man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!

In she jumped bravely,—
Regardless of how coldly
The rough river flowed—
Over the edge of it!
Imagine it—consider it,
Wasted man!
Splash in it, drink from it,
Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Take her up gently,
Lift her with care!
Made so delicately,
Young, and so beautiful!

Ere her limbs, frigidly,
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly!
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.

Before her limbs, coldly,
Stiffen too stiffly,
Decently, gently!
Smooth and arrange them;
And her eyes, shut them,
Staring so blankly!
Terribly staring
Through muddy filth,
Like when with the boldness
Last glance of hopelessness
Fixed on what’s to come.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest!
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

Perishing in darkness,
Driven by scorn,
Cold cruelty,
Raging madness,
Into her peace!
Cross her hands gently,
As if silently praying,
Over her chest!

Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!

Owning her shortcomings,
Her wrongdoings,
And departing, with humility,
Her faults to her Savior!

THOMAS HOOD.

GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY?

Guilty or Not Guilty?

She stood at the bar of justice,
A creature wan and wild, In form too small for a woman,
In feature too old for a child. For a look so worn and pathetic
Was stamped on her pale young face, It seemed long years of suffering
Must have left that silent trace.

She stood at the bar of justice,
A pale, wild creature, In shape too small for a woman,
In features that are too advanced for a child. For a look so worn and sad
Was marked on her pale young face, It seemed like long years of suffering
It must have left that quiet mark.

"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her
With kindly look, yet keen, "Is—?" "Mary McGuire, if you please, sir."
"And your age?" "I am turned fifteen." "Well, Mary—" And then from a paper
He slowly and gravely read, "You are charged here—I am sorry to say it—
With stealing three loaves of bread.

"Your name," said the judge, looking at her
With a kind yet piercing look, "Is—?" "Mary McGuire, if you don’t mind, sir."
"And how old are you?" "I just turned 15." "Well, Mary—" Then from a document
He read slowly and thoughtfully, "You are being charged here—I regret to say—
For stealing three loaves of bread.

"You look not like an offender,
And I hope that you can show The charge to be false. Now, tell me,
Are you guilty of this, or no?" A passionate burst of weeping
Was at first her sole reply; But she dried her tears in a moment,
And looked in the judge's eye.

"You don’t seem like someone who’s guilty,
And I hope you can show The accusation is untrue. Now, tell me,
"Are you guilty of this, or not?" A heartfelt burst of crying
Her only response at first was; But she wiped her tears away quickly,
And looked into the judge's eyes.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir;
My father and mother are dead, And my little brothers and sisters
Were hungry, and asked me for bread. At first I earned it for them
By working hard all day, But somehow the times were hard, sir,
And the work all fell away.

"I'll tell you exactly how it was, sir;
My parents are gone. And my younger siblings
They were starving and asked me for food. At first, I earned it for them
By grinding all day, But somehow times got tough, sir,
And the work vanished.

"I could get no more employment;
The weather was bitter cold; The young ones cried and shivered
(Little Johnnie's but four years old). So what was I to do, sir?
I am guilty, but do not condemn; I took—oh, was it stealing?—
The bread to give to them."

"I couldn't find any more work;
The weather was freezing. The little ones cried and shivered
(Little Johnnie's just four). So what was I supposed to do, sir?
I know I'm at fault, but please don't judge me; I took—oh, was it stealing?—
"The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room—
Graybeard and thoughtless youth— Knew, as he looked upon her,
That the prisoner spake the truth. Out from their pockets came kerchiefs,
Out from their eyes sprang tears, And out from the old faded wallets
Treasures hoarded for years.

Every man in the courtroom—
An elderly man and a reckless young guy— Knew, as he looked at her,
That the defendant was being honest. They pulled out handkerchiefs from their pockets,
Tears streamed down their faces, And from the old worn wallets
Came treasures saved for years.

The judge's face was a study,
The strangest you ever saw, As he cleared his throat and murmured
Something about the law. For one so learned in such matters,
So wise in dealing with men, He seemed on a simple question
Sorely puzzled just then.

The judge's face was something to see,
The strangest you've ever seen, As he cleared his throat and mumbled
Something about the law. For someone so knowledgeable in these things,
So skilled at dealing with people, He appeared to be really confused
With a simple question.

But no one blamed him, or wondered,
When at last these words they heard, "The sentence of this young prisoner
Is for the present deferred." And no one blamed him, or wondered,
When he went to her and smiled, And tenderly led from the court-room,
Himself, the "guilty" child.

But no one blamed him or questioned,
When they finally heard these words, "The sentence of this young prisoner
"Is currently postponed." And no one blamed him or questioned,
When he approached her and smiled, And gently led the "guilty" child out of the court room,
The "guilty" child himself.

ANONYMOUS.

THE FEMALE CONVICT.

THE WOMAN IN PRISON.

She shrank from all, and her silent mood
Made her wish only for solitude:
Her eye sought the ground, as it could not brook,
For innermost shame, on another's to look;
And the cheerings of comfort fell on her ear
Like deadliest words, that were curses to hear!—
She still was young, and she had been fair;
But weather-stains, hunger, toil, and care,
That frost and fever that wear the heart,
Had made the colors of youth depart
From the sallow cheek, save over it came
The burning flush of the spirit's shame.

She recoiled from everyone, and her quiet demeanor
Made her long for nothing but being alone:
Her gaze was fixed on the ground, unable to tolerate,
The deepest shame of meeting another's eyes;
And the words meant to comfort fell on her ears
Like the most hurtful curses to hear!—
She was still young, and once she had been beautiful;
But the marks of hard living, hunger, work, and worry,
That frost and fever that wear down the heart,
Had stolen the vibrancy of youth
From her pale cheeks, except for the
Burning flush of her spirit's shame.

They were sailing over the salt sea-foam,
Far from her country, far from her home;
And all she had left for her friends to keep
Was a name to hide and a memory to weep!
And her future held forth but the felon's lot,—
To live forsaken, to die forgot!
She could not weep, and she could not pray,
But she wasted and withered from day to day,
Till you might have counted each sunken vein,
When her wrist was prest by the iron chain;
And sometimes I thought her large dark eye
Had the glisten of red insanity.

They were sailing over the salty sea foam,
Far from her country, far from her home;
And all she had left for her friends to keep
Was a name to hide and a memory to mourn!
Her future held nothing but a criminal's fate—
To live abandoned, to die forgotten!
She couldn't cry, and she couldn't pray,
But she faded away day by day,
Until you could count each sunken vein,
As her wrist was pressed by the iron chain;
And sometimes I thought her big dark eye
Had the gleam of red madness.

She called me once to her sleeping-place,
A strange, wild look was upon her face,
Her eye flashed over her cheek so white,
Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight,
And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone,—
The sound from mine ear hath never gone!—
"I had last night the loveliest dream:
My own land shone in the summer beam,
I saw the fields of the golden grain,
I heard the reaper's harvest strain;
There stood on the hills the green pine-tree,
And the thrush and the lark sang merrily.
A long and a weary way I had come;
But I stopped, methought, by mine own sweet home.
I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there,
With pale, thin face, and snow-white hair!
The Bible lay open upon his knee,
But he closed the book to welcome me.
He led me next where my mother lay,
And together we knelt by her grave to pray,
And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear,
For it echoed one to my young days dear.
This dream has waked feelings long, long since fled,
And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead!
—We have not spoken, but still I have hung
On the Northern accents that dwell on thy tongue.
To me they are music, to me they recall
The things long hidden by Memory's pall!
Take this long curl of yellow hair,
And give it my father, and tell him my prayer,
My dying prayer, was for him." ...

She called me once to her sleeping place,
A strange, wild look was on her face,
Her eyes sparkled over her cheek so pale,
Like a gravestone seen in the moonlight,
And she spoke in a low, otherworldly tone,—
The sound has never left my ear!—
"I had the loveliest dream last night:
My homeland shone in the summer light,
I saw the fields full of golden grain,
I heard the reaper's harvest song;
There stood on the hills the green pine tree,
And the thrush and the lark sang happily.
I traveled a long and weary way;
But I stopped, I thought, by my own sweet home.
I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there,
With his pale, thin face and snow-white hair!
The Bible lay open on his knee,
But he closed the book to welcome me.
He took me next to where my mother lay,
And together we knelt by her grave to pray,
And heard a hymn that was heaven to hear,
For it echoed memories of my younger days dear.
This dream has awakened feelings long since gone,
And hopes I thought were dead in my heart!
—We haven’t talked, but still I have carried
The Northern accents that linger on your tongue.
To me they are music, to me they bring back
The things long hidden by Memory’s shroud!
Take this long curl of yellow hair,
And give it to my father, and tell him my prayer,
My dying prayer was for him." ...

Next day Upon the deck a coffin lay;
They raised it up, and like a dirge
The heavy gale swept over the surge;
The corpse was cast to the wind and wave,—
The convict has found in the green sea a grave.

Next day On the deck, there was a coffin;
They lifted it up, and like a lament
The strong wind blew over the waves;
The body was thrown to the wind and sea,—
The convict has found a resting place in the green sea.

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

HOPELESS GRIEF.

Hopeless grief.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless,—
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upwards to God's throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,
In souls as countries lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death;
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe,
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it: the marble eyelids are not wet—
If it could weep, it could arise and go.

I tell you, hopeless grief is without passion —
Only those who doubt despair,
Half-taught in suffering, through the midnight air
Strive to reach God's throne with loud cries
Of screaming and blame. Complete emptiness,
In souls as in lands lies silent and bare
Under the glaring, relentless gaze
Of the limitless heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for your Dead in silence just like death;
Most like a statue set
In eternal watch and unmoving sorrow,
Until it crumbles to dust below.
Touch it: the marble eyelids aren't wet —
If it could weep, it could rise and walk.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
Based on a photograph taken by Talfourd, London.

IV. COMFORT AND CHEER.

TO MYSELF.

For Myself.

Let nothing make thee sad or fretful,
Or too regretful; Be still; What God hath ordered must be right;
Then find in it thine own delight,
My will.

Let nothing make you sad or anxious,
Or overly regretful; Stay relaxed; What God has planned must be right;
So find in it your own joy,
My wish.

Why shouldst thou fill to-day with sorrow
About to-morrow. My heart? One watches all with care most true;
Doubt not that he will give thee too
Thy part.

Why should you fill today with sorrow
About tomorrow. My feelings? One watches everything with great care;
Don't doubt that he will give you too
Your share.

Only be steadfast; never waver,
Nor seek earth's favor, But rest: Thou knowest what God wills must be
For all his creatures, so for thee,
The best.

Keep your resolve; don’t sway,
Nor seek worldly approval, But find your peace: You know that what God wants is
For all his creations, and for you too,
The greatest.

From the German of PAUL FLEMING.
Translation of CATHERINE WINKWORTH.

From the German of PAUL FLEMING.
Translation by CATHERINE WINKWORTH.

THE FLOWER.

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and pure Are your returns! just like the flowers in spring;
To which, along with their own beauty, The recent frosts bring gifts of joy.
Grief fades away Like May snow, As if there were no such thing as cold.

Who would have thought my shrivelled heart Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
Quite underground; as flowers depart To see their mother root, when they have blown;
Where they together All the hard weather, Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

Who would have thought my faded heart Could have come back to life? It was gone
Deep underground; like flowers that emerge To visit their mother root once they’ve bloomed;
Were they together? Face all the bad weather, Isolated from the world, keeping their home concealed.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power, Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an houre; Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
We say amisse This or that is: Thy word is all, if we could spell.

These are your miracles, Almighty Lord, Killing and bringing to life, sending down to hell
And to heaven in an hour; Creating the sound of a passing bell.
We said something incorrect This or that is: Your word is everything, if only we could understand.

O that I once past changing were, Fast in thy paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair, Off'ring at heav'n, growing and groning thither;
Nor doth my flower Want a spring-showre, My sinnes and I joining together.

Oh, how I wish I could be beyond change, Stuck in your paradise, where no flower can fade!
I've grown bright many springs, Reaching for heaven, growing and groaning towards it;
And my flower Has a spring shower, As my sins and I unite.

But, while I grow in a straight line, Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline: What frost to that? what pole is not the zone
Where all things burn, When thou dost turn, And the least frown of thine is shown?

But as I rise upward, Still reaching up, as if heaven were mine,
Your anger strikes, and I collapse: What frost can compare? what pole isn't the zone
Where everything is on fire, When you rotate, Does even the smallest frown from you get noticed?

And now in age I bud again; After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing: O my only light,
It cannot be That I am he On whom thy tempests fell all night!

And now, in my old age, I'm thriving again; After so many losses, I'm alive and writing;
I can once again smell the dew and rain, And enjoy writing poetry: O my only light,
It can't be. I'm the one That your storms raged all night long!

These are thy wonders, Lord of love, To make us see we are but flowers that glide;
Which when we once can finde and prove, Thou hast a garden for us where to bide.
Who would be more, Swelling through store, Forfeit their paradise by their pride.

These are your marvels, Lord of love, To show us we are just flowers that drift;
Once we can find and understand, You have a garden for us where we can stay.
Who would want more? Thriving in abundance, And lose their paradise because of their pride.

GEORGE HERBERT.

George Herbert.

SONNET.

Sonnet.

TO CYRIACK SKINNER.

To Cyriack Skinner.

Cyriack, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot: Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or stars, throughout the year,
Or man or woman, yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In Liberty's defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask,
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

Cyriack, it's been three years today, and these eyes, although they look clear on the outside,
Have lost their ability to see, with no light at all, They've lost sight of what it truly means to see: Neither do their empty orbs perceive
The sun, moon, or stars, throughout the year,
Whether you're a man or a woman, I'm not here to argue. Against Heaven's will or lessen my hope In any way; I continue to hold strong and move
Forward. What keeps me going, you ask?
The knowledge that I've given everything for
The defense of Liberty, my noble cause,
Which people all over Europe talk about.
This thought could guide me through the world's empty facade,
Content, even if I’m blind, as long as I have no better guide.

MILTON.

INVICTUS.

UNBEATEN.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

Out of the night that surrounds me,
As dark as the abyss from one end to the other, I thank whatever gods might exist
For my unstoppable spirit.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud; Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

In the harsh grip of circumstances
I haven’t flinched or shouted out; Under the beatings of fate
My head is injured, but I'm still standing strong.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

Beyond this place of anger and sorrow
Only the fear of the unknown looms, And still the threat of the years
Finds and will find me fearless.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

It doesn't matter how narrow the gate,
How filled with punishments the list is, I am in control of my destiny;
I am in charge of my own spirit.

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.

William Ernest Henley.

AFAR IN THE DESERT.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the present, I cling to the past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead,—
Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon;
Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments by fate or falsehood reft;
Companions of early days lost or left;
And my native land, whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young, and the world was new,
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;
All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone!
And I, a lone exile remembered of none,
My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone,
Aweary of all that is under the sun,
With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,
I fly to the desert afar from man.

Afar in the desert, I love to ride,
With the quiet Bush-boy alone by my side:
When life's sorrows darken my soul,
And tired of the present, I hold onto the past;
When my eyes are filled with regretful tears,
From the fond memories of earlier years;
And shadows of things that have long since gone
Drift through my mind, like ghosts of the dead,—
Bright dreams of glory that disappeared too soon;
Daydreams that vanished before reaching adulthood;
Connections lost through fate or deceit;
Friends from my youth, either lost or left behind;
And my homeland, whose magical name
Shocks my heart like a jolt of electricity;
The place of my childhood; the spots of my youth;
All the passions and moments of that joyful time
When feelings were fresh, and the world was new,
Like the blooming gardens of Eden coming into view;
All, all now abandoned, forgotten, gone!
And I, a lonely exile, remembered by no one,
My high ambitions lost, my good deeds undone,
Weary of everything under the sun,
With a sadness in my heart that no outsider can understand,
I escape to the desert, far from humanity.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side!
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife,
The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear,
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear,
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh,—
O, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,
Afar in the desert alone to ride!
There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,
And to bound away with the eagle's speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand,—
The only law of the Desert Land!

Far away in the desert, I love to ride,
With the quiet Bush-boy by my side!
When the wild chaos of this exhausting life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife,
The proud man's glare and the coward's fear,
The scorner's laugh and the sufferer's tear,
And malice, meanness, falsehood, and folly,
Lead me to think and feel dark melancholy;
When my heart is full and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick from the bondman's sigh,—
Oh, then there's freedom, joy, and pride,
Far away in the desert, just to ride!
There's pure bliss in leaping on the eager steed,
And racing away with the eagle's speed,
With the deadly firelock in my hand,—
The only law of the Desert Land!

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,
Away, away from the dwellings of men,
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;
By valleys remote where the oribi plays,
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartèbeest graze,
And the kudu and eland unhunted recline
By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild vine;
Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will
In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill.

Far out in the desert, I love to ride,
With the quiet Bush-boy right by my side,
Away, away from the homes of people,
By the wild deer's resting place, by the buffalo's glen;
By remote valleys where the oribi plays,
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze,
And the kudu and eland sit undisturbed
By the edges of gray forests draped with wild vines;
Where the elephant grazes peacefully in his woods,
And the hippopotamus frolics unbothered in the water,
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will
In the marsh where the wild donkey drinks his fill.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,
O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively;
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh
Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray;
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane.
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,
Hieing away to the home of her rest,
Where she and her mate have scooped their nest,
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view
In the pathless depths of the parched karroo.

Far out in the desert, I love to ride,
With the quiet Bush-boy beside me,
Across the brown karroo, where the bleating cry
Of the springbok's fawn sounds sadly;
And the shy quagga's sharp whistling neigh
Is heard by the fountain at twilight;
Where the zebra playfully tosses his mane.
With wild hooves kicking up dust on the barren plain;
And the swift-footed ostrich over the wasteland
Moves like a rider in a hurry,
Rushing to her place of rest,
Where she and her mate have made their nest,
Well hidden from the merciless plunderer's sight
In the trackless depths of the dry karroo.

Afar in the desert I love to ride.
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,
Away, away, in the wilderness vast
Where the white man's foot hath never passed,
And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan,—
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear;
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone;
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;
And the bitter-melon, for food and drink,
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink;
A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides;
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears, to refresh the aching eye;
But the barren earth and the burning sky,
And the blank horizon, round and round,
Spread,—void of living sight or sound.
And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone,
"A still small voice" comes through the wild
(Like a father consoling his fretful child),
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,
Saying,—Man is distant, but God is near!

Far out in the desert, I love to ride.
With the quiet Bush-boy beside me,
Away, away, in the vast wilderness
Where the white man's foot has never stepped,
And the Coranna or Bechuan
Has rarely crossed with his wandering tribe,—
An area of emptiness, howling and dreary,
Abandoned by man out of famine and fear;
Where only the snake and the lizard dwell,
Along with the twilight bat from the yawning rock;
Where grass, herbs, or shrubs take root,
Except for poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;
And the bitter melon, for food and drink,
Is the traveler's fare by the salt lake's edge;
A region of drought, where no river flows,
Nor rippling brook with willowed sides;
Where no sedgy pool, bubbling spring,
No tree, no cloud, nor misty mountain,
Appears to refresh the weary eye;
But the barren earth and the blazing sky,
And the empty horizon, all around,
Spread,—devoid of living sight or sound.
And here, while the night winds sigh around me,
And the stars shine bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit alone by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone,
"A still small voice" comes through the wild
(Like a father comforting his upset child),
Which drives away bitterness, anger, and fear,
Saying,—Man may be distant, but God is near!

THOMAS PRINGLE.

SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER GOING.

OUR YOUTH IS SAD, FOR IT IS ALWAYS FADING AWAY.

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going,
Crumbling away beneath our very feet;
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing
In current unperceived, because so fleet;
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,—
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat;
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing,
And still, O, still their dying breath is sweet;
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us
Of that which made our childhood sweeter still;
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us
A nearer good to cure an older ill;
And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them,
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them!

Sad is our youth, for it keeps slipping away,
Crumbling beneath our very feet;
Sad is our life, for it’s flowing forward
In a current unnoticed, because it’s so fast;
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet when planted,—
But weeds, self-sown, have overtaken the good;
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blooming,
And still, oh, still their fading breath is sweet;
And sweet is youth, even though it has taken from us
What made our childhood even sweeter;
And sweet is middle age, for it has given us
A closer good to heal an older pain;
And sweet are all things, when we learn to appreciate them,
Not for their value, but for Him who grants or withholds them!

AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE.

Aubrey Thomas De Vere.

MY WIFE AND CHILD.*

MY WIFE AND KID.*

The tattoo beats,—the lights are gone,
The camp around in slumber lies, The night with solemn pace moves on,
The shadows thicken o'er the skies; But sleep my weary eyes hath flown,
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.

The tattoo beats,—the lights are out,
The camp is sleeping all around, The night moves on with a serious pace,
The shadows grow deeper across the skies; But sleep has escaped my tired eyes,
And sad, restless thoughts arise.

I think of thee, O darling one,
Whose love my early life hath blest— Of thee and him—our baby son—
Who slumbers on thy gentle breast. God of the tender, frail, and lone,
O, guard the tender sleeper's rest!

I think of you, oh darling,
Whose love has enriched my early life— Of you and him—our baby boy—
Who rests peacefully on your gentle chest. God of the fragile, tender, and alone,
Oh, safeguard the peaceful sleeper's slumber!

And hover gently, hover near
To her whose watchful eye is wet,— To mother, wife,—the doubly dear,
In whose young heart have freshly met Two streams of love so deep and clear,
And cheer her drooping spirits yet.

And hover softly, hover close
To her whose attentive gaze is filled with tears,— To mother, wife,—the doubly precious,
In whose young heart have newly intertwined Two streams of love so deep and bright,
And lift her tired spirits once again.

Now, while she kneels before thy throne,
O, teach her, Ruler of the skies, That, while by thy behest alone
Earth's mightiest powers fall and rise, No tear is wept to thee unknown,
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies!

Now, as she kneels before your throne,
Oh, teach her, Ruler of the skies, That, while by your command alone
The world's greatest powers come and go, No tear is shed that you don't see,
No hair falls out, no sparrow dies!

That thou canst stay the ruthless hands
Of dark disease, and soothe its pain; That only by thy stern commands
The battle's lost, the soldier's slain; That from the distant sea or land
Thou bring'st the wanderer home again.

That you can stop the merciless hands
Of deadly disease, and relieve its suffering; That only through your strict orders
The battle is lost, the soldier is dead; That from the far-off sea or land
You bring the traveler back home once more.

And when upon her pillow lone
Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, May happier visions beam upon
The brightened current of her breast, No frowning look or angry tone
Disturb the Sabbath of her rest!

And when she lies alone on her pillow
With her tear-streaked cheek pressed down sadly, May happier dreams light up
The happy rhythm of her heart, No scowling face or angry words
Disturb her restful peace!

Whatever fate these forms may show,
Loved with a passion almost wild, By day, by night, in joy or woe,
By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled, From every danger, every foe,
O God, protect my wife and child!

Whatever fate these shapes may reveal,
Loved with an almost wild passion, By day, by night, in joy or sorrow,
Burdened by fears or misled by hopes, From every danger, every enemy,
O God, please watch over my wife and child!

HENRY R. JACKSON.

* Written in the year 1846, in Mexico, the writer being at that time Colonel of the 1st regiment of Georgia Volunteers.

* Written in 1846 in Mexico, by the writer who was then a Colonel of the 1st Regiment of Georgia Volunteers.

THE RAINY DAY.

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

The day is cold, dark, and gloomy;
It's raining, and the wind never tires;
The vine still clings to the crumbling wall,
But with every gust, the dead leaves fall,
The day is dark and gloomy.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

My life is cold, dark, and dull;
It rains, and the wind never seems to tire;
My thoughts still hold onto the decaying past,
But the hopes of youth get lost in the storm,
The days are dark and boring.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

Be calm, sad heart! and stop complaining;
The sun is still shining behind the clouds;
Your fate is the same as everyone else's,
Into every life some rain must fall,
Some days will be dark and dreary.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

TIME PASSES IN CYCLES.

The lopped tree in time may grow again;
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorest wight may find release of pain,
The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower;
Times go by turns and chances change by course,
From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The trimmed tree may eventually grow back;
Most bare plants can produce both fruit and flowers again;
The most miserable person might find relief from pain,
The driest ground can absorb some much-needed rain;
Times change with seasons and chances shift over time,
From bad to good, from better luck to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,
She draws her favors to the lowest ebb;
Her time hath equal times to come and go,
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

The sea of Fortune doesn't always rise,
It brings its favors to the lowest point;
It has its moments to come and go,
Its loom weaves both the finest and the coarsest fabric;
No joy is so great that it doesn't come to an end,
No struggle is so tough that it can't eventually improve.

Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring,
No endless night yet not eternal day;
The saddest birds a season find to sing,
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay;
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise yet fear to fall.

Not always does autumn bring falling leaves nor is it always spring,
There’s no endless night but also no eternal day;
The saddest birds find a season to sing,
Even the roughest storm can soon be calmed;
So with each passing season, God balances everything,
So that people can hope to rise yet also fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
The well that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crossed,
Few all they need, but none have all they wish;
Unmeddled joys here to no man befall,
Who least hath some, who most hath never all.

A chance might recover what was lost by accident;
The well that doesn't hold much, catches small fish;
In some matters, some have everything, but in all matters, nobody gets everything;
Few have everything they need, but no one has everything they want;
Untouched happiness rarely comes to anyone,
Those who have the least have some, but those who have the most never have it all.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

Robert Southwell.

COMPENSATION.

PAYMENT.

Tears wash away the atoms in the eye
That smarted for a day; Rain-clouds that spoiled the splendors of the sky
The fields with flowers array.

Tears cleanse the particles in the eye
That hurt for a day; Rain clouds that ruined the beauty of the sky
The fields are filled with flowers.

No chamber of pain but has some hidden door
That promises release; No solitude so drear but yields its store
Of thought and inward peace.

No room of pain that doesn't have a hidden door
That's a relief promise; No solitude so bleak that doesn't offer up
An abundance of ideas and tranquility.

No night so wild but brings the constant sun
With love and power untold; No time so dark but through its woof there run
Some blessèd threads of gold.

No night is so wild that it doesn't bring the steady sun
With love and amazing strength; No time is so dark that through its fabric there run
Some beautiful threads of gold.

And through the long and storm-tost centuries burn
In changing calm and strife The Pharos-lights of truth, where'er we turn,—
The unquenched lamps of life.

And through the long and stormy centuries burn
In shifting peace and conflict The Pharos lights of truth, wherever we look,—
The eternal lights of life.

O Love supreme! O Providence divine!
What self-adjusting springs Of law and life, what even scales, are thine,
What sure-returning wings

O supreme love! O divine guidance!
What self-regulating trends Of law and life, what balanced scales, are yours,
What reliable, returning wings

Of hopes and joys, that flit like birds away,
When chilling autumn blows, But come again, long ere the buds of May
Their rosy lips unclose!

Of hopes and joys that fly away like birds,
When the chilly autumn winds blow, But return long before the buds of May
Open their bright lips!

What wondrous play of mood and accident
Through shifting days and years; What fresh returns of vigor overspent
In feverish dreams and fears!

What an amazing mix of emotions and chance
Through changing days and years; What new bursts of energy wasted
In anxious dreams and fears!

What wholesome air of conscience and of thought
When doubts and forms oppress; What vistas opening to the gates we sought
Beyond the wilderness;

What pure air of conscience and thought
When doubts and rules hold us back; What views opening to the gates we looked for
Beyond the rugged landscape;

Beyond the narrow cells, where self-involved,
Like chrysalids, we wait The unknown births, the mysteries unsolved
Of death and change and fate!

Beyond the narrow cells, where we’re caught up in ourselves,
Like chrysalises, we wait The unknown emerges, the mysteries unresolved
Of death, change, and fate!

O Light divine! we need no fuller test
That all is ordered well; We know enough to trust that all is best
Where love and wisdom dwell.

O divine light! we don’t need any more proof
That everything is perfectly arranged; We know enough to believe that all is good
Where love and wisdom thrive.

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.

THE CHANGED CROSS.

It was a time of sadness, and my heart,
Although it knew and loved the better part,
Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife,
And all the needful discipline of life.

It was a time of sadness, and my heart,
Although it knew and loved the better part,
Felt tired of the struggle and the strife,
And all the necessary lessons of life.

And while I thought on these, as given to me,
My trial-tests of faith and love to be,
It seemed as if I never could be sure
That faithful to the end I should endure.

And while I reflected on these, as they were given to me,
My tests of faith and love were to come,
It felt like I could never be certain
That I would stay faithful until the end.

And thus, no longer trusting to his might
Who says, "We walk by faith and not by sight,"
Doubting, and almost yielding to despair,
The thought arose, "My cross I cannot bear.

And so, no longer relying on his strength
Who says, "We walk by faith and not by sight,"
Doubting, and almost giving in to despair,
The thought came to mind, "I can't handle my burdens."

"Far heavier its weight must surely be
Than those of others which I daily see;
Oh! if I might another burden choose,
Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose."

"Surely it must weigh much more
Than the ones I see every day;
Oh! If I could choose another burden,
I wouldn't be afraid to lose my crown."

A solemn silence reigned on all around,
E'en Nature's voices uttered not a sound;
The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell,
And sleep upon my weary spirit fell.

A heavy silence filled the air,
Even Nature’s sounds were nowhere to be heard;
The evening shadows whispered of tranquility,
And sleep came over my tired soul.

A moment's pause,—and then a heavenly light
Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight;
Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere,
And angels' music thrilled the balmy air.

A moment's pause, — and then a heavenly light
Shone brightly on my amazed, captivated eyes;
Angels on shimmering wings appeared all around,
And angelic music filled the warm, gentle air.

Then One, more fair than all the rest to see,
One to whom all the others bowed the knee,
Came gently to me, as I trembling lay,
And, "Follow me," he said; "I am the Way."

Then One, more beautiful than all the others,
One whom everyone else respected,
Came gently to me as I lay there trembling,
And said, "Follow me; I am the Way."

Then, speaking thus, he led me far above,
And there, beneath a canopy of love,
Crosses of divers shape and size were seen,
Larger and smaller than my own had been.

Then, saying this, he took me high up,
And there, under a canopy of love,
I saw crosses of different shapes and sizes,
Bigger and smaller than my own had been.

And one there was, most beauteous to behold,—
A little one, with jewels set in gold.
"Ah! this," methought, "I can with comfort wear,
For it will be an easy one to bear."

And there was one, so beautiful to see,—
A small one, with jewels set in gold.
"Ah! this," I thought, "I can wear comfortably,
Because it will be easy to carry."

And so the little cross I quickly took,
But all at once my frame beneath it shook;
The sparkling jewels, fair were they to see,
But far too heavy was their weight for me.

And so I quickly took the little cross,
But suddenly my body shook under it;
The sparkling jewels were beautiful to see,
But their weight was way too heavy for me.

"This may not be," I cried, and looked again,
To see if there was any here could ease my pain;
But, one by one, I passed them slowly by,
Till on a lovely one I cast my eye.

"This might not be," I shouted, and looked again,
To see if there was anyone here who could ease my pain;
But, one by one, I passed them slowly by,
Until I set my gaze on a beautiful one.

Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined,
And grace and beauty seemed in it combined.
Wondering, I gazed,—and still I wondered more,
To think so many should have passed it o'er.

Beautiful flowers surrounded its carved shape,
And elegance and beauty seemed to be united in it.
Amazed, I looked— and my amazement only grew,
To think that so many people had walked past it.

But oh! that form so beautiful to see
Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me;
Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair;
Sorrowing, I said, "This cross I may not bear."

But oh! that form so beautiful to see
Soon revealed its hidden sorrows to me;
Thorns hid beneath those flowers and pretty colors;
Sorrowfully, I said, "I can't bear this cross."

And so it was with each and all around,—
Not one to suit my need could there be found;
Weeping, I laid each heavy burden down,
As my Guide gently said, "No cross,—no crown."

And so it was with everyone around—
Not one to meet my need could be found;
Crying, I dropped each heavy load,
As my Guide softly said, "No pain, no gain."

At length to him I raised my saddened heart;
He knew its sorrows, bade its doubts depart;
"Be not afraid," he said, "but trust in me;
My perfect love shall now be shown to thee."

Finally, I opened my heavy heart to him;
He understood its pain and told me to let go of my doubts;
"Don't be afraid," he said, "just have faith in me;
My perfect love will now be revealed to you."

And then, with lightened eyes and willing feet,
Again I turned my earthly cross to meet;
With forward footsteps, turning not aside,
For fear some hidden evil might betide;

And then, with brightened eyes and eager feet,
Again I faced my earthly burden to greet;
With determined steps, not looking away,
In case some unknown trouble came my way;

And there—in the prepared, appointed way,
Listening to hear, and ready to obey—
A cross I quickly found of plainest form,
With only words of love inscribed thereon.

And there—in the prepared, chosen way,
Listening to hear, and ready to obey—
I quickly found a cross of simple design,
With only words of love written on it.

With thankfulness I raised it from the rest,
And joyfully acknowledged it the best,
The only one, of all the many there.
That I could feel was good for me to bear.

With gratitude, I picked it up from the rest,
And happily recognized it as the best,
The only one, among all the others there.
That I could sense was good for me to hold.

And, while I thus my chosen one confessed,
I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest;
And as I bent, my burden to sustain,
I recognized my own old cross again.

And while I confessed my feelings to the one I chose,
I saw a heavenly light shining on them;
And as I leaned in to support my burden,
I recognized my own old cross once more.

But oh! how different did it seem to be,
Now I had learned its preciousness to see!
No longer could I unbelieving say
"Perhaps another is a better way."

But oh! how different it felt to be,
Now that I had learned to see its value!
No longer could I doubt and say,
"Maybe there's a better way."

Ah, no! henceforth my one desire shall be,
That he who knows me best should choose for me;
And so, whate'er his love sees good to send,
I'll trust it's best,—because he knows the end.

Ah, no! From now on, my only wish will be,
That the one who knows me best should choose for me;
And so, whatever his love thinks is best,
I'll trust it's right—because he knows the outcome.

HON. MRS. CHARLES HOBART.

Hon. Mrs. Charles Hobart.

SOMETHING BEYOND.

Something More.

Something beyond! though now, with joy unfound,
The life-task falleth from thy weary hand, Be brave, be patient! In the fair beyond
Thou'lt understand.

Something more awaits! Even now, with joy not yet discovered,
The weight of life falls from your weary hands, Stay strong, stay patient! In the beautiful beyond,
You’ll get it.

Thou'lt understand why our most royal hours
Couch sorrowful slaves bound by low nature's greed; Why the celestial soul's a minion made
To narrowest need.

You'll understand why our most royal hours
Couch sad slaves trapped by the greed of their lower nature; Why the celestial soul's a servant made
To basic needs.

In this pent sphere of being incomplete,
The imperfect fragment of a beauteous whole, For yon rare regions, where the perfect meet,
Sighs the lone soul.

In this confined space of being unfinished,
The imperfect part of a beautiful whole, For those rare areas, where the perfect come together,
Sighs the lonely spirit.

Sighs for the perfect! Far and fair it lies;
It hath no half-fed friendships perishing fleet, No partial insights, no averted eyes,
No loves unmeet.

Sighs for the perfect! It lies far and beautiful;
It has no weak friendships that are fading away, No half-baked insights, no turned-away gazes,
No unrequited loves.

Something beyond! Light for our clouded eyes!
In this dark dwelling, in its shrouded beams, Our best waits masked, few pierce the soul's disguise;
How sad it seems!

Something more! A light for our obscured vision!
In this dark spot, in its secret beams, Our best is hidden, few can see through the soul's veil;
How sad that is!

Something beyond! Ah, if it were not so,
Darker would be thy face, O brief To-day; Earthward we 'd bow beneath life's smiting woe,
Powerless to pray.

Something beyond! Ah, if it weren't true,
Your face would be darker, O passing Today; We'd bow down under life's harsh sorrow,
Can't pray.

Something beyond! The immortal morning stands
Above the night; clear shines her precious brow; The pendulous star in her transfigured hands
Brightens the Now.

Something beyond! The eternal morning stands
Above the night, her beautiful face shines brightly; The hanging star in her transformed hands
Shines a light on today.

MARY CLEMMER AMES HUDSON.

Mary Clemmer Ames Hudson.

DESPONDENCY REBUKED.

OVERCOMING DESPONDENCY.

Say not, the struggle nought availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.

Say not, the struggle is useless,
The effort and the scars are meaningless, The enemy does not weaken or fail,
And what has happened will remain the same.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

If hopes are deceptions, fears could be false;
It could be, in that concealed smoke, Your friends might be pursuing the escapees,
If it weren't for you, they would control the area.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

For while the tired waves, uselessly crashing,
It feels like I'm not getting any closer, and it's painful. Far back, through creeks and inlets forming,
The sea comes in silently, flooding everything.

And not by eastern windows only.
When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.

And not just through the eastern windows.
When daytime comes, the light shines in; In front, the sun rises slowly, so slowly,
But if you look to the west, the land is vibrant.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

Arthur Hugh Clough.

GOD'S SURE HELP IN SORROW.

GOD'S RELIABLE HELP IN SORROW.

Leave all to God, Forsaken one, and stay thy tears;
For the Highest knows thy pain, Sees thy sufferings and thy fears;
Thou shalt not wait his help in vain; Leave all to God!

Trust it all to God, Forsaken one, and hold back your tears;
For the Most High knows your pain, Sees your sufferings and your fears;
You won't wait for His help in vain; Trust God completely!

Be still and trust! For his strokes are strokes of love,
Thou must for thy profit bear; He thy filial fear would move,
Trust thy Father's loving care, Be still and trust!

Stay calm and believe! For his actions come from love,
You must persevere for your own benefit; He wants to inspire your respect,
Have faith in your Father's loving care, Stay calm and believe!

Know, God is near! Though thou think him far away,
Though his mercy long have slept, He will come and not delay,
When his child enough hath wept, For God is near!

God is close! Even if you think He’s far away,
Even if His mercy seems to be inactive, He will come without delay,
When His child has cried enough, For God is close!

Oh, teach him not When and how to hear thy prayers;
Never doth our God forget; He the cross who longest bears
Finds his sorrows' bounds are set; Then teach him not!

Oh, don't train him When and how to hear your prayers;
Our God never forgets; He who carries the cross the longest
Discovers his sorrows have limits; So don't teach him!

If thou love him, Walking truly in his ways,
Then no trouble, cross, or death E'er shall silence faith and praise;
All things serve thee here beneath, If thou love God.

If you love him, Walking truly in his ways,
Then no trouble, hardship, or death Will ever silence faith and praise;
Everything here serves you below, If you love God.

From the German of ANTON ULRICH, DUKE OF BRUNSWICK, 1667.
Translation of CATHERINE WINKWORTH, 1855.

SONNET.

Sonnet.

While yet these tears have power to flow
For hours for ever past away; While yet these swelling sighs allow
My faltering voice to breathe a lay; While yet my hand can touch the chords, My tender lute, to wake thy tone; While yet my mind no thought affords, But one remembered dream alone, I ask not death, whate'er my state:
But when my eyes can weep no more, My voice is lost, my hand untrue. And when my spirit's fire is o'er, Nor can express the love it knew, Come, Death, and cast thy shadows o'er my fate!

While these tears still have the power to flow
For hours that have already gone by; As long as these deep sighs let
My trembling voice sings a song; As long as my hand can still reach the strings, My gentle lute, let your sound be heard; While my mind is free of thoughts, Just one dream remembered; I don’t ask for death, no matter my situation:
But when my eyes can't cry anymore, I’ve lost my voice, and my hand can’t be trusted. And when my spirit's fire is gone, And can't express the love it once had, Come, Death, and cast your shadows over my fate!

From the French of LOUISE LABÉ.
Translation of LOUISE STUART COSTELLO.

From the French of LOUISE LABÉ.
Translation by LOUISE STUART COSTELLO.

WAITING.

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For, lo! my own shall come to me.

Calm, I fold my hands and wait,
Unaffected by wind, tide, or sea; I don’t complain anymore about time or fate,
Because, look! What’s meant for me will find its way to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace? I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.

I slow down, I take my time,
What’s the rush all about? I stand in the timeless paths,
And what is mine will recognize me.

Asleep, awake, by night or day.
The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.

Asleep or awake, day or night.
The friends I want are looking for me; No wind can steer my boat off course,
Nor change the course of fate.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.

What does it matter if I stand alone?
I eagerly anticipate the coming years with joy; My heart will gather where it has planted,
And gather its harvest of tears.

The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height;

The waters understand their own and flow
The stream that flows from up there;

So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.

So flows the good with equal law
Into the essence of pure joy.

The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.

The stars appear in the sky every night;
The tidal wave crashes into the ocean; Neither time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can separate me from who I am.

JOHN BURROUGHS.

AUNT PHILLIS'S GUEST.

ST. HELENA ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA, IN 1863.

I was young and "Harry" was strong,
The summer was bursting from sky and plain,
Thrilling our blood as we bounded along,—
When a picture flashed, and I dropped the rein.

I was young and "Harry" was powerful,
The summer was overflowing from the sky and land,
Exciting us as we ran fast,—
When an image appeared, and I let go of the reins.

A black sea-creek, with snaky run
Slipping through low green leagues of sedge,
An ebbing tide, and a setting sun;
A hut and a woman by the edge.

A dark, winding bay, Flowing through low green patches of grass, A retreating tide and a setting sun; A cabin and a woman by the shore.

Her back was bent and her wool was gray;
The wrinkles lay close on the withered face;
Children were buried and sold away,—
The Freedom had come to the last of a race!

Her back was hunched and her hair was gray;
The wrinkles were deep on her aging face;
Children were sent away or taken from her,—
Freedom had finally come to the end of a people!

She lived from a neighbor's hominy-pot;
And praised the Lord, if "the pain" passed by;
From the earthen floor the smoke curled out
Through shingles patched with the bright blue sky.

She survived on a neighbor's cornmeal;
And thanked God if "the pain" stayed away;
From the dirt floor, the smoke spiraled up
Through shingles mended with the clear blue sky.

"Aunt Phillis, you live here all alone?"
I asked, and pitied the gray old head;
Sure as a child, in quiet tone,
"Me and Jesus, Massa," she said.

"Aunt Phillis, do you live here all alone?"
I asked, feeling sorry for the gray old head;
Sure as a child, in a calm tone,
"Just me and Jesus, Master," she said.

I started, for all the place was aglow
With a presence I had not seen before;
The air was full of a music low,
And the Guest Divine stood at the door!

I began, for everywhere was glowing
With a presence I hadn’t seen before;
The air was filled with a soft music,
And the Divine Guest stood at the door!

Ay, it was true that the Lord of Life,
Who seeth the widow give her mite,
Had watched this slave in her weary strife,
And shown himself to her longing sight.

Yeah, it was true that the Lord of Life,
Who sees the widow give her last coin,
Had watched this slave in her tired struggle,
And revealed himself to her eager gaze.

The hut and the dirt, the rags and the skin,
The grovelling want and the darkened mind,—
I looked on this; but the Lord, within:
I would what he saw was in me to find!

The hut and the dirt, the rags and the skin,
The creeping need and the troubled mind,—
I saw all this; but the Lord, within:
I wished for him to see what was in me to find!

A childlike soul, whose faith had force
To see what the angels see in bliss:
She lived, and the Lord lived; so, of course,
They lived together,—she knew but this.

A childlike soul, whose faith had strength
To see what the angels see in joy:
She lived, and the Lord lived; so, naturally,
They lived together—this is all she knew.

And the life that I had almost despised
As something to pity, so poor and low,
Had already borne fruit that the Lord so prized
He loved to come near and see it grow.

And the life I once almost looked down on
As something to feel sorry for, so weak and small,
Had already produced what the Lord valued so much
He loved to come close and watch it thrive.

No sorrow for her that life was done:
A few more days of the hut's unrest,
A little while longer to sit in the sun,—
Then—He would be host, and she would be guest!

No sadness for her that life was over:
A few more days of the hut's turmoil,
A little while longer to enjoy the sun,—
Then—He would be the host, and she would be the guest!

And up above, if an angel of light
Should stop on his errand of love some day
To ask, "Who lives in the mansion bright?"
"Me and Jesus," Aunt Phillis will say.

And up above, if an angel of light
Should pause on his mission of love someday
To ask, "Who lives in the shiny mansion?"
"Me and Jesus," Aunt Phillis will say.

A fancy, foolish and fond, does it seem?
And things are not as Aunt Phillises dream?

A fancy, silly, and loving, does it seem?
And things aren't as Aunt Phillis dreamed?

Friend, surely so! For this I know,— That our faiths are foolish by falling below,
Not coming above, what God will show;
That his commonest thing hides a wonder vast,
To whose beauty our eyes have never passed;
That his face in the present, or in the to-be,
Outshines the best that we think we see.

Of course, friend! Because I know this— Our beliefs are misguided when they settle for less,
Failing to reach what God has in store;
Even the simplest things hide immense wonder,
Whose beauty our eyes have never truly seen;
That his presence, whether now or in the future,
Is more radiant than anything we think we see.

WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT.

Wm. Channing Gannett.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.

ILKA BLADE OF GRASS HOLDS ITS OWN DROP OF DEW.

Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,
And bear ye a' life's changes, wi' a calm and tranquil mind,
Though pressed and hemmed on every side, ha'e faith and ye'll win through,
For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Trust in Providence, because Providence is kind,
And handle all of life's changes with a calm and peaceful mind,
Even when you're pressed and surrounded, have faith and you'll get through,
For every blade of grass holds its own drop of dew.

Gin reft frae friends or crest in love, as whiles nae doubt ye've been,
Grief lies deep hidden in your heart or tears flow frae your een,
Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you,
For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Gin taken from friends or gained in love, as you’ve no doubt experienced,
Grief is deep-seated in your heart or tears flow from your eyes,
Believe it for the best, and trust there’s good ahead for you,
For every blade of grass holds onto its own drop of dew.

In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parched and dry,
The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew,
And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

In the long, hot days of summer, when the clear and cloudless sky
Won't drop a single bit of rain on the parched, dry earth,
The warm night, with its soothing breeze, makes the greenery come alive again,
And every blade of grass holds onto its own drop of dew.

Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie,
And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's ee,
Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,
But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

So, lest we become too proud and high during fortune's bright times,
And in our pride forget to wipe the tears from poverty's eyes,
Some little dark clouds of sorrow come, we don't know where or how,
But every blade of grass keeps its own drop of dew.

JAMES BALLANTINE.

UNCHANGING.

In early days methought that all must last;
Then I beheld all changing, dying, fleeting; But though my soul now grieves for much that's past,
And changeful fortunes set my heart oft beating, I yet believe in mind that all will last,
Because the old in new I still am meeting.

In the beginning, I thought everything would last;
Then I watched everything change, fade away, and disappear; But even though my soul now mourns for what’s gone,
And unexpected fortunes make my heart race, I still believe in my mind that everything will endure,
Because I still see the old in the new.

From the German of
FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON BODENSTEDT.

I HOLD STILL.

I stay still.

Pain's furnace heat within me quivers,
God's breath upon the flame doth blow, And all my heart in anguish shivers,
And trembles at the fiery glow: And yet I whisper, As God will!
And in his hottest fire hold still.

Pain's furnace heat inside me trembles,
God's breath fans the flame's bright light, And all my heart in anguish quivers,
And trembles at the blazing light: And still I whisper, As God intends!
And in his fiercest fire, I remain calm.

He comes and lays my heart, all heated,
On the hard anvil, minded so Into his own fair shape to beat it
With his great hammer, blow on blow: And yet I whisper, As God will!
And at his heaviest blows hold still.

He comes and places my heart, all aflame,
On the sturdy anvil, ready to Mold it into his own beautiful form
With his strong hammer, hit after hit: And yet I quietly say, As God wishes!
And with his strongest blows, I remain still.

He takes my softened heart and beats it,—
The sparks fly off at every blow; He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it,
And lets it cool, and makes it glow: And yet I whisper, As God will!
And, in his mighty hand, hold still.

He takes my tender heart and strikes it,—
Sparks fly with every strike; He flips it over and over, and heats it,
Let it cool, then make it shine: And still I whisper, As God wills!
And, in his powerful hand, I remain still.

Why should I murmur? for the sorrow
Thus only longer-lived would be; Its end may come, and will, to-morrow,
When God has done his work in me; So I say, trusting, As God will!
And, trusting to the end, hold still.

Why should I complain? Because the sadness
Would just last longer; Its end might come, and will, tomorrow,
When God has done something in me; So I'm saying, with faith, As God wishes!
And, trusting till the end, I stay calm.

He kindles for my profit purely Affliction's glowing fiery brand, And all his heaviest blows are surely
Inflicted by a Master-hand: So I say, praying, As God will!
And hope in him, and suffer still.

He ignites for my benefit entirely The scar of suffering, And all his strongest hits are definitely
Delivered by a Master’s touch: So I say, praying, As God wills!
And I place my hope in him, and endure still.

From the German of JULIUS STURM.

THE GOOD GREAT MAN.

The Good Great Man.

How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits
Honor or wealth with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits.
If any man obtain that which he merits,
Or any merit that which he obtains.

How rare it is, my friend, for a genuinely great person to receive
the recognition or wealth that reflects their value and effort! It feels like tales from another realm.
If anyone gets what they truly deserve,
or if anyone deserves what they receive.

For shame, dear Friend; renounce this canting strain!
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?
Place—titles—salary—a gilded chain—
Or throne of corses which his sword has slain?
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!

For shame, dear Friend; give up this pretentious talk!
What do you want a truly great person to achieve?
Position—titles—salary—a fancy chain—
Or a throne made of the bodies his sword has killed?
Greatness and goodness aren’t just means, they are the goals!

Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man? three treasures,—love, and light,
And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath;
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night—
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.

Does he not always have treasures, always friends,
The good great man? Three treasures—love, and light,
And calm thoughts, steady as an infant's breath;
And three reliable friends, more certain than day and night—
Himself, his Creator, and the angel of Death.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN.

Somewhere, out on the blue seas sailing,
Where the winds dance and spin; Beyond the reach of my eager hailing,
Over the breakers' din; Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting,
Out where the blinding fog is drifting,
Out where the treacherous sand is shifting,
My ship is coming in.

Somewhere, out on the blue seas sailing,
Where the winds swirl and twirl; Beyond the reach of my desperate calling,
Amidst the sound of the waves; Out where the dark storm clouds are clearing,
Out where the blinding fog is drifting,
Out where the dangerous sand is shifting,
My ship is arriving.

Oh, I have watched till my eyes were aching,
Day after weary day; Oh, I have hoped till my heart was breaking,
While the long nights ebbed away; Could I but know where the waves had tossed her,
Could I but know what storms had crossed her,
Could I but know where the winds had lost her,
Out in the twilight gray!

Oh, I've watched until my eyes hurt,
Day after tiring day; Oh, I've hoped until my heart was breaking,
As the long nights passed by; If I could only know where the waves have tossed her,
If I could only know what storms she faced,
If I could only know where the winds have lost her,
Out in the dim twilight!

But though the storms her course have altered,
Surely the port she'll win; Never my faith in my ship has faltered,
I know she is coming in. For through the restless ways of her roaming,
Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming,
Through the white crest of the billows combing,
My ship is coming in.

But even though the storms have changed her path,
I believe she'll make it to the harbor; I’ve never lost faith in my ship,
I know she's on her way. For through the restless journey she’s taken,
Through the chaotic rush of wild, foaming waves,
Through the white crests of the billows,
My ship is arriving.

Breasting the tides where the gulls are flying,
Swiftly she's coming in; Shallows and deeps and rocks defying,
Bravely she's coming in; Precious the love she will bring to bless me,
Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me,
In the proud purple of kings she will dress me.
My ship that is coming in.

Breasting the waves where the seagulls are soaring,
She's hurrying along; Navigating shallow waters, deep spots, and rocks,
She's arriving boldly; Valuable the love she'll bring to bless me,
Gentle the arms she'll wrap around me,
In the royal purple fit for kings she'll adorn me.
My ship is coming in.

White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming,
See, where my ship comes in; At mast-head and peak her colors streaming,
Proudly she 's sailing in; Love, hope, and joy on her decks are cheering.
Music will welcome her glad appearing.
And my heart will sing at her stately nearing,
When my ship comes in.

White in the sunshine, her sails will be shining,
Look, my ship is coming; With colors flying from the masthead and peak,
She’s sailing in proudly; Love, hope, and joy are celebrating on her decks.
Music will greet her joyful arrival.
And my heart will sing as she approaches gracefully,
When my ship arrives.

ROBERT JONES BURDETTE.

NEVER DESPAIR.*

Never despair! Let the feeble in spirit
Bow like the willow that stoops to the blast. Droop not in peril! 'T is manhood's true merit
Nobly to struggle and hope to the last.

Never lose hope! Let the weak in spirit
Bend like the willow swaying in the breeze. Don’t give up in danger! It’s the true virtue of manhood
To fight bravely and stay hopeful until the end.

When by the sunshine of fortune forsaken
Faint sinks the heart of the feeble with fear, Stand like the oak of the forest—unshaken,
Never despair—Boys—oh! never despair.

When left behind by the bright light of luck
The weak heart becomes overwhelmed with fear, Stand strong like the oak tree in the woods—unmoved,
Never lose hope—Guys—oh! never lose hope.

Never despair! Though adversity rages,
Fiercely and fell as the surge on the shore, Firm as the rock of the ocean for ages,
Stem the rude torrent till danger is o'er.

Never lose hope! Even though tough times hit hard,
As forcefully as the waves hitting the shore, Solid as the ocean's rock for centuries,
Stay strong through the tough times until the danger is over.

Fate with its whirlwind our joys may all sever,
True to ourselves, we have nothing to fear. Be this our hope and our anchor for ever—
Never despair—Boys—oh! never despair.

Fate can tear apart all our joys,
As long as we stay authentic, we have nothing to worry about. Let this be our hope and our constant support—
Never lose hope—Guys—oh! never lose hope.

WILLIAM SMITH O'BRIEN.

* These lines were sent to me by William Smith O'Brien, the evening of Monday, October 8, 1848, the day on which sentence of death was passed upon him.

* These lines were sent to me by William Smith O'Brien on the evening of Monday, October 8, 1848, the day when he was sentenced to death.

THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. October 12, 1848.

THE SADDEST FATE.

To touch a broken lute, To strike a jangled string, To strive with tones forever mute The dear old tunes to sing— What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! dear child, never to sing at all.

To play a broken lute, To strike a frayed string, To struggle with notes that don't sound The beloved classic songs to sing— What sadder fate could any heart experience?
Oh no! dear child, never to sing at all.

To sigh for pleasures flown. To weep for withered flowers, To count the blessings we have known, Lost with the vanished hours— What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! dear child, ne'er to have known them all.

To yearn for joys that have passed. To cry over dead flowers, To think about the blessings we've received, Gone with the lost time— What sadder fate could any heart endure?
Alas! dear child, never to have experienced them all.

To dream of love and rest, To know the dream has past, To bear within an aching breast Only a void at last— What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! dear child, ne'er to have loved at all.

To imagine love and peace, To accept that the dream is over, To bear a wounded heart Only emptiness at the end— What sadder fate could any heart face?
Oh no! dear child, never to have loved at all.

To trust an unknown good, To hope, but all in vain, Over a far-off bliss to brood, Only to find it pain— What sadder fate could any soul befall?
Alas! dear child, never to hope at all.

To believe in a far-off goodness, To hope feels pointless, To dwell on a distant happiness, Only to find it’s painful— What could be a sadder fate for anyone?
Oh no! dear child, better to not hope at all.

ANONYMOUS.

Anonymous.

THE SONG OF THE SAVOYARDS.

THE SAVOYARDS' SONG.

Far poured past Broadway's lamps alight,
The tumult of her motley throng. When high and clear upon the night
Rose an inspiring song. And rang above the city's din
To sound of harp and violin;
A simple but a manly strain, And ending with the brave refrain— Courage! courage, mon camarade!

Far flowed past Broadway's shining lights,
The chaos of her vibrant crowd. When high and clear in the night
An uplifting song played. And it rang above the city's noise
With the sound of harp and violin;
A simple but powerful melody, Ending with the bold refrain— Courage! courage, my friend!

And now where rose that song of cheer.
Both old and young stood still for joy; Or from the windows hung to hear
The children of Savoy: And many an eye with rapture glowed,
And saddest hearts forgot their load,
And feeble souls grew strong again, So stirring was the brave refrain— Courage! courage, mon camarade!

And now where did that joyful song come from?
Both the young and the old stood still with joy; Or leaned out of the windows to listen
To the kids of Savoy: And many eyes sparkled with delight,
And the saddest hearts forgot their burdens,
And fragile souls regained their strength once again, That bold chorus was so inspiring— Courage! courage, my friend!

Alone, with only silence there,
Awaiting his life's welcome close, A sick man lay, when on the air
That clarion arose; So sweet the thrilling cadence rang,
It seemed to him an angel sang,
And sang to him; and he would fain Have died upon that heavenly strain— Courage! courage, mon camarade!

Alone, with just silence around,
Waiting for life's last goodbye, A sick man lay, when in the air
That clear call rang out; So sweet was the enchanting melody,
It felt to him like an angel singing,
And sang to him; and he desired To have passed away to that celestial melody— Courage! courage, my friend!

A sorrow-stricken man and wife,
With nothing left them but to pray, Heard streaming over their sad life
That grand, heroic lay: And through the mist of happy tears
They saw the promise-laden years;
And in their joy they sang again, And carolled high the fond refrain— Courage! courage, mon camarade!

A grief-stricken husband and wife,
With nothing else to do but pray, Heard flowing through their sorrowful lives
That epic, heroic song: And through the haze of happy tears
They saw the years filled with promise;
And in their happiness, they sang again, And happily repeated the beloved refrain— Courage! courage, my friend!

Two artists, in the cloud of gloom
Which hung upon their hopes deferred, Resounding through their garret-room
That noble chanson heard; And as the night before the day
Their weak misgivings fled away;
And with the burden of the strain They made their studio ring again— Courage! courage, mon camarade!

Two artists, under a dark cloud
That hung over their delayed dreams, Echoing through their attic space
That amazing song was heard; And as night turned into day
Their doubts started to fade away;
And with the burden of stress They made their studio echo again— Courage! Keep it up, my friend!

Two poets, who in patience wrought
The glory of an aftertime,— Lords of an age which knew them not,
Heard rise that lofty rhyme; And on their hearts it fell, as falls
The sunshine upon prison-walls;
And one caught up the magic strain And to the other sang again— Courage! courage, mon camarade!

Two poets, who patiently created
The greatness of a future time, — Masters of a time that didn’t know them,
Heard that elevated rhyme soar; And it touched their hearts like
Sunshine on prison walls;
And one started playing the captivating melody. And sang it back to the others— Keep going! Keep going, my friend!

And unto one, who, tired of breath,
And day and night and name and fame, Held to his lips a glass of death,
That song a savior came; Beseeching him from his despair,
As with the passion of a prayer;
And kindling in his heart and brain The valor of its blest refrain— Courage! courage, mon camarade!

And to someone who, exhausted from life,
And from day and night, and success and reputation, Brought a glass of poison to his lips,
A song seemed to rescue him; Pleading with him to escape his despair,
Like a prayer filled with passion;
And sparking bravery in his heart and mind With the strength of its holy chant— Courage! Courage, my friend!

O thou, with earthly ills beset,
Call to thy lips those words of joy, And never in thy life forget
The brave song of Savoy! For those dear words may have the power
To cheer thee in thy darkest hour;
The memory of that loved refrain Bring gladness to thy heart again!— Courage! courage, mon camarade!

O you, troubled by worldly woes,
Say those joyful words aloud, And never let them slip your mind,
The bold song of Savoy! For those cherished words might hold the strength
To lift you in your hardest times;
The memory of that cherished song Will bring joy to your heart again!— Stay strong! Stay strong, my friend!

HENRY AMES BLOOD.

V. DEATH AND BEREAVEMENT.

LIFE.

Life.

We are born; we laugh; we weep;
We love; we droop; we die! Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep?
Why do we live or die? Who knows that secret deep?
Alas not I!

We are born; we laugh; we cry;
We love, we fade away, we die! Ah! Why do we laugh or cry?
Why do we live or die? Who knows that deep secret?
Oh, not me!

Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eye? Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly? Why do our fond hearts cling
To things that die?

Why does the violet bloom
Hidden from view? Why do the bright seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly come and go? Why do our loving hearts hold on
To things that fade away?

We toil—through pain and wrong;
We fight—and fly; We love; we lose; and then, ere long,
Stone-dead we lie, O life! is all thy song
"Endure and—die?"

We work hard—through struggles and injustice;
We fight—and break free; We love; we lose; and soon enough,
Dead tired we rest, Oh life! is your whole message
"Endure or—die?"

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (Barry Cornwall).

Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall).

SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

FROM "HAMLET," ACT III. SC. I.

HAMLET.—To be, or not to be,—that is the question Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them?—To die, to sleep;—
No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,—'t is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die,—to sleep;—
To sleep! perchance to dream:—ay, there 's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there 's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pains of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,—
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,—puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

HAMLET.—To live or not to live—that's the question. Whether it's nobler in the mind to endure
The hits and blows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take a stand against a sea of troubles,
And, by fighting, end them?—To die, to sleep;—
No more; and, by sleeping, to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to—it's a goal
Devoutly to be wished. To die—to sleep;—
To sleep! maybe to dream:—ah, there’s the catch;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shed this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes the suffering of such a long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contempt,
The pains of unrequited love, the law's delays,
The arrogance of authority, and the dismissals
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself could make his peace
With a simple dagger? Who would carry burdens,
To grunt and sweat under a tiring life,
Except for the fear of something after death—
The undiscovered territory, from which
No traveler returns—puzzles the will,
And makes us choose to bear the troubles we have,
Than flee to others we know nothing about?
Thus conscience makes cowards of us all;
And thus the natural courage
Is sickly marked by the pale shade of thought;
And enterprises of great strength and importance,
With this consideration, their courses go awry,
And lose the name of action.

SHAKESPEARE.

SIC VITA.*

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood,—
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past,—and man forgot!

Like the fall of a star,
Or the flight of eagles,
Or the vibrant colors of spring,
Or the silver drops of morning dew,
Or a wind that stirs the water,
Or the bubbles that float on the surface,—
Just like that is man, whose borrowed light
Is quickly extinguished, and paid for tonight.
The wind dies down, the bubble pops,
Spring is buried in autumn,
The dew evaporates, the star has fallen,
The flight has gone,—and man is forgotten!

HENRY KING.

* Claimed for Francis Beaumont by some authorities.

* Claimed for Francis Beaumont by some experts.

DEATH THE LEVELLER.

[These verses are said to have "chilled the heart" of Oliver Cromwell.]

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and crown Must tumble down. And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

The glories of our blood and status
Are just shadows, not real objects; There’s no protection against fate;
Death touches kings with his cold hand: Crown and scepter Must fall down. And in the dust be made equal
With the simple crooked scythe and shovel.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still: Early or late, They stoop to fate. And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

Some guys with swords might conquer land,
And plant new laurels where they battle; But eventually, their strength will fade;
They only still control each other: Eventually, They give in to fate. And have to let go of their complaining breath,
When they, weak captives, crawl to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

The garlands fade from your head,
Stop showing off about your amazing accomplishments; At death's purple altar now
Look where the winner-loser hurts: Your heads need to go To the cold grave; Only the deeds of the righteous
Smell sweet and bloom in their remains.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

VIRTUE IMMORTAL.

Virtue is eternal.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridall of the earth and skie;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The wedding of the earth and sky;
The dew will weep for your end tonight;
You have to die.

Sweet Rose, whose hue angrie and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And all must die.

Sweet Rose, whose vibrant color bold
Makes the careless observer blink,
Your root is always in its grave,
And everyone must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
Thy musick shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Sweet Spring, full of lovely days and roses,
A box where treats are piled together,
Your music reveals that you have your secrets,
Everything must come to an end.

Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But, though the whole world, turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned wood, never gives;
But, even if the whole world turns to ash,
Then truly lives.

GEORGE HERBERT.

George Herbert.

MAN'S MORTALITY.

Human Mortality.

Like as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on the tree, Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had,— E'en such is man; whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.— The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes,—and man he dies!

Just like the damask rose you see, Or like the flower on the tree, Or like the delicate flower in May, Or like the morning when the day begins, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd that Jonah had,— So is man; whose thread is spun, It's drawn out, cut, and then it’s finished.— The rose wilts, the blossom withers,
The flower fades, the morning rushes,
The sun sets, the shadow moves,
The gourd withers away,—and man he dies!

Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun, Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan,— E'en such is man; who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death.— The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended.
The hour is short, the span is long,
The swan's near death,—man's life is done!

Like fresh green grass, Or like a story that has just begun, Or like the bird that's here today,
Or like the May dewdrops, Or maybe an hour, or just a moment, Or like the song of a swan,— So is man; who lives by breathing, Is here, then gone, in life and death. The grass fades, the story is over,
The bird has flown, the dew has risen.
The hour is brief, the moment is long,
The swan is near death,—man's life is finished!

SIMON WASTELL.

MORTALITY.

DEATH.

O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

O why should the spirit of humans be proud?
Like a quickly passing meteor, a swiftly moving cloud,
A flash of lightning, a crash of the wave,
They go from life to their rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The leaves of the oak and the willow will fade,
Be scattered around and laid down in the shade;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Will turn to dust and together will lie.

The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection that proved,
The husband that mother and infant that blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.

The child that a mother cared for and loved,
The mother whose affection the infant showed,
The husband who blessed the mother and child,
All of them have gone to their place of rest.

The maid on whose cheek on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The maid, on whose cheek, brow, and eye,
Shone beauty and joy,—her triumphs are gone;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised her
Is erased from the minds of the living.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The hand of the king that held the scepter,
The brow of the priest that wore the mitre,
The eye of the wise, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The farmer who plants and harvests,
The shepherd who takes his goats up the hill,
The homeless person who roams looking for food,
Have vanished away like the grass beneath our feet.

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

The saint who experienced the closeness of heaven,
The sinner who refused to seek forgiveness,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and the innocent,
Have peacefully mingled their remains in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed
That wither away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.

So the crowd comes and goes, like flowers and weeds
That fade away to let new ones grow;
So the crowd arrives, including those we see,
To tell every story that’s been told many times before.

For we are the same that our fathers have been;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,—
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.

For we are the same as our fathers were;
We observe the same sights that our fathers observed,—
We drink from the same stream, and we feel the same sun,
And we follow the same path that our fathers followed.

The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink;
To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling;
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

The thoughts we're having, our fathers would have;
From the death we're afraid of, they would be afraid too;
To the life we're hanging onto, they would hold on as well;
But it flies away from the earth like a bird in the sky.

They loved, but their story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come;
They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

They loved, but we can't tell their story;
They looked down on others, but the prideful have no warmth;
They were sad, but no cries escape their sleep;
They were happy, but their joy remains silent.

They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

They died, yes! they died! and we beings of today,
Who walk on the ground that covers their heads,
Who make our homes a temporary space,
Face the changes they encountered on their journey.

Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

Yeah! Hope and despair, and joy and sorrow,
Are mixed together like sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the lament,
Still follow one another, like waves on the shore.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud;—
why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

It's the blink of an eye, it's the gasp of a breath,
From the bloom of health to the pallor of death,
From the fancy lounge to the coffin and the shroud;—
why should a human spirit be proud?

WILLIAM KNOX.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

TIME OF DEATH.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set—but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Leaves have their time to drop, And flowers die when the north wind blows,
And stars do set—but all, You have all seasons for yourself, oh! Death.

Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer— But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

Day is for adulting, Evening for happy gatherings around the cheerful fire,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the sound of prayer— But all for you, the greatest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day of griefs overwhelming power, A time for softer tears—but all are thine.

The banquet has its time, Its lively hour of laughter, music, and wine;
There comes a day when grief's overwhelming power, A time for gentler tears—but all are yours.

Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee—but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Youth and the blossoming rose May seem like things too beautiful to fade,
And smile at you—but you’re not one of them. Who wait for the ripe bloom to capture their prize.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set—but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Leaves have their time to drop, And flowers to wither in the cold wind,
And stars to set—but all, You have all seasons for yourself, oh! Death.

We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain— But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

We know when the moons will disappear, When summer birds from afar will cross the sea,
When autumn's colors touch the golden grain— But who will tell us when to expect you?

Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? They have one season—all are ours to die!

Is it when the first breeze of spring brings news of where the violets are hidden?
Is it when the roses on our path begin to fade? They only have one season—all are ours to lose!

Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth—and thou art there.

You are where the waves hit the shore, You are where music drifts through the air;
You are here with us in our cozy home, And the world invites us out—and you are there.

Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest—
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

You’re where friends gather, Beneath the shade of the elm to rest—
You are in a place where enemies face off, and trumpets blast. The skies, and swords strike down the noble crest.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set—but all. Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Leaves fall when it's their time, And flowers to wilt in the northern wind,
And stars to set—but overall. You have all seasons for yourself, oh! Death.

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

Feliciana Dorothea Hemans.

THE TERM OF DEATH.

Between the falling leaf and rose-bud's breath;
The bird's forsaken nest and her new song (And this is all the time there is for Death);
The worm and butterfly—it is not long!

Between the falling leaves and the rosebud's breath;
The bird's vacant nest and her new song (And this is all the time there is for Death);
The worm and butterfly—it's not for long!

SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT.

Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt.

A PICTURE OF DEATH.

FROM "THE GIAOUR."

He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And marked the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose, that's there,
The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And—but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Apalls the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, The first, last look by death revealed! Such is the aspect of this shore; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away; Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth!

The one who has leaned over the dead Before the first day of death has passed,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decay's erasing fingers
Have swept away the traces of beauty,)
And marked the gentle, angelic air,
The bliss of peace that’s there,
The fixed yet tender features that streak
The stillness of the calm cheek,
And—but for that sad, shrouded eye,
That doesn’t shine, win, or weep now,
And but for that cold, unchanging brow,
Where the chill of indifference
Chills the heart of the grieving mourner,
As if to him it could share
The fate he fears, yet continues to ponder;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, yes, one treacherous hour,
He might still question the tyrant's power; So beautiful, so peaceful, so gently enclosed, The first and last glimpse shown by death! This is the perspective of this shoreline; It's Greece, but living in Greece is gone! So chillingly sweet, so dangerously beautiful, We begin, because the soul is absent from there. Hers is the beauty in dying, That doesn’t completely leave with a final breath; But beauty with that captivating tone, That color that follows it to the grave, Expression's final fading light, A golden halo floating above decay, The lingering warmth of feelings that have faded away; Spark of that fire, perhaps of celestial origin,
Which glimmers, but no longer warms its cherished earth!

LORD BYRON.

Lord Byron.

THE TWO MYSTERIES.

["In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, the nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. She looked wonderingly at the spectacle of death, and then inquiringly into the old man's face. 'You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?' said he, and added, 'We don't, either.'"]

["In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, the poet's nephew. Nearby, in a large chair, sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by children, holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. She looked curiously at the sight of death and then questioningly at the old man's face. 'You don't understand what this is, do you, my dear?' he said, and added, 'Neither do we.'"]

We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still;
The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill;
The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call;
The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all.

We don't know what it is, dear, this sleep that's so deep and still;
The hands folded, the eerie calm, the cheek so pale and cold;
The eyelids that won't lift again, even if we call and call;
The strange white silence of peace that covers everything.

We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain;
This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again;
We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go,
Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we do not know.

We don’t know what it means, dear, this empty heartache;
This fear of going our usual way and doing it again;
We don’t know where the loved ones who leave us go,
Or why we’re left to keep wondering, or why we don’t know.

But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day—
Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of us could say.
Life is a mystery, as deep as ever death can be;
Yet, O, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see!

But this we know: Our loved ones who have passed, if they were to return today—
If they were to ask us, "What is life?" none of us would have an answer.
Life is a mystery, as deep as death ever can be;
Yet, oh, how precious this life is to us, this existence we experience!

Then might they say—these vanished ones—and blessed is the thought,
"So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may show you nought;
We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death—
Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath."

Then they might say—these lost souls—and how lovely is the thought,
"So death is sweet to us, dear! though we can't show you anything;
We cannot fully reveal the mystery of death—
You cannot explain to us, even if you tried, the mystery of breath."

The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent,
So those who enter death must go as little children sent.
Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead;
And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead.

The child who starts life comes without knowledge or purpose,
So those who face death must depart like innocent children.
Nothing is understood. But I believe that God is above;
And just as life belongs to the living, death belongs to the dead.

MARY MAPLES DODGE.

Mary Maples Dodge.

THANATOPSIS.

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language: for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice:—Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone,—nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,
The powerful of the earth,—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks,
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings,—yet the dead are there!
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone!
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men—
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man—
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

To someone who shares a love for Nature, A connection with her visible forms, she speaks
A variety of languages: for his happier moments
She has a voice of joy, a smile
And the beauty of eloquence; and she gently
Enters his darker thoughts with a soft
And healing sympathy that eases away
Their intensity before he even realizes. When thoughts
Of the final bitter hour come like a shadow
Over your spirit, and sad images
Of pain, and shrouds, and darkness,
And the narrow grave, make you shudder,
And feel sick at heart,
Step out into the open sky and listen
To Nature's lessons, as from all around—
The earth and her waters, and the vast air—
Comes a quiet voice:—Just a few more days, and you
The ever-watching sun will see no longer
In all his journey; nor in the cold ground,
Where your pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of the ocean, shall your
Image exist. The earth that nurtured you, shall take
Your growth, and return you to the earth;
And, losing every human trace, giving up
Your individual being, you shall blend
Forever with the elements;
To be a sibling to the unfeeling rock,
And to the lifeless soil that the rough farmer
Turns with his plow, and walks upon. The oak
Will stretch its roots wide and penetrate your earth.
Yet to your forever resting place You will not retreat alone,—nor would you wish
A more magnificent resting spot. You shall lie down
With the patriarchs of the early world,—with kings,
The powerful of the earth,—the wise, the good,
Beautiful forms, and ancient seers of ages past,
All in one mighty tomb. The hills,
Rocky and ancient as the sun; the valleys
Stretching in thoughtful quietness between;
The aged woods; rivers moving
With majesty, and the murmuring brooks,
That keep the meadows green; and surrounding all,
Old ocean's gray and mournful expanse,—
Are just the solemn adornments of
The great tomb of humanity! The golden sun,
The planets, the infinite hosts of heaven,
Shine down on the sad homes of death,
Through the slow passage of ages. All who walk
The earth are just a handful compared to the tribes
That rest in its embrace. Take the wings
Of the morning, cross the barren wilderness,
Or lose yourself in the endless woods
Where the Oregon rolls, without a sound
Except for its own rush,—yet the dead are there!
And millions in those solitary places, since the dawn
Of time began, have laid down
In their final sleep,—the dead reign there alone!
So shall you rest; and what if you withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Notices your departure? All who breathe
Will share your fate. The joyful will laugh
When you are gone, the serious brood of worry
Will move on, and each one, as before, will chase
Their favorite dreams; yet all of these will leave
Their laughter and their tasks, and will come
And rest with you. As the long train
Of ages flows away, the sons of men—
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet baby, and the elderly man—
Shall, one by one, be gathered to your side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drappery of his conch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Live in a way that when your time comes to join __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, The countless caravan that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each will take
Their place in the silent halls of death,
You do not go, like a hunted animal at night,
Forced to his dungeon, but supported and comforted
By a steady trust, approach your grave
Like someone who wraps the fabric of their cloak
Around them, and lies down to peaceful dreams.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

WIlliam Cullen Bryant.

A MORNING THOUGHT.

A Morning Thought.

What if some morning, when the stars were paling,
And the dawn whitened, and the east was clear, Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence
Of a benignant spirit standing near; And I should tell him, as he stood beside me:—
"This is our earth—most friendly earth, and fair; Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow
Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air;

What if one morning, when the stars were fading,
As dawn broke, the east became clear, A strange peace and rest came over me from the presence
Of a kind spirit standing close by; And I told him, as he stood next to me:—
"This is our Earth—such a welcoming and beautiful place; Every day its sea and shore, through sun and shadow,
It rotates reliably, wrapped in its blue sky;

"There is blest living here, loving and serving,
And quest of truth, and serene friendships dear: But stay not, Spirit! Earth has one destroyer—
His name is Death: flee, lest he find thee here!"

"There is blessed living here, loving and serving,
And pursuing truth, and valuing calm friendships: But wait, Spirit! Earth has one destroyer—
"His name is Death: run away, or he will catch you here!"

And what if then, while the still morning brightened,
And freshened in the elm the summer's breath, Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel,
And take my hand and say, "My name is Death"?

And what if, while the calm morning got brighter,
And the summer breeze refreshed the elm, A gentle angel smiled at me seriously,
And took my hand and said, "My name is Death."

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

NOW AND AFTERWARDS.

NOW AND LATER.

"Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past."
—RUSSIAN PROVERB.

"Two hands on the chest, and the work is done."
—Russian proverb.

"Two hands upon the breast,
And labor's done; Two pale feet crossed in rest,—
The race is won; Two eyes with coin-weights shut,
And all tears cease; Two lips where grief is mute,
Anger at peace:" So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot;
God in his kindness answereth not.

"Two hands on the chest,
And the work is done; Two pale feet crossed in rest,—
The race is finished; Two eyes closed as if covered with coins,
And all tears are over; Two lips where sorrow is silent,
Anger is dormant: So we often pray, grieving our fate;
God, in His kindness, does not respond."

"Two hands to work addrest
Aye for his praise; Two feet that never rest
Walking his ways; Two eyes that look above
Through all their tears; Two lips still breathing love,
Not wrath, nor fears:" So pray we afterwards, low on our knees;
Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these!

"Two hands ready to work
Yes, for his compliments; Two feet that never stop
Walking his path; Two eyes that look up
Through all their tears. Two lips still speaking love,
No anger or fear: So we pray afterwards, down on our knees;
Forgive those wrong prayers! Father, hear these!

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

THE GRAVE OF SOPHOCLES.

Tenderly, ivy, on Sophocles' grave—right tenderly—twine
Garlanding over the mound network of delicate green.
Everywhere flourish the flower of the rose, and the clustering vine
Pour out its branches around, wet with their glistering sheen.
All for the sake of the wisdom and grace it was his to combine;
Priest of the gay and profound, sweetest of singers terrene.

Gently, ivy, on Sophocles' grave—so gently—wrap
Covering the mound in a network of soft green.
Everywhere, the rose blooms, and the climbing vine
Spreads its branches around, glistening with dew.
All in honor of the wisdom and beauty he brought together;
Priest of the joyful and deep, the sweetest earthly singer.

From the Greek of SIMMIAS.
Translation of WILLIAM M. HAUDINGE.

INSCRIPTION ON MELROSE ABBEY.

Inscription on Melrose Abbey.

The earth goes on the earth glittering in gold,
The earth goes to the earth sooner than it wold;
The earth builds on the earth castles and towers,
The earth says to the earth—All this is ours.

The earth continues with its gold sparkle,
The earth returns to the earth faster than expected;
The earth constructs on the earth castles and towers,
The earth tells the earth—All of this belongs to us.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Mortality, behold and fear
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within these heaps of stones;
Here they lie, had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands,
Where from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach, "In greatness is no trust."
Here 's an acre sown indeed
With the richest royallest seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried
"Though gods they were, as men they died!"
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:
Here 's a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

Mortality, look and be afraid
What a change in flesh is this!
Think about how many royal bones
Rest within these piles of stones;
Here they lie, once ruling lands,
Who now lack the strength to move their hands,
Where from their pulpit covered in dust
They preach, "There’s no trust in greatness."
Here’s an acre truly sown
With the richest royal seeds
That the earth has ever absorbed
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of those born to power have cried
"Though they were gods, as men they died!"
Here are sands, worthless things,
Dropped from the fallen sides of kings:
Here’s a world of pomp and glory
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

Francis Beaumont.

THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

The Country Churchyard

"Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."

"Beneath those sturdy elms, in the shade of that yew tree,
Where the ground is disturbed with many decaying mounds,
Each in his small grave forever rests,
The rough ancestors of the village are at peace."

After an original drawing by Harry Fenn.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

The curfew signals the end of the day,
The cows gradually walk across the field, The farmer trudges home, feeling tired,
And leaves the world in darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Now the shimmering landscape fades from view.
And the air is filled with a serious quiet, Except for the beetle buzzing in the sky,
Soft, sleepy sounds comfort the faraway hills:

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Save that, from that ivy-covered tower,
The grumpy owl complains to the moon. About those who, wandering near her hidden spot,
Disrupt her old solitary reign.

[Hark! how the holy calm that breathes around
Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease; In still small accents whispering from the ground
The grateful earnest of eternal peace.]*

[Listen! how the holy calm that surrounds us
Commands every wild, turbulent emotion to cease; In soft, quiet whispers rising from the earth
The genuine promise of lasting peace.]

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade.
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Beneath those tough elms, in the shade of that yew tree,
Where the ground rises with numerous decaying mounds, Each in his small grave forever rests,
The tough ancestors of the village are at rest.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

The refreshing call of morning filled with incense,
The swallow chirping from the thatched shed, The rooster's loud crow, or the sounding horn,
Will no longer disturb them from their simple bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

For them, the fire will no longer glow,
Or the hardworking wife takes care of her evening tasks; No children will rush to greet their dad's return,
Or hop onto his lap to share the desired kiss.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Often did the harvest yield to their sickle,
Their plow often broke the hard soil; How cheerfully did they take their team to the fields!
The trees bent under their powerful strikes!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

Let not ambition make fun of their hard work,
Their simple joys and uncertain future; Nor should greatness listen with a scornful smile
To the short and simple stories of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

The pride of titles, the show of authority,
And all the beauty, all the wealth that has ever existed, Waits for the unavoidable moment.
The paths to fame only end in death.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Nor you, you proud, blame these for the mistake,
If Memory doesn't place any trophies above their grave, Where, through the long aisle and decorated vault,
The powerful anthem raises a note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust:
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

Can a decorated urn or a lifelike bust:
Return the fleeting breath to its home? Can the praise of honor stir the silent dust,
Can flattery really soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid;
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre;

Perhaps in this overlooked place is buried;
A heart that was once filled with heavenly passion; Hands that could have ruled the world,
Or brought to life the joy of music;

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

But to their eyes, her extensive work,
Filled with the treasures of time, it stayed untouched; Cold poverty stifled their noble passion,
And stopped the warm flow of the spirit.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene;
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Full many a gem of the purest light;
The dark, deep caves of the ocean hold; Full many a flower is born to bloom unnoticed,
And waste its sweetness in the empty atmosphere.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tryant of his fields withstood, Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Some village Hampden, who bravely stood up,
Against the small-minded ruler of his territory, Some silent, unrecognized Milton might be resting here,
Some Cromwell, unaware of his country's bloodshed.

Th' applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

The applause of attentive senates to command,
The dangers of pain and destruction can't be ignored, To spread abundance over a happy land,
And witness their legacy in the eyes of a nation,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

Their fate forbade it: not only limited
Their increasing virtues, but also their wrongdoings; They were forbidden to wade through slaughter to reach a throne,
And shut the doors of mercy to humanity,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

The painful effort to conceal the truth,
To hide the discomfort of being honest, Or pile up the altar of luxury and vanity
With offerings inspired by creativity.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Far from the unworthy struggles of the crowd,
Their deep desires were never distracted; In the cool, peaceful valley of life
They stayed on their quiet path.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Yet even these bones are protected from insult,
A delicate memorial still stands nearby, Adorned with awkward rhymes and rough sculptures,
It calls for a brief sigh of remembrance.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

Their name, their years, written by the uneducated muse,
The place for honor and remembrance is provided; And many a sacred text she scatters around,
That guides the straightforward moralist in dying.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

For who, to dull forgetfulness a victim,
This fun, anxious life never gave up, Left the cozy bounds of the bright day,
Without taking one last, long look back?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

On some loving heart the departing soul depends,
The dying eye needs some holy tears; Even from the grave, nature calls out,
Even in our ashes, their familiar flames continue to exist.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

For you, who, remembering the unacknowledged dead,
Share their straightforward story in these lines, If by chance, through solitary reflection,
A kindred spirit inquires about your future,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

Happily, some old farmer might say,
"We've often seen him at the first light of dawn." Wiping the dew away in a hurry,
To welcome the sun on the hillside meadow.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"There at the base of that swaying beech,
That twists its old, unique roots so high, He would lazily stretch out at noon,
And look at the stream that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn.
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

"Close to that forest, now smiling like it's mocking,
Murmuring his thoughts to himself, he would roam; Now sad and pale, like someone lost.
Or driven crazy by worries, or heartbroken in love.

"One morn I missed him on the customed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"One morning I didn't find him on the usual hill,
Along the heath, and close to his favorite tree; Another day passed; still he wasn’t by the stream,
He was neither on the lawn nor in the woods;

"The next, with dirges due in sad array,
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

"The next, with mournful songs in somber order,
We saw him being carried slowly along the path by the church. Come closer and read (since you can read) the inscription
"Carved into the stone under that old thorn tree."

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Here rests his head on the lap of Earth
A young man unfamiliar with Fortune and Fame; Fair Science didn't frown upon his humble birth,
And Melancholy took him for herself.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend.

His reward was great, and his heart was genuine,
Heaven paid it forward; He gave everything he had to those in need, a tear,
And from Heaven (which was all he desired) he found a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

No need to search for his accomplishments,
Or reveal his weaknesses from their hidden spot, (There they both rest in anxious hope)
In the center of his Father and his God.

THOMAS GRAY.

* Removed by the author from the original poem.

GOD'S-ACRE.

GOD'S ACRE.

I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

I like that old Saxon phrase that calls
The burial ground God's-Acre! It makes sense; It honors each grave within its boundaries,
And bestows a blessing over the resting remains.

God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

God's Acre! Yes, that sacred name brings
Comfort to those who have buried loved ones. The seeds they gathered in their hearts,
Their lifeblood, unfortunately, is no longer theirs.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Into its furrows we will all be cast,
Confident that we will rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's call
Will separate, like a fan, the chaff from the grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

Then the good will stand in eternal beauty,
In the beautiful gardens of that new life; And each bright flower will mix its fragrance
Like flowers that never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place where human harvests grow!

With your rough plow, Death, turn up the soil,
And get the ground ready for the seeds we plant; This is the field and land of our God,
This is the place where human crops flourish!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

SLEEPY HOLLOW.

No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral-stoops,
No winding torches paint the midnight air; Here the green pines delight, the aspen droops
Along the modest pathways, and those fair Pale asters of the season spread their plumes
Around this field, fit garden for our tombs.

No gloomy abbey, nor dark cathedral steps,
No flickering torches illuminate the midnight sky; Here, the green pines bring joy, the aspen hangs low
Along the peaceful paths, and those beautiful Pale asters of the season spread their blossoms
Surrounding this area is a perfect garden for our graves.

And shalt thou pause to hear some funeral bell
Slow stealing o'er thy heart in this calm place, Not with a throb of pain, a feverish knell,
But in its kind and supplicating grace, It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be more
Friend to the friendless than thou wast before;

And will you stop to listen to a funeral bell
Softly resonating in your heart in this calm space, Not with a jolt of pain, a restless toll,
But in its gentle and pleading beauty, It says, Go, traveler, on your journey, be more
A friend to those who have no one more than you were before;

Learn from the loved one's rest serenity:
To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall sound, And thou repose beneath the whispering tree,
One tribute more to this submissive ground;— Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride,
Nor these pale flowers nor this still field deride:

Learn from the loved one's peaceful rest:
Tomorrow, that gentle bell will ring for you, And you will rest beneath the whispering tree,
Another tribute to this humble place;— Keep your soul free from malice, shut out pride,
Don't make fun of these pale flowers or this calm field:

Rather to those ascents of being turn,
Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes the year Eternal, and the incessant watch-fires burn
Of unspent holiness and goodness clear,— Forget man's littleness, deserve the best,
God's mercy in thy thought and life confest.

Rather than those heights of existence, Where a sun that never sets brightens the year Forever, and the constant watchfires burn With untouched holiness and genuine goodness— Forget human smallness, strive for the best, Recognize God's mercy in your thoughts and life.

WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.

THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD.

THE FRIENDS' GRAVEYARD.

Four straight brick walls, severely plain,
A quiet city square surround; A level space of nameless graves,—
The Quakers' burial-ground.

Four plain brick walls, very simple,
Surrounded by a quiet plaza; An even area of unmarked graves,—
The Quakers' cemetery.

In gown of gray, or coat of drab,
They trod the common ways of life, With passions held in sternest leash,
And hearts that knew not strife.

In a gray gown or a drab coat,
They walked the ordinary paths of life, With their passions tightly controlled,
And hearts that were free from conflict.

To yon grim meeting-house they fared,
With thoughts as sober as their speech, To voiceless prayer, to songless praise,
To hear the elders preach.

To that bleak meeting house they went,
With thoughts as serious as their words, For silent prayer, for songless worship,
To hear the elders speak.

Through quiet lengths of days they came,
With scarce a change to this repose; Of all life's loveliness they took
The thorn without the rose.

Through quiet stretches of days they arrived,
With barely any change to this peace; From all of life's beauty they gathered
The thorn without the flower.

But in the porch and o'er the graves,
Glad rings the southward robin's glee, And sparrows fill the autumn air
With merry mutiny;

But on the porch and over the graves,
The robin joyfully sings in the southern warmth, And sparrows fill the autumn air
In joyful chaos;

While on the graves of drab and gray
The red and gold of autumn lie, And wilful Nature decks the sod
In gentlest mockery.

While on the dull and gray graves
The red and gold of autumn lies still, And carefree Nature decorates the ground
In the gentlest tease.

SILAS WEIR MITCHELL.

GREENWOOD CEMETERY.

How calm they sleep beneath the shade
Who once were weary of the strife, And bent, like us, beneath the load
Of human life!

How peacefully they sleep in the shade
Who once grew weary of the battle, And stooped, like us, under the weight
Of human life!

The willow hangs with sheltering grace
And benediction o'er their sod, And Nature, hushed, assures the soul
They rest in God.

The willow gracefully hangs down, offering shelter
And blessing on their land, And Nature, silent, comforts the soul
They find peace in God.

O weary hearts, what rest is here,
From all that curses yonder town! So deep the peace, I almost long
To lay me down.

O weary hearts, what rest is here,
Curse that town over there! The peace is so deep, I almost wish
To lie down.

For, oh, it will be blest to sleep,
Nor dream, nor move, that silent night, Till wakened in immortal strength
And heavenly light!

For, oh, it will be blessed to sleep,
Neither dream nor move, that quiet night, Until awakened in eternal strength
And divine light!

CRAMMOND KENNEDY.

THE DEAD.

The dead abide with us! Though stark and cold
Earth seems to grip them, they are with us still:
They have forged our chains of being for good or ill;
And their invisible hands these hands yet hold.
Our perishable bodies are the mould
In which their strong imperishable will—
Mortality's deep yearning to fulfil—
Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold.
Vibrations infinite of life in death,
As a star's travelling light survives its star!
So may we hold our lives, that when we are
The fate of those who then will draw this breath,
They shall not drag us to their judgment-bar,
And curse the heritage which we bequeath.

The dead are with us! Even though they lie cold and still beneath the earth, they remain present: They have shaped our existence for better or worse; And their unseen hands still hold ours. Our fragile bodies are the form In which their strong, unending will— Mortality's deep desire to be fulfilled— Has grown intertwined through countless ages. Eternal vibrations of life in death, Like a star's light that lives on after the star is gone! So let us live our lives in such a way that when we are gone, Those who will breathe this air afterward Will not condemn us at their judgment, Or curse the legacy we leave behind.

MATHILDE BLIND.

ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD.

Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow,
For funeral-lamps he has the planets seven, For a great sign the icy stair shall go
Between the heights to heaven.

Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow,
For funeral lights, he has the seven planets, For a great sign the icy steps shall go
Between the heights of heaven.

One moment stood he as the angels stand,
High in the stainless eminence of air; The next, he was not, to his fatherland
Translated unaware.

One moment he stood there like the angels do,
High in the blue sky; The next, he was gone, without his homeland
Taken away without realizing.

FREDERIC WILLIAM HENRY MYERS.

F. W. H. Myers.

THE EMIGRANT LASSIE.

THE EMIGRANT GIRL.

As I came wandering down Glen Spean,
Where the braes are green and grassy, With my light step I overtook
A weary-footed lassie.

As I strolled down Glen Spean,
Where the hills are lush and grassy, With my easy pace I caught up
To a weary young girl.

She had one bundle on her back,
Another in her hand, And she walked as one who was full loath
To travel from the land.

She had one bundle on her back,
Another in her hand, And she walked like someone who was very reluctant
To depart the land.

Quoth I, "My bonnie lass!"—for she
Had hair of flowing gold, And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs,
Right pleasant to behold—

I said, "My beautiful girl!"—because she
Had hair like flowing gold, And dark brown eyes, and graceful limbs,
Great to see—

"My bonnie lass, what aileth thee,
On this bright summer day, To travel sad and shoeless thus
Upon the stony way?

"My beautiful girl, what's wrong with you,
On this sunny summer day, That you’re wandering sadly and barefoot like this
On the rocky path?

"I'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod,
And thou art burdened so; March lightly now, and let me bear
The bundles as we go."

"I'm strong and ready, and well-equipped,
But you carry a lot; Let's move quickly now, and let me handle
"The burdens we carry."

"No, no!" she said, "that may not be;
What's mine is mine to bear; Of good or ill, as God may will,
I take my portioned share."

"No, no!" she said, "that can't be;
What’s mine is mine to deal with; For better or worse, as God decides,
I accept my fair share.

"But you have two, and I have none;
One burden give to me; I'll take that bundle from thy back
That heavier seems to be.

"But you have two, and I have none;
Give me one task; I'll take that load off your back
That feels weightier.

"No, no!" she said; "this, if you will,
That holds—no hand but mine May bear its weight from dear Glen Spean
'Cross the Atlantic brine!"

"No, no!" she said; "this, if you want,
That carries—no one but me Can handle its weight from dear Glen Spean

"Well, well! but tell me what may be
Within that precious load, Which thou dost bear with such fine care
Along the dusty road?

"Well, well! But tell me what might be
Inside that precious cargo, That you carry with such great care
On the dusty road?

"Belike it is some present rare
From friend in parting hour; Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont,
Thou tak'st with thee thy dower"

"Maybe it's a special gift
From a friend at the time of saying goodbye; Perhaps, like careful young women do,
"Take your dowry with you."

She drooped her head, and with her hand
She gave a mournful wave: "Oh, do not jest, dear sir!—it is
Turf from my mother's grave!"

She lowered her head and waved sadly with her hand:
"Oh, please don’t joke, dear sir!—this is
Dirt from my mother's grave!"

I spoke no word: we sat and wept
By the road-side together; No purer dew on that bright day
Was dropped upon the heather.

I didn't say a word: we sat and cried
By the roadside together; No cleaner dew on that bright day
Was dropped on the grass.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

John Stuart Blackie.

THE OLD SEXTON.

Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;
His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral train at the open gate.
A relic of bygone days was he,
And his locks were white as the foamy sea;
And these words came from his lips so thin:
"I gather them in: I gather them in.

Nearing a freshly dug grave,
An old gravedigger leaned on his worn shovel;
His work was finished, and he waited
For the funeral procession at the open gate.
He was a remnant of a past era,
And his hair was as white as the foamy sea;
And these words escaped his thin lips:
"I'm gathering them in: I'm gathering them in."

"I gather them in! for man and boy,
Year after year of grief and joy,
I've builded the houses that lie around,
In every nook of this burial ground;
Mother and daughter, father and son,
Come to my solitude, one by one:
But come they strangers or come they kin—
I gather them in, I gather them in.

"I bring them all together! For every man and boy,
Year after year, through grief and joy,
I've built the houses that surround,
In every corner of this burial ground;
Mother and daughter, father and son,
They come to my solitude, one by one:
But whether they come as strangers or as family—
I bring them all together, I bring them all together."

"Many are with me, but still I 'm alone,
I 'm king of the dead—and I make my throne
On a monument slab of marble cold;
And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold:
Come they from cottage or come they from hall,
Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all!
Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin—
I gather them in, I gather them in.

"Many are with me, but I still feel alone,
I’m king of the dead—and I sit on my throne
On a cold marble slab;
And my scepter of power is the spade I hold:
Whether they come from a cottage or a mansion,
All of humanity are my subjects, every last one!
Let them hang around in pleasure or work hard—
I gather them in, I gather them in."

"I gather them in, and their-final rest
Is here, down here, in earth's dark breast!"
And the sexton ceased, for the funeral train
Wound mutely o'er that solemn plain!
And I said to my heart, when time is told,
A mightier voice than that sexton's old
Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din—
"I gather them in, I gather them in."

"I bring them in, and their final rest
Is here, down here, in the earth's dark embrace!"
And the sexton stopped, for the funeral procession
Moved silently across that solemn land!
And I said to my heart, when the time comes,
A stronger voice than that sexton's old
Will echo over the last trumpet's terrible noise—
"I bring them in, I bring them in."

PARK BENJAMIN.

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.

THE FIRST SNOWFALL.

The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

The snow had started at dusk,
And all night It had been piling up on fields and roads
In a thick, silent, white covering.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore fur that's too expensive for a noble. And the tiniest twig on the elm-tree
Was lined an inch deep with pearls.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow. The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.

From sheds that were newly roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muted crow. The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And the snow kept falling.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I stood and watched by the window
The peaceful movement of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snowbirds,
Like brown leaves swirling around.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood; How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

I thought of a hill in sweet Auburn
Where a small gravestone stood; How the snowflakes were softly covering it,
Just like robins did with their chicks in the woods.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, "Dad, who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-father
Who looks after us down here?

Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.

Again I looked at the snowfall,
And thought about the heavy sky. That loomed over our first great sorrow,
When that grave was stacked so high.

I remember the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

I remember the slow patience
That came down from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The mark of our deep pain.

And again to the child I whispered,
"The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!"

And once more I whispered to the child,
"The snow that hushes everything," Sweetheart, only the caring Father
"Can make it fall!"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.

Then, with eyes that couldn’t see, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, couldn't know That my kiss was meant for her sister,
Gathered closely under the thickening snow.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

James Russell Lowell.

THE MORNING-GLORY.

MORNING GLORY.

We wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright; Her little face looked out beneath
So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise,
That we could only say, "She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they."

We wrapped our little one's head
With morning glory flowers; Her tiny face peeked out beneath
Radiating life and light, Shining like a sunrise,
All we could say was, "She is the true morning-glory,
"And her kids are just poor imitations."

So always from that happy time
We called her by their name, And very fitting did it seem,—
For sure as morning came, Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray, As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.

So always from that joyful time
We called her by their name, And it really did seem fitting,—
Just as surely as morning arrives, Behind her crib’s bars she smiled
To catch the first light, As the flower smiles from the trellis
And opens up to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue, As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew; And not so close their tendrils fine
Round their supports are thrown, As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
Clasped all hearts to her own.

But not so beautiful they rise
Their light blue cups, As she turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Filled with sleep's gentle mist; And not so tightly their delicate tendrils
Wrapped around their supports, As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
Embraced everyone’s heart as her own.

We used to think how she had come,
Even as comes the flower, The last and perfect added gift
To crown Love's morning hour; And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say, As on the little dewdrops round
Shines back the heart of day.

We used to wonder how she arrived,
Just like a flower grows, The final and perfect addition
To finish Love's morning light; And how she reflected
The love we couldn't share, Like the tiny dewdrops around
That reflect the warmth of the day.

We never could have thought, O God,
That she must wither up, Almost before a day was flown,
Like the morning-glory's cup; We never thought to see her droop
Her fair and noble head, Till she lay stretched before our eyes,
Wilted, and cold, and dead!

We never could have imagined, Oh God,
That she would disappear, Almost before a day had passed,
Like a morning glory's bloom; We never expected to see her lose
Her stunning and proud head, Until she lay before us,
Withered, cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round,— We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground; The tender things the winter killed
Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning
Has passed away from earth.

The morning-glory is about to bloom
Will be coming around soon,— We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves
Sprouting from the earth; The delicate things that winter killed
Are coming back to life, But the beauty of our morning
Has faded from the earth.

Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain! Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,
Her spirit to sustain; But up in groves of Paradise
Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful
Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

Earth! our tired eyes search in vain
Across your green fields! Your dew is too harsh, your air too heavy,
For her spirit to live on; But up in the groves of Paradise,
We'll definitely see Our beautiful morning glory
Kneel by our dear Lord's side.

MARIA WHITE LOWELL.

Maria White Lowell.

THE WIDOW'S MITE.

A widow—she had only one!
A puny and decrepit son;
But, day and night, Though fretful oft, and weak and small,
A loving child, he was her all—
The Widow's Mite.

A widow—she had just one!
A frail and weak son;
But, day and night, Though often cranky, weak, and tiny,
He was a loving child, her everything—
The Widow's Mite.

The Widow's Mite—ay, so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained,
Though friends were fewer: And while she toiled for daily fare,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.

The Widow's Mite—yes, she kept going,
She fought on without a complaint,
Even though there were fewer friends: And while she worked for everyday food,
A small crutch on the stairs
Was music to her ears.

I saw her then,—and now I see
That, though resigned and cheerful, she
Has sorrowed much: She has, He gave it tenderly,
Much faith; and carefully laid by,
The little crutch.

I saw her then—and now I see
That, although she’s calm and happy, she
Has gone through a lot of pain: She has, he gave it gently,
A lot of faith; and put aside,
The tiny crutch.

FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.

ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME?

ARE THE KIDS HOME?

Each day, when the glow of sunset
Fades in the western sky, And the wee ones, tired of playing,
Go tripping lightly by, I steal away from my husband,
Asleep in his easy-chair, And watch from the open door-way
Their faces fresh and fair.

Each day, when the sunset glow
Fades in the western sky, And the little ones, worn out from playing,
Skip by joyfully, I slip away from my husband,
Relaxing in his comfy chair, And watch from the open doorway
Their bright and beautiful faces.

Alone in the dear old homestead
That once was full of life, Ringing with girlish laughter,
Echoing boyish strife, We two are waiting together;
And oft, as the shadows come, With tremulous voice he calls me,
"It is night! are the children home?"

Alone in the beloved old house
That used to be so vibrant, Filled with girls' laughter,
Filled with boys' arguments, We're here together waiting;
And often, as the shadows appear, With a shaky voice he asks me,
"It's nighttime! Are the kids back home?"

"Yes, love!" I answer him gently,
"They're all home long ago;"— And I sing, in my quivering treble,
A song so soft and low, Till the old man drops to slumber,
With his head upon his hand, And I tell to myself the number
At home in the better land.

"Yes, dear!" I reply softly,
"They've all been home for a while;"— And I sing, in my trembling voice,
A song that’s so soft and calm, Until the old man falls asleep,
With his head resting on his hand, And I count to myself the number
At home in a nicer place.

At home, where never a sorrow
Shall dim their eyes with tears! Where the smile of God is on them
Through all the summer years! I know,—yet my arms are empty,
That fondly folded seven, And the mother heart within me
Is almost starved for heaven.

At home, where no sorrow ever
It'll bring tears to their eyes! Where God's smile is on them
Through all the sunny years! I know—yet my arms are empty,
Holding onto seven so tightly, And the mother heart within me
Is almost starving for heaven.

Sometimes, in the dusk of evening,
I only shut my eyes, And the children are all about me,
A vision from the skies: The babes whose dimpled fingers
Lost the way to my breast, And the beautiful ones, the angels,
Passed to the world of the blest.

Sometimes, in the evening twilight,
I just shut my eyes, And the kids are all around me,
A perspective from above: The little ones with dimpled fingers
Who have lost their way back to me, And the lovely ones, the angels,
Have moved on to a better place.

With never a cloud upon them,
I see their radiant brows; My boys that I gave to freedom,—
The red sword sealed their vows! In a tangled Southern forest,
Twin brothers bold and brave, They fell; and the flag they died for,
Thank God! floats over their grave.

With never a cloud above them,
I see their bright faces; My boys who I set free,—
The red sword validated their promises! In a tangled Southern forest,
Twin brothers, strong and brave, They fell; and the flag they died for,
Thank God! flies over their grave.

A breath, and the vision is lifted
Away on wings of light, And again we two are together,
All alone in the night. They tell me his mind is failing,
But I smile at idle fears; He is only back with the children,
In the dear and peaceful years.

A breath, and the vision rises
Flying on beams of light, And once again, we are together,
All by myself at night. They say his mind is slipping,
But I laugh at trivial worries; He is just with the kids again,
During those treasured and calm years.

And still, as the summer sunset
Fades away in the west, And the wee ones, tired of playing,
Go trooping home to rest, My husband calls from his corner,
"Say, love, have the children come?" And I answer, with eyes uplifted,
"Yes, dear! they are all at home."

And still, as the summer sunset
Fades away in the west, And the little ones, worn out from playing,
Heading home to rest. My husband calls from his spot,
"Hey, babe, are the kids home yet?" And I reply, with my eyes lifted,
"Yes, honey! They’re all home."

MARGARET E.M. SANGSTER.

JIM'S KIDS.

Jim was a fisherman, up on the hill,
Over the beach lived he and his wife, In a little house—you can see it still—
An' their two fair boys; upon my life You never seen two likelier kids,
In spite of their antics an' tricks an' noise, Than them two boys!

Jim was a fisherman living up on the hill,
He and his wife lived near the beach, In a small house—you can still see it—
And their two adorable boys; I swear You've never seen two more charming kids,
Even with their antics, tricks, and noise, Better than those two boys!

Jim would go out in his boat on the sea,
Just as the rest of us fishermen did, An' when he come back at night thar'd be,
Up to his knees in the surf, each kid, A beck'nin' and cheer-in' to fisherman Jim;
He'd hear 'em, you bet, above the roar Of the waves on the shore.

Jim would go out in his boat on the sea,
Just like all the other fishermen did, And when he came back at night, there would be,
Kids standing in the surf up to their knees, Waving and cheering for fisherman Jim;
You can bet he'd hear them above the noise. Of the waves on the beach.

But one night Jim came a sailin' home
And the little kids weren't on the sands; Jim kinder wondered they hadn't come,
And a tremblin' took hold o' his knees and hands, And he learnt the worst up on the hill,
In the little house, an' he bowed his head, "The fever," they said.

But one night Jim came sailing home
And the little kids weren't at the beach; Jim kind of wondered why they hadn't shown up,
And a shiver took over his knees and hands, And he learned the worst up on the hill,
In the small house, he lowered his head, "The flu," they said.

'T was an awful time for fisherman Jim,
With them darlin's a dyin' afore his eyes, They kep' a callin' an' beck'nin' him,
For they kinder wandered in mind. Their cries Were about the waves and fisherman Jim
And the little boat a sailin' for shore Till they spoke no more.

It was a terrible time for fisherman Jim,
With his loved ones dying right in front of him, They kept calling and beckoning him,
Because it seemed like they were losing their minds. Their cries Were about the waves and fisherman Jim
And the small boat heading for shore Until they went silent.

Well, fisherman Jim lived on and on,
And his hair grew white and the wrinkles came, But he never smiled and his heart seemed gone,
And he never was heard to speak the name Of the little kids who were buried there,
Upon the hill in sight o' the sea, Under a willow tree.

Well, fisherman Jim lived on and on,
And his hair went white and wrinkles appeared, But he never smiled and his heart seemed absent,
And no one ever heard him say the names. Of the little kids who were buried there,
On the hill that looks out over the sea, Under a willow tree.

One night they came and told me to haste
To the house on the hill, for Jim was sick, And they said I hadn't no time to waste,
For his tide was ebbin' powerful quick An' he seemed to be wand'rin' and crazy like,
An' a seein' sights he oughtn't to see, An' had called for me.

One night they came and told me to hurry
To the house on the hill, since Jim was sick, And they said I didn't have any time to waste,
Because his time was running out very quickly. And he seemed to be wandering and acting crazy,
And witnessing things he shouldn't be witnessing, And he called for me.

And fisherman Jim sez he to me,
"It's my last, last cruise, you understand, I'm sailin' a dark and dreadful sea,
But off on the further shore, on the sand, Are the kids, who's a beck'nin' and callin' my name
Jess as they did, oh, mate, you know, In the long ago."

And fisherman Jim says to me,
"It's my final, final trip, you know, I'm sailing on a dark and scary sea,
But over on the far shore, on the sand, Are the kids, who are waving and calling my name
Just like they did, you know, buddy, "Back in the day."

No, sir! he wasn't afeard to die,
For all that night he seemed to see His little boys of the years gone by,
And to hear sweet voices forgot by me; An' just as the mornin' sun came up,
"They're a holdin' me by the hands," he cried, And so he died.

No, sir! He wasn't afraid to die,
All through that night he appeared to see His little boys from years gone by,
And to hear sweet voices I had forgotten; And just as the morning sun came up,
"They're grabbing my hands," he cried, And then he died.

EUGENE FIELD.

Eugene Field.

THE MAY QUEEN.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year,—
Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

You need to wake me up and call me early, call me early, dear mom;
Tomorrow will be the happiest time of all the joyful new year,—
Of all the joyful new year, mom, the craziest, happiest day;
Because I'm going to be Queen of the May, mom, I'm going to be Queen of the May.

There 's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine;
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline;
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say:
So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

There are lots of dark, dark eyes, they say, but none as bright as mine;
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline;
But none as lovely as little Alice in all the land, they say:
So I'm going to be Queen of the May, Mom, I'm going to be Queen of the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;
But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and garlands gay;
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

I sleep so soundly all night, mom, that I won't wake up,
Unless you call me out loud when the day starts to dawn;
But I need to pick some flowers, buds, and colorful garlands;
Because I'm going to be Queen of the May, mom, I'm going to be Queen of the May.

As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,—
But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

As I walked up the valley, guess who I saw
But Robin leaning on the bridge under the hazel tree?
He remembered the sharp look, mom, I gave him yesterday,—
But I’m going to be Queen of the May, mom, I’m going to be Queen of the May.

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white;
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

He thought I was a ghost, Mom, because I was wearing all white;
And I ran past him without saying a word, like a flash of light.
They call me heartless, but I don’t care what they think,
Because I'm going to be Queen of the May, Mom, I'm going to be Queen of the May.

They say he's dying all for love,—but that can never be;
They say his heart is breaking, mother,—what is that to me?
There's many a bolder lad'll woo me any summer day;
And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

They say he's dying all for love—but that can't be true;
They say his heart is breaking, mom—what does that mean to me?
There are plenty of braver guys who will chase me any summer day;
And I'm going to be Queen of the May, mom, I'm going to be Queen of the May.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen;
For the shepherd lads on every side'll come from far away;
And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

Little Effie will come with me tomorrow to the green,
And you'll be there too, mom, to watch me become the Queen;
For the shepherd boys all around will come from far away;
And I'm going to be Queen of the May, mom, I'm going to be Queen of the May.

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers,
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray;
And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

The honeysuckle around the porch has woven its wavy arches,
And by the meadow ditches, the delicate sweet cuckoo-flowers bloom;
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in the grey swamps and hollows;
And I'm going to be Queen of the May, mom, I'm going to be Queen of the May.

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day;
And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

The night winds come and go, mom, over the meadow grass,
And the happy stars above seem to shine brighter as they pass;
There won’t be a drop of rain all day long;
And I’m going to be Queen of the May, mom, I’m going to be Queen of the May.

All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and still,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,
And the rivulet in the flowery dale'll merrily glance and play,
For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

The whole valley, mom, will be fresh and green and calm,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot will cover all the hill,
And the stream in the flowery valley will gleefully sparkle and dance,
Because I’m going to be Queen of the May, mom, I’m going to be Queen of the May.

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year;
To-morrow'll be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,
For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May.

So you need to wake me up and call me early, call me early, dear mother;
Tomorrow will be the happiest time of this joyful new year;
Tomorrow will be the craziest, happiest day of the whole year,
Because I'm going to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm going to be Queen of the May.

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

New Year's Eve.

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year.
It is the last new-year that I shall ever see,—
Then you may lay me low i' the mold, and think no more of me.

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mom,
Because I want to see the sunrise on the happy new year.
This is the last new year I will ever see,—
Then you can lay me down in the earth and forget about me.

To-night I saw the sun set,—he set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;
And the new-year's coming up, mother; but I shall never see
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

To-night I saw the sun set—it set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old times, and all my peace of mind;
And the new year's coming up, mom; but I’ll never see
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaves on the tree.

Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day,—
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;
And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse,
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.

Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a fun day,—
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;
And we danced around the May-pole and in the hazel grove,
Until Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.

There's not a flower on all the hills,—the frost is on the pane;
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again.
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high,—
I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

There's not a flower on any of the hills—the frost is on the window;
I just want to live until the snowdrops return.
I wish the snow would melt and the sun would shine brightly up high—
I long to see a flower before I die.

The building-rook'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree,
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'er the wave,
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moldering grave.

The building crow will caw from the windy tall elm tree,
And the tufted plover will call along the empty fields,
And the swallow will return again with summer over the waves,
But I will lie alone, mother, in the decaying grave.

Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early, early morning the summer sun'll shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,—
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

Upon the chancel window, and on that grave of mine,
In the early morning, the summer sun will shine,
Before the rooster crows from the farm on the hill,—
When you are sound asleep, mom, and the whole world is quiet.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

When the flowers bloom again, mom, under the fading light
You won't see me anymore in the long gray fields at night;
When the summer breezes blow cool from the dry, dark moor
On the oat grass and the sword grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.
I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

You'll bury me, Mom, right under the hawthorn shade,
And you'll come by sometimes to visit where I'm laid low.
I won’t forget you, Mom; I'll hear you as you walk by,
With your feet above my head in the soft and lovely grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now;
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild;
You should not fret for me, mother—you have another child.

I’ve been reckless and lost, but you’ll forgive me now;
You’ll kiss me, my own mother, on my cheek and brow;
No, no, don’t cry, and don’t let your sadness run wild;
You shouldn’t worry about me, mother—you have another child.

If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say.
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.

If I can, I'll come again, mom, from my resting place;
Even though you won't see me, mom, I'll still gaze upon your face;
Though I can't say a word, I'll listen to what you say.
And I'll often be with you when you think I'm far away.

Good night! good night! when I have said good night forevermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green,—
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

Good night! Good night! When I’ve said good night for good,
And you see me taken out from the doorway,
Don’t let Effie come to see me until my grave is covered in grass,—
She’ll be a better child to you than I ever was.

She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor.
Let her take 'em—they are hers; I shall never garden more.
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set
About the parlor window and the box of mignonette.

She'll find my garden tools on the granary floor.
Let her take them—they're hers; I won't be gardening anymore.
But tell her, when I'm gone, to take care of the rosebush that I planted
By the parlor window and the box of mignonette.

Good night, sweet-mother! Call me before the day is born.
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year,—
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

Good night, sweet mom! Wake me up before the new day starts.
All night I lie awake, but I doze off in the morning;
But I want to see the sun rise on this joyful new year,—
So, if you're awake, wake me, wake me up early, dear mom.

CONCLUSION.

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;
And in the fields all around I hear the bleating of the lamb.
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.

I thought I would have passed away by now, and yet I’m still alive;
And in the fields all around, I hear the lambs bleating.
How sadly, I remember, the morning at the start of the year!
To die before the snowdrop arrived, and now the violet is here.

O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies;
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise;
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow;
And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to go.

O, sweet is the new violet that blooms under the skies;
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise;
And sweet is all the land around, and all the flowers that bloom;
And much sweeter is death than life, to me who longs to go.

It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,
And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet, His will be done!
But still I think it can't be long before I find release;
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.

It felt so tough at first, Mom, to leave the beautiful sun,
And now it feels just as tough to stay; but, His will be done!
Still, I believe it won't be long before I find relief;
And that kind man, the pastor, has given me words of comfort.

O, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair,
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!
O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

O, blessings on his warm voice, and on his gray hair,
And blessings on his entire life, until he meets me there!
O, blessings on his kind heart and on his gray head!
A thousand times I blessed him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin;
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in.
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be;
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

He taught me all about mercy by showing me all the sin;
Now, even though I lit my lamp late, there's Someone who will welcome me in.
And I wouldn't want to be well now, mother, even if I could;
Because my only wish is to go to Him who died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,—
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet;
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

I didn't hear the dog howl, Mom, or the sound of the death-watch beetle,—
There came a sweeter sign when night meets morning;
But sit beside my bed, Mom, and put your hand in mine,
And have Effie on the other side, and I’ll explain the sign.

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call,—
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

All throughout the wild March morning, I heard the angels calling,—
It was when the moon was going down, and darkness covered everything;
The trees started to whisper, and the wind began to stir,
And in the wild March morning, I heard them summon my soul.

For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie dear;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;
With all my strength I prayed for both,—and so I felt resigned,
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

For, lying wide awake, I thought of you and Effie, dear;
I imagined you sitting in the house, while I was no longer here;
With all my strength, I prayed for both of you—and that's when I began to feel at peace,
And up the valley came a wave of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed;
And then did something speak to me,—I know not what was said;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

I thought it was elegant, and I listened in my bed;
Then something spoke to me—I don’t know what it said;
For pure joy and a chill gripped my whole mind,
And the music floated back up the valley on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them,—it's mine;"
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars;
Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the stars.

But you were asleep; and I said, "It's not for them—it's mine;"
And if it happens three times, I thought, I'll take it as a sign.
And once again it came, and right next to the window bars;
Then it seemed to go straight up to heaven and disappear among the stars.

So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I know
The blessèd music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day;
But Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away.

So now I think my time is close; I hope it is. I know
The blessed music leads the way my soul will need to follow.
And honestly, I don’t mind if I go today;
But Effie, you need to comfort her when I'm gone.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet.
If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife;
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

And say a nice word to Robin, and tell him not to worry;
There are many better than me who could still make him happy.
If I had lived—I can’t say—I might have been his wife;
But all of that is gone now, along with my desire to live.

O, look! the sun begins to rise! the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine,—
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

Oh, look! The sun is starting to rise! The sky is glowing;
It shines on a hundred fields, and I know them all.
And now I no longer move there, and his light can shine there,—
Wildflowers in the valley for other hands to pick.

O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,—
Forever and forever with those just souls and true,—
And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that before this day is over
The voice that’s speaking now might be beyond the sun,—
Forever and ever with those righteous souls and true,—
And what is life, that we should complain? why do we make such a fuss?

Forever and forever, all in a blessèd home,—
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come,—
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,—
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

Forever and ever, all in a blessed home,—
And there to wait a little while until you and Effie arrive,—
To lie in the light of God, just as I lie on your chest,—
And the wicked stop their troubles, and the tired find their peace.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

ON ANNE ALLEN.

The wind blew keenly from the Western sea,
And drove the dead leaves slanting from the tree—
Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith— Heaping them up before her Father's door
When I saw her whom I shall see no more—
We cannot bribe thee, Death.

The wind blew sharply from the West sea,
And sent the dead leaves tumbling from the tree—
The Preacher says everything is meaningless— Piling them up in front of her Father's door
When I saw her whom I will never see again—
We can't bribe you, Death.

She went abroad the falling leaves among,
She saw the merry season fade, and sung—
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith— Freely she wandered in the leafless wood,
And said that all was fresh, and fair, and good— She knew thee not, O Death.

She traveled through the falling leaves,
She watched the cheerful season disappear, and sang—
The Preacher says everything is meaningless— She wandered freely in the bare woods,
And claimed that everything was fresh, beautiful, and good—
She didn’t know you, O Death.

She bound her shining hair across her brow,
She went into the garden fading now;
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith— And if one sighed to think that it was sere,
She smiled to think that it would bloom next year!
She feared thee not, O Death.

She tied her shiny hair back on her forehead,
She walked into the garden that's losing its brightness now;
The Preacher says, "All is vanity." And while one might sigh at how it’s withered,
She smiled, knowing it would blossom again next year!
She was not afraid of you, Death.

Blooming she came back to the cheerful room
With all the fairer flowers yet in bloom—
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith— A fragrant knot for each of us she tied,
And placed the fairest at her Father's side—
She cannot charm thee, Death.

Blooming, she returned to the cheerful room
With all the prettier flowers still in bloom—
Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher— A fragrant bunch for each of us she tied,
And put the prettiest by her Father's side—
She can’t enchant you, Death.

Her pleasant smile spread sunshine upon all;
We heard her sweet clear laughter in the Hall—
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith— We heard her sometimes after evening prayer,
As she went singing softly up the stair—
No voice can charm thee, Death.

Her warm smile brightened everyone's day;
We could hear her sweet, clear laughter in the hall—
The Preacher says everything is meaningless— We sometimes heard her after evening prayers,
As she softly sang while going up the stairs—
No voice can charm you, Death.

Where is the pleasant smile, the laughter kind,
That made sweet music of the winter wind?
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith— Idly they gaze upon her empty place,
Her kiss hath faded from her Father's face—
She is with thee, O Death.

Where is the cheerful smile, the kind laughter,
That turned the winter wind into sweet music?
Everything is pointless, says the Preacher— They look aimlessly at her empty spot,
Her kiss has disappeared from her Father's face—
She is with you, O Death.

EDWARD FITZGERALD.

LOVE AND DEATH

Love and Death

Death comes in,
Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,
Would bar the way."

Death arrives,
Although Love, with open arms and wings wide open,
Would block the path."

From photogravure after the painting by George Fredeick Watts.

From a photogravure of the painting by George Frederick Watts.

SONNET.

Sonnet.

(SUGGESTED BY MR. WATTS'S PICTURE OF LOVE AND DEATH.)

(SUGGESTED BY MR. WATTS'S IMAGE OF LOVE AND DEATH.)

Yea, Love is strong as life; he casts out fear,
And wrath, and hate, and all our envious foes;
He stands upon the threshold, quick to close
The gate of happiness ere should appear
Death's dreaded presence—ay, but Death draws near,
And large and gray the towering outline grows,
Whose face is veiled and hid; and yet Love knows
Full well, too well, alas! that Death is here.
Death tramples on the roses; Death comes in,
Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,
Would bar the way—poor Love, whose wings begin
To droop, half-torn as are the roses dead
Already at his feet—but Death must win,
And Love grows faint beneath that ponderous tread!

Yeah, Love is as strong as life; it drives out fear,
And anger, and hate, and all our envious enemies;
It stands at the door, ready to close
The gate to happiness before
Death's dreaded arrival—yes, but Death is getting closer,
And the large gray outline looms,
Its face shrouded and hidden; and yet Love knows
All too well, unfortunately! that Death is here.
Death crushes the roses; Death enters,
Even though Love, with open arms and spread wings,
Would block the path—poor Love, whose wings are starting
To droop, half-torn like the dead roses
Already at his feet—but Death must prevail,
And Love grows weak beneath that heavy tread!

LADY LINDSAY.

JEUNE FILLE ET JEUNE FLEUR.

Young Girl and Young Flower.

The bier descends, the spotless roses too,
The father's tribute in his saddest hour: O Earth! that bore them both, thou hast thy due,—
The fair young girl and flower.

The casket lowers, the pure roses as well,
The father's goodbye in his toughest time: Oh Earth! that held them both, you have your share,—
The beautiful young girl and the flower.

Give them not back unto a world again,
Where mourning, grief, and agony have power,— Where winds destroy, and suns malignant reign,—
That fair young girl and flower.

Don't send them back to a world again,
Where sadness, pain, and suffering dominate,— Where storms tear apart, and harsh suns rule,—
That beautiful young woman and flower.

Lightly thou sleepest, young Eliza, now,
Nor fear'st the burning heat, nor chilling shower; They both have perished in their morning glow,—
The fair young girl and flower.

You're sleeping peacefully, young Eliza, now,
Not concerned about the blazing heat or the freezing rain; They both have faded in their morning light,—
The lovely young girl and flower.

But he, thy sire, whose furrowed brow is pale,
Bends, lost in sorrow, o'er thy funeral bower, And Time the old oak's roots doth now assail,
O fair young girl and flower!

But he, your father, whose wrinkled forehead is pale,
Bends over your grave, lost in sorrow, And Time now attacks the old oak's roots,
O beautiful young woman and flower!

From the French of FRANCOIS AUGUSTE,
VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND.

THE DEATH-BED.

THE DEATHBED.

We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

We watched her breathe through the night,
Her breath was soft and low, As in her chest the wave of life
Kept moving up and down.

So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.

So quietly we appeared to communicate,
We moved around slowly, As if we had given her half our strength
To help her survive.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied— We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

Our hopes contradicted our fears,
Our fears clashed with our hopes— We thought she was dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she passed.

For when the morn came, dim and sad,
And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed—she had
Another morn than ours.

For when the morning arrived, gloomy and sorrowful,
Chilly with morning rain, Her calm eyelids shut—she had
A different morning from ours.

THOMAS HOOD.

A DEATH-BED.

A deathbed.

Her suffering ended with the day;
Yet lived she at its close, And breathed the long, long night away,
In statue-like repose.

Her suffering ended with the day;
Yet she continued to live until it was all finished, And let the long, endless night pass,
As still as a statue.

But when the sun, in all his state,
Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through glory's morning-gate,
And walked in Paradise!

But when the sun, in all his glory,
Lit up the eastern sky, She went through glory's morning-gate,
And strolled in Paradise!

JAMES ALDRICH.

REQUIESCAT.

Rest in peace.

Strew on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew. In quiet she reposes:
Ah! would that I did too.

Strew her with roses, roses,
And not a single branch of yew. In peace she rests:
Oh! I wish I could as well.

Her mirth the world required:
She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.

Her laughter was what the world needed:
She filled it with happy smiles. But her heart was weary, weary,
And now they leave her by herself.

Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound. But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.

Her life was spinning, spinning,
In a mix of heat and noise. But for peace, her soul was longing,
And now peace is around her.

Her cabined, ample Spirit,
It fluttered and failed for breath. To-night it doth inherit
The vasty Hall of Death.

Her confined, expansive Spirit,
It fluttered and fought for air. Tonight it takes on
The vast Hall of Death.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Matthew Arnold.

"THE UNILLUMINED VERGE."

TO A FRIEND DYING.

To a dying friend.

They tell you that Death's at the turn of the road,
That under the shade of a cypress you'll find him, And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goad
Of pain, you will enter the black mist behind him.

They say that Death is just around the corner,
You'll find him sitting beneath the shade of a cypress tree, And as you push on tiredly, struck by the pain
You'll step into the dark fog that trails behind him.

I can walk with you up to the ridge of the hill,
And we'll talk of the way we have come through the valley; Down below there a bird breaks into a trill,
And a groaning slave bends to the oar of his galley.

I can walk with you to the top of the hill,
And we’ll discuss the journey we’ve taken through the valley; Down below, a bird bursts into song,
And a tired slave leans over the oar of his ship.

You are up on the heights now, you pity the slave—
"Poor soul, how fate lashes him on at his rowing! Yet it's joyful to live, and it's hard to be brave
When you watch the sun sink and the daylight is going."

You’re up high now, feeling sorry for the slave—
"Poor thing, how fate forces him to keep rowing!" But it’s great to be alive, and it’s tough to be brave
"When you see the sun setting and the day coming to an end."

We are almost there—our last walk on this height—
I must bid you good-bye at that cross on the mountain. See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating light
Fill the valley, and rise like the flood in a fountain!

We’re almost there—our final stroll on this hill—
I have to say goodbye to you at that cross on the mountain. Look at the sun glowing red, and the pulsing light
Filling the valley and spilling over like a fountain!

And it shines in your face and illumines your soul;
We are comrades as ever, right here at your going; You may rest if you will within sight of the goal,
While I must return to my oar and the rowing.

And it shines in your face and lights up your soul;
We're still friends, right here as you go; You can take a break if you want, close to the finish,
I need to get back to my oar and keep rowing.

We must part now? Well, here is the hand of a friend;
I will keep you in sight till the road makes its turning Just over the ridge within reach of the end
Of your arduous toil,—the beginning of learning.

We have to say goodbye now? Well, here’s a friend’s hand;
I’ll watch over you until the road shifts. Just over the hill, close to the end
From your hard work comes the beginning of your learning.

You will call to me once from the mist, on the verge,
"An revoir!" and "Good night!" while the twilight is creeping Up luminous peaks, and the pale stars emerge?
Yes, I hear your faint voice: "This is rest, and like sleeping!"

You will call to me once from the fog, on the edge,
"Catch you later!" and "Good night!" as the evening is coming in. Over bright peaks, and the faint stars come out?
Yes, I hear your gentle voice: "This is peace, just like sleeping!"

ROBERT BRIDGES (Droch).

CORONACH.

FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE," CANTO III.

He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain
When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow: The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary; But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.

He’s gone up the mountain,
He’s lost in the woods, Like a fountain dried up in summer
When we needed it the most. The spring, returning,
Will gather from the raindrops, But no comfort comes to us,
No fresh start for Duncan: The hand of the reaper

Takes the silver-haired ears; But the voice of the mourner
Calls out for manhood in glory. The autumn winds blowing
Carry the falling leaves, But our flower was blooming
When the blight was near.

Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and forever!

Fleet foot on the chase,
Smart advice in tough times, Red hand in battle,
How restful is your sleep! Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the froth on the river, Like the bubble in the fountain,
You’re gone, and it’s permanent!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Sir Walter Scott.

EVELYN HOPE.

Evelyn Hope.

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass.
Little has yet been changed, I think; The shutters are shut,—no light may pass
Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is gone!
Sit with her and keep her company for an hour. That’s her bookshelf, this is her bed;
She picked that piece of geranium flower, Starting to wilt too, in the vase.
I don’t think much has changed; The shutters are closed—no light can enter
Except for two long beams of light coming through the crack in the hinge.

Sixteen years old when she died!
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name,— It was not her time to love; beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares;
And now was quiet, now astir,— Till God's hand beckoned unawares,
And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Sixteen years old when she died!
Maybe she hardly knew my name,— It wasn't her time to fall in love; besides,
Her life was filled with many hopes and dreams, Plenty of responsibilities and small worries;
And now she was at peace, now she was animated,— Until God's hand called her unexpectedly,
And all that’s left of her is the sweet, gentle face.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?
What! your soul was pure and true; The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire, and dew; And just because I was thrice as old,
And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told?
We were fellow-mortals,—naught beside?

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?
What! Your soul was genuine and honest; The good stars aligned in your horoscope,
Made you from spirit, fire, and dew; And just because I was three times your age,
Our journeys in life were so different, Does that mean we meant nothing to each other?
We were just humans—nothing more?

No, indeed! for God above
Is great to grant as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love;
I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few; Much is to learn and much to forget
Ere the time be come for taking you.

No, really! Because God up above
Is strong enough to give and to create, And creates love to reward love;
I still claim you, for the love I have for you! It might be delayed, perhaps for several lifetimes,
I will journey through many worlds; There's so much to learn and so much to forget
Before the time arrives to take you.

But the time will come—at last it will—
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, In the lower earth,—in the years long still,—
That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber I shall divine,
And your mouth of your own geranium's red,— And what you would do with me, in fine,
In the new life come in the old one's stead.

But the time will come—finally it will—
When I understand what it meant, Evelyn Hope, In the afterlife,—in the years long gone,—
That body and soul are so pure and vibrant? Why your hair was like amber I will figure out,
And your mouth is just as red as your geraniums,— And what you would do with me, ultimately,
In the new life taking the place of the old one.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,
Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men.
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing—one—in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me,— And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? let us see!

I’ve experienced so much since then,
Lost myself countless times, Gained the benefits of different people.
Explored the past, unsettled the world; Yet one thing—just one—in the depth of my soul,
Either I missed it or it missed me,— And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What's going on? Let's check it out!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;
My heart seemed full as it could hold,— There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,
And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep;
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep;
You will wake, and remember, and understand.

I loved you, Evelyn, all the time;
My heart felt as full as it could be— There was room to spare for your honest young smile,
And the beautiful young lips, and the hair like gold. So, hush! I’ll give you this leaf to hold;
Look, I placed it in your sweet, cool hand. There, that’s our secret! now go to sleep;
You'll wake up, recall, and comprehend.

ROBERT BROWNING.

Robert Browning.

ANNABEL LEE.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden lived, whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love, and be loved by me.

It was many years ago,
In a kingdom by the ocean, There was a girl, who you might know
By the name of Annabel Lee; And this girl had no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee,— With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

I was a kid, and she was a kid,
In this kingdom by the ocean; But we loved with a love that was deeper than love,
Me and my Annabel Lee,— With a love that the angels in heaven
Desired for us.

And this was the reason that long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsmen came,
And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre,
In this kingdom by the sea.

And this was the reason that long ago,
In this kingdom by the ocean, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My gorgeous Annabel Lee; So her wealthy relatives came,
And took her away from me, To lock her up in a tomb,
In this kingdom by the ocean.

The angels, not so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me. Yes! that was the reason (as all men know)
In this kingdom by the sea, That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

The angels, not so pleased in heaven,
Started envying her and myself. Yeah! that was the reason (as everyone knows)
In this kingdom by the ocean, That the wind blew out of the cloud at night,
Relaxing and spending time with my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

But our love was much stronger than the love
Of those who were older than us, Of many who were much smarter than we are; And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons lurking beneath the sea, Can ever separate my soul from the soul
Of the lovely Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

For the moon never shines without giving me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never come out without me feeling the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. So, all through the night I lie down next to
My darling, my darling, my life, and my bride,
In her grave by the sea, In her grave by the crashing waves.

EDGAR ALLAN FOE.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

THY BRAES WERE BONNY.

Your hills were beautiful.

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream!
When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream!
When now thy waves his body cover.

Your hills were beautiful, Yarrow stream!
When I first met my partner there; Your hills feel so bleak now, Yarrow stream!
When your waves now engulf his body.

Forever now, O Yarrow stream!
Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I
Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.

Forever now, O Yarrow stream!
You are to me a flow of sadness; For I will never see my love
On your shores, the Yarrow flower.

He promised me a milk-white steed,
To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page, To 'squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring,—
The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; Now he is wedded to his grave,
Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!

He promised me a white horse,
To take me to his dad's gardens; He promised me a young page,
To help me get to his dad's castle; He promised me a wedding ring,—
The wedding day is scheduled for tomorrow; Now he is married to his grave,
Sadly, his watery grave in Yarrow!

Sweet were his words when last we met;
My passion I as freely told him! Clasped in his arms, I little thought
That I should nevermore behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

Sweet were his words when we last met;
I expressed my feelings to him honestly! Held in his arms, I hardly thought
I can't believe I won't see him again! Barely had he left, I saw his ghost;
It vanished with a cry of sorrow; Three times the water-wraith rose,
And let out a painful groan through Yarrow.

His mother from the window looked
With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walked
The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west,
They sought him all the forest thorough, They only saw the cloud of night,
They only heard the roar of Yarrow!

His mother watched from the window
With all the yearning of a mother; His little sister, crying, walked
The forest trail to locate her brother. They looked for him to the east, they looked to the west,
They searched the whole forest; All they saw was the dark cloud of night,
All they heard was Yarrow's roar!

No longer from thy window look,
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid;
Alas, thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west,
And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark,
He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.

No longer look out from your window,
You don’t have a son, dear mother! No longer walk, you beautiful girl;
Unfortunately, you no longer have a brother! No longer search for him in the east or west,
And stop searching the forest so thoroughly; For, wandering in the dark night,
He collapsed lifeless in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek,
No other youth shall be my marrow; I'll seek thy body in the stream,
And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.

The tear will never leave my cheek,
No other young person will hold my heart; I'll look for your body in the stream,
And then I’ll sleep in Yarrow with you.

JOHN LOGAN.

FAREWELL TO THEE, ARABY'S DAUGHTER.

Goodbye, Araby's daughter.

FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS."

Farewell,—farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea;) No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

Farewell, farewell to you, daughter of Arabia!
(This is what a Peri sang under the dark sea;) No pearl has ever rested under Oman's green water
More pure on the outside than your spirit inside you.

O, fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing,
And hushed all its music and withered its frame!

Oh, beautiful like the sea flower blooming near you,
How carefree was your heart until the magic of love showed up, Like the southern wind blowing over a summer lute,
And silenced all its music, letting it fade away!

But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands,
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,
With naught but the sea-star to light up her tomb.

But for a long time, in the sunny green highlands of Araby,
Girls and their partners will remember what happened. Of the one who lies asleep among the Pearl Islands,
With only the sea star to light up her grave.

And still, when the merry date-season is burning,
And calls to the palm-grove the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime returning
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.

And yet, when the joyful season is in full swing,
And invites both the young and the old to the palm grove, The happiest ones there, coming back from their fun
At sunset, they will cry when they hear your story.

The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses
Her dark flowing-hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

The young village girl, when she styles
Her dark, flowing hair for a festival day, Will think of your fate until, ignoring her hair,
She sadly turns away from the mirror.

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero, forget thee—
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee,
Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Nor will Iran, dear to her hero, forget you—
Even as tyrants watch her tears as they fall, Right by that hero's side, she will place you,
Kept in the deepest part of her heart.

Farewell!—be it ours to embellish thy pillow
With everything beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

Farewell!—may we adorn your pillow
With all the beautiful things that grow in the depths; Every flower from the rocks and every gem from the waves
Will make your rest sweeter and your sleep brighter.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept; With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber,
We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept.

Around you shall shine the most beautiful amber
That the mourning sea-bird has always called out; With countless shells, in their hollow-wreathed chambers,
We, ocean Peris, have rested under the moonlight.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

We'll dive where the coral gardens lie in shadow,
And plant the most vibrant flowers in your hair; We'll search where the Caspian sands are shining,
And collect their gold to spread over your bed.

Farewell!—farewell!—until pity's sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain.
They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in the wave.

Goodbye!—goodbye!—until the gentle source of compassion
Is gone from the hearts of the kind and the brave, They'll mourn for the Leader who fell on that mountain.
They'll grieve for the Maiden who lies in the wave.

THOMAS MOORE.

SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH.

Gently take her breath away.

Softly woo away her breath,
Gentle death! Let her leave thee with no strife,
Tender, mournful, murmuring life! She hath seen her happy day,—
She hath had her bud and blossom; Now she pales and shrinks away,
Earth, into thy gentle bosom!

Gently take her breath away,
Peaceful passing! Let her go without any struggle,
Soft, sad, whispering life! She has experienced her joyful days,—
She has recognized her growth and beauty; Now she fades and retreats,
Earth, into your warm embrace!

She hath done her bidding here,
Angels dear! Bear her perfect soul above.
Seraph of the skies,—sweet love! Good she was, and fair in youth;
And her mind was seen to soar. And her heart was wed to truth:
Take her, then, forevermore,— Forever—evermore—

She has done what she needed to do here,
Dear angels! Take her perfect soul above.
Seraph of the skies, sweet love! She was kind and beautiful in her youth;
And her mind was always uplifted. Her heart was committed to truth:
So keep her, then, forevermore,— Forever

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (Barry Cornwall.)

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (Barry Cornwall)

SHE DIED IN BEAUTY.

She died beautifully.

She died in beauty,—like a rose
Blown from its parent stem; She died in beauty,—like a pearl
Dropped from some diadem.

She died in beauty,—like a rose
Cut from its parent plant; She died in beauty,—like a pearl
Fell from a tiara.

She died in beauty,—like a lay
Along a moonlit lake; She died in beauty,—like the song
Of birds amid the brake.

She died beautifully, like a melody
By a moonlit lake She died beautifully, like the song
Of birds in the thicket.

She died in beauty,—like the snow
On flowers dissolved away; She died in beauty,—like a star
Lost on the brow of day.

She passed away gracefully, — like the snow
Melting on the flowers; She passed away gracefully, — like a star
Dimming at daybreak.

She lives in glory,—like night's gems
Set round the silver moon; She lives in glory,—like the sun
Amid the blue of June.

She lives in glory, — like the stars at night
Surrounding the silver moon; She lives in glory, — like the sun
In the June blue sky.

CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY.

THE DEATH OF MINNEHAHA.

MINNEHAHA'S DEATH.

FROM "THE SONG OF HIAWATHA."

All day long roved Hiawatha
In that melancholy forest,
Through the shadows of whose thickets,
In the pleasant days of Summer,
Of that ne'er forgotten Summer.
He had brought his young wife homeward
From the land of the Dacotahs;
When the birds sang in the thickets,
And the streamlets laughed and glistened,
And the air was full of fragrance,
And the lovely Laughing Water
Said with voice that did not tremble,
"I will follow you, my husband!"
In the wigwam with Nokomis, With those gloomy guests that watched her,
With the Famine and the Fever,
She was lying, the Beloved,
She, the dying Minnehaha.
"Hark!" she said; "I hear a rushing, Hear a roaring and a rushing,
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha
Calling to me from a distance!"
"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,
"'T is the night-wind in the pine-trees!"
"Look!" she said; "I see my father Standing lonely at his doorway.
Beckoning to me from his wigwam
In the land of the Dacotahs!"
"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,
"'T is the smoke, that waves and beckons!"
"Ah!" said she, "the eyes of Panguk Glare upon me in the darkness,
I can feel his icy fingers
Clasping mine amid the darkness!
Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"
And the desolate Hiawatha, Far away amid the forest,
Miles away among the mountains,
Heard that sudden cry of anguish,
Heard the voice of Minnehaha
Calling to him in the darkness,
"Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"
Over snow-fields waste and pathless, Under snow-encumbered branches,
Homeward hurried Hiawatha,
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing:
"Wahonowin! Wahonowin!
Would that I had perished for you,
Would that I were dead as you are!
Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"
And he rushed into the wigwam, Saw the old Nokomis slowly
Rocking to and fro and moaning,
Saw his lovely Minnehaha
Lying dead and cold before him,
And his bursting heart within him
Uttered such a cry of anguish,
That the forest moaned and shuddered,
That the very stars in heaven
Shook and trembled with his anguish.
Then he sat down, still and speechless, On the bed of Minnehaha,
At the feet of Laughing Water,
At those willing feet, that never
More would lightly run to meet him,
Never more would lightly follow.
With both hands his face he covered, Seven long days and nights he sat there,
As if in a swoon he sat there,
Speechless, motionless, unconscious
Of the daylight or the darkness.
Then they buried Minnehaha; In the snow a grave they made her,
In the forest deep and darksome,
Underneath the moaning hemlocks;
Clothed her in her richest garments,
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine,
Covered her with snow, like ermine;
Thus they buried Minnehaha.
And at night a fire was lighted, On her grave four times was kindled,
For her soul upon its journey
To the Islands of the Blessed.
From his doorway Hiawatha
Saw it burning in the forest,
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks;
From his sleepless bed uprising,
From the bed of Minnehaha,
Stood and watched it at the doorway,
That it might not be extinguished,
Might not leave her in the darkness.
"Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha! Farewell, O my Laughing Water!
All my heart is buried with you,
All my thoughts go onward with you,
Come not back again to labor,
Come not back again to suffer,
Where the Famine and the Fever
Wear the heart and waste the body.
Soon my task will be completed,
Soon your footsteps I shall follow
To the Islands of the Blessèd,
To the Kingdom of Ponemah,
To the Land of the Hereafter!"

All day long, Hiawatha wandered
In that sad forest,
Through the shadows of its thickets,
In the lovely days of summer,
Of that unforgettable summer.
He had brought his young wife home
From the land of the Dakotas;
When the birds sang in the thickets,
And the streams laughed and sparkled,
And the air was filled with fragrance,
And the beautiful Laughing Water
Spoke with a steady voice,
"I will follow you, my husband!"
In the cabin with Nokomis, With the gloomy visitors that surrounded her,
With Famine and Fever,
She lay there, his beloved,
She, the dying Minnehaha.
"Listen!" she said. "I hear a rushing, Hear a roaring and a rushing,
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha
Calling to me from afar!"
"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,
"'T is the night-wind in the pine trees!"
"Look!" she said. "I see my dad." Standing lonely at his door.
Beckoning to me from his wigwam
In the land of the Dakotas!"
"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,
"'T is the smoke, that sways and beckons!"
"Ah!" she said, "the eyes of Panguk __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__." Glare at me in the darkness,
I can feel his icy fingers
Clasping mine in the dark!
Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"
And the lonely Hiawatha, Far away in the forest,
Miles away among the mountains,
Heard that sudden cry of despair,
Heard the voice of Minnehaha
Calling to him from the dark,
"Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"
Over snowy fields, empty and without paths, Under snow-laden branches,
Homeward rushed Hiawatha,
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing:
"Wahonowin! Wahonowin!
I wish I had perished for you,
I wish I were dead like you are!
Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"
He burst into the cabin, Saw the old Nokomis slowly
Rocking back and forth and moaning,
Saw his lovely Minnehaha
Lying dead and cold before him,
And his bursting heart inside him
Let out such a cry of anguish,
That the forest groaned and shuddered,
That the very stars in heaven
Shook and trembled with his grief.
Then he sat down, quiet and at a loss for words, On the bed of Minnehaha,
At the feet of Laughing Water,
At those willing feet that never
Would again lightly run to meet him,
Never again would lightly follow.
He covered his face with both hands, Seven long days and nights he sat there,
As if in a trance he sat there,
Speechless, motionless, unaware
Of the daylight or the darkness.
Then they buried Minnehaha; In the snow they made her grave,
In the deep, dark forest,
Underneath the moaning hemlocks;
Dressed her in her finest clothes,
Wrapped her in her robes of fur,
Covered her with snow, like fur;
Thus they buried Minnehaha.
At night, a fire was started, On her grave four times was kindled,
For her soul on its journey
To the Islands of the Blessed.
From his doorway, Hiawatha
Saw it burning in the forest,
Lighting up the shadowy hemlocks;
From his sleepless bed rising,
From the bed of Minnehaha,
Stood and watched it at the door,
That it might not be extinguished,
Might not leave her in the dark.
"Goodbye!" he said, "Minnehaha!
Goodbye, my Laughing Water!
All my heart is buried with you,
All my thoughts are with you,
Don't come back to work,
Don't come back to suffer,
Where Hunger and Illness
Wear down the heart and body.
Soon my task will be done,
Soon I will follow your footsteps
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the Kingdom of Ponemah,
To the Land of the Hereafter!"

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

MOTHER AND POET.

TURIN,—AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861.

Laura Savio of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gaëta.

Laura Savio from Turin, a poet and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gaëta.

Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the east,
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast,
And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me!

Dead! One of them was shot by the sea in the east,
And one of them was shot in the west by the ocean. Dead! Both my boys! When you’re sitting at the feast,
And you want an awesome song for a free Italy, No one should look at me!

Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art, for a woman, men said. But this woman, this, who is agonized here,
The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head Forever instead.

Yet I was a poet just last year,
And they said she was pretty good at it for a woman. But this woman, this one, who is in pain here,
The east and west seas echo endlessly in her thoughts. For eternity.

What art can a woman be good at? O, vain!
What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?
Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud by that test.

What art can a woman be skilled in? Oh, how foolish!
What skill does she have, besides hurting her chest? With the baby teeth of children, and a smile through the pain?
Ah, guys, you’re so annoying! You were strong as you pushed, And I was proud of that.

What art's for a woman! To hold on her knees
Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, struggle a little! to sew by degrees
And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat! To dream and to dote.

What a woman does for art! To have both her loves on her lap
Feeling all their arms wrapped around her neck Clinging, struggling a bit! to gradually sew
And embroider the tiny outfits and the tidy little jacket! Dream and adore.

To teach them ... It stings there. I made them indeed
Speak plain the word "country," I taught them, no doubt, That a country 's a thing men should die for at need.
I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant turned out.

To teach them ... It hurts there. I really did
Make sure they say the word "country" clearly, I told them, for sure. That a country is something men should be willing to die for when necessary.
I talked endlessly about freedom, rights, and __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__. The tyrant is being overthrown.

And when their eyes flashed ... O my beautiful eyes! ...
I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not.—But then the surprise,
When one sits quite alone!—Then one weeps, then one kneels! —God! how the house feels!

And when their eyes lit up... Oh, my gorgeous eyes!...
I was so happy! No, let them drive away on the wheels. Of the cannons, and I never denied it.—But then comes the shock,
When you're sitting alone!—That’s when you cry, that’s when you kneel! —Wow! the house feels amazing!

At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled
With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled,
In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough.

At first, happy news arrived, in cheerful letters filled
With my kisses, about camp life and glory, and how __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be pampered,
In exchange, they would brush away every fly from my forehead. With their green laurel leaves.

Then was triumph at Turin. "Ancona was free!"
And some one came out of the cheers in the street With a face pale as stone, to say something to me.
—My Guido was dead!—I fell down at his feet,
While they cheered in the street.

Then there was triumph in Turin. "Ancona is free!"
And someone walked out from the applause in the street. With a face as pale as stone, to tell me something.
—My Guido was dead!—I fell down at his feet,
While they celebrated in the street.

I bore it;—friends soothed me: my grief looked sublime
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained.

I endured it; friends comforted me: my sorrow seemed grand
As for the price in Italy, one boy was left behind. To lean on and walk with, reminding me of the time
When the first became a legend, both of us were struggling. To reach the level he had attained.

And letters still came,—shorter, sadder, more strong,
Writ now but in one hand. "I was not to faint. One loved me for two ... would be with me ere-long:
And 'Viva Italia' he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint."

And letters kept coming—shorter, sadder, stronger,
Written now in a single handwriting. "I wasn't meant to give up. One loved me for two... would be with me soon:
He died for "Viva Italia," our saint. Who stops us from voicing complaints?

My Nanni would add "he was safe, and aware
Of a presence that turned off the balls ... was imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,
And how 't was impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest."

My Nanni would add "he was safe and aware
Of a presence that turned off the lights... was impressed. It was Guido himself, who understood what I could handle,
And how it was impossible, totally lost, To keep living for the future.

On which without pause up the telegraph line
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaëta:—"Shot. Tell his mother." Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother; not "mine."
No voice says "my mother" again to me. What! You think Guido forgot?

On which, without stopping, the news from Gaëta quickly traveled up the telegraph line:—"Shot."
"Tell his mom." Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother; not "mine."
No one calls me "my mother" anymore. What!
You think Guido forgot?

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven,
They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven
Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so The above and below.

Are souls so blissfully happy that, overwhelmed with heaven,
They released their earthly attachments and couldn’t feel sorrow? I don’t think so. They were only recently forgiven
Through the love and sadness that brought us together Above and below.

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark
To the face of thy mother! consider, I pray. How we common mothers stand desolate, mark,
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say!

O Christ of the seven wounds, who looked through the dark
In front of your mother! Please pay attention. How we ordinary mothers stand in despair, see,
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with their eyes averted, And no final words to say!

Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all
Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'T were imbecile hewing out roads to a wall.
And when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son?

Both boys are dead! But that's not natural. We all
Have been patriots, but each family must always hold onto one. It would be foolish to carve out roads that lead to a wall.
And when Italy is established, what’s the purpose of it all? What if we don’t have a son?

Ah, ah, ah! when Gaëta's taken, what then?
When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men?
When your guns at Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short,—

Ah, ah, ah! When Gaëta is captured, then what?
When the beautiful, evil queen stops playing her games With fireballs of death shattering souls from men?
When your cannons at Cavalli fire their last shot And end the game,—

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee,
When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea,
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my dead,)

When Venice and Rome celebrate their new jubilee,
When your flag shines brightly in white, green, and red, When you have your country from the mountains to the sea,
When King Victor puts on Italy's crown, (And I remember my loved ones,)

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low,
And burn your lights faintly!—My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow,
My Italy's there,—with my brave civic pair, To disfranchise despair.

What now? Don't make fun of me. Ah, ring your bells softly,
And keep your lights dim!—My homeland is there, Above the star marked by the last snow-capped peak,
My Italy is here—with my brave couple, To overcome despair.

Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength,
And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn. But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length
Into such wail as this!—and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born.

Forgive me. Some women give birth with strength,
And suppress their cries in shame. But the suffering of entire nations will eventually twist us
Into a cry like this!—and we sit in hopelessness When the baby is born.

Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the west,
And one of them shot in the east by the sea! Both! both my boys!—If in keeping the feast
You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me!

Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the west,
And one of them was fired in the east by the sea! Both! Both my boys!—If you want a great song for your free Italy,
While celebrating the party, Don't anyone look at me!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O' THE SUN.

DON'T BE AFRAID OF THE HEAT OF THE SUN ANYMORE.

FROM "CYMBELINE," ACT IV, SC. 2.

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the heat of the sun,
Nor the fierce winter storms; You've completed your worldly tasks,
You're home now and have gotten your paycheck: All the golden boys and girls must,
Like chimney sweepers, return to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe, and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this and come to dust.

Fear no more the frown of the powerful,
You’ve moved past the tyrant's strike; Don’t worry about clothing or food;
To you, the reed is just like the oak: The scepter, knowledge, medicine, must
All obey this and return to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash
Nor the dreaded thunder; Don’t fear slander or harsh judgment;
You’ve experienced both happiness and sadness: All young lovers, all lovers must
Give themselves to you, and return to dust.

SHAKESPEARE.

HIGHLAND MARY.

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie! There Simmer first unfald her robes
And there she langest tarry! For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

You banks, and hills, and streams around
Montgomery Castle, Green be your woods, and beautiful your flowers,
Your waters are always clear! There summer first unfolds her robes
And there she hangs out longest! For there I said my last goodbye
To my dear Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk!
How rich the hawthorn's blossom! As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

How beautifully the bright green birch bloomed!
How beautiful was the hawthorn's blossom! As I held her close beneath their fragrant shade
I held her close to my heart! The golden hours, on angel wings,
Hovered above me and my sweetheart; For as precious to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender; And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore ourselves asunder; But, oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

With many vows and locked embraces
Our goodbye was so sweet; And often promising to meet again,
We broke apart; But, oh! cruel death's unexpected chill,
That took my flower away too soon! Now green is the earth, and cold is the clay,
That wraps up my Highland Mary!

Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mould'ring now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I've often kissed so sweetly! And closed forever the sparkling glance
That looked at me so nicely! And rotting now in silent dust
That heart that loved me so much! But still within my heart's core
Will live my Highland Mary.

ROBERT BURNS.

Robert Burns.

FAIR HELEN.

I wish I were where Helen lies;
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies
On fair Kirconnell lea!

I wish I were where Helen is;
She calls out for me day and night;
Oh, that I were where Helen is
On gorgeous Kirconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succor me!

Curse the heart that had that thought,
And curse the hand that pulled the trigger,
When beautiful Helen fell in my arms,
And died to save me!

O think na but my heart was sair
When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!
I laid her down wi' meikle care
On fair Kirconnell lea.

O think now but my heart was aching
When my Love fell down and spoke no more!
I laid her down with great care
On fair Kirconnell field.

As I went down the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirconnell lea;

As I walked along the riverbank,
Only my enemy to lead the way,
Only my enemy to lead the way,
On stunning Kirconnell meadow;

I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hackèd him in pieces sma',
I hackèd him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me.

I put down my sword to draw,
I chopped him into tiny pieces,
I chopped him into tiny pieces,
For the one who died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I'll make a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair
Until the day I die.

Oh Helen, beautiful and unmatched!
I'll weave a crown from your hair
That will tie my heart forever
Until I die.

O that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, "Haste and come to me!"

O that I were where Helen is!
Night and day she calls for me;
Out of my bed she tells me to get up,
Says, "Come quickly to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee, I were blest,
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest
On fair Kirconnell lea.

O beautiful Helen! O pure Helen!
If I were with you, I would be blessed,
Where you lie low and take your rest
On beautiful Kirconnell meadow.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
And I in Helen's arms lying,
On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave was covered in green,
A shroud pulled over my eyes,
And I lying in Helen's arms,
On beautiful Kirconnell field.

I wish I were where Helen lies;
Night and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,
Since my Love died for me.

I wish I were where Helen rests;
Night and day she calls for me;
And I'm tired of the skies,
Since my love passed away for me.

ANONYMOUS.

OH THAT 'T WERE POSSIBLE.

Oh, if only it were possible.

FROM "MAUD."

Oh that 't were possible,
After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love
Round me once again!

Oh, if only it were possible,
After such a long period of sorrow and suffering, To have my true love's arms
Here again!

When I was wont to meet her
In the silent woody places Of the laud that gave me birth,
We stood tranced in long embraces Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter
Than anything on earth.

When I used to meet her
In the peaceful, wooded areas Of the land where I was born,
We stood mesmerized in long hugs. Mixed with kisses sweeter, sweeter
Than anything on Earth.

A shadow flits before me,
Not thou, but like to thee; Ah Christ, that it were possible
For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us
What and where they be!

A shadow passes in front of me,
Not you, but someone like you; Oh Christ, if only it were possible
Just for a quick hour to see The souls we cared about, so they could tell us
What and where they are!

It leads me forth at evening,
It lightly winds and steals In a cold white robe before me,
When all my spirit reels At the shouts, the leagues of lights,
And the roaring of the wheels.

It guides me out in the evening,
It smoothly twists and moves In a cold white cloak ahead of me,
While my spirit feels all jumbled up From the cheers, the miles of lights,
And the rumble of the wheels.

Half the night I waste in sighs,
Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies;
In a wakeful doze I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes—
For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies.

Half the night I spend sighing,
Half-awake in dreams, I grieve for The joy of the morning skies;
In a state of half-awake haze, I'm grieving. For the hand, the lips, the eyes—
For tomorrow's meeting, The joy of happy laughter, The joy of soft replies.

'Tis a morning pure and sweet,
And a dewy splendor falls On the little flower that clings
To the turrets and the walls; 'T is a morning pure and sweet,
And the light and shadow fleet:
She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings.
In a moment we shall meet;
She is singing in the meadow, And the rivulet at her feet
Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings.

It's a morning fresh and bright,
And a dewy glow descends On the little flower that hugs
The towers and the walls; It's a morning fresh and bright,
And the light and shadow flit:
She is walking in the grassy field, And the forest echoes sing.
In a moment we’ll meet;
She is singing in the meadow, And the stream at her feet
Ripples in light and shadow To the song that she sings.

Do I hear her sing as of old,
My bird with the shining head, My own dove with the tender eye?
But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry—
There is some one dying or dead; And a sullen thunder is rolled;
For a tumult shakes the city, And I wake—my dream is fled; In the shuddering dawn, behold,
Without knowledge, without pity, By the curtains of my bed That abiding phantom cold!

Do I hear her sing like before,
My bird with the shiny head, My own dove with the gentle eye?
But suddenly there's a passionate shout—
Someone is dying or dead; And a heavy thunder rolls;
Because chaos is shaking the city, And I wake—my dream has disappeared; In the shivering dawn, look,
Without knowledge, without empathy, By the curtains of my bed That lingering cold phantom!

Get thee hence, nor come again!
Mix not memory with doubt, Pass, thou deathlike type of pain,
Pass and cease to move about! 'T is the blot upon the brain
That will show itself without.

Get out of here and don’t come back!
Don’t confuse memories with doubt, Leave, you deathlike symbol of pain,
Leave and stay still! It’s the stain on the mind
That will reveal itself outside.

Then I rise; the eave-drops fall,
And the yellow vapors choke The great city sounding wide;
The day comes—a dull red ball
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke On the misty river-tide.

Then I get up; the drops of water fall,
And the yellow fog chokes The vast city echoing broadly;
The day arrives—a dull red sphere
Enveloped in dense smoke On the hazy river current.

Through the hubbub of the market
I steal, a wasted frame; It crosses here, it crosses there,
Through all that crowd confused and loud
The shadow still the same; And on my heavy eyelids
My anguish hangs like shame.

Through the noise of the market
I steal, a wasted life; It moves this way, it moves that way,
Through all that chaotic and loud crowd
The shadow stays the same; And on my heavy eyelids
My pain feels like shame.

Alas for her that met me,
That heard me softly call, Came glimmering through the laurels
At the quiet evenfall, In the garden by the turrets
Of the old manorial hall!

Alas for her who found me,
Who heard me call softly, Came shining through the laurels
In the calm evening, In the garden by the turrets
Of the old mansion!

Would the happy spirit descend
From the realms of light and song, In the chamber or the street.
As she looks among the blest, Should I fear to greet my friend
Or to say "Forgive the wrong," Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet,
To the regions of thy rest?"

Would the joyful spirit come down
From the realms of light and music, In the room or outside.
As she looks among the blessed, Should I hesitate to greet my friend
Or to say, "I'm sorry for my mistakes," Or to ask her, "Take me, dear,
"To the places where you find peace?"

But the broad light glares and beats,
And the shadow flits and Meets
And will not let me be; And I loathe the squares and streets,
And the faces that one meets,
Hearts with no love for me; Always I long to creep
Into some still cavern deep,
There to weep, and weep, and weep
My whole soul out to thee.

But the bright light shines and hits hard,
And the shadows move and brush by
And won’t leave me alone; And I hate the blocks and roads,
And the faces I come across,
Hearts that don't love me; I always wish I could crawl
Into some quiet cave deep,
There to cry, and cry, and cry
I give you my entire soul.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

TOO LATE.

Too late.

"Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu."

"Douglas, Douglas, true and loyal."

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,
In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Could you come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,
In the old way that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, sweet and real.

Never a scornful word should grieve ye,
I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do; Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never let a harsh word hurt you,
I’d smile at you just like the angels do; Sweet as your smile has always shone on me,
Douglas, Douglas, kind and honest.

Oh, to call back the days that are not!
My eyes were blinded, your words were few: Do you know the truth now, up in heaven,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

Oh, to bring back the days that are gone!
I kept my eyes shut, and you spoke very little: Do you know the truth now, up in heaven,
Douglas, Douglas, kind and genuine?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas;
Not half worthy the like of you: Now all men beside seem to me like shadows—
I love you, Douglas, tender and true.

I was never good enough for you, Douglas;
Not even close to someone like you: Now all the other men seem like shadows to me—
I truly and deeply love you, Douglas.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,
Send down forgiveness from heaven like dew; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, kind and real!

DINAH MARIA MCLOCK CRAIK.

DINAH MARIA M'CLOCK CRAIK.

AFTER SUMMER.

POST-SUMMER.

We'll not weep for summer over,—
No, not we: Strew above his head the clover,—
Let him be!

We'll not cry over summer's end,—
No, not us: Scatter clover above his head,—
Leave him be!

Other eyes may weep his dying,
Shed their tears There upon him, where he 's lying
With his peers.

Other eyes might cry over his death,
Crying Fall on him, where he’s resting
Hanging out with friends.

Unto some of them he proffered
Gifts most sweet; For our hearts a grave he offered,—
Was this meet?

To some of them he offered
Cute gifts; For our hearts he proposed a grave,—
Was this correct?

All our fond hopes, praying, perished
In his wrath,— All the lovely dreams we cherished
Strewed his path.

All our cherished hopes and prayers faded away
In his rage,— All the beautiful dreams we held dear
Littered his way.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,
Far apart, Sundered wide as seas can sunder
Heart from heart,

Shall we in our graves, I wonder,
Far away, Separated wide as seas can separate
Heart to heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows
That were ours,— Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;
Poison-flowers

Dream of all the sorrows
That was ours,— Bitter nights, even more bitter tomorrows;
Toxic flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness,
Saying, "See, These are yours, in place of gladness,—
Gifts from me"?

Summer came on strong, almost like it was crazy,
"Check this out," These are yours, instead of happiness,—
"Gifts from me?"

Nay, the rest that will be ours
Is supreme, And below the poppy flowers
Steals no dream.

No, the rest that will be ours
Is the best, And beneath the poppy flowers
No dream is lost.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

LAMENT FOR HELIODORE.

Lament for Heliodore.

Tears for my lady dead—
Heliodore! Salt tears, and strange to shed,
Over and o'er; Tears to my lady dead,
Love do we send, Longed for, rememberèd,
Lover and friend! Sad are the songs we sing,
Tears that we shed, Empty the gifts we bring
Gifts to the dead! Go, tears, and go, lament,
Fare from her tomb, Wend where my lady went
Down through the gloom! Ah, for my flower, my love,
Hades hath taken I Ah, for the dust above
Scattered and shaken! Mother of blade and grass,
Earth, in thy breast Lull her that gentlest was
Gently to rest!

Tears for my dead lady—
Heliodore! Salt tears, and it's strange to cry,
Again and again; Tears for my dead lady,
Love we share, Longed for, remembered,
Partner and friend! Sad are the songs we sing,
Crying we do, Empty the gifts we bring
Gifts for the dead! Go, tears, and go, mourn,
Exit from her tomb, Wander where my lady went
Into the darkness! Ah, for my flower, my love,
Hades has claimed me Ah, for the ashes above
Shaken and scattered! Mother of blade and grass,
Earth, in your arms Lull her who was the gentlest
Rest easy!

From the Greek of MELEAGER.
Translation of ANDREW LANG.

From the Greek of MELEAGER.
Translation by ANDREW LANG.

ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER, FRANCIS I.

'T is done! a father, mother, gone,
A sister, brother, torn away, My hope is now in God alone,
Whom heaven and earth alike obey. Above, beneath, to him is known,—
The world's wide compass is his own.

It's done! A father, mother, gone,
A sister and brother, taken away, My hope is now in God alone,
Whom heaven and earth both bow down to. Above, below, he knows everything,—
The world's vast reach is his domain.

I love,—but in the world no more,
Nor in gay hall, or festal bower; Not the fair forms I prized before,—
But him, all beauty, wisdom, power, My Saviour, who has cast a chain
On sin and ill, and woe and pain!

I love—but not in the world anymore,
Not in bright halls or festive gardens; Not the beautiful things I used to value—
But He, full of beauty, wisdom, and strength, My Savior, who has put an end
To sin and evil, and sorrow and pain!

I from my memory have effaced
All former joys, all kindred, friends; All honors that my station graced
I hold but snares that fortune sends: Hence! joys by Christ at distance cast,
That we may be his own at last!

I’ve erased from my memory
All past joys, all relatives, and friends; All the honors that came with my position
I only see the traps that fate lays out: So! joys put off by Christ, far away,
So we can finally be His own someday!

From the French of MARGUERITE DE VALOIS,
QUEEN OF NAVARRE.
Translation of LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

To Mary in Heaven.

[Written in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.]

[Written in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day he learned about the death of his first love, Mary Campbell.]

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

You lingering star, with fading light,
That enjoys greeting the early morning, Once again you bring in the day
My Mary, who was torn from my heart. Oh Mary! dear departed spirit!
Where is your peaceful resting place? Do you see your lover lying low?
Do you hear the cries that break his heart?

That sacred hour can I forget,—
Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met
To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace;
Ah! little thought we 't was our last!

That sacred hour can I forget,—
Can I forget the sacred grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met
To share a single day of goodbye love? Eternity will not erase
Those cherished memories of happy moments; Your image at our final embrace;
Ah! we never imagined it would be our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,— Till soon, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of wingèd day.

Ayr, bubbling, kissed its rocky shore,
Covered with dense, green woods; The sweet-smelling birch and old hawthorn,
Wrapped passionately around the stunning view; The flowers sprang playfully to be pressed,
The birds sang songs of love on every branch,— Until soon, all too soon, the glowing west
Announced the rapid passing of the day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Still over these scenes my memory stirs,
And fondly lingers with worry! Time only makes the impression stronger,
As streams cut deeper into their pathways. My Mary! dear departed spirit!
Where's your peaceful place to relax? Do you see your lover laid low?
Do you hear the groans that break his heart?

ROBERT BURNS.

Robert Burns.

MINSTREL'S SONG.

Minstrel's Song.

O sing unto my roundelay!
O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday;
Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

O sing to my song!
Oh, cry a little with me! No more dancing at celebrations;
Go with the flow. My love is gone, Died on his deathbed, All under the willow tree.

Black his hair as the winter night,
White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light;
Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, etc.

Black his hair like a winter night,
White is his neck like summer snow, Ruddy his face like morning light;
He lies cold in the grave below. My love is gone, etc.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note;
Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O, lie lies by the willow-tree! My love is dead, etc.

Sweet his voice like a songbird's;
Swift in dance as thought can be; Skilled with his drum, sturdy his staff;
Oh, he's lying under the willow tree! My love is gone, etc.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, etc.

Listen! The raven flaps its wing
In the prickly hollow below; Listen! The death-owl sings loudly
To the nightmares as they come and go. My love is gone, etc.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my-true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, etc.

Look! The bright moon shines above;
Whiter is my true love's burial cloth, Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening sky. My love has died, etc.

Here, upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid. My love is dead, etc.

Here, on my true love's grave
Should the wilted flowers be put, Not a single holy saint to save
All the indifference of a girl. My love is gone, etc.

With my hands I'll bind the briers
Round his holy corse to gre; Ouphant fairy, light your fires;
Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, etc.

With my hands I’ll bind the thorns
Around his sacred body to welcome; Fairy spirit, light your fires;
Here my body will stay. My love is gone, etc.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood away; Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead, etc.

Come, with acorn cup and thorn,
Take my heart's blood away; I scorn life and all its goodness,
Party at night, or eat during the day. My love is gone, etc.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your lethal tide. I die! I come! my true-love waits....
Thus the damsel spake, and died.

Water-witches, wearing crowns of reeds,
Take me to your dangerous waves. I’m dying! I’m coming! my true love is waiting....
So the girl spoke and then died.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

THE PASSAGE.

Many a year is in its grave
Since I crossed this restless wave:
And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.

Many years have passed since I crossed this restless wave:
And the evening, beautiful as ever,
Shines on decay, rock, and river.

Then in this same boat beside.
Sat two comrades old and tried,—
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.

Then in this same boat beside.
Sat two old and tested friends,—
One with all the honesty of a father,
One with all the passion of youth.

One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm.

One on earth was made in silence,
And his grave was found in silence;
But the younger, brighter figure
Fell in battle and in storm.

So, whene'er I turn mine eye
Back upon the days gone by,
Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me,
Friends that closed their course before me.

So, whenever I look back
On the days that have passed,
Sad thoughts of friends come to me,
Friends who finished their journey before me.

But what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore;
Let us walk in soul once more.

But what connects us, friend to friend,
If not the way our souls can blend?
Those hours of the past felt so deep;
Let’s walk together in spirit once more.

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,
Take, I give it willingly;
For, invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me.

Take, O boatman, three times your fee,
Take it, I give it gladly;
For, unseen by you,
Two spirits have crossed with me.

From the German of LUDWIG UHLAND.
Translation of SARAH TAYLOR AUSTIN.

From the German of LUDWIG UHLAND.
Translation by SARAH TAYLOR AUSTIN.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride; The corn was springin' fresh and green.
And the lark sang loud and high— And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat next to each other On a bright May morning long ago,
When you were first my wife; The corn was springing up fresh and green.
And the lark sang loudly and high— And the red was on your lips, Mary,
And the light of love in your eyes.

The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then; The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek; And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You nevermore will speak.

The place hasn’t changed much, Mary;
The day is bright like it was before; The lark's loud song is ringing in my ears,
And the corn is green again; But I miss the gentle clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm against my cheek; And I still keep listening for the words
You'll never say it again.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near— The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest— For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

It's just a short walk down that lane,
And the small church is nearby— The church where we got married, Mary;
I can see the spire from this spot. But the graveyard is in between, Mary,
And my footsteps might interrupt your sleep— Because I've laid you, darling! down to sleep,
With your baby on your chest.

I'm very lonely now, Mary.
For the poor make no new friends: But, oh, they love the better still
The few our Father sends! And you were all I had, Mary—
My blessin' and my pride! There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

I'm really lonely now, Mary.
Because the poor don't make new friends: But, oh, they love even more
The few our Father sends! And you were all I had, Mary—
My joy and my pride! There’s nothing left to care about now,
Since my beloved Mary passed away.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on. When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow,— I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That kept hoping. When my faith in God had disappeared,
And my youthful strength was gone; There was always comfort on your lips,
And the kind expression on your face,— I thank you, Mary, for that,
Even though you can't hear me right now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,— When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake; I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore,— O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I appreciate your patient smile
Even when your heart was breaking, — When the hunger was eating away,
And you hid it for me; I’m grateful for the kind word,
When you were feeling sad and hurt— Oh, I'm thankful you're at peace now, Mary,
Where sadness can't reach you anymore!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary—kind and true! But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm goin' to; They say there 's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there— But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!

I'm saying a long goodbye to you,
My Mary—so sweet and genuine! But I won't forget you, my love,
In the place I'm going to; They say there's plenty of food and work for everyone,
And the sun always shines there— But I won't forget old Ireland,
Even if it were fifty times more beautiful!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies; And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.

And often in those beautiful old woods
I'll sit and shut my eyes, And my heart will journey back again
To the place where Mary rests; And I’ll picture the little stile
Where we were together, And the budding corn, and the sunny May morning,
When you first became my wife.

LADY DUFFERIN.

Lady Dufferin.

HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD.

FROM "THE PRINCESS."

Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry; All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die."

Home they brought her fallen warrior:
She didn’t faint or cry; All her maidens, watching, said,
"She needs to cry or she'll break down."

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Then they praised him, gently and quietly,
Called him worthy of love, The truest friend and the noblest rival;
But she said nothing and stayed still.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Stole a girl from her home,
Cautiously approached the warrior, Removed the veil from her face;
Still, she didn't flinch or cry.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee,— Like summer tempest came her tears,
"Sweet my child, I live for thee."

Rose, a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child on her lap, — Like a summer storm, her tears came,
"My dear child, I live for you."

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.

Denmark's King Ride.

Word was brought to the Danish king
(Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering,
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;
(O, ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl:
And his rose of the isles is dying!

Word got to the Danish king
(Go!) That the one he loved was in pain,
And longed for the comfort his voice would provide;
(Oh, ride like you're flying!) He cherishes every golden curl
On the forehead of that Scandinavian girl
More than his treasures of rubies and pearls:
And his rose from the islands is fading!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed;
(Hurry!) Each one mounting a gallant steed
Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(O, ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
Worn out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his rose of the isles lay dying!

Thirty nobles rushed on horseback;
(Quick!) Each one riding a brave horse
That he kept for battle and tough times;
(Oh, ride like you're soaring!) Spurs dug into the foaming sides;
Exhausted horses swayed and fell;
Bridles loosened, and straps broke;
But no matter how they pushed, the king led the way,
His island rose was fading!

His nobles are beaten, one by one;
(Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone;
His little fair page now follows alone,
For strength and for courage trying! The king looked back at that faithful child;
Wan was the face that answering smiled;
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,
Then he dropped; and only the king rode in
Where his rose of the isles lay dying!

His nobles are defeated, one by one;
(Quick!) They have collapsed, hesitated, and gone home;
His young, fair page now follows alone,
Striving for strength and courage! The king looked back at that loyal child;
The boy’s face was pale but smiled in response;
They crossed the drawbridge with a loud clatter,
Then he fell; only the king rode on in
Where his island rose was fading away!

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn;
(Silence!) No answer came; but faint and forlorn
An echo returned on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide;
None welcomed the king from that weary ride;
For dead, in the light of the dawning day,
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,
Who had yearned for his voice while dying!

The king sounded his bugle horn;
(Silence!) There was no reply; but faintly and sadly
An echo came back on the cold gray morning,
Like the sigh of a ghost. The castle gate stood ominously open;
No one greeted the king after that exhausting ride;
For lifeless, in the light of dawn,
The pale, gentle figure of the greeter lay,
Who had wished for his voice while passing away!

The panting steed, with a drooping crest,
Stood weary. The king returned from her chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast;
And, that dumb companion eyeing, The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck:
"O steed, that every nerve didst strain,
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain
To the halls where my love lay dying!"

The panting horse, with a drooping head,
Stood exhausted. The king came back from her resting place,
Thick sobs choking him up;
And, looking at that quiet companion, Tears streamed down that he tried to hold back;
He rested his head on his horse's neck:
"O horse, that pushed every nerve to the limit,
Dear horse, our journey was for nothing
"To the halls where my love is fading!"

CAROLINE E.S. NORTON.

Caroline E.S. Norton.

GRIEF.

FROM "HAMLET," ACT I. SC. 2.

QUEEN.—Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not, forever, with thy veiled lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust:
Thou know'st 'tis common,—all that live must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.
HAMLET.—Ay, madam, it is common. QUEEN.—If it be, Why seems it so particular with thee?
HAMLET.—Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems. 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within, which passeth show;
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.

QUEEN.—Good Hamlet, take off your black clothes, And let your eyes look friendly towards Denmark.
Don't, forever, with your covered eyes
Look for your noble father in the ground:
You know it's common—everyone who lives must die,
Moving through nature to eternity.
HAMLET.—Yes, madam, it's common. QUEEN.—If it is, Why does it seem so unique to you?
HAMLET.—Seems, Madam! No, it is; I don’t know how to pretend. It's not just my dark cloak, dear mother,
Or the usual suits of formal black,
Nor the forced sighs of heavy breathing,
No, nor the tears in my eyes,
Nor the sad look on my face,
Along with all expressions, styles, and displays of grief,
That can truly represent me: these might seem,
Because they are actions a person could act out:
But I have something inside that goes beyond show;
These are just the trappings and attire of sorrow.

SHAKESPEARE.

SELECTIONS FROM "IN MEMORIAM."

[ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, OB. 1833.]

[ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, D. 1833.]

GRIEF UNSPEAKABLE.

UNSPEAKABLE GRIEF.

I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel: For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within.

I sometimes think it's almost wrong
To express the sadness I feel: Because words, like nature, only reveal And only hide the soul inside.

But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

But for the restless heart and mind,
There's value in thoughtful words; The sad routine, Like dull drugs, numbing the pain.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more.

In words, like weeds, I'll cover myself,
Like coarse fabric against the cold; But the deep sadness that these hold Is given as a sketch and nothing more.

DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND.

Dead, in a foreign country.

IX.

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore
You sail across the peaceful ocean expanse. With the beloved remains of my lost Arthur, Spread your full wings, and carry him across.

So draw him home to those that mourn
In vain; a favorable speed Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead Through prosperous floods his holy urn.

So bring him home to those who grieve
Unsuccessful; a quick journey Raise your reflective mast and steer. Through successful waters his sacred urn.

All night no ruder air perplex
Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, through early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.

All night, no harsher breeze will bother
Your smooth hull, shining until Phosphor As our true love, through the morning Will shimmer on the wet decks.

Sphere all your lights around, above;
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love;

Sphere all your lights around, above;
Rest, gentle skies, before the bow; Rest, gentle winds, just like he's resting now, My friend, the brother of my love;

My Arthur, whom I shall not see
Till all my widowed race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me.

My Arthur, whom I won't see
Until my time as a widow ends; Treasured like a mother is to her son, More than my brothers mean to me.

THE PEACE OF SORROW

The Serenity of Grief

XI.

Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only through the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground:

Calm is the morning without a sound,
Calm enough to match a softer sadness, And only through the fallen leaf The chestnut dropping to the ground:

Calm and deep peace on this high wold
And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers That twinkle into green and gold:

Calm and deep peace on this high hillside
And on these dewdrops that cover the gorse, And all the shiny spiderwebs That sparkle into green and gold:

Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms, and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main:

Calm and quiet light on that vast plain
That spreads out with all its autumn leaves, And busy farms, and shrinking towers, To blend with the restless sea:

Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall; And in my heart, if calm at all, If any calm, a calm despair:

A sense of calm and deep peace in this vast sky,
These leaves that turn red when autumn arrives; And in my heart, if there's any peace, If there’s any calm, it’s a calm kind of despair:

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep.

Calm on the seas, and peaceful sleep,
And waves that softly sway at rest, And stillness in that noble heart That moves only with the rising tide.

TIME AND ETERNITY.

Time and Eternity.

XLII.

If Sleep and Death be truly one,
And every spirit's folded bloom Through all its intervital gloom In some long trance should slumber on;

If Sleep and Death are really the same,
And every person's hidden beauty Through all its empty darkness Should lie in a deep sleep for a long time;

Unconscious of the sliding hour,
Bare of the body, might it last, And silent traces of the past Be all the color of the flower:

Unaware of the passing time,
Naked from the body, may it last, And quiet traces of what has come before Be all the hue of the bloom:

So then were nothing lost to man;
So that still garden of the souls In many a figured leaf enrolls The total world since life began;

So then nothing was lost to humanity;
So that peaceful garden of souls In many a decorated leaf, there is The entire world since life started;

And love will last as pure and whole
As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime Rewaken with the dawning soul.

And love will endure, untouched and complete
Just like when he loved me in this life, And at the height of our spirits Reawaken with the rising soul.

PERSONAL RESURRECTION.

Personal resurrection.

XLVI.

That each, who seems a separate whole,
Should move his rounds, and fusing all The skirts of self again, should fall Remerging in the general Soul,

That each, who appears to be a separate entity,
Should mind his own business and mix everything together. The edges of self should come together again. Back into the universal Soul,

Is faith as vague as all unsweet:
Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside; And I shall know him when we meet:

Is faith as unclear as anything unsweet:
Eternal form will always divide The eternal soul is separate from everything else; And I will know him when we encounter each other:

And we shall sit at endless feast,
Enjoying each the other's good: What vaster dream can hit the mood Of Love on earth? He seeks at least

And we will sit at an endless feast,
Hanging out together What larger dream can create the vibe? For Love on earth? He seeks at least

Upon the last and sharpest height,
Before the spirits fade away, Some landing-place to clasp and say, "Farewell! We lose ourselves in light."

Upon the final and steepest peak,
Before the spirits vanish, A space to gather and express, "Goodbye! We lose ourselves in light."

SPIRITUAL COMPANIONSHIP.

Spiritual friendship.

XCIII.

How pure at heart and sound in head,
With what divine affections bold, Should be the man whose thought would hold An hour's communion with the dead.

How pure in heart and clear in mind,
With what bold, divine feelings, Should be the person whose thoughts could be contained. An hour's connection with the dead.

In vain shalt thou, or any, call
The spirits from their golden day, Except, like them, thou too canst say,
My spirit is at peace with all.

In vain will you or anyone else call
The spirits from their golden days, Unless, like them, you can also say,
My spirit is at peace with all.

They haunt the silence of the breast,
Imaginations calm and fair, The memory like a cloudless air, The conscience as a sea at rest:

They linger in the stillness of the heart,
Peaceful and bright imaginations, The memory is like a clear blue sky, The conscience like a calm sea:

But when the heart is full of din,
And doubt beside the portal waits, They can but listen at the gates, And hear the household jar within.

But when the heart is filled with noise,
And doubt lingers by the door, They can only listen at the gates, And hear the chaos inside.

Do we indeed desire the dead
Should still be near us at our side? Is there no baseness we would hide? No inner vileness that we dread?

Do we really want the dead
To still be nearby with us? Is there anything shameful that we would hide? No hidden shame that we fear?

Shall he for whose applause I strove,
I had such reverence for his blame, See with clear eye some hidden shame, And I be lessened in his love?

Shall he for whom I worked so hard for approval,
I had a lot of respect for his criticism, Recognize the hidden shame with clear awareness, And I be diminished in his affection?

I wrong the grave with fears untrue:
Shall love be blamed for want of faith? There must be wisdom with great Death: The dead shall look me through and through.

I burden the grave with false fears:
Should love be blamed for a lack of faith? There must be wisdom in great Death: The dead will see right through me.

Be near us when we climb or fall:
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all.

Be close to us when we rise or stumble:
You watch, like God, the minutes go by. With larger eyes than ours, To understand and accept us all.

DEATH IN LIFE'S PRIME.

LXXII.

So many worlds, so much to do,
So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee? For thou wert strong as thou wert true.

So many worlds, so much to accomplish,
So little accomplished, so much more ahead, How do I know what you need? For you were as strong as you were sincere.

The fame is quenched that I foresaw,
The head hath missed an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law.

The fame I expected is gone,
The head has missed an earthly crown: I don't blame nature or death; For nothing exists that goes against the law.

We pass; the path that each man trod
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God.

We move on; the path that each person walked
Is weak, or will be weak, with weeds: What glory is left for human actions? In endless time? It depends on God.

O hollow wraith of dying fame,
Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-enfolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name.

O hollow ghost of fading glory,
Completely vanish, while the spirit celebrates, And embraces the great results Of the strength that could have created a legacy.

THE POET'S TRIBUTE.

LXXVI.

What hope is here for modern rhyme
To him who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie Foreshortened in the tract of time?

What hope is there for modern rhyme
For those who look on with contemplative eyes On songs, actions, and lives that appear Shortened in the passage of time?

These mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden's locks: Or when a thousand moons shall wane

These earthly lullabies of sorrow
Could bind a book, could line a box, It might help to curl a girl's hair: Or when a thousand moons have faded

A man upon a stall may find,
And, passing, turn the page that tells. A grief, then changed to something else, Sung by a long-forgotten mind.

A man on a stall might discover,
As he passes by, turn to the page that shows. A sadness that then transforms into something else, Sung by a mind long since forgotten.

But what of that? My darkened ways
Shall ring with music all the same; To breathe my loss is more than fame, To utter love more sweet than praise.

But what about that? My troubled paths
Will still vibe with music; Feeling my loss means more to me than fame, To express love is sweeter than praise.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

APRÈS.

AFTER.

Down, down, Ellen, my little one,
Climbing so tenderly up to my knee;
Why should you add to the thoughts that are taunting me,
Dreams of your mother's arms clinging to me?

Down, down, Ellen, my little one,
Climbing so gently up to my knee;
Why should you add to the thoughts that are bothering me,
Dreams of your mother's arms holding onto me?

Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one,
Warbling so fairily close to my ear;
Why should you choose, of all songs that are haunting me,
This that I made for your mother to hear?

Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one,
Singing so sweetly close to my ear;
Why pick, out of all the songs haunting me,
This one that I wrote for your mother to hear?

Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one,
Wailing so wearily under the stars;
Why should I think of her tears, that might light to me
Love that had made life, and sorrow that mars?

Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one,
Crying so tired under the stars;
Why should I focus on her tears, which could show me
Love that gave life, and sorrow that scars?

Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one!
Is she not like her whenever she stirs?
Has she not eyes that will soon be as bright to me,
Lips that will some day be honeyed like hers?

Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one!
Is she not like her when she moves?
Does she not have eyes that will soon shine as bright to me,
Lips that will one day be sweet like hers?

Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one.
Though her white bosom is stilled in the grave,
Something more white than her bosom is spared to me,—
Something to cling to and something to crave.

Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one.
Though her white chest is quiet in the grave,
Something whiter than her chest is left for me,—
Something to hold on to and something to desire.

Love, love, Ellen, my little one!
Love indestructible, love undefiled,
Love through all deeps of her spirit lies bared to me,
Oft as I look on the face of her child.

Love, love, Ellen, my little one!
Love that can't be broken, love that's pure,
Love that reveals the depths of her spirit to me,
Often when I gaze at the face of her child.

ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY.

THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES.

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING IN HUMAN EYES.

Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the age of twenty-two.

Addressed to his late wife, who passed away during childbirth at the age of twenty-two.

To make my lady's obsequies
My love a minster wrought, And, in the chantry, service there
Was sung by doleful thought; The tapers were of burning sighs,
That light and odor gave: And sorrows, painted o'er with tears,
Enluminèd her grave; And round about, in quaintest guise,
Was carved: "Within this tomb there lies
The fairest thing in mortal eyes."

To hold my lady's funeral
My partner built a cathedral, And, in the chapel, they held a service there
Sung with sad thoughts; The candles were made of burning sighs,
That provided light and scent: And sorrows, painted over with tears,
Lit up her grave; And all around, in the most elaborate style,
Was carved: "Within this tomb there lies
The most beautiful thing in human sight."

Above her lieth spread a tomb
Of gold and sapphires blue: The gold doth show her blessedness,
The sapphires mark her true; For blessedness and truth in her
Were livelily portrayed, When gracious God with both his hands
Her goodly substance made. He framed her in such wondrous wise,
She was, to speak without disguise,
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

Above her lies a tomb
Made of gold and blue sapphires: The gold represents her blessedness,
The sapphires represent her truth; For blessedness and truth in her
Were vividly shown, When gracious God, with both His hands,
Created her gorgeous figure. He shaped her in such amazing ways,
She was, to put it plainly,
The most beautiful thing in human sight.

No more, no more! my heart doth faint
When I the life recall Of her who lived so free from taint,
So virtuous deemed by all,— That in herself was so complete I think that she was ta'en By God to deck his paradise,
And with his saints to reign, Whom while on earth each one did prize
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

No more, no more! My heart feels weak
When I reflect on my life Of her who lived so pure,
So virtuous in everyone’s view,— She was so whole I think she was taken By God to adorn his paradise,
And rule with his saints, Whom while on earth everyone valued
As the most beautiful thing in human sight.

But naught our tears avail, or cries;
All soon or late in death shall sleep; Nor living wight long time may keep The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

But our tears and cries do nothing;
Eventually, everyone will sleep in death; And no living being can cling to The most beautiful thing in human sight for long.

From the French of CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS.
Translation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

Break, break, break,
On your cold gray stones, O ocean! And I wish my voice could express
The thoughts that come to me.

O well for the fisherman's boy
That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

O good for the fisherman's boy
He shouts with his sister while they play! O good for the sailor lad
He sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on,
To the haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

And the grand ships keep sailing,
To the port at the bottom of the hill; But oh, for the feel of a lost hand,
And the sound of a voice that is quiet!

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Break, break, break,
At the base of your cliffs, oh sea! But the gentle beauty of a day that’s gone
Will never come back to me.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

LAVENDER.

How prone we are to hide and hoard
Each little treasure time has stored,
To tell of happy hours! We lay aside with tender care
A tattered book, a lock of hair,
A bunch of faded flowers.

How likely we are to hide and keep
Each little treasure that time has gathered,
To remind us of happy times! We set aside with gentle care
An old book, a lock of hair,
A bunch of wilted flowers.

When death has led with silent hand
Our darlings to the "Silent Land,"
Awhile we sit bereft; But time goes on; anon we rise,
Our dead are buried from our eyes,
We gather what is left.

When death has quietly taken
Our loved ones to the "Silent Land,"
For a moment, we sit in sadness; But time moves forward; soon we stand,
Our deceased are buried from our sight,
We gather what's left.

The books they loved, the songs they sang,
The little flute whose music rang
So cheerily of old; The pictures we had watched them paint,
The last plucked flower, with odor faint,
That fell from fingers cold.

The books they loved, the songs they sang,
The little flute whose music played
So happily from the past; The pictures we had seen them paint,
The last picked flower, with a faint scent,
That fell from cold fingers.

We smooth and fold with reverent care
The robes they living used to wear;
And painful pulses stir As o'er the relics of our dead,
With bitter rain of tears, we spread
Pale purple lavender.

We gently smooth and fold with great care
The clothes they used to wear in life;
And it hurts to feel. As we touch the belongings of our loved ones,
With tears that fall like bitter rain, we lay down
Lavender in pale purple.

And when we come in after years,
With only tender April tears
On cheeks once white with care, To look on treasures put away
Despairing on that far-off day,
A subtile scent is there.

And when we come back after years,
With just gentle April tears
On cheeks that were once pale with worry, To see the treasures stored away
Feeling hopeless on that distant day,
There's a subtle scent.

Dew-wet and fresh we gather them,
These fragrant flowers; now every stem
Is bare of all its bloom: Tear-wet and sweet we strewed them here
To lend our relics, sacred, dear,
Their beautiful perfume.

Dewy and fresh, we pick them,
These fragrant flowers; now every stem
Is left without any flowers: With tears of joy, we scattered them here
To honor our cherished memories,
Their beautiful scent.

The scent abides on book and lute,
On curl and flower, and with its mute
But eloquent appeal It wins from us a deeper sob For our lost dead, a sharper throb
Than we are wont to feel.

The scent lingers on the book and lute,
On curls and flowers, and with its quiet
Still strong appeal It evokes a deeper sigh from us. For our lost ones, a sharper ache
Than we usually know.

It whispers of the "long ago;"
Its love, its loss, its aching woe,
And buried sorrows stir; And tears like those we shed of old
Roll down our cheeks as we behold
Our faded lavender.

It speaks of the "long ago;"
Its love, its loss, its deep sorrow,
And buried sadness comes up; And tears like those we cried before
Stream down our cheeks as we see
Our faded lavender color.

ANONYMOUS.

WHAT OF THE DARKNESS?

WHAT ABOUT THE DARKNESS?

TO THE HAPPY DEAD PEOPLE.

TO THE HAPPY DECEASED.

What of the darkness? Is it very fair?
Are there great calms? and find we silence there?
Like soft-shut lilies, all your faces glow
With some strange peace our faces never know,
With some strange faith our faces never dare,—
Dwells it in Darkness? Do you find it there?

What about the darkness? Is it really beautiful?
Are there deep stillnesses? Do we find silence there?
Like softly closed lilies, all your faces shine
With a unique peace that we don’t understand,
With a strange faith that we wouldn’t dare to have,—
Does it exist in Darkness? Do you find it there?

Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie?
Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry?
Is it a Hand to still the pulse's leap?
Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep?
Day shows us not such comfort anywhere—
Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?

Is it a place where weary heads can rest?
Is it a mouth to kiss our tears away?
Is it a hand to calm the racing heart?
Is it a voice that holds the secrets of sleep?
Day doesn’t show us such comfort anywhere—
Does it exist in darkness? Do you find it there?

Out of the Day's deceiving light we call—
Day that shows man so great, and God so small,
That hides the stars, and magnifies the grass—
O is the Darkness too a lying glass!
Or undistracted, do you find truth there?
What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?

Out of the day's misleading light we call—
A day that makes man seem so important, and God so insignificant,
That obscures the stars and exaggerates the grass—
Oh, is the Darkness also a deceptive mirror?
Or do you find truth there without distraction?
What about the Darkness? Is it really beautiful?

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.

VAN ELSEN.

God spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul;
He spake by sickness first and made him whole;
Van Elsen heard him not, Or soon forgot.

God spoke three times and saved Van Elsen's soul;
He spoke through illness first and then made him whole;
Van Elsen didn't hear him. Or briefly forgot.

God spake to him by wealth, the world outpoured
Its treasures at his feet, and called him Lord;
Van Elsen's heart grew fat And proud thereat.

God spoke to him through wealth, the world laid
Its treasures at his feet and called him Lord;
Van Elsen's heart soared And became proud because of it.

God spake the third time when the great world smiled,
And in the sunshine slew his little child;
Van Elsen like a tree Fell hopelessly.

God spoke for the third time when the great world thrived,
And in the sunlight, He took away His little child;
Van Elsen, like a boss Fell into despair.

Then in the darkness came a voice which said,
"As thy heart bleedeth, so my heart hath bled,
As I have need of thee, Thou needest me."

Then in the darkness came a voice that said,
"As your heart bleeds, so my heart has bled,
I need you, "You need me."

That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet,
And, kneeling by the narrow winding sheet,
Praised Him with fervent breath Who conquered death.

That night Van Elsen kissed the baby's feet,
And, kneeling by the narrow winding sheet,
Praised Him with fervent breath Who conquered death.

FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.

WALT WHITMAN
From a life photo by Rockwood, New York.

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOOR-YARD BLOOMED.

[THE DEATH OF LINCOLN.]

[LINCOLN'S ASSASSINATION.]

When lilacs bloomed in the yard, And the bright star slowly sank in the western sky at night, I grieve and will continue to grieve with each returning spring.

Endless spring, you always bring me a sure trinity, Lilacs bloom every year, and a drooping star shines in the west, And I think of him that I love.

O powerful western fallen star! O shades of night—O dark, emotional night! O great star, where have you gone—O the dark fog that conceals the star! O cruel hands that hold me helpless—O powerless soul of mine! Oh, harsh surrounding cloud that won’t let my soul be free!

In the yard in front of an old farmhouse, next to the whitewashed fences, The lilac bush stands tall with heart-shaped leaves of deep green, With many delicate pointed blossoms rising, with the strong scent I love, Every leaf is a miracle;—and from this bush in the yard, With soft-colored flowers and heart-shaped, vibrant green leaves, I break off a sprig with its flower.

In the swamp, in hidden spots, A quiet and secretive bird is singing a tune.

Lonely the thrush, The hermit isolated himself, steering clear of the towns, Sings a song alone.

Song of the bleeding throat, Death's release song of life (because, well, dear brother, I know, If you weren't allowed to sing, you would definitely die.

Across the expanse of spring, the land, surrounded by cities, In the paths and through the old woods, where recently the violets poked through the ground, highlighting the gray debris, In the grass of the fields on both sides of the pathways, moving past the endless greenery, As the yellow-speared wheat sways, each grain emerges from its covering in the dark-brown fields. As I walk past the apple trees blooming with white and pink flowers in the orchards, Carrying a body to where it will be laid to rest in the grave, A coffin travels day and night.

Coffin that moves through roads and alleys, Through day and night, with the dark cloud covering the land, With the grandeur of the looping flags, with the cities covered in black, With the states themselves appearing as if they were women draped in black veils, With long, winding processions and torches lighting up the night, With numerous torches burning, with a quiet sea of faces and heads uncovered, With the waiting area, the arriving casket, and the serious faces, With mournful songs throughout the night, with a thousand voices rising loud and serious, As the sad sounds of the mournful songs surrounded the coffin, The dimly lit churches and the trembling organs—where you travel among these, With the constant ringing of the tolling bells, Here, coffin that moves slowly, I give you my lilac branch.

(Nor for you, for just one person,— I bring blossoms and green branches to coffins; For, as fresh as the morning, I would sing a song for you, O rational and sacred death.

Bouquets of roses everywhere, Oh death, I cover you with roses and early lilies, But mostly, now the lilac that blooms first, I break, I break the branches from the bushes, With my arms full, I come, pouring out for you, For you and the coffins, all of you, O death.

O western orb traveling through the sky, Now I understand what you must have meant about a month since I last walked, As I walked quietly through the clear, shadowy night, I noticed you had something to say as you leaned in to me night after night, As you fell from the sky close to my side (while the other stars watched), As we walked together on that quiet night (for some reason, I don't know why, I couldn't sleep), As the night went on, and I noticed on the edge of the west how filled you were with sorrow, As I stood on the elevated ground in the breeze on a cool, clear night, As I saw you walk by and got lost in the dark of the night, As my troubled soul sank in dissatisfaction, just like you, sad orb. Concluded, fell into the night, and disappeared.

Sing on over there in the swamp, O shy and gentle singer! I hear your melodies, I hear your call, I hear you, I'm on my way, and I get what you're saying; But for a moment, I pause, because the shining star has caught my attention, The star my leaving friend holds keeps me captivated.

10.

Oh, how should I sing for the loved one I lost? How should I celebrate my song for the beloved soul that has passed away? What perfume should I bring for the grave of the one I love?

Winds from the east and west have blown across the sea, Blown from the East Coast and blown from the West Coast, until they meet on the prairies, These, along with these and the breath of my song, I'll place perfume on the grave of the one I love.

11.

Oh, what should I put on the bedroom walls? And what pictures will I hang on the walls, To decorate the burial place of the one I love? Images of blossoming spring, farms, and residences, As the sun sets on the evening of the fourth month, the gray smoke is clear and bright, With waves of golden light from the beautiful, lazy, setting sun, heating and stretching the air, With the fresh, sweet grass beneath my feet and the pale green leaves of the trees abundant, In the distance, the shimmering surface of the river flows, its waters occasionally touched by a breeze. With hills stretching along the banks, with many lines against the sky, and shadows, And the city in question, with its crowded buildings and rows of chimneys, And all the scenes of life, the workplaces, and the workers heading home.

12.

Body and soul—this land, My own Manhattan with its tall buildings, the sparkling and rushing waters, and the ships, The diverse and vast land, the South and the North in the sunlight, Ohio's shores and the sparkling Missouri, And always the vast prairies covered with grass and corn. Look, the magnificent sun, so serene and proud, The purple and violet morning with a gentle breeze, The soft, gentle, endless light, The miracle is spreading, touching everyone, the fulfilled noon, The upcoming evening is delightful, the welcoming night, and the stars, Across my cities shining bright, surrounding people and the land.

13.

Keep singing, keep singing, you gray-brown bird! Sing from the swamps and the hidden places; let your song flow from the bushes, Limitless from the twilight, emerging from the cedars and pines.

Sing on, my dearest brother, and let your melody flow. Loud human singing, filled with deep sorrow.

Oh, fluid, free, and gentle! O wild and free to my soul—O amazing singer! It's only you I hear—yet the star keeps me (but will soon leave), Yet the lilac with its masterful scent captivates me.

14.

As I sat during the day and looked out, At the end of the day with its light and the spring fields, as the farmers get their crops ready, In the vast unconscious landscape of my country with its lakes and forests. In the beautiful sky (after the strong winds and storms), Under the expansive afternoon sky, filled with the quick passage of time, along with the voices of children and women, The many shifting sea tides, and I watched the ships as they sailed, And summer is coming in full swing, and the fields are busy with work, And the countless separate houses, how they each continued on, each with its meals and details of daily routines, And the streets, how their vibrations pulsed, and the cities held back—look, right then and there, Falling over everyone and surrounding me with everyone else, The cloud appeared, and the long black trail appeared, And I understood death, its concept, and the profound understanding of death.

Then with the awareness of death walking beside me, And the thought of death walking closely beside me, And I in the center, surrounded by friends, holding their hands, I ran into the quiet night that doesn't speak, To the water's edge, along the path by the swamp in the twilight, To the serious shadowy cedars and eerie pines that are so still.

And the shy singer received me while everyone else looked on. The gray-brown bird I know welcomed the three of us friends, And he sang the song of death, and a verse for him that I love.

From deep hidden corners, From the fragrant cedars and the hauntingly still pines, The bird sang its song.

And the charm of the carol captivated me, As I held my comrades in the night as if they were guiding me by their hands, And my spirit echoed the song of the bird.

Come, beautiful and gentle death. Wave around the world, calmly coming, coming, In the day and in the night, to everyone, to each person, Sooner or later, fragile death.

Praise the vast universe, For life and joy, and for interesting things and knowledge, And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise! For the comforting embrace of cool, surrounding death.

Dark mother, always moving silently nearby, Has no one sung a song of complete welcome for you? Then I chant it for you, I praise you above everything, I've got a song for you that encourages you to come without hesitation when the time comes.

Come closer, powerful deliverer! When that happens, when you have taken them, I happily sing the dead, Lost in the affectionate, drifting ocean of you, Bathed in the rush of your joy, O death.

From me to you, happy serenades, I suggest dances for you, greetings to you, decorations, and celebrations for you; The views of the open landscape and the vast sky are appropriate, And life, the fields, and the vast, contemplative night—

The night was quiet under countless stars, The ocean shore and the strong, whispering wave whose voice I recognize, And the soul turning to you, O great and mysterious death, And the body gratefully cuddling up to you.

Above the treetops, I send you a song, Across the rising and falling waves, over countless fields and vast prairies, Over the crowded cities and the busy docks and streets, I sing this carol with joy, with joy to you, O death.

15.

To the count of my soul, The loud and strong gray-brown bird kept going, With intentional notes spreading and filling the night,

Loud in the dim pines and cedars. Clear in the fresh moisture and the scent of the swamp, And I with my friends there in the night.

While my eyes that were closed began to open, Regarding extensive views of visions.

And I looked at the armies sideways, I saw in silent dreams hundreds of battle flags, Carried through the battle smoke and hit by missiles, I saw them, And carried back and forth through the smoke, all torn and bloodied. And finally, just a few scraps remained on the staffs (and everything was silent), And the staffs were all splintered and broken.

I saw countless battle corpses, And I saw the white skeletons of young men; I saw the wreckage and remains of all the fallen soldiers from the war, But I realized they weren't what I had thought. They were completely at peace; they did not suffer. The living stayed and endured, the mother endured, The wife, the child, and the thoughtful friend all suffered, The remaining armies struggled.

16.

Moving through the visions, moving through the night, As I passed by, I let go of my friends' hands, Hearing the song of the hermit bird and the counting song of my soul, Triumphant song, the song of death's escape, yet always changing, ever-different song, Soft and mournful, yet distinct, the notes rise and fall, filling the night. Sadly sinking and fainting, while warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy, Covering the earth and filling the expanse of the sky, As I listened to that powerful psalm in the night from the depths, As I pass by, I leave you lilac with heart-shaped leaves, I leave you there in the yard, blooming, coming back with spring.

I stop my song for you, From my view of you in the west, facing the west, connecting with you, O shining comrade, with a silver face in the night. Yet each to keep and all, recoveries from the night, The song, the amazing song of the gray-brown bird, And the counting chant, the echo stirred in my soul, With the shining and drooping star that has a face full of sorrow. As the holders grasped my hand close to the bird's call, My comrades and I are in the middle of this, and I will always remember them, for the ones I loved who are gone. For the sweetest, wisest person I've ever known across my life and travels—and this is for his beloved sake, Lilac, star, and bird entwined with the melody of my soul, There in the scented pine and cedar trees, it was dusk and dim.

WALT WHITMAN.

Walt Whitman.

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT.

IF I SHOULD DIE TONIGHT.

If I should die to-night, My friends would look upon my quiet face
Before they laid it in its resting-place,
And deem that death had left it almost fair;
And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair.
Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,
And fold my hands with lingering caress—
Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!

If I were to pass away tonight, My friends would gaze at my peaceful face
Before they placed it in its final resting place,
And think that death had made it almost beautiful;
And, placing white flowers in my hair,
Would gently smooth it down with tearful care,
And fold my hands with a lingering touch—
Poor hands, so empty and so cold tonight!

If I should die to-night, My friends would call to mind, with loving thought,
Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought;
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said;
Errands on which the willing feet had sped;
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words, would all be put aside,
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.

If I were to die tonight, My friends would remember, with love in their hearts,
Some kind action that my cold hands had done;
Some gentle words that my frozen lips had spoken;
Tasks my eager feet had hurried to complete;
The memories of my selfishness and pride,
My impulsive words, would all be forgotten,
And so I would be loved and missed tonight.

If I should die to-night, Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully;
The eyes that chill me with averted glance
Would look upon me as of yore, perchance,
And soften, in the old familiar way;
For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay?
So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night.

If I were to die tonight, Even distant hearts would turn back to me,
Remembering the past with regret;
The eyes that chill me with their turned-away looks
Might see me as they did before, perhaps,
And soften, in that old familiar way;
For who could fight against silent, unaware clay?
So I could rest, forgiven by all, tonight.

Oh, friends, I pray to-night, Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow—
The way is lonely; let me feel them now.
Think gently of me; I am travel-worn;
My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.
Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!
When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.

Hey friends, I'm asking tonight, Don't save your kisses for my lifeless brow—
The path is lonely; let me feel them now.
Think kindly of me; I’m weary from the journey;
My tired feet are pierced with many thorns.
Forgive me, oh, distant hearts, I beg you!
When I finally rest without dreams, I won’t need
The kindness I’m craving tonight.

BELLE E. SMITH.

AWAKENING.

Awakening.

Down to the borders of the silent land
He goes with halting feet; He dares not trust; he cannot understand
The blessedness complete That waits for God's beloved at his right hand.

Down to the edges of the quiet land
He's walking unsteadily; He can’t put his trust in it; he can’t grasp
Pure joy That awaits God's chosen one at His right side.

He dreads to see God's face, for though the pure
Beholding him are blest, Yet in his sight no evil can endure;
And still with fear oppressed He looks within and cries, "Who can be sure?"

He fears seeing God's face, because while the pure
Those who look at Him are blessed, No evil can stand in His presence;
And still weighed down by fear He looks inside and cries, "Who can be certain?"

The world beyond is strange; the golden streets,
The palaces so fair, The seraphs singing in the shining seats,
The glory everywhere,— And to his soul he solemnly repeats

The world out there is odd; the golden streets,
The stunning palaces, The angels singing in the bright thrones,
The glory all around— And to his soul he seriously repeats

The visions of the Book. "Alas!" he cries,
"That world is all too grand; Among those splendors and those majesties
I would not dare to stand; For me a lowlier heaven would well suffice!"

The visions of the Book. "Oh no!" he cries,
"That world is just too big; Among those glories and those grandeurs
I wouldn't dare to stand; For me, a simpler heaven would be enough!"

Yet, faithful in his lot this saint has stood
Through service and through pain; The Lord Christ he has followed, doing good;
Sure, dying must be gain To one who living hath done what he could.

Yet, steadfast in his role this saint has remained
Through service and struggle; He's followed the Lord Christ, doing good;
Surely, dying must be a benefit. For someone who, while alive, has done what he could.

The light is fading in the tired eyes,
The weary race is run; Not as the victor that doth seize the prize.
But as the fainting one, He nears the verge of the eternities.

The light is dimming in the exhausted eyes,
The long race is done; Not like the winner who claims the prize.
But like someone who's giving up, He approaches the edge of eternity.

And now the end has come, and now he sees
The happy, happy shore; O fearful, and faint, distrustful soul, are these
The things thou fearedst before— The awful majesties that spoiled thy peace?

And now the end has come, and now he sees
The joyful, joyful shore; Oh fearful, and weak, distrustful soul, are these
The things you used to be afraid of— The terrible wonders that disturbed your peace?

This land is home; no stranger art thou here;
Sweet and familiar words From voices silent long salute thine ear;
And winds and songs of birds, And bees and blooms and sweet perfumes are near.

This land is home; you're no stranger here;
Sweet and comforting words From voices long silent greet your ear;
And the winds and the songs of birds, And bees and flowers and sweet scents are close.

The seraphs—they are men of kindly mien;
The gems and robes—but signs Of minds all radiant and of hearts washed clean;
The glory—such as shines Wherever faith or hope or love is seen.

The seraphs—they are kind-hearted men;
The jewels and robes—just symbols Of bright minds and pure hearts;
The glory—like the shine That shines wherever faith, hope, or love is found.

And he, O doubting child! the Lord of grace
Whom thou didst fear to see— He knows thy sin—but look upon his face!
Doth it not shine on thee With a great light of love that fills the place?

And he, oh uncertain child! the Lord of grace
Who you were afraid to see— He knows your sin—but look at his face!
Does it not shine on you? With a bright light of love that fills the space?

O happy soul, be thankful now and rest!
Heaven is a goodly land; And God is love; and those he loves are blest;—
Now thou dost understand; The least thou hast is better than the best

O happy soul, be grateful now and find peace!
Heaven is a beautiful place. And God is love; and those He loves are blessed;—
Now you get it; What you have, no matter how small, is better than the best.

That thou didst hope for; now upon thine eyes
The new life opens fair; Before thy feet the Blessed journey lies
Through homelands everywhere; And heaven to thee is all a sweet surprise.

That you hoped for; now before your eyes
A new life unfolds beautifully; Before your feet, the Blessed path lies
Across homelands everywhere; And heaven is to you an enjoyable surprise.

WASHINGTON GLADDEN.

BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING.

Beyond the smiling and the weeping
I shall be soon; Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
Beyond the sowing and the reaping,
I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home! Sweet hope! Lord, tarry not, but come.

Beyond the smiling and the crying
I'll be there soon; Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
Beyond the planting and the harvesting,
I'll be there soon. Love, relax, and home! Sweet hope! Lord, please come without delay.

Beyond the blooming and the fading
I shall be soon; Beyond the shining and the shading,
Beyond the hoping and the dreading,
I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home! etc.

Beyond the blooming and the fading
I'll be there shortly; Beyond the shining and the shading,
Beyond the hoping and the dreading,
I’ll be there shortly. Love, relax, and home!

Beyond the rising and the setting
I shall be soon; Beyond the calming and the fretting,
Beyond remembering and forgetting,
I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home! etc.

Beyond the sunrise and sunset
I'll be there shortly; Beyond the peace and the stress,
Beyond remembering and forgetting,
I'll be there shortly. Love, relaxation, and home! etc.

Beyond the gathering and the strowing
I shall be soon; Beyond the ebbing and the flowing.
Beyond the coming and the going,
I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home! etc.

Beyond the gathering and the spreading
I'll be there shortly; Beyond the ebb and the flow.
Beyond the coming and the going,
I'll be there shortly. Love, relaxation, and home! etc.

Beyond the parting and the meeting
I shall be soon; Beyond the farewell and the greeting,
Beyond this pulse's fever beating,
I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home! etc.

Beyond the goodbyes and the reunions
I’ll be there shortly; Beyond the farewells and the welcomes,
Beyond this heartbeat’s racing,
I’ll be there shortly. Love, relax, and home! etc.

Beyond the frost chain and the fever
I shall be soon; Beyond the rock waste and the river,
Beyond the ever and the never,
I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home! Sweet hope! Lord, tarry not, but come.

Beyond the frost and the heat
I’ll be there shortly; Past the barren rocks and the river,
Beyond the always and the never,
I'll be there shortly. Love, relaxation, and home! Hope is sweet! Lord, don't wait, just arrive.

HORATIUS BONAR.

Horatius Bonar.

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

THE LAND OF THE LEAL.

I'm wearing awa', Jean,
Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean;
I'm wearing awa',
To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is aye fair
In the land o' the leal.

I'm going away, Jean,
Like snow when it melts, Jean;
I'm going away,
To the land of the devoted. There's no sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cold nor worry, Jean,
The day is always bright
In the land of the devoted.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean;
Your task 's ended noo, Jean,
And I'll welcome you
To the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean,
She was baith guid and fair, Jean:
O, we grudged her right sair
To the land o' the leal!

You were always loyal and true, Jean;
Your journey's over now, Jean,
And I'll welcome you
To the land of the faithful. Our beautiful child is there, Jean,
She was both good and lovely, Jean:
Oh, we really wished she could stay
In the land of the faithful!

Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me
To the land o' the leal! Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
This warld's care is vain, Jean;
We'll meet and aye be fain
In the land o' the leal.

Then dry those tearful eyes, Jean,
My soul longs to be free, Jean,
And angels are waiting for me
In the land of the faithful! Now take care, my own Jean,
This world's troubles are pointless, Jean;
We'll meet and always be happy
In the land of the faithful.

CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE.

CAROLINA, BARONESS OF NAIRNE.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

"I am dying, Egypt, dying." —SHAKESPEARE'S Antony and Cleopatra, Act iv. Sc. 13.

"I'm dying, Egypt, I'm dying." —SHAKESPEARE'S Antony and Cleopatra, Act IV, Scene 13.

I am dying, Egypt, dying.
Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, And the dark Plutonian shadows
Gather on the evening blast; Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me,
Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear; Listen to the great heart-secrets,
Thou, and thou alone, must hear.

I am dying, Egypt, dying.
The red flow of life is disappearing quickly, And dark shadows are gathering
With the evening breeze; Wrap me in your arms, O Queen,
Stop crying and pay attention; Hear the profound secrets of my heart,
You, and only you, need to know.

Though my scarred and veteran legions
Bear their eagles high no more. And my wrecked and scattered galleys
Strew dark Actium's fatal shore, Though no glittering guards surround me,
Prompt to do their master's will, I must perish like a Roman,
Die the great Triumvir still.

Though my battle-hardened armies
They no longer hold their banners high. And my broken and scattered ships
Scattered along the dark shores of Actium, Even without shining guards around me,
Ready to follow their master's commands, I must face death like a Roman,
Die like the great Triumvir did.

Let not Cæsar's servile minions
Mock the lion thus laid low; 'T was no foeman's arm that felled him,
'T was his own that struck the blow: His who, pillowed on thy bosom,
Turned aside from glory's ray, His who, drunk with thy caresses,
Madly threw a world away.

Let not Cæsar's obedient followers
Make fun of the lion that's been brought down now; It wasn't an enemy's hand that knocked him down,
It was his own that struck the blow: His who, resting on your shoulder,
Rejected by glory's light, His who, intoxicated by your affection,
Threw away a world foolishly.

Should the base plebeian rabble
Dare assail my name at Rome, Where my noble spouse, Octavia,
Weeps within her widowed home, Seek her; say the gods bear witness—
Altars, augurs, circling wings— That her blood, with mine commingled,
Yet shall mount the throne of kings.

Should the common crowd
Dare to challenge my reputation in Rome, Where my noble wife, Octavia,
Cries in her lonely home, Find her; tell them the gods are watching—
Altars, mystics, flapping wings— That her blood, mixed with mine,
Will still ascend to the throne of kings.

As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian!
Glorious sorceress of the Nile! Light the path to Stygian horrors
With the splendors of thy smile. Give the Cæsar crowns and arches,
Let his brow the laurel twine; I can scorn the Senate's triumphs,
Triumphing in love like thine.

As for you, starry-eyed Egyptian!
Beautiful sorceress of the Nile! Illuminate the way to dark nightmares
With the beauty of your smile. Gift Caesar crowns and arches,
May his head be adorned with a laurel crown; I can dismiss the Senate's victories,
Winning in love like yours.

I am dying, Egypt, dying;
Hark! the insulting foeman's cry. They are coming—quick, my falchion!
Let me front them ere I die. Ah! no more amid the battle
Shall my heart exulting swell; Isis and Osiris guard thee!
Cleopatra—Rome—farewell!

I’m dying, Egypt, dying;
Listen! The enemy's mockery. They’re coming—hurry, my sword!
Let me confront them before I leave. Ah! no more in the fight
Will my heart beat with joy? Isis and Osiris protect you!
Cleopatra—Rome—farewell!

WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE.

HABEAS CORPUS.*

My body, eh? Friend Death, how now?
Why all this tedious pomp of writ? Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow
For half a century, bit by bit.

My body, huh? Hey, Death, what's up?
Why all this tedious display of writing? You've definitely taken it back, nice and slow
For fifty years, bit by bit.

In faith thou knowest more to-day
Than I do, where it can be found! This shrivelled lump of suffering clay,
To which I now am chained and bound,

In faith, you know more today
Than I do about where it’s located! This withered piece of suffering flesh,
To which I am now tied and bound,

Has not of kith or kin a trace
To the good body once I bore; Look at this shrunken, ghastly face:
Didst ever see that face before?

Hasn't anyone in my family or friends a trace
Of the healthy body I used to have; Look at this withered, horrifying face:
Have you ever seen this face before?

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art;
Thy only fault thy lagging gait, Mistaken pity in thy heart
For timorous ones that bid thee wait.

Ah, well, friend Death, you’re a good friend;
Your only flaw is your slow speed, Misguided compassion in your heart
For those who are scared and ask you to hold on.

Do quickly all thou hast to do,
Nor I nor mine will hindrance make; I shall be free when thou art through;
I grudge thee naught that thou must take!

Do quickly everything you need to do,
Neither I nor my people will interfere with you; I will be free when you're done;
I don't hold any grudges about what you need to take!

Stay! I have lied: I grudge thee one,
Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,— Two members which have faithful done
My will and bidding in the past.

Stay! I’ve lied: I resent you one,
Yes, I resent you twice from this end,— Two parts that have truly followed
My desires and instructions from the past.

I grudge thee this right hand of mine;
I grudge thee this quick-beating heart; They never gave me coward sign,
Nor played me once a traitor's part.

I resent you for this right hand of mine;
I hold a grudge against you for this fast-beating heart; They never showed me a sign of cowardice,
Nor did I play the part of a traitor.

I see now why in olden days
Men in barbaric love or hate Nailed enemies' hands at wild crossways,
Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state:

I understand now why back in the day
People in deep love or hate Nailed their enemies' hands at crazy intersections,
Showcased leaders' hearts in an elegant way:

The symbol, sign, and instrument
Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife, Of fires in which are poured and spent
Their all of love, their all of life.

The symbol, sign, and tool
Of each person's purpose, passion, and struggle, Of fires where they pour and exhaust
All their love, all their life.

O feeble, mighty human hand!
O fragile, dauntless human heart! The universe holds nothing planned
With such sublime, transcendent art!

O weak, powerful human hand!
O brave, delicate human heart! The universe doesn’t have anything arranged
With such amazing beauty!

Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine
Poor little hand, so feeble now; Its wrinkled palm, its altered line,
Its veins so pallid and so slow—

Yes, Death, I admit I resent you
Poor little hand, so weak now; Its wrinkled palm, its changed lines,
Its veins are so pale and so slow—

(Unfinished here)

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art:
I shall be free when thou art through. Take all there is—take hand and heart:
There must be somewhere work to do.

Ah, well, friend Death, you are a good friend:
I'll be free when you're finished. Take everything—take my hand and heart:
There has to be a place for me to work.

HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

Helen Hunt Jackson.

* Her last poem: 7 August, 1885.

* Her last poem: August 7, 1885.

FAREWELL, LIFE.

Goodbye, life.

WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS, APRIL, 1845.

Written while sick, April 1845.

Farewell, life! my senses swim.
And the world is growing dim;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night,—
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapor chill;
Strong the earthly odor grows,—
I smell the mold above the rose!

Farewell, life! My senses are spinning.
And the world is fading away;
Crowded shadows are blocking the light,
Like the arrival of night,—
Colder, colder, even colder still,
A chilling mist rises up;
The earthy smell gets stronger,—
I can smell the mold above the rose!

Welcome, life! the spirit strives!
Strength returns and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,—
O'er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapor cold,—
I smell the rose above the mold!

Welcome, life! The spirit pushes on!
Strength comes back and hope awakens;
Fleeting worries and lost shapes
Dissolve like shadows at dawn,—
Across the earth comes new life;
Bright light for dark days,
Sweet scent for the chilly air—
I can smell the rose breaking through the dirt!

THOMAS HOOD.

FOR ANNIE.

Thank Heaven! the crisis,—
The danger is past, And the lingering illness
Is over at last,— And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Thank goodness! The crisis,—
The danger's gone, And the long-lasting sickness
Is finally over,— And the fever known as "Living"
Finally defeated.

Sadly, I know,
I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length,— But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.

Sadly, I know,
I'm feeling weak, And I can't move a muscle
As I lie down,— But it doesn't matter!—I feel
I'll be better off in the end.

And I rest so composedly
Now, in my bed, That any beholder
Might fancy me dead,— Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

And I lie here so calmly
Now, in my bed, That anyone watching
Might think I'm gone,— Might be startled by seeing me,
Thinking I'm dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing At heart,—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The moaning and groaning,
The crying and sighing, Are quieted now,
With that awful pounding At heart,—ah, that horrible,
Awful pain!

The sickness, the nausea,
The pitiless pain, Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain,— With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.

The illness, the nausea,
The constant pain, Have ended, along with the fever
That drove me crazy,— With the fever called "Living"
That burned my mind.

And O, of all tortures
That torture the worst Has abated,—the terrible
Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst! I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst,

And oh, of all the pains
That hurt the most Has faded away,—the awful
Thirst pain For the naphthaline river
Of doomed love! I have tasted a water
That quenches all thirst.

Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound. From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground, From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

Of a water that flows,
With a calming sound. From a spring just a little
Feet underground, From a cave not too far
Below ground.

And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed; For man never slept
In a different bed,— And, to sleep you must slumber
In just such a bed.

And oh! let it never
Be careless to say That my room is dark
And my bed is tiny; Because no man ever slept
In any other bed, — And to sleep you must rest
In exactly this type of bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses,— Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:

My intrigued spirit
Here lies easily, Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses,— Its old stirrings
Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies A holier odor
About it, of pansies,— A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies, With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.

For now, while it lies so quietly,
It envisions A more sacred scent,
Surrounding it, like flowers,— A rosemary scent,
Mixed with pansies, With rue and the lovely
Puritan flowers.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie,— Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

And so it lies content,
Bathing in multiple A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie— Drowned in a bath
Annie's hair.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast,— Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

She gently kissed me,
She gently touched, And then I softly
Fell asleep on her chest, — Deeply asleep
In the warmth of her heart.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm,— To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

When the light went out,
She tucked me in snugly, And she prayed to the angels
To keep me safe,— To the queen of the angels
To protect me from harm.

And I lie so composedly
Now in my bed, (Knowing her love,)
That you fancy me dead;— And I rest so contentedly
Now in my bed, (With her love at my breast,)
That you fancy me dead,— That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead:

And I lie here so calmly
Now in my bedroom, (Knowing her love,)
That you think I’m gone;— And I rest so peacefully
Now in my bedroom, (With her love close to my heart,)
That you think I'm dead— That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking I'm gone:

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many Stars in the sky;
For it sparkles with Annie,— It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie, With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.

But my heart is brighter
Than all the many Stars in the sky;
Because it sparkles with Annie,— It shines with the glow
Of my love for Annie, With the thought of the light
In Annie's eyes.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

THALATTA! THALATTA!

CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND.

CRY OF THE 10,000.

I stand upon the summit of my life,
Behind, the camp, the court, the field, the grove,
The battle, and the burden: vast, afar
Beyond these weary ways. Behold! the Sea!
The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings;
By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath
Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.
Palter no question of the horizon dim—
Cut loose the bark! Such voyage itself is rest,
Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,
A widening heaven, a current without care,
Eternity!—deliverance, promise, course!
Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.

I stand at the peak of my life,
Behind me are the camp, the court, the field, the grove,
The battles and the burdens: vast and distant
Beyond these exhausting paths. Look! The Sea!
The sea swept by clouds, winds, and birds;
By countless thoughts and wishes, whose breath
Is refreshing and whose powerful rhythm is peace.
Don't question the dim horizon—
Set the sail free! This journey itself is rest,
Majestic movement, limitless freedom,
An expanding sky, a current without worries,
Eternity!—liberation, promise, direction!
Tired souls wave to you from the shore.

JOSEPH BROWNLEE BROWN.

THE SLEEP.

"He giveth his belovèd sleep."—PSALM cxxvii. 2.

"He gives his beloved sleep."—PSALM 127:2.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Among the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this,—
"He giveth his belovèd sleep "?

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Brought inward to distant souls,
Among the Psalmist's deep music,
Now tell me if there’s anything,
For gift or grace, better than this,—
"He gives his beloved sleep"?

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,—
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,—
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,—
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?
"He giveth his belovèd sleep."

What would we give to our loved ones?
The hero's heart, to remain steadfast,—
The poet's starry harp, to play beautifully,—
The patriot's voice, to inspire and uplift,—
The monarch's crown, to brighten their heads?
"He gives his loved ones rest."

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith, all undisproved,—
A little dust to overweep,
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake,
"He giveth his belovèd sleep."

What do we give to our loved ones?
A bit of faith, all unquestioned,—
A little dust to grieve,
And painful memories, to make
The whole world suffer for our sake,
"He gives his loved one rest."

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
"He giveth his beloved sleep."

"Sleep easy, my love!" we sometimes say,
But we have no song to chase away
The sad dreams that sneak in through our eyelids;
But no sorrowful dream again
Will interrupt the joyful sleep when
"He gives his beloved sleep."

O earth, so full of dreary noise!
O men, with wailing in your voice!
O delved gold the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
"He giveth his beloved sleep."

O earth, so loud with endless noise!
O people, with your cries that echo!
O mined gold the mourners gather!
O conflict, O curse, that hangs over it all!
God brings a stillness over you all,
"He gives His beloved rest."

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still.
Though on its slope men sow and reap;
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
"He giveth his beloved sleep."

His dew falls quietly on the hill,
His cloud above it drifts still.
Even as people sow and reap on its slope;
More gently than the dew is dropped,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
"He gives his beloved sleep."

For me, my heart, that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show.
That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on his love repose
Who "giveth his beloved sleep."

For me, my heart, which once
Was like a tired child at a show.
That watches through tears as the performers leap,
Would now close its weary eyes,
Would rest childlike on his love
Who "gives his beloved sleep."

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

PROSPICE

Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,
The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain.
Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!

Fear death? To feel the fog in my throat,
The fog on my face, When the snow starts falling, and the winds show
I'm getting near the place, The power of the night, the force of the storm,
Enemy position; Where he stands, the Ultimate Fear in a visible shape,
But the strong man has to leave: For the journey is over and the peak is reached,
And the barriers break down, Though there’s a battle to fight before the reward is won,
The reward of it all. I have always been a fighter, so—one last fight,
The best and last! I would hate for death to cover my eyes and hold back,
And let me sneak by. No! Let me experience it all, like my peers,
The heroes of the past, Face the burden, quickly settle life's debts
Of pain, darkness, and cold. For suddenly the worst turns into the best for the brave,
The dark times are over, And the fury of the elements, the evil voices that scream,
Will shrink, will blend, Shall change, shall first bring peace out of pain.
Then a light, then your heart, O you soul of my soul! I will hold you again,
And may God handle the rest!

ROBERT BROWNING.

Robert Browning.

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

I WOULD NOT LIVE FOREVER.

I would not live alway—live alway below!
Oh no, I'll not linger when bidden to go:
The days of our pilgrimage granted us here
Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer:
Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God,
Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod?
Like a spirit unblest, o'er the earth would I roam,
While brethren and friends are all hastening home?

I wouldn’t want to live forever—live forever down here!
Oh no, I won't stick around when it's time to leave:
The days we have on this journey are enough for life's struggles, full enough for its joys:
Would I retreat from the path that the prophets of God,
Apostles, and martyrs happily walked?
Like a restless spirit, I would wander the earth,
While brothers and friends are all rushing home?

I would not live alway: I ask not to stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;
Where seeking for rest we but hover around,
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found;
Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air.
Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair,
And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray,
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away.

I wouldn’t want to live forever; I don’t want to stay
Where storm after storm looms dark ahead;
Where we search for rest but just drift around,
Like the patriarch’s bird, with no place to land;
Where Hope, when she creates her colorful rainbow in the sky,
Let’s its brightness fade away into the darkness of despair,
And joy’s passing angel never brings a happy light,
Except for the shimmer of the feathers that carry him away.

I would not live alway—thus fettered by sin,
Temptation without and corruption within;
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain,
Scarce the victory's mine, ere I 'm captive again;
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears:
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs,
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs.

I wouldn’t want to live forever—held back by sin,
Temptation outside and corruption inside;
In a moment of strength if I break free,
Hardly is the victory mine before I’m captive again;
Even the joy of forgiveness is mixed with fears,
And the cup of gratitude comes with regretful tears:
The festival trumpet calls for joyful songs,
But my spirit keeps singing her own miserere.

I would not live alway—no, welcome the tomb,
Since Jesus hath lain there I dread not its gloom;
Where he deigned to sleep, I'll too bow my head,
All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed bed.
Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night,
The orient gleam of the angels of light,
With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise.
And chant forth their matins, away to the skies.

I wouldn’t live forever—no, I welcome the grave,
Since Jesus rested there, I’m not afraid of its darkness;
Where he chose to sleep, I’ll also bow my head,
Content to rest on that sacred bed.
Then the glorious daybreak will come after that night,
The glowing light from the angels shining bright,
With their clear call for the sleepers to wake,
And sing their morning songs, heading up to the skies.

Who, who would live alway? away from his God,
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode,
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns;
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,
Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet,
While the songs of salvation exultingly roll
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul.

Who, who would want to live forever? away from his God,
Away from that heaven, that blissful home,
Where the rivers of joy flow over the bright fields,
And the midday of glory reigns forever;
Where the saints of all time gather in harmony,
To greet their Savior and brothers with joy,
While the songs of salvation joyfully resound
And the Lord's smile is the feast of the soul.

That heavenly music! what is it I hear?
The notes of the harpers ring sweet in mine ear!
And see, soft unfolding those portals of gold,
The King all arrayed in his beauty behold!
Oh give me, oh give me, the wings of a dove,
To adore him—be near him—enwrapt with his love;
I but wait for the summons, I list for the word—
Alleluia—Amen—evermore with the Lord!

That heavenly music! What is that I hear?
The notes of the harpists ring sweet in my ear!
And look, as those golden doors slowly open,
The King, all dressed in His beauty, is seen!
Oh give me, oh give me, the wings of a dove,
To worship Him—be close to Him—wrapped in His love;
I just wait for the call, I listen for the word—
Alleluia—Amen—forever with the Lord!

WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MÜHLENBERG.

FAREWELL.

GOODBYE.

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of life,—
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

I didn't struggle with anyone, because no one was worth my effort;
I loved nature, and after nature, art; I warmed both hands by the fire of life,—
It’s going out, and I’m all set to go.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Walt Landor.

LOVE AND DEATH.

Alas! that men must see
Love, before Death! Else they content might be
With their short breath; Aye, glad, when the pale sun
Showed restless day was done,
And endless Rest begun.

Alas! that people must see
Love before death! Otherwise they might be
Satisfied with their shortness of breath; Yes, happy, when the pale sun
Showed restless day was done,
And endless Rest began.

Glad, when with strong, cool hand
Death clasped their own, And with a strange command
Hushed every moan; Glad to have finished pain,
And labor wrought in vain,
Blurred by Sin's deepening stain.

Glad, when with a strong, cool hand
Death had its own, And with a strange command
Muted every moan; Glad to be done with pain,
And work done in vain,
Blurred by Sin's growing stain.

But Love's insistent voice
Bids self to flee— "Live that I may rejoice,
Live on, for me!" So, for Love's cruel mind,
Men fear this Rest to find,
Nor know great Death is kind!

But Love's persistent voice
Calls on self to escape— "Live so I can celebrate,
Keep living for my sake! So, for Love's harsh thoughts,
People dread this peace to discover,
Not realizing great Death is gentle!

MARGARETTA WADE DELAND.

Margaret Wade Deland.

TO DEATH.

Methinks it were no pain to die
On such an eve, when such a sky
O'er-canopies the west; To gaze my fill on yon calm deep,
And, like an infant, fall asleep
On Earth, my mother's breast.

I think it wouldn't hurt to die
On a night like this, under a sky
That covers the west; To look as long as I want at that calm sea,
And, like a baby, drift off to sleep
On Earth, my mom's hug.

There's peace and welcome in yon sea
Of endless blue tranquillity:
These clouds are living things; I trace their veins of liquid gold,
I see them solemnly unfold
Their soft and fleecy wings.

There's peace and welcome in that sea
Of endless blue calm:
These clouds are alive. I follow their veins of liquid gold,
I watch them slowly unfold
Their soft and fluffy wings.

These be the angels that convey
Us weary children of a day—
Life's tedious nothing o'er— Where neither passions come, nor woes,
To vex the genius of repose
On Death's majestic shore.

These are the angels that carry
Us tired children of a day—
Life's dull emptiness— Where neither passions arise, nor troubles,
To disturb the genius of rest
At Death's grand shore.

No darkness there divides the sway
With startling dawn and dazzling day;
But gloriously serene Are the interminable plains:
One fixed, eternal sunset reigns
O'er the wide silent scene.

No darkness separates the power
With shocking dawn and bright day;
But super chill Are the endless plains:
One constant, eternal sunset rules
Across the wide quiet view.

I cannot doff all human fear;
I know thy greeting is severe
To this poor shell of clay: Yet come, O Death! thy freezing kiss
Emancipates! thy rest is bliss!
I would I were away!

I can’t shed all human fear;
I know your greeting is harsh
To this unfortunate body of flesh: Yet come, O Death! your icy kiss
Sets me free! your rest is bliss!
I wish I were gone!

From the German of GLUCK.

ASLEEP, ASLEEP.

"And so saying, he fell asleep."

"And with that, he fell asleep."

MARTYRDOM OF SAINT STEPHEN.

ST. STEPHEN'S MARTYRDOM.

Asleep! asleep! men talk of "sleep,"
When all adown the silent deep
The shades of night are stealing; When like a curtain, soft and vast,
The darkness over all is cast,
And sombre stillness comes at last,
To the mute heart appealing.

Asleep! asleep! people talk about "sleep,"
When all down in the quiet deep
The night is setting in; When like a curtain, soft and wide,
The darkness covers everything outside,
And a heavy stillness finally arrives,
Connecting with the quiet heart.

Asleep! asleep! when soft and low
The patient watchers come and go,
Their loving vigil keeping; When from the dear eyes fades the light,
When pales the flush so strangely bright,
And the glad spirit takes its flight,
We speak of death as "sleeping."

Asleep! asleep! when soft and low
The quiet watchers come and go,
Their loving vigilance is enduring; When from the dear eyes fades the light,
When the warmth turns faintly bright,
And the joyful spirit takes its flight,
We refer to death as "sleeping."

Or when, as dies the orb of day,
The aged Christian sinks away,
And the lone mourner weepeth; When thus the pilgrim goes to rest,
With meek hands folded on his breast,
And his last sigh a prayer confessed—
We say of such, "He sleepeth."

Or when, as the sun sets,
The old Christian fades away,
And the lonely mourner weeps; When the traveler lays down to rest,
With hands gently folded on his chest,
And his last breath a prayer revealed—
We say about someone like that, "He sleeps."

But when amidst a shower of stones,
And mingled curses, shrieks, and groans,
The death-chill slowly creepeth; When falls at length the dying head,
And streams the life-blood dark and red,
A thousand voices cry, "He's dead";
But who shall say, "He sleepeth"?

But when a shower of stones falls,
And curses, screams, and groans mix,
The coldness of death gradually approaches; When the dying head finally falls,
And dark red blood flows down,
A thousand voices shout, "He's dead";
But who will say, "He's just sleeping"?

"He fell asleep." A pen divine
Hath writ that epitaph of thine;
And though the days are hoary, Yet beautiful thy rest appears—
Unsullied by the lapse of years—
And still we read, with thankful tears,
The tale of grace and glory.

"He fell asleep." A divine pen
Has written that epitaph of yours;
Even though the days are ancient, Yet your rest looks beautiful—
Unblemished by the passing years—
And we still read, with grateful tears,
The tale of grace and glory.

Asleep! asleep! though not for thee
The touch of loving lips might be,
In sadly sweet leave-taking: Though not for thee the last caress,
The look of untold tenderness,
The love that dying hours can press
From hearts with silence breaking.

Asleep! asleep! but not for you
The feel of loving lips could be,
In a bittersweet farewell: Though not for you the final touch,
The gaze of deep tenderness,
The love that dying moments can pull
From hearts with silence breaking.

LUCY A. BENNETT.

REST.

I lay me down to sleep,
With little care Whether my waking find
Me here, or there.

I lie down to sleep,
Without much concern About where I’ll be when I wake up
Here or elsewhere.

A bowing, burdened head
That only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast.

A bowed, heavy head
That just wants to relax, Unhesitatingly, on
A compassionate heart.

My good right-hand forgets
Its cunning now; To march the weary march
I know not how.

My strong right hand forgets
It's a skill now; To take the tired steps
I have no idea how.

I am not eager, bold,
Nor strong,—all that is past; I am ready not to do,
At last, at last.

I’m not eager, daring,
Or strong—those days are gone; I’m set on not doing,
Finally, finally.

My half-day's work is done,
And this is all my part,— I give a patient God
My patient heart;

My half-day's work is done,
This is all I need to do— I give a patient God
My patient heart;

And grasp his banner still,
Though all the blue be dim; These stripes as well as stars
Lead after him.

And hold on to his banner still,
Even when the blue fades; These stripes as well as stars
Follow him.

MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND.

Mary Woolsey Howland.

IN HARBOR.

In Harbor.

I think it is over, over,
I think it is over at last: Voices of foemen and lover,
The sweet and the bitter, have passed:
Life, like a tempest of ocean
Hath outblown its ultimate blast:
There's but a faint sobbing seaward
While the calm of the tide deepens leeward,
And behold! like the welcoming quiver
Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river,
Those lights in the harbor at last, The heavenly harbor at last!

I think it’s finally over,
I really think it's over now: Voices of enemies and lovers,
The sweet and the bitter have passed:
Life, like a stormy ocean
Has blown out its final gust:
There's just a faint sobbing sound from the sea
While the calm of the tide settles downwind,
And look! like the welcoming shiver
Of heartbeats pulsing through the river,
Those lights in the harbor finally, The heavenly harbor finally!

I feel it is over! over!
For the winds and the waters surcease; Ah, few were the days of the rover
That smiled in the beauty of peace, And distant and dim was the omen
That hinted redress or release!
From the ravage of life, and its riot,
What marvel I yearn for the quiet
Which bides in the harbor at last,— For the lights, with their welcoming quiver
That throb through the sanctified river,
Which girdle the harbor at last, This heavenly harbor at last?

I feel it's all over! Over!
For the winds and the waters have ceased; Ah, there were so few days of the wanderer
That appreciated the beauty of peace, And far away and unclear was the sign
That hinted at relief or escape!
From the wreckage of life and its chaos,
What a wonder I long for the calm
That finally waits in the harbor,— For the lights, with their welcoming flicker
That pulse through the sacred river,
That finally surrounds the harbor, This paradise harbor at last?

I know it is over, over,
I know it is over at last! Down sail! the sheathed anchor uncover,
For the stress of the voyage has passed:
Life, like a tempest of ocean,
Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast: There's but a faint sobbing seaward,
While the calm of the tide deepens leeward;
And behold! like the welcoming quiver
Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river,
Those lights in the harbor at last, The heavenly harbor at last!

I know it’s finally over,
I know it’s really done! Lower the sails! uncover the anchor,
For the hard part of the journey is done:
Life, like a stormy sea,
Has finally released its final blast: There’s just a soft sigh toward the sea,
While the calm of the tide deepens away;
And look! like the welcoming shiver
Of heartbeats pulsing through the river,
Those lights in the harbor finally, The ultimate paradise at last!

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
Based on an engraving from a drawing by George Richmond.

HUSH!

Shh!

Oh, hush thee, Earth! Fold thou thy weary palms!
The sunset glory fadeth in the west; The purple splendor leaves the mountain's crest; Gray twilight comes as one who beareth alms,
Darkness and silence and delicious calms.
Take thou the gift, O Earth! On Night's soft breast Lay thy tired head and sink to dreamless rest, Lulled by the music of her evening psalms.
Cool darkness, silence, and the holy stars, Long shadows when the pale moon soars on high, One far lone night-bird singing from the hill, And utter rest from Day's discordant jars;
O soul of mine! when the long night draws nigh Will such deep peace thine inmost being fill?

Oh, be quiet, Earth! Fold your tired hands!
The beauty of the sunset fades in the west; The purple glow leaves the mountain’s peak; Gray twilight arrives like a giver of gifts,
Bringing darkness, silence, and soothing calm.
Accept this gift, O Earth! Rest your weary head. In Night's gentle embrace, we fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, Lulled by the sounds of her evening songs.
Cool darkness, silence, and the sacred stars, Long shadows stretch as the pale moon climbs high, One lonely nightingale singing from the hill, And total peace away from Day's harsh noise;
Oh my soul! When the long night comes Will such deep peace fill your core?

JULIA C.R. DORR.

LIFE.

"Animula, vagula, blandula."

"Little spirit, wandering, charming."

Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me's a secret yet.
But this I know, when thou art fled,
Where'er they lay these limbs, this head,
No clod so valueless shall be,
As all that then remains of me.
O, whither, whither dost thou fly,
Where bend unseen thy trackless course,
And in this strange divorce, Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?

Life! I have no clue what you are, But I know that you and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
Is still a mystery to me.
But this I do know: when you’re gone,
Wherever they lay these limbs and this head,
No piece of earth will be so worthless
As what is left of me then.
Oh, where, where do you flee,
Where does your invisible path lead,
And in this weird separation, Ah, tell me where I must search for this combined self?

To the vast ocean of empyreal flame,
From whence thy essence came, Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed From matter's base uncumbering weed? Or dost thou, hid from sight, Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hour
To break thy trance and reassume thy power?
Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be?
O, say what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee?

To the vast ocean of heavenly fire,
From where your essence originated, Do you keep going on your journey when you're free? From matter's heavy burdens? Or are you, out of sight, Waiting, like a captivated knight, Through empty, forgotten years for the right moment
To break your trance and reclaim your power?
But can you exist without thought or feeling?
Oh, tell me what you are, when you’re no longer you?

Life! we've been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,— Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear: Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning.

Life! We've been together for a long time,
Through good times and bad;
It’s tough to say goodbye when friends are nearby,— It might take a sigh or a tear: So quietly slip away, without much notice, Choose your own moment; Don’t say Good Night,—but in some brighter place,
Say good morning to me.

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.

Anna Letitia Barbauld.

VI. CONSOLATION.

THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE.

A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN.

To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God's meekest Angel gently comes:
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again;
And yet in tenderest love our dear
And heavenly Father sends him here.

To tired hearts, to grieving homes,
God's kindest Angel softly arrives:
He can't drive away our pain,
Or bring back what we've lost again;
And yet with the deepest love our dear
And heavenly Father sends him here.

There's quiet in that Angel's glance,
There's rest in his still countenance!
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,
Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear;
But ills and woes he may not cure
He kindly trains us to endure.

There's a calm in that Angel's gaze,
There's peace in his composed face!
He doesn't mock sadness with empty joy,
Nor does he hurt the mourner's ear with words;
But while he can't fix our troubles and pain,
He helps us learn to endure them, kindly.

Angel of Patience! sent to calm
Our feverish brows with cooling palm;
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life's smile and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own our Father's will!

Angel of Patience! sent to calm
Our anxious brows with soothing touch;
To settle the storms of hope and fear,
And balance life's joy and sorrow;
The pains of hurt pride to ease,
And align our will with our Father's!

O thou who mournest on thy way,
With longings for the close of day;
He walks with thee, that Angel kind,
And gently whispers, "Be resigned:
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well!"

Oh you who grieve along your path,
With hopes for the end of the day;
He walks with you, that gentle Angel,
And softly says, "Stay calm:
Hold on, keep going; it will all make sense
In the end, the dear Lord arranges everything for the best!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

THEY ARE ALL GONE.

THEY'RE ALL GONE.

They are all gone into the world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here! Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear;

They have all gone into the world of light,
And I'm the only one here! Their memories are lovely and bright,
And my sad thoughts come into focus;

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,— Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the sun's remove.

It shines and sparkles in my troubled heart,
Like stars in a dark forest, — Or those soft rays that cover this hill
After sunset.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days,— My days which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

I see them walking with an air of glory,
Whose light brightens my days, — My days, which are at best just boring and gray,
Just flickers and fades.

O holy hope! and high humility,—
High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have showed them me
To kindle my cold love.

O holy hope! and great humility,—
As high as the sky above! These are your paths, and you have shown them to me
To spark my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death,—the jewel of the just,—
Shining nowhere but in the dark! What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!

Dear, beautiful death—the jewel of the righteous—
Shining only in the dark! What mysteries are hidden beyond your dust,
Could someone see that destination!

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,
At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

He who has found a young bird's nest may know,
At first glance, if the bird is gone; But which beautiful valley or grove it sings in now,
That's unknown to him.

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.

And yet, like angels in some brighter dreams
Calling to the soul when someone sleeps, Some strange thoughts go beyond our usual topics,
And catch a glimpse of glory.

If a star were confined into a tomb,
Her captive flames must needs burn there, But when the hand that locked her up gives room,
She'll shine through all the sphere.

If a star were locked away in a tomb,
Her confined flames would have to burn there, But when the hand that shut her in lets her out,
She'll shine all over the world.

O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee! Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.

O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories below you! Bring your spirit back from this world of bondage
Into real freedom.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass; Or else remove me hence unto that hill
Where I shall need no glass.

Either clear away these mists that cloud and fill
I can see them drifting. Or else take me up to that hill
Where I won't need a mirror.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

THE BOTTOM DRAWER.

In the best chamber of the house,
Shut up in dim, uncertain light, There stood an antique chest of drawers,
Of foreign wood, with brasses bright. One day a woman, frail and gray,
Stepped totteringly across the floor— "Let in," said she, "the light of day,
Then, Jean, unlock the bottom drawer."

In the finest room of the house,
Trapped in soft, dim light, There was an old chest of drawers,
Constructed from foreign wood, featuring shiny handles. One day a woman, weak and gray,
Stumbled across the floor— "Let in," she said, "the light of day,
"Then, Jean, open the bottom drawer."

The girl, in all her youth's loveliness,
Knelt down with eager, curious face; Perchance she dreamt of Indian silks,
Of jewels, and of rare old lace. But when the summer sunshine fell
Upon the treasures hoarded there, The tears rushed to her tender eyes,
Her heart was solemn as a prayer.

The girl, in all her youthful beauty,
Kneeling with an eager, curious look; Maybe she dreamed of Indian silks,
Of jewelry and old lace. But when the summer sunlight shone
On the treasures kept there, Tears filled her soft eyes,
Her heart was as serious as a prayer.

"Dear Grandmamma," she softly sighed,
Lifting a withered rose and palm; But on the elder face was naught
But sweet content and peaceful calm. Leaning upon her staff, she gazed
Upon a baby's half-worn shoe; A little frock of finest lawn;
A hat with tiny bows of blue;

"Dear Grandma," she softly sighed,
Holding a dried rose and palm; But on the older face was nothing
But sweet satisfaction and peaceful tranquility. Leaning on her cane, she looked
At a baby's slightly scuffed shoe; A little dress of the finest fabric;
A hat with small blue bows;

A ball made fifty years ago;
A little glove; a tasselled cap; A half-done "long division" sum;
Some school-books fastened with a strap. She touched them all with trembling lips—
"How much," she said, "the heart can bear! Ah, Jean! I thought that I should die
The day that first I laid them there.

A ball made fifty years ago;
A small glove; a cap with tassels; A half-finished "long division" problem;
Some schoolbooks held together with a strap. She touched them all with trembling lips—
"How much," she said, "can the heart endure!" Ah, Jean! I thought I would die
The day I first put them there.

"But now it seems so good to know
That through these weary, troubled years Their hearts have been untouched by grief,
Their eyes have been unstained by tears. Dear Jean, we see with clearer sight
When earthly love is almost o'er; Those children wait me in the skies,
For whom I locked that sacred drawer."

"But now it feels so comforting to know
That during these exhausting, challenging years Their hearts have been free from sorrow,
Their eyes haven't been clouded by tears. Dear Jean, we see things more clearly
When earthly love is almost gone; Those children are waiting for me in the sky,
"Whom did I lock that sacred drawer away for?"

AMELIA EDITH BARR.

Amelia Edith Barr.

OVER THE RIVER.

Over the River.

Over the river they beckon to me,
Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side, The gleam of their snowy robes I see,
But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,
And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there,
The gates of the city we could not see: Over the river, over the river,
My brother stands waiting to welcome me.

Over the river, they call to me,
Loved ones who have passed away, I can see the shine of their white robes,
But I can't hear their voices over the crashing waves. There’s one with golden curls,
And eyes that show the same blue as the sky; He crossed in the chilly twilight,
And the faint mist obscured him from sight. We didn’t see the angels who greeted him there,
We couldn't see the city gates: Over the river, over the river,
My brother is ready to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale
Carried another, the household pet; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,
Darling Minnie! I see her yet. She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; We felt it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be: Over the river, the mystic river,
My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

Across the river, the pale boatman
Carried another one, the family pet; Her brown curls swayed in the soft breeze,
Darling Minnie! I can still see her clearly. She crossed her dimpled hands over her chest,
And confidently stepped onto the eerie boat; We felt it drift away from the silvery shore,
And all our sunshine turned strangely dark; We know she’s safe on the other side,
Where all the saved souls and angels are: Across the river, the mysterious river,
My childhood idol is waiting for me.

For none returns from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars,
And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,
They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart
That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

For no one returns from those quiet shores,
Who crosses with the cold, pale boatman; We hear the splash of the golden oars,
And catch a glimpse of the white sail; And look! they have left our longing hearts,
They cross the stream and disappear for good. We cannot pull back the veil
That keeps the gates of day hidden; All we know is that their boats no longer
Can sail with us across life's rough sea; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, wave, and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore, I shall one day stand by the water cold,
And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land. I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's golden light
Is shining on the river, hills, and shore, One day, I’ll stand by the cold water,
Listening for the sound of the boatman's paddle; I’ll wait for a glimpse of the flapping sail,
I’ll hear the boat when it hits the shore, I will fade from view with the pale boatman,
To the brighter side of the spiritual world. I’ll recognize the loved ones who went before me,
And it will be a wonderfully sweet reunion, When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death takes me away.

NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST.

GRIEF FOR THE DEAD.

O hearts that never cease to yearn!
O brimming tears that ne'er are dried! The dead, though they depart, return
As though they had not died!

O hearts that never stop longing!
O endless tears that never dry! The dead, even though they leave, come back
Like they never died!

The living are the only dead;
The dead live,—nevermore to die; And often, when we mourn them fled,
They never were so nigh!

The living are the only ones who are dead;
The dead live on—never to die again; And often, when we grieve for those who are gone,
They've never been this close!

And though they lie beneath the waves,
Or sleep within the churchyard dim, (Ah! through how many different graves
God's children go to him!)—

And even though they lie beneath the waves,
Or relax in the quiet graveyard, (Ah! through how many different graves
God's children go to Him!

Yet every grave gives up its dead
Ere it is overgrown with grass; Then why should hopeless tears be shed,
Or need we cry, "Alas"?

Yet every grave gives up its dead
Before it gets covered with grass; So why should we shed hopeless tears,
Or do we really need to cry, "Oh no!"?

Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom,
And like a sorrowing mourner craped, Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb,
Whose captives have escaped?

Or why should Memory, shrouded in darkness,
And like a grieving mourner in black, Sit crying over an empty grave,
Where have the captives escaped to?

'Tis but a mound,—and will be mossed
Whene'er the summer grass appears; The loved, though wept, are never lost;
We only lose—our tears!

It's just a mound,—and will be covered in moss
Whenever the summer grass appears; The ones we loved, even though we mourn them, are never really gone;
We only lose—our tears!

Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead
By bending forward where they are; But Memory, with a backward tread,
Communes with them afar.

No, Hope may whisper with the dead
By getting closer to where they are; But Memory, stepping back,
Connects with them from a distance.

The joys we lose are but forecast,
And we shall find them all once more; We look behind us for the Past,
But lo! 'tis all before!

The joys we lose are just predictions,
And we’ll find them all again; We glance back at the Past,
But look! It’s all coming!

ANONYMOUS.

ANON.

THE TWO WAITINGS.

Dear hearts, you were waiting a year ago
For the glory to be revealed; You were wondering deeply, with bated breath,
What treasure the days concealed.

Dear friends, you were waiting a year ago
For the glory that will be revealed; You were thinking hard, holding your breath,
What treasures the days were keeping.

O, would it be this, or would it be that?
Would it be girl or boy? Would it look like father or mother most?
And what should you do for joy?

Oh, would it be this, or would it be that?
Will it be a girl or a boy? Would it resemble the father or the mother more?
What would you do for happiness?

And then, one day, when the time was full,
And the spring was coming fast, The tender grace of a life outbloomed,
And you saw your baby at last.

And then, one day, when the moment was right,
And spring was coming fast, The gentle beauty of a life blossomed,
And you finally got to see your baby.

Was it or not what you had dreamed?
It was, and yet it was not; But O, it was better a thousand times
Than ever you wished or thought.

Was it or wasn't it what you had dreamed?
It was, but it also wasn't; But oh, it was a thousand times better
Than anything you desired or imagined.

II.

And now, dear hearts, you are waiting again,
While the spring is coming fast; For the baby that was a future dream
Is now a dream of the past:

And now, dear ones, you're waiting again,
As spring is coming soon; For the baby that was a future hope
Is now a memory from the past:

A dream of sunshine, and all that's sweet;
Of all that is pure and bright; Of eyes that were blue as the sky by day,
And as clear as the stars by night.

A dream of sunshine and everything sweet;
Of everything that is pure and bright; Of eyes as blue as the daytime sky,
And as clear as the stars are at night.

You are waiting again for the fulness of time,
And the glory to be revealed; You are wondering deeply with aching hearts
What treasure is now concealed.

You are waiting again for the right moment,
And the glory that will be revealed; You are wondering deeply with heavy hearts
What treasure is hidden now?

O, will she be this, or will she be that?
And what will there be in her face That will tell you sure that she is your own,
When you meet in the heavenly place?

O, will she be this, or will she be that?
And what will her face reveal? That will guarantee you she is yours,
When do you meet in that heavenly place?

As it was before, it will be again,
Fashion your dream as you will; When the veil is rent, and the glory is seen,
It will more than your hope fulfil.

As it was before, it will be again,
Create your dream however you want; When the veil is torn, and the beauty is revealed,
It will surpass your expectations.

JOHN WHITE CHADWICK.

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE.

The night is late, the house is still;
The angels of the hour fulfil
Their tender ministries, and move
From couch to couch in cares of love.
They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife,
The happiest smile of Charlie's life,
And lay on baby's lips a kiss,
Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss;
And, as they pass, they seem to make
A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake."

The night is late, the house is quiet;
The angels of the hour are doing
Their gentle work, moving
From couch to couch with loving care.
They come into your dreams, dear wife,
The brightest smile of Charlie's life,
And place a kiss on the baby's lips,
Fresh from his angel-brother's joy;
And as they pass, they seem to create
A soft, dim song, "For Charlie's sake."

My listening heart takes up the strain,
And gives it to the night again,
Fitted with words of lowly praise,
And patience learned of mournful days,
And memories of the dead child's ways.
His will be done, His will be done!
Who gave and took away my son,
In "the far land" to shine and sing
Before the Beautiful, the King,
Who every day does Christmas make,
All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.

My listening heart picks up the weight,
And hands it back to the night again,
Filled with words of humble praise,
And patience learned from sorrowful days,
And memories of the deceased child's ways.
His will be done, His will be done!
Who gave and took away my son,
In "the far land" to shine and sing
Before the Beautiful, the King,
Who makes every day feel like Christmas,
All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.

For Charlie's sake I will arise;
I will anoint me where he lies,
And change my raiment, and go in
To the Lord's house, and leave my sin
Without, and seat me at his board,
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.
For wherefore should I fast and weep,
And sullen moods of mourning keep?
I cannot bring him back, nor he,
For any calling, come to me.
The bond the angel Death did sign,
God sealed—for Charlie's sake, and mine.

For Charlie’s sake, I will get up;
I’ll anoint myself where he rests,
Change my clothes, and go in
To the Lord's house, leaving my sin
Outside, and sit at his table,
Eat, be joyful, and praise the Lord.
Why should I fast and cry,
And keep up these gloomy moods of mourning?
I can’t bring him back, nor will he,
Respond to any call from me.
The bond that the angel of Death signed,
God sealed—for Charlie’s sake and mine.

I'm very poor—this slender stone
Marks all the narrow field I own;
Yet, patient husbandman, I till
With faith and prayers, that precious hill,
Sow it with penitential pains,
And, hopeful, wait the latter rains;
Content if, after all, the spot
Yield barely one forget-me-not—
Whether or figs or thistle make
My crop content for Charlie's sake.

I'm really poor—this thin stone
Marks all the small piece of land I have;
Yet, as a patient farmer, I work
With faith and prayers, that precious hill,
Sowing it with heartfelt struggles,
And, hopefully, waiting for the rain;
I'm satisfied if, in the end, the place
Produces just one forget-me-not—
Whether figs or thistles grow,
I'm happy with whatever I get for Charlie's sake.

I have no houses, builded well—
Only that little lonesome cell,
Where never romping playmates come,
Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb—
An April burst of girls and boys,
Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys
Born with their songs, gone with their toys;
Nor ever is its stillness stirred
By purr of cat, or chirp of bird,
Or mother's twilight legend, told
Of Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold,
Or fairy hobbling to the door,
Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor,
To bless the good child's gracious eyes,
The good child's wistful charities,
And crippled changeling's hunch to make
Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake.

I have no well-built houses—
Just that little lonely cell,
Where playful friends never come,
Nor shy sweethearts, silent and clever—
An April mix of girls and boys,
Their colorful swirl of ups and downs,
Born with their songs, gone with their toys;
And its stillness is never broken
By the purr of a cat or the chirp of a bird,
Or a mother’s twilight stories, told
Of Horner's pie or Tiddler's gold,
Or a fairy limping to the door,
Red-cloaked and strange, excluded and poor,
To bless the good child's gentle eyes,
The good child's hopeful kindness,
And the crippled changeling's hunch to make
Dance on his crutch, for the good child's sake.

How is it with the child? 'Tis well;
Nor would I any miracle
Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance,
Or plague his painless countenance:
I would not any seer might place
His staff on my immortal's face.
Or lip to lip, and eye to eye,
Charm back his pale mortality.
No, Shunamite! I would not break
God's stillness. Let them weep who wake.

How is the child? He's fine;
And I wouldn't want any miracle
To disturb my sleeper's peaceful state,
Or affect his painless expression:
I wouldn't want any prophet to put
His staff on my immortal's face.
Or mouth to mouth, and eye to eye,
To bring back his pale humanity.
No, Shunamite! I wouldn't disrupt
God's stillness. Let those who wake weep.

For Charlie's sake my lot is blest:
No comfort like his mother's breast,
No praise like hers; no charm expressed
In fairest forms hath half her zest.
For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed
That death left lonely in the nest;
For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed,
As for its birthday, in its best;
For Charlie's sake we leave the rest.
To Him who gave, and who did take,
And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake.

For Charlie's sake, my life feels blessed:
No comfort like his mother's embrace,
No praise like hers; no charm shown
In the fairest of forms has half her joy.
For Charlie's sake, this bird is cared for
That death left alone in the nest;
For Charlie's sake, my heart is prepared,
As if it's a special occasion, dressed in its best;
For Charlie's sake, we leave the rest.
To Him who gave and who took away,
And saved us both, for Charlie's sake.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

WATCHING FOR PAPA.

Waiting for Dad.

She always stood upon the steps
Just by the cottage door, Waiting to kiss me when I came
Each night home from the store. Her eyes were like two glorious stars,
Dancing in heaven's own blue— "Papa," she'd call like a wee bird,
"I's looten out for oo!"

She always stood on the steps
Right by the cottage entrance, Waiting to kiss me when I came
Home from the store every night. Her eyes were like two beautiful stars,
Dancing in the bright blue sky— "Papa," she'd call like a little bird,
"I was watching for you!"

Alas! how sadly do our lives
Change as we onward roam! For now no birdie voice calls out
To bid me welcome home. No little hands stretched out for me,
No blue eyes dancing bright, No baby face peeps from the door
When I come home at night.

Alas! How sadly our lives
Change as we navigate through life! For now, no bird calls out
To greet me home. No little hands reach out for me,
No bright blue eyes sparkling, No baby face looks from the door
When I get home at night.

And yet there's comfort in the thought
That when life's toil is o'er, And passing through the sable flood
I gain the brighter shore, My little angel at the gate,
With eyes divinely blue, Will call with birdie voice, "Papa,
I's looten out for oo!"

And yet there's comfort in the thought
That when the work of life is complete, And crossing through the dark waters
I reach the brighter shore, My little angel at the gate,
With stunning blue eyes, Will call with a sweet voice, "Papa,
"I'm here for you!"

ANONYMOUS.

MY CHILD.

MY KID.

I cannot make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair;
Yet when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes,—he is not there!

I can’t make him die! His cheerful personality Keeps bouncing around my study chair;
But when my eyes, now blurry With tears, I search for him, The image fades away—he's not there!

I walk my parlor floor, And, through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call; And then bethink me that—he is not there!

I walk through my living room, And, through the open door, I hear footsteps on the stairs;
I'm heading to the hall To shout out to the boy; And then I remember—he isn't here!

I thread the crowded street; A satchelled lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;
And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that—he is not there!

I walk down the crowded street; I see a kid with a backpack, With the same bright eyes and colorful hair;
And as he's hurrying by, I see him leave, Barely believing that—he's not really there!

I know his face is hid Under the coffin lid; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that—he is not there!

I know his face is concealed. Under the casket lid; His eyes are closed; his forehead is cold;
I touched that marble. I knelt down and prayed about it; Yet my heart whispers that—he is not there!

I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye Seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes, that—he is not there!

I can't make him die! As I walk past the bed, That has been watched over with so much care,
My heart and my sight Search for him curiously, Before it hits me that—he's not there!

When, at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake. With my first breathing of the morning air
My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there!

When, at the cool gray dawn During the day, I wake up from sleep. With my first breath of the morning air
My spirit soars with joy, To the one who gave me my son; Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there!

When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;
Whate'er I may be saying, I am in spirit praying For our boy's spirit, though—he is not there!

When the day comes to a calm close, Before we sleep, I'm with his mother, saying our prayer;
Whatever I might be talking about, I'm, in my heart, praying For our boy's spirit, even though he’s not here!

Not there!—Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear.
The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked—he is not there!

Not here!—So where is he? The form I used to see Was just the clothes he used to wear.
The grave, which now is heavy Down that throwaway outfit, Is simply his closet locked—he is not here!

He lives!—In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

He's alive!—Throughout all this time He is alive; and even until the end, I'll never lose hope of seeing him again;
In my dreams, I see him now; And, on his angelic face, I see it written, "You will see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there!

Yes, we all live for God! Dad, your guiding hand So help us, your troubled ones, to endure,
In the spirit world, When we come together at your side, It will be our paradise to know that—he is there!

JOHN PIERPONT.

SONG.

Track.

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,
Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song,
And with the flowers she comes again.

She's somewhere in the bright sunlight,
Her tears blend with the falling rain, She calls me in the gentle song of the wind,
And with the flowers, she shows up again.

Yon bird is but her messenger,
The moon is but her silver car; Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,
And every wistful waiting star.

That bird is just her messenger,
The moon is just her silver vehicle; Yeah! Both the sun and moon are sent by her,
And every hopeful waiting star.

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

There’s a Reaper named Death,
And with his sharp scythe, He cuts down the ripe grain in a single breath,
And the flowers that grow in between.

"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;
"Have naught but the bearded grain?— Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."

"Will I have nothing beautiful?" he says;
"Only the bearded grain?" Even though the scent of these flowers is sweet to me,
"I'll return them all."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.

He looked at the flowers with teary eyes,
He kissed their dying leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise
He collected them into his bundles.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.

"My Lord needs these bright little flowers,"
The Reaper said with a grin; "They're sweet reminders of the earth,
Where he used to be a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

"They will all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my attention, And saints, in their white garments,
"Put on these sacred flowers."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love; She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers that she loved the most; She knew she would find them all again
In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

Oh, not in cruelty, not in anger,
The Reaper arrived that day; It was an angel who visited the green earth,
And took the flowers.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

"ONLY A YEAR."

"Just a year."

One year ago,—a ringing voice,
A clear blue eye, And clustering curls of sunny hair,
Too fair to die.

One year ago,—a vibrant voice,
A vivid blue eye, And thick curls of golden hair,
Too beautiful to disappear.

Only a year,—no voice, no smile,
No glance of eye, No clustering curls of golden hair,
Fair but to die!

Just a year—no voice, no smile,
No direct eye contact, No flowing curls of golden hair,
Beautiful but lifeless!

One year ago,—what loves, what schemes
Far into life! What joyous hopes, what high resolves,
What generous strife!

One year ago—what loves, what plans
Deep into life! What happy hopes, what strong commitments,
Such noble struggles!

The silent picture on the wall,
The burial-stone, Of all that beauty, life, and joy,
Remain alone!

The silent picture on the wall,
The gravestone, Of all that beauty, life, and joy,
Stay alone!

One year,—one year,—one little year,
And so much gone! And yet the even flow of life
Moves calmly on.

One year,—one year,—one little year,
So much is gone! And yet the steady course of life
Keeps moving smoothly.

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,
Above that head; No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray
Says he is dead.

The grave is covered in green, and the flowers bloom beautifully,
Above that head; No sad color of leaf or branch
Claims he's dead.

No pause or hush of merry birds
That sing above Tells us how coldly sleeps below
The form we love.

No break or silence from cheerful birds
That singing above Tells us how coldly rests below
The shape we adore.

Where hast thou been this year, beloved?
What hast thou seen,— What visions fair, what glorious life,
Where hast thou been?

Where have you been this year, my love?
What have you seen?— What beautiful visions, what amazing life,
Where have you been at?

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!
'Twixt us and thee; The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
That we may see?

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!
Between us and you; The mystic veil! when will it fall,
Can we see it?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,
But present still, And waiting for the coming hour
Of God's sweet will.

Not dead, not asleep, not even absent,
Still here, And waiting for the moment
Of God's great plan.

Lord of the living and the dead,
Our Saviour dear! We lay in silence at thy feet
This sad, sad year.

Lord of the living and the dead,
Our dear Savior! We lie in silence at your feet
This tough, tough year.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

Harriet Beecher Stowe.

BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.

Blessed are those who mourn.

Oh, deem not they are blest alone
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The Power who pities man, has shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.

Oh, don't think that only those
Those whose lives are peaceful are blessed; The force that cares for humanity has shown
A blessing for the tearful eyes.

The light of smiles shall fill again
The lids that overflow with tears; And weary hours of woe and pain
Are promises of happier years.

The light of smiles will shine again
The eyes that are filled with tears; And tired times of grief and pain
Are hopes for better years.

There is a day of sunny rest
For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest,
But joy shall come with early light.

There is a day of sunny rest
For every difficult and troubled night; And grief might linger as a guest,
But joy will come with the morning light.

And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bier
Dost shed the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere
Will give him to thy arms again.

And you, standing by your friend's low coffin
Are shedding tears like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier place
Will bring him back into your arms again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart,
Though life its common gifts deny,— Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,
And spurned of men, he goes to die.

Nor should a good person's trust fade away,
Even if life withholds its usual gifts,— Though with a wounded and hurting heart,
And rejected by others, they meet their end.

For God hath marked each sorrowing day
And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.

For God has marked every sorrowful day
And counted every hidden tear, And heaven's long time of joy will compensate
For all His children who are suffering here.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

DE PROFUNDIS.

From the Depths.

The face which, duly as the sun,
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day
With daily love, is dimmed away—
And yet my days go on, go on.

The face that, just like the sun,
Rose for me as life began,
To brighten all my hours each day
With daily love, has faded away—
And still my days go on, go on.

The tongue which, like a stream, could run
Smooth music from the roughest stone,
And every morning with "Good day"
Make each day good, is hushed away—
And yet my days go on, go on.

The tongue that, like a stream, could flow
Smooth music from the toughest stone,
And every morning with "Good day"
Make each day good, is silenced—
And still, my days continue on.

The heart which, like a staff, was one
For mine to lean and rest upon,
The strongest on the longest day,
With steadfast love is caught away—
And yet my days go on, go on.

The heart that was like a support
For me to lean on and relax,
The strongest on the longest day,
Is taken away by unwavering love—
And still my days just keep going on and on.

The world goes whispering to its own,
"This anguish pierces to the bone."
And tender friends go sighing round,
"What love can ever cure this wound?"
My days go on, my days go on.

The world quietly says to itself,
"This pain cuts deep into my soul."
And caring friends wander nearby,
"What love could ever heal this hurt?"
My days go on, my days go on.

The past rolls forward on the sun
And makes all night. O dreams begun,
Not to be ended! Ended bliss!
And life, that will not end in this!
My days go on, my days go on.

The past moves ahead with the sun
And creates all night. Oh dreams that started,
Not meant to end! Ended happiness!
And life, that won't wrap up like this!
My days go on, my days go on.

Breath freezes on my lips to moan:
As one alone, once not alone,
I sit and knock at Nature's door,
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,
Whose desolated days go on.

Breath freezes on my lips to moan:
As one alone, once not alone,
I sit and knock at Nature's door,
Open-hearted, heart-hungry, very poor,
Whose lonely days drag on.

I knock and cry—Undone, undone!
Is there no help, no comfort—none?
No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains
Where others drive their loaded wains?
My vacant days go on, go on.

I knock and shout—Lost, I'm lost!
Is there no help, no comfort—at all?
No harvest in the vast wheat fields
Where others drive their heavy carts?
My empty days just keep dragging on.

This Nature, though the snows be down,
Thinks kindly of the bird of June.
The little red hip on the tree
Is ripe for such. What is for me,
Whose days so winterly go on?

This nature, even with the snow on the ground,
Has a soft spot for the June bird.
The little red berry on the tree
Is ready for it. What’s in store for me,
Whose days feel like they just keep dragging on like winter?

No bird am I to sing in June,
And dare not ask an equal boon.
Good nests and berries red are Nature's
To give away to better creatures—
And yet my days go on, go on.

I'm not a bird to sing in June,
And I wouldn't dare to ask for that favor.
Good nests and red berries belong to Nature,
To give to better beings—
Yet, my days continue to go by.

I ask less kindness to be done—
Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet
Cool deathly touch to these tired feet,
Till days go out which now go on.

I ask for less kindness to be shown—
Just to take off these worn-out shoes
(Too early worn and dirty) with a sweet
Cool, calming touch to these tired feet,
Until the days that keep passing come to an end.

Only to lift the turf unmown
From off the earth where it has grown,
Some cubit-space, and say, "Behold,
Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold,
Forgetting how the days go on."

Only to lift the unmowed grass
From the earth where it has grown,
A little space, and say, "Look,
Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that cover,
"Forget how the days go."

A Voice reproves me thereupon,
More sweet than Nature's, when the drone
Of bees is sweetest, and more deep
Than when the rivers overleap
The shuddering pines, and thunder on.

A voice corrects me then,
Softer than nature's when the drone
Of bees is at its sweetest, and deeper
Than when the rivers rush
The shaking pines, and roar on.

God's Voice, not Nature's—night and noon
He sits upon the great white throne,
And listens for the creature's praise.
What babble we of days and days?
The Dayspring he, whose days go on!

God's Voice, not Nature's—night and noon
He sits on the big white throne,
And listens for the creature's praise.
What do we babble about for days and days?
The Dayspring, whose days never end!

He reigns above, he reigns alone:
Systems burn out and leave his throne:
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall
Around him, changeless amid all—
Ancient of days, whose days go on!

He rules from above, he stands alone:
Systems burn out and leave his throne:
Beautiful mist of angels melts and falls
Around him, unchanging through it all—
Eternal one, whose time never ends!

He reigns below, he reigns alone—
And having life in love forgone
Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,
He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns
Or rules with Him, while days go on?

He rules below, he rules on his own—
And having given up life for love
Under the crown of sovereign thorns,
He rules the envious God. Who grieves
Or does she stand with Him, as the days go by?

By anguish which made pale the sun,
I hear him charge his saints that none
Among the creatures anywhere
Blaspheme against him with despair,
However darkly days go on.

By the pain that dimmed the sun,
I hear him instruct his saints that none
Among all living beings anywhere
Should curse him with despair,
No matter how tough things get.

Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown:
No mortal grief deserves that crown.
O supreme Love, chief misery,
The sharp regalia are for Thee,
Whose days eternally go on!

Take the thorny crown from my head:
No human sorrow deserves that crown.
O supreme Love, greatest pain,
The sharp honors belong to You,
Whose days never stop!

For us, ... whatever's undergone,
Thou knowest, willest what is done.
Grief may be joy misunderstood:
Only the Good discerns the good.
I trust Thee while my days go on.

For us, ... whatever has happened,
You know, want what is done.
Grief can be joy misinterpreted:
Only the Good recognizes the good.
I trust you as my days go on.

Whatever's lost, it first was won!
We will not struggle nor impugn.
Perhaps the cup was broken here
That Heaven's new wine might show more clear.
I praise Thee while my days go on.

Whatever's lost was once gained!
We won't fight or blame.
Maybe the cup broke here
So that Heaven's new wine could shine brighter.
I praise You as my days go on.

I praise Thee while my days go on;
I love Thee while my days go on!
Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,
With emptied arms and treasure lost,
I thank thee while my days go on!

I praise You while my days go on;
I love You while my days go on!
Through darkness and scarcity, through fire and cold,
With empty arms and treasures gone,
I thank You as my days continue!

And, having in thy life-depth thrown
Being and suffering (which are one),
As a child drops some pebble small
Down some deep well, and hears it fall
Smiling—so I! Thy Days Go On!

And, having thrown into the depths of your life
Being and suffering (which are one),
Like a child dropping a small pebble
Down a deep well, and listening to its fall
Smiling—me too! Your Days Go On!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

BLESSED ARE THEY.

To us across the ages borne,
Comes the deep word the Master said: "Blessèd are they that mourn;
They shall be comforted!"

To us through the ages brought,
Here are the powerful words the Master spoke: "Blessed are those who mourn;
They will be comforted!

Strange mystery! It is better then
To weep and yearn and vainly call, Till peace is won from pain,
Than not to grieve at all!

Strange mystery! It's better then
To cry out, hope, and call for something in vain, Till peace is found from pain,
Better than feeling sad at all!

Yea, truly, though joy's note be sweet,
Life does not thrill to joy alone. The harp is incomplete
That has no deeper tone.

Yes, truly, even though the sound of joy is sweet,
Life isn't just about joy. The harp is not whole
If it doesn’t have a deeper meaning.

Unclouded sunshine overmuch
Falls vainly on the barren plain; But fruitful is the touch
Of sunshine after rain!

Clear sunshine too bright
Shines uselessly on the dry land; But the warmth is right
When the sun comes out after it rains!

Who only scans the heavens by day
Their story but half reads, and mars; Let him learn how to say,
"The night is full of stars!"

Who only looks at the sky during the day
Their story is only partially understood and flawed; Let them learn how to say,
"The night is filled with stars!"

We seek to know Thee more and more,
Dear Lord, and count our sorrows blest, Since sorrow is the door
Whereby Thou enterest.

We want to know You better and better,
Dear Lord, help us see our struggles as a blessing, Since pain is the way
That you arrive.

Nor can our hearts so closely come
To Thine in any other place, As where, with anguish dumb,
We faint in Thine embrace.

Nor can our hearts get so close
To you in any other place, As where, in silent pain,
We grow weak in Your embrace.

ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860.

TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO PASSED AWAY IN MILAN ON JUNE 6, 1860.

"Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him."—John xx. 15.

"Jesus said to her, 'Woman, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?' She, thinking he was the gardener, said to him, 'Sir, if you’ve taken him away, tell me where you’ve put him.'"—John 20. 15.

In the fair gardens of celestial peace
Walketh a gardener in meekness clad; Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,
And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.

In the beautiful gardens of heavenly peace
A gardener walks, dressed modestly; The flowers that crown his dewy hair are lovely,
His mysterious eyes are both gentle and tragic.

Fair are the silent foldings of his robes,
Falling with saintly calmness to his feet; And when he walks, each floweret to his will
With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.

Fair are the quiet drapes of his robes,
Falling gently and gracefully to his feet; And when he walks, every little flower
Rhythms that are lively and harmoniously sweet.

Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart,
In the mild summer radiance of his eye; No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost,
Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh.

Every green leaf dances with joy,
In the warm summer light of his gaze; No fear of storms, cold, or harsh frost,
Hinders the flowers when their sun is near.

And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love
Are nurseries to those gardens of the air; And his far-darting eye, with starry beam,
Watching the growing of his treasures there.

And all our favorite spots of earthly love
Are places where those gardens in the sky begin to flourish; And his distant gaze, with a star-like shine,
Watching his treasures thrive up there.

We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears,
O'erwatched with restless longings night and day; Forgetful of the high, mysterious right
He holds to bear our cherished plants away.

We call them ours, soaked with selfish tears,
Watched over with constant yearnings, day and night; Forgetful of the high, mysterious right
He has to take away our beloved plants.

But when some sunny spot in those bright fields
Needs the fair presence of an added flower, Down sweeps a starry angel in the night:
At morn the rose has vanished from our bower.

But when a sunny spot in those bright fields
Needs the beautiful presence of an additional flower, Down comes a starry angel in the night:
By morning, the rose has vanished from our garden.

Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave!
Blank, silent, vacant; but in worlds above, Like a new star outblossomed in the skies,
The angels hail an added flower of love.

Where our tree and flower used to be, there's now a grave!
Empty, quiet, and alone; yet in the skies above, Like a new star blooming in the sky,
The angels rejoice in a new bloom of love.

Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound,
Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf, Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye
Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.

Dear friend, no longer on that lonely mound,
Blanketed by red and yellow autumn leaves, Let the tear fall, but lift your weary gaze
Above the autumn fog of human sadness.

Thy garden rosebud bore within its breast
Those mysteries of color, warm and bright, That the bleak climate of this lower sphere
Could never waken into form and light.

Your garden rosebud held within it
The mysteries of color, warm and bright, That the harsh climate of this lower world
Could never be shaped or revealed.

Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence,
Nor must thou ask to take her thence away; Thou shalt behold her, in some coming hour,
Full blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.

Yes, the kind Gardener has taken her away,
And you shouldn't ask to have her back; You will see her, in some future time,
Fully in bloom in his fields under clear skies.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

Harriet Beecher Stowe.

DEATH IN YOUTH.

YOUTHFUL DEATH.

FROM "FESTUS."

For to die young is youth's divinest gift;
To pass from one world fresh into another,
Ere change hath lost the charm of soft regret,
And feel the immortal impulse from within
Which makes the coming life cry always, On!
And follow it while strong, is heaven's last mercy.
There is a fire-fly in the south, but shines
When on the wing. So is't with mind. When once
We rest, we darken. On! saith God to the soul,
As unto the earth for ever. On it goes,
A rejoicing native of the infinite,
As is a bird, of air; an orb, of heaven.

For dying young is the greatest gift of youth;
To move from one world into another,
Before change has taken away the charm of sweet regret,
And to feel the eternal drive from within
That makes the upcoming life always say, Go!
And to follow it while we’re strong is heaven’s final blessing.
There’s a firefly in the south, but it only shines
When it’s in motion. It’s the same with the mind. Once
We rest, we fade away. Go! says God to the soul,
Just like to the earth forever. It keeps moving,
A joyful inhabitant of the infinite,
Like a bird is to the air; like a sphere is to heaven.

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

IN MEMORIAM F.A.S.

In Memory of F.A.S.

Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O remember
How of human days he lived the better part. April came to bloom and never dim December
Breathed its killing chills upon the head or heart.

Yet, O wounded heart, remember, O remember
How he lived his best days as a human. April bloomed, and December never dimmed
Its deadly chills on the head or heart.

Doomed to know not winter, only spring, a being
Trod the flowery April blithely for a while, Took his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing,
Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to smile.

Destined to know only spring and never winter, a being
Strolled joyfully through the blooming April for a while, Enjoyed the music, the joy of thoughts and sights,
Came, stayed, and left, but always had a smile on.

Came and stayed and went, and now when all is finished,
You alone have crossed the melancholy stream, Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminished
Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream.

Came, stayed, and left, and now that it’s all over,
You alone have crossed the sorrowful river, You feel the pain, but him, oh him, he has the lasting
Lasting happiness, the dream that never disappears.

All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason,
Shame, dishonor, death, to him were but a name. Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing season
And ere the day of sorrow departed as he came.

All that life holds of suffering, hard work, and betrayal,
For him, shame, dishonor, and death were just words. Here, a boy lived through all the joyful times
And before the day of sadness disappeared just as suddenly as it arrived.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Davos, 1881.

TEARS.

Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not
More grief than ye can weep for. That is well—
That is light grieving! lighter, none befell,
Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.
Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot,
The mother singing; at her marriage bell
The bride weeps; and before the oracle
Of high-faned hills, the poet has forgot
Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace,
Ye who weep only! If, as some have done,
Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place,
And touch but tombs,—look up! Those tears will run
Soon in long rivers down the lifted face,
And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.

Thank God, bless God, all of you who aren’t suffering more grief
Than you can cry for. That’s good—
That’s light grieving! Nothing lighter has happened,
Since Adam lost the original blessing.
Tears! what are tears? The baby cries in its crib,
The mother sings; at her wedding bell
The bride cries; and before the oracle
Of high-famed hills, the poet has forgotten
Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace,
You who only weep! If, as some have done,
You wander tear-blinded in a deserted place,
And only touch tombs,—look up! Those tears will flow
Soon in long rivers down your lifted face,
And leave your vision clear for stars and sunshine.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

RESIGNATION.

Resignation.

There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair!

There is no flock, no matter how watched and cared for,
But there’s one dead lamb! There is no fireside, however protected,
But there’s one empty chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

The air is filled with goodbyes to the dying,
And grieving for the dead; Rachel's heart, crying for her children,
Will not be consoled!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

Let’s be patient! These tough times
Don't come from the ground, But often heavenly blessings
Wear this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.

We can only see faintly through the fog and haze;
In this world of darkness What looks to us like sorrowful, funeral lights
It could be the faint lights of heaven.

There is no death! What seems so is transition:
This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

There is no death! What seems like it is just a transition:
This life of human breath Is just a neighborhood of the eternal life,
Whose entrance we call death.

She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—
But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

She is not dead—the child we love—
But she has gone to that school. Where she no longer needs our weak protection,
And Christ himself is in control.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives whom we call dead.

In that quiet and secluded monastery,
Guided by guardian angels, Free from temptation, free from the taint of sin,
She lives, even though we call her dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Day after day we wonder what she's up to
In those clear skies; Year after year, following her gentle steps,
Look at how she's become even more beautiful.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

So we walk with her and maintain
The connection that nature provides, Believing that our thoughts, even if unspoken,
Can reach her at her home.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child:

Not as a child will we see her again;
For moments of wild excitement We hold her in our arms once more,
She's not a kid anymore.

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.

But a lovely young woman, in her father's home,
Dressed in heavenly elegance; And radiant with the fullness of her spirit
We'll see her face.

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,—

And even when emotions surge too quickly
And pain that’s been buried for so long, The racing heart aches and crashes like the ocean,
That can never find peace—

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.

We will be patient and soothe the feeling
We might not fully stop; By honoring silence, not hiding,
The grief that must come.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR.

Beside the dead I knelt for prayer,
And felt a presence as I prayed. Lo! it was Jesus standing there.
He smiled: "Be not afraid!"

Beside the dead I knelt to pray,
And felt a presence while I prayed. Look! it was Jesus standing there.
He smiled: "Don't be scared!"

"Lord, Thou hast conquered death we know;
Restore again to life," I said, "This one who died an hour ago."
He smiled: "She is not dead!"

"Lord, You have conquered death we know;
"Bring her back to life," I said, "This one who died an hour ago."
He smiled, "She's not dead!"

"Asleep then, as thyself did say;
Yet thou canst lift the lids that keep Her prisoned eyes from ours away!"
He smiled: "She doth not sleep!"

"Asleep then, as you said;
But you can lift the lids that keep Her closed eyes from us!"
He smiled: "She's not sleeping!"

"Nay then, tho' haply she do wake,
And look upon some fairer dawn, Restore her to our hearts that ache!"
He smiled: "She is not gone!"

"Nah then, even if she does wake,
And sees a more beautiful sunrise, Bring her back to our hearts that hurt!"
He smiled: "She's still here!"

"Alas! too well we know our loss,
Nor hope again our joy to touch, Until the stream of death we cross."
He smiled: "There is no such!"

"Unfortunately! We know our loss too well,
And we don’t think we’ll feel joy again, Until we cross the river of death."
He smiled: "That doesn't exist!"

"Yet our beloved seem so far,
The while we yearn to feel them near, Albeit with Thee we trust they are."
He smiled: "And I am here!"

"Yet our loved ones seem so far,
While we yearn to feel them nearby, Even so, with You we trust they are."
He smiled and said, "And I'm here!"

"Dear Lord, how shall we know that they
Still walk unseen with us and Thee, Nor sleep, nor wander far away?"
He smiled: "Abide in Me."

"Dear Lord, how will we know that they
Continue to walk unseen with us and you, Neither sleep nor drift too far away?"
He smiled: "Stay with Me."

ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.

COMFORT.

Comfort.

Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet
From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low,
Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so
Who art not missed by any that entreat.
Speak to me as Mary at thy feet—
And if no precious gums my hands bestow,
Let my tears drop like amber, while I go
In reach of thy divinest voice complete
In humanest affection—thus in sooth,
To lose the sense of losing! As a child
Whose song-bird seeks the woods forevermore,
Is sung to instead by mother's mouth;
Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,
He sleeps the faster that he wept before.

Speak softly to me, my Savior, softly and sweetly
Amid the hallelujahs, sweet and low,
So I won’t be afraid and stumble, and miss you so
You who aren’t missed by anyone who asks.
Speak to me like Mary at your feet—
And even if I don’t have precious oils to offer,
Let my tears fall like amber while I move
Within earshot of your divine voice,
Filled with the most human affection—truly,
To lose the feeling of loss! Like a child
Whose songbird flies into the woods forever,
Is sung to instead by his mother's voice;
Until, resting on her chest, reconciled by love,
He sleeps more soundly because he wept before.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

THE SECRET OF DEATH.

"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away;
Kiss her and leave her,—thy love is clay!"

"She's gone!" they told him; "let's go;
Kiss her and move on,—your love is just dust!"

They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;
On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;

They styled her dark brown hair;
They arranged it nicely on her stone-like forehead;

Over her eyes that gazed too much
They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

Over her eyes that gazed too much
They closed the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well
The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

With a gentle touch, they sealed up tight
The soft, thin lips that held secrets to share;

About her brows and beautiful face
They tied her veil and her marriage-lace,

About her brows and beautiful face
They tied her veil and her wedding lace,

And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes—
Which were the whitest no eye could choose!

And put on her white feet her white silk shoes—
Which were the whitest anyone could ever choose!

And over her bosom they crossed her hands.
"Come away!" they said; "God understands!"

And they crossed her hands over her chest.
"Come on!" they said; "God knows!"

And there was silence, and nothing there
But silence, and scents of eglantere,

And there was silence, and nothing there
But silence, and the scents of eglantere,

And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;
And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she."

And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;
And they said, "As a lady should lie, so she lies."

And they held their breath till they left the room,
With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.

And they held their breath until they left the room,
With a shiver, to look at its stillness and darkness.

But he who loved her too well to dread
The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,

But he who loved her so much that he didn’t fear
The sweet, the elegant, the beautiful dead,

He lit his lamp and took the key
And turned it. Alone again—he and she!

He turned on his lamp and grabbed the key
And twisted it. Alone again—just him and her!

He and she; but she would not speak,
Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.

He and she; but she wouldn’t say a word,
Even though he kissed, in the familiar spot, her quiet cheek.

He and she; yet she would not smile,
Though he called her the name she loved ere-while.

He and she; yet she wouldn't smile,
Though he called her the name she once loved.

He and she; still she did not move
To any one passionate whisper of love.

He and she; yet she still didn't respond
To any passionate whisper of love.

Then he said: "Cold lips, and breasts without breath,
Is there no voice, no language of death,

Then he said: "Cold lips, and chests without breath,
Is there no voice, no language of death,

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,
But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,
But to heart and to soul clear and intense?"

"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear;
What was the secret of dying, dear?

"Look now; I will listen with my heart, not just my ears;
What was the secret of dying, my dear?

"Was it the infinite wonder of all
That you ever could let life's flower fall?

"Was it the endless wonder of everything
That you could ever let life’s flower fade?"

"Or was it a greater marvel to feel
The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

"Or was it more amazing to sense
The complete calm wash over the pain?"

"Was the miracle greater to find how deep
Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?

"Was the miracle greater to find how deep
Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?"

"Did life roll back its records, dear,
And show, as they say it does, past things clear?

"Did life turn back its records, dear,
And show, as they say it does, past events clearly?"

"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss
To find out, so, what a wisdom love is?

"And was it the deepest part of happiness
To discover, then, what a wise thing love is?"

"O perfect dead! O dead most dear,
I hold the breath of my soul to hear!

"O perfect dead! O dead most beloved,
I hold my breath to hear your soul!"

"I listen as deep as to horrible hell,
As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.

"I listen deeply to terrible hell,
As high as to heaven, yet you say nothing."

"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,
To make you so placid from head to feet!

"There must be some joy in dying, sweet,
To make you so calm from head to toe!"

"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,
And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,—

"I would tell you, sweetheart, if I were dead,
And it were your warm tears falling on my brow—"

"I would say, though the angel of death had laid
His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.

"I would say, though the angel of death had laid
His sword on my lips to keep it unspoken."

"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,
Which of all death's was the chiefest surprise,

"You shouldn't ask aimlessly, with tears streaming down,
Which of all deaths was the biggest shock,

"The very strangest and suddenest thing
Of all the surprises that dying must bring."

"The most bizarre and sudden thing
Of all the shocks that dying can bring."

Ah, foolish world! O, most kind dead!
Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Ah, foolish world! Oh, kind dead!
Although he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say,
With a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way:

Who will believe that he heard her say,
With a sweet, gentle voice, in the beloved old way:

"The utmost wonder is this,—I hear,
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;

"The greatest wonder is this—I hear,
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;

"And am your angel, who was your bride,
And know that, though dead, I have never died."

"And I am your angel, who was your bride,
And know that, even though I'm dead, I have never really died."

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

Sir Edwin Arnold.

PEACE.

Calm.

There is the peace that cometh after sorrow,
Of hope surrendered, not of hope fulfilled; A peace that looketh not upon to-morrow,
But calmly on a tempest that is stilled.

There’s a peace that comes after grief,
Of hope lost, not of hope fulfilled; A peace that doesn’t look toward tomorrow,
But quietly in a storm that has settled.

A peace which lives not now in joy's excesses,
Nor in the happy life of love secure, But in the unerring strength the heart possesses,
Of conflicts won, while learning to endure.

A peace that doesn't exist in the abundance of joy,
Nor in the joyful life of safe love, But in the unwavering strength that the heart holds,
Of battles fought while learning to persevere.

A peace-there is, in sacrifice secluded,
A life subdued, from will and passion free; 'Tis not the peace that over Eden brooded,
But that which triumphed in Gethsemane.

A peace exists, found in quiet sacrifice,
A life that’s controlled, free from wants and feelings; It's not the peace that hung over Eden,
But the one who triumphed in Gethsemane.

ANONYMOUS.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

When the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night Wake the better soul that slumbered
To a holy, calm delight,—

When the hours of the day are limited,
And the voices of the night Awaken the better soul that rested
To a holy, tranquil joy,—

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;

Before the evening lamps are lit,
And, like dark and towering ghosts, Shadows from the flickering firelight
Dance on the living room wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door,— The beloved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more:

Then the spirits of those who have passed
Enter through the open door— The cherished ones, the genuine,
Come visit me again:

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife, By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

He, the young and strong, who had
Noble dreams for the fight, Collapsed by the roadside and died,
Tired from the journey of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

They, the holy ones and frail,
Who bore the weight of pain, Folded their pale hands so gently,
No longer speak to us on earth!

And with them the being beauteous
Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

And with them the beautiful being
Who was given to my younger years, More than anything else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep,
Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine;

With a slow and silent step,
Here comes that heavenly messenger, Takes the empty chair next to me,
She places her soft hand in mine;

And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

And she sits and looks at me
With those soulful and kind eyes, Like the stars, calm and angelic,
Looking down from the sky.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

Uttered not, yet understood,
Is the spirit's quiet prayer, Gentle reminders, wrapped in blessings,
Flowing from her soft lips.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!

Oh, even though I'm often down and lonely,
All my fears disappear If I just remember that there are
Those who have lived and died this way!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

HAPPY ARE THE DEAD.

I walked the other day, to spend my hour,
Into a field, Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield
A gallant flower: But winter now had ruffled all the bower
And curious store I knew there heretofore.

I went for a walk the other day to pass the time,
Into a field, Where I used to see the soil produce
A gorgeous flower: But winter had now messed up the area
An interesting collection I used to know well.

Yet I, whose search loved not to peep and peer
In the face of things, Thought with myself, there might be other springs
Beside this here, Which, like cold friends, sees us but once a year;
And so the flower Might have some other bower.

Yet I, whose search didn’t want to pry and look
In light of things, Thought to myself, there might be other sources
Next to this one here, Which, like distant friends, only sees us once a year;
And thus the flower Could have another home.

Then taking up what I could nearest spy,
I digged about That place where I had seen him to grow out;
And by and by I saw the warm recluse alone to lie,
Where fresh and green He lived of us unseen.

Then picking up what I could see nearby,
I searched around That spot where I had noticed him emerge;
And soon I saw the warm hidden place lying alone,
Where it's fresh and green He lived out of our view.

Many a question intricate and rare
Did I there strow; But all I could extort was, that he now
Did there repair Such losses as befell him in this air,
And would erelong Come forth most fair and young.

Many complicated and unusual questions
Did I ask there? But all I could get from him was that he now
Was there a recovery? From the losses he faced in this world,
And would be soon Step out looking fresh and young.

This past, I threw the clothes quite o'er his head;
And, stung with fear Of my own frailty, dropped down many a tear
Upon his bed; Then, sighing, whispered, Happy are the dead!
What peace doth now Rock him asleep below!

This past, I tossed the clothes over his head;
And, trembling with fear Of my own weakness, cried many tears
In his bed; Then, sighing, whispered, Happy are the dead!
What peace means now Rock him to sleep now!

And yet, how few believe such doctrine springs
From a poor root Which all the winter sleeps here under foot,
And hath no wings To raise it to the truth and light of things,
But is still trod By every wandering clod!

And yet, how few believe that such beliefs come
From a shaky foundation That lies dormant here beneath our feet all winter,
And has no wings To elevate it to the truth and brightness of reality,
But is still defeated By every wandering clump of dirt!

O thou whose spirit did at first inflame
And warm the dead! And by a sacred incubation fed
With life this frame, Which once had neither being, form, nor name!
Grant I may so Thy steps track here below,

O you whose spirit first ignited
And brought the lifeless back! And by a sacred growth nourished
This living body, Which once had no existence, shape, or name!
Grant that I can Follow your path down here.

That in these masks and shadows I may see
Thy sacred way; And by those hid ascents climb to that day
Which breaks from thee, Who art in all things, though invisibly:
Show me thy peace, Thy mercy, love, and ease.

That in these masks and shadows I may see
Your sacred journey; And by those hidden heights climb to that day
That shines from you. Who are in everything, even if unseen:
Show me your calm, Your kindness, love, and support.

And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign,
Lead me above, Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move
Without all pain: There, hid in thee, show me his life again
At whose dumb urn Thus all the year I mourn.

And from this worry, where dreams and sadness dominate,
Lift me up, Where light, happiness, relaxation, and real comforts exist
Painlessly There, hidden in you, show me his life again
At whose quiet grave I grieve all year round.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

THE GREEN GRASS UNDER THE SNOW.

The work of the sun is slow,
But as sure as heaven, we know;
So we'll not forget, When the skies are wet, There's green grass under the snow.

The sun works slowly,
But as sure as the heavens, we know;
So we don't forget, When it’s raining, There's green grass beneath the snow.

When the winds of winter blow,
Wailing like voices of woe,
There are April showers, And buds and flowers, And green grass under the snow.

When the winter winds blow,
Wailing like voices of despair,
It's the April rains, And buds and blooms, And green grass beneath the snow.

We find that it's ever so
In this life's uneven flow;
We've only to wait, In the face of fate, For the green grass under the snow.

We see that it's always like this
In the ups and downs of life;
We just have to hang on, When confronting our destiny, For the green grass beneath the snow.

ANNIE A. PRESTON.

THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE.

Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies,
And yet the monument proclaims it not, Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought
The emblems of a fame that never dies, Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf,
Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf.
A simple name alone, To the great world unknown, Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round,
Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground,
Lean lovingly against the humble stone.

Within this humble grave, a Conqueror rests,
But the monument doesn’t state it, Nor has the chisel carved around the sleeper's name
The symbols of a fame that never disappears, Ivy and everlasting flowers in a graceful bundle,
Entwined with the laurel's beautiful, royal leaf.
Just a basic name here, Unnoticed by the wider world, Is engraved here, and wildflowers, blooming nearby,
Gentle meadow-sweet and ground violets,
Gently lean against the simple stone.

Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart
No man of iron mould and bloody hands, Who sought to wreck upon the cowering lands
The passions that consumed his restless heart: But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,
Gentlest in mien and mind, Of gentle womankind, Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame;
One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made
Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.

Here, in the quiet earth, they lay apart
Not a man of steel and bloodied hands, Who tried to destroy the cringing lands
With the passions that filled his restless heart: But one with a gentle spirit and delicate build,
The kindest in attitude and thought, Of gentle femininity, Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame;
One in whose eyes the smile of kindness lingered
Like flowers by sunny streams in May, Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shadow
A sweeter sadness chased the smile away.

Nor deem that when the hand that molders here
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear,
And armies mustered at the sign, as when Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East,
Gray captains leading bands of veteran men And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast.
Not thus were raged the mighty wars that gave
The victory to her who fills this grave;
Alone her task was wrought, Alone the battle fought; Through that long strife her constant hope was staid
On God alone, nor looked for other aid.

Nor think that when the hand that rests here
Was raised in threat, worlds were filled with dread,
And armies assembled at the signal, just like when __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__. Clouds gather upon clouds before the rainy East,
Gray leaders gathering teams of experienced men And fiery youths ready to be the vulture's meal.
That's not how the great wars were fought
That gave the victory to her who occupies this grave;
She completed her task alone. The battle fought solo; Through that long struggle, her unwavering hope relied
Only trusting in God, with no expectation of help from anyone else.

She met the hosts of sorrow with a look
That altered not beneath the frown they wore, And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took,
Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more. Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath,
And calmly broke in twain The fiery shafts of pain, And rent the nets of passion from her path.
By that victorious hand despair was slain. With love she vanquished hate and overcame
Evil with good, in her Great Master's name.

She faced the hosts of sorrow with a look
That didn't change despite the frown they had, And soon the gloomy group were tamed, and accepted,
Humbly, her gentle guidance, and she no longer frowned. Her soft hand pushed aside the attacks of anger,
And calmly divide in half The burning arrows of pain, And tore the nets of passion from her path.
With that triumphant hand, despair was overcome. With love she conquered hate and triumphed
Over evil with good, in her Great Master's name.

Her glory is not of this shadowy state,
Glory that with the fleeting season dies; But when she entered at the sapphire gate
What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung,
And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung!
And He who, long before, Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet,
Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat;
He who returning, glorious, from the grave,
Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave.

Her glory isn’t from this shadowy world,
Glory that diminishes with the changing seasons; But when she stepped through the sapphire gate,
What joy shines in the heavenly eyes! How the bright heavens echoed with welcoming sounds,
And heavenly flowers were tossed by shining hands!
And He who, long ago, Faced pain, rejection, and grief, The Mighty Sufferer, with a gentle expression,
Smiled at the shy newcomer from his throne;
He who, rising glorious from the grave,
Dragged Death, now disarmed, as a cowering slave.

See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;
Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go
Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. Brief is the time, I know, The warfare scarce begun; Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won.
Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee;
The victors' names are yet too few to fill Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory,
That ministered to thee, is open still.

See, as I hang out here, the sun is setting;
Cool breezes hint that night is approaching. Oh gentle sleeper, from your grave I come
Comforted but sad, hopeful yet still afraid. I know time's tight, The battle has just begun; Yet everyone can achieve the victories you have had.
The spring still flows whose waters gave you strength;
The names of the winners are still too few to fill. Heaven's great list; the glorious armory,
That service you used is still available.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

William Cullen Bryant.

THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE.

YOU HAVE GONE TO THE GRAVE.

Thou art gone to the grave—but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee,
And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom.

You have gone to the grave—but we will not mourn you,
Even though sorrow and darkness surround the grave; The Savior has walked through its gates before you,
And the light of His love guides you through the darkness.

Thou art gone to the grave—we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died.

You have gone to the grave—we can no longer see you,
Nor walk the difficult path of life beside you; But the wide arms of mercy are open to embrace you,
Sinners can have hope, since the Sinless one has died.

Thou art gone to the grave—and, its mansion forsaking,
Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long, But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking,
And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.

You have gone to the grave—and, leaving that place behind,
Perhaps your tested spirit has lingered in doubt for a long time, But the sunshine of heaven shone brightly on your awakening,
And the song you heard was the song of the seraphim.

Thou art gone to the grave—but 't were wrong to deplore thee,
When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide; He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee,
Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.

You're gone to the grave—but it would be wrong to mourn you,
When God was your savior, your protector, your guide; He gave you life, took you away, and will soon bring you back,
Where death has no pain, because the Savior has died.

REGINALD HEBER.

Reginald Heber.

LYCIDAS.

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year,
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse;
So may some gentle muse
With lucky words favor my destined urn,
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud;
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared
Under the opening eyelids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Tempered to the oaten flute;
Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel
From the glad song would not be absent long,
And old Damætas loved to hear our song.
But, oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone— Now thou art gone, and never must return!
Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves,
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes, mourn;
The willows, and the hazel copses green,
Shall now no more be seen,
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old bards, the famous druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream—
Ay me! I fondly dream,
Had ye been there; for what could that have done?
What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The muse herself for her enchanting son,
Whom universal nature did lament,
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless muse?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble minds)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise,
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies;
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood;
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the herald of the sea
That came in Neptune's plea;
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?
And questioned every gust of rugged winds
That blows from off each beakèd promontory;
They knew not of his story;
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panopè with all her sisters played.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge,
Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe.
Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?
Last came, and last did go,
The pilot of the Galilean Lake;
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reckoning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least
That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs!
What recks it them? what need they? they are sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said;
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears.
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies,
For so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away where'er thy bones are hurled,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth!
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!
Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more! For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky;
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops and sweet societies,
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay;
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh, woods and pastures new.

Yet again, O you laurels, and once more
You myrtles brown, with ivy still green,
I come to gather your harsh and raw berries
And with clumsy fingers
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year,
Bitter constraint, and sadly dear occasion,
Forces me to disturb your proper season;
For Lycidas is dead, dead before his prime,
Young Lycidas, and he hasn't left his equal.
Who wouldn't sing for Lycidas? He knew
How to sing and create the lofty rhyme.
He must not float on his watery bier
Unmourned, and drift into the parching wind,
Without the reward of some melodious tear.
Begin then, sisters of the sacred well, That springs from beneath the seat of Jove,
Begin, and sweep the string somewhat loudly.
Enough with empty refusals and shy excuses;
May some gentle muse
With fortunate words favor my destined urn,
And as he passes, turn,
And wish fair peace to my dark shroud;
For we were raised on the same hill,
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and stream.
Together, before the high meadows appeared
Under the opening eyelids of the morning,
We drove out to the fields, and together heard
What time the gray-fly sounds her sultry horn,
Feeding our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Often until the star that rose at evening bright
Had lowered his westering wheel towards heaven.
Meanwhile, the rural songs were not silent,
Blended with the oaten flute;
Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven hooves
Would not be absent long from the joyous song,
And old Damætas loved to hear our melody.
But, oh, the painful change, now that you’re gone— Now you are gone, and must never return!
You, shepherd, you the woods and deserted caves,
Overgrown with wild thyme and climbing vines,
And all their echoes mourn;
The willows and green hazel thickets
Will now no longer be seen,
Fanning their joyful leaves to your gentle melodies.
As deadly as cankers to the rose,
Or parasitic worms to the grazing calves,
Or frost to flowers, which wear their bright attire,
When the white thorn first blooms;
Such, Lycidas, your loss is to the shepherd's ear.
Where were you, nymphs, when the relentless sea Closed over the head of your beloved Lycidas?
For neither were you playing on the steep,
Where your ancient poets, the famous druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy peak of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva flows her magical stream—
Alas! I foolishly dream,
Had you been there; for what could that have done?
What could the muse that Orpheus carried,
The muse herself for her enchanting son,
Whom all of nature lamented,
When, by the rout that created the dreadful roar,
His bloody face was sent down the stream,
Down the fast Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Unfortunately, what good does it do to always worry? To tend the humble, overlooked shepherd's trade,
And to seriously think about the thankless muse?
Would it not be better to do, as others do,
To have fun with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with Neaera's tangled hair?
Fame is the motivator that elevates the clear spirit
(That final weakness of noble minds)
To scorn delights, and lead laborious days;
But the fair reward when we hope to find,
And think to burst forth into sudden flame,
Comes the blind fury with her hated shears,
And cuts the thin-spun life. But not the praise,
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the shining foil
Set off for the world, nor in broad rumor lies;
But lives and spreads on high by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he decides finally on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect your reward.
O fountain Arethuse, and you cherished water, Smooth-flowing Mincius, crowned with singing reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood;
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the herald of the sea
That came in Neptune's plea;
He asked the waves, and asked the treacherous winds,
What hard misfortune has doomed this gentle swain?
And questioned every gust of strong winds
That blows from every cliff;
They knew not of his story;
And wise Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a breath was from his dungeon strayed;
The air was calm, and on the smooth sea
Sleek Panopè with all her sisters danced.
It was that fateful and treacherous ship,
Built in the eclipse, and rigged with dark curses,
That sank so low that sacred head of yours.
Next, Camus, our esteemed father, walked slowly, His hairy mantle, and his sedge cap,
Woven with dim figures, and on the edge,
Like that blood-red flower, inscribed with sadness.
Ah! who has taken (he said) my dearest pledge?
Last came, and last did go,
The pilot of the Galilean Lake;
Two heavy keys he bore of different metals
(The golden opens, the iron shuts tightly);
He shook his mitred locks and sternly spoke:
How well could I have spared for you, young swain,
Enough of such as creep for their bellies' sake,
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they care little,
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And push away the worthily invited guest;
Blind mouths! that hardly know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learned anything else at all
That belongs to the faithful shepherd's skill!
What does it matter to them? what do they need? they are set;
And when they choose, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their wretched straw pipes;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But, bloated with wind and the foul mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and spread foul disease;
Besides what the grim wolf with stealthy paw
Daily devours swiftly, and nothing said;
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to strike once, and strike no more.
Come back, Alpheus, the terrifying voice has faded, That shrunk your streams; return, Sicilian muse,
And call the valleys, and bid them cast
Their bells, and flowers of a thousand hues.
You valleys low, where the gentle whispers
Of shades, and playful winds, and flowing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the dark star sparsely looks,
Throw here all your quaint enameled eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,
And purple all the ground with spring flowers.
Bring the early primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy speckled with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-dressed woodbine,
With wan cowslips that hang their thoughtful heads,
And every flower that wears sad embroidery.
Bid Amaranthus shed all his beauty,
And daffodils fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies,
For so to provide a little relief,
Let our fragile thoughts dally with false hopes.
Alas! while the shores and roaring seas
Wash far away wherever your bones are cast,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where perhaps under the overwhelming tide
You visit the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether you, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep by the fable of old Bellerus,
Where the great vision of the guarded mountain
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward angel now, and melt with pity!
And, O ye dolphins, carry the unfortunate youth!
Don't cry anymore, sad shepherds, don't cry anymore! For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet soon lifts his drooping head,
And adorns his beams, and with new-spangled gold
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky;
So Lycidas sunk low, but rose high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With pure nectar he washes his muddy locks,
And hears the unexpressive wedding song,
In the blessed kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops and sweet societies,
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
From now on you are the spirit of the shore,
In your large reward, and shall be good
To all that wander in that dangerous flood.
So, the awkward youth sang to the oaks and streams, While the still morning went out in gray sandals;
He touched the tender stops of various reeds,
With eager thought, singing his Doric lay.
And now the sun had stretched over all the hills,
And now had dropped into the western bay;
At last he rose, and adjusted his blue mantle:
Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

MILTON.

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD
From a life photo taken by Elliott and Fry, London.

AFTER DEATH.

FROM "PEARLS OF THE FAITH."

FROM "PEARLS OF FAITH."

He made life—and He takes it—but instead
Gives more: praise the Restorer, Al-Mu'hid!

He creates life—and He takes it away—but instead
He gives even more: praise the Restorer, Al-Mu'hid!

He who dies at Azan* sends
This to comfort faithful friends:—

He who dies at Azan* sends
This to comfort loyal friends:—

Faithful friends! it lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow;
And ye says, "Abdullah's dead!"
Weeping at my feet and head.
I can see your falling tears,
I can hear your cries and prayers,
Yet I smile and whisper this:—
"I am not that thing you kiss;
Cease your tears and let it lie:
It was mine, it is not I."

Faithful friends! I know it’s there,
Pale and white and cold as snow;
And you say, "Abdullah's dead!"
Weeping at my feet and head.
I can see your tears falling,
I can hear your cries and prayers,
Yet I smile and whisper this:
"I am not that thing you kiss;
Stop your tears and let it be:
It was mine, but it's not me."

Sweet friends! what the women lave
For its last bed in the grave
Is a tent which I am quitting,
Is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage from which at last
Like a hawk my soul hath passed.
Love the inmate, not the room;
The wearer, not the garb; the plume
Of the falcon, not the bars
Which kept him from the splendid stars.
Loving friends! be wise, and dry
Straightway every weeping eye:
What ye lift upon the bier
Is not worth a wistful tear.
'Tis an empty sea-shell, one
Out of which the pearl is gone.
The shell is broken, it lies there;
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here.
'Tis an earthen jar whose lid
Allah sealed, the while it hid
That treasure of His treasury,
A mind which loved him: let it lie!
Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in His store!

Sweet friends! What the women wash
For its final resting place in the grave
Is a tent that I’m leaving,
Is clothing that no longer fits,
Is a cage from which at last
Like a hawk my soul has flown.
Love the inhabitant, not the space;
The wearer, not the outfit; the feather
Of the falcon, not the bars
That kept him from the shining stars.
Loving friends! Be wise, and dry
Right away every tearful eye:
What you carry to the coffin
Is not worth a longing tear.
It’s an empty seashell, one
From which the pearl is gone.
The shell is broken, it sits there;
The pearl, the whole, the soul, is here.
It’s an earthen jar whose lid
God sealed, while it hid
That treasure of His treasury,
A mind that loved Him: let it rest!
Let the shard return to earth,
Since the gold shines in His store!

Allah Mu'hid, Allah most good!
Now thy grace is understood:
Now my heart no longer wonders
What Al-Barsakh is, which sunders
Life from death, and death from heaven:
Nor the "Paradises Seven"
Which the happy dead inherit;
Nor those "birds" which bear each spirit
Toward the Throne, "green birds and white,"
Radiant, glorious, swift their flight!
Now the long, long darkness ends.
Yet ye wail, my foolish friends,
While the man whom ye call "dead"
In unbroken bliss instead
Lives, and loves you: lost, 'tis true
By any light which shines for you;
But in light ye cannot see
Of unfulfilled felicity,
And enlarging Paradise;
Lives the life that never dies.

God the One, God most good!
Now your grace is clear:
Now my heart no longer wonders
What the barrier is that separates
Life from death, and death from heaven:
Nor the "Seven Paradises"
That the blessed dead inherit;
Nor those "birds" that carry each spirit
Toward the Throne, "green birds and white,"
Radiant, glorious, swift in flight!
Now the long, dark night ends.
Yet you mourn, my foolish friends,
While the person you call "dead"
Lives in unbroken bliss instead
And loves you: lost, it's true
By any light that shines for you;
But in light you cannot see
Of unfulfilled happiness,
And expanding Paradise;
Lives the life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell;
Where I am, ye too shall dwell.
I am gone before your face
A heart-beat's time, a gray ant's pace.
When ye come where I have stepped,
Ye will marvel why ye wept;
Ye will know, by true love taught,
That here is all, and there is naught.
Weep awhile, if ye are fain,—
Sunshine still must follow rain!
Only not at death, for death—
Now I see—is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, that is of all life center.

Goodbye, friends! But not really goodbye;
Where I am, you will also be.
I have gone ahead of you
For just a moment, at the pace of a tiny ant.
When you arrive where I have gone,
You will wonder why you cried;
You will understand, taught by true love,
That here is everything, and there is nothing.
Cry for a bit, if you feel like it,—
Sunshine always follows rain!
Just not at death, because death—
Now I understand—is that first breath
That our souls take when we enter
Life, which is the center of all life.

Know ye Allah's law is love,
Viewed from Allah's Throne above;
Be ye firm of trust, and come
Faithful onward to your home!
"La Allah ilia Allah! Yea,
Mu'hid! Restorer! Sovereign!" say!

Know that God's law is love,
Seen from God's Throne above;
Be strong in your trust, and come
Faithfully onward to your home!
"There is no god but God! Yes,
Unifier! Restorer! Sovereign!" say!

He who died at Asan gave
This to those that made his grave.

The person who died at Asan gave
This to those who dug his grave.

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

Sir Edwin Arnold.

* The hour of prayer; esteemed a blessed time to die.

* The hour of prayer; regarded as a fortunate time to pass away.

IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE.

It is not death to die,
To leave this weary road, And, midst the brotherhood on high,
To be at home with God.

It’s not the end to die,
To escape this worn path, And, among the fellowship above,
To feel at home with God.

It is not death to close
The eye long dimmed by tears, And wake in glorious repose,
To spend eternal years.

It’s not death to shut
The eye that has long been clouded by tears, And wake in glorious peace,
To spend eternity in happiness.

It is not death to bear
The wrench that sets us free From dungeon-chain, to breathe the air
Of boundless liberty.

It’s not death to endure
The pain that liberates us From chains of a prison, to breathe the air
Of endless freedom.

It is not death to fling
Aside this sinful dust, And rise on strong, exulting wing,
To live among the just.

It’s not death to throw away
This sinful mess, And rise on strong, triumphant wings,
To live among the good.

Jesus, thou Prince of Life,
Thy chosen cannot die! Like Thee they conquer in the strife,
To reign with Thee on high.

Jesus, you Prince of Life,
Your chosen ones can't die! Like You, they triumph in the battle,
To reign with You up above.

GEORGE WASHINGTON BETHUNE.

George Washington Bethune.

THERE IS NO DEATH.

There is no death! the stars go down
To rise upon some other shore, And bright in heaven's jewelled crown
They shine forever more.

There is no death! The stars set
To reach another shore, And bright in heaven's jeweled crown
They shine forever.

There is no death! the forest leaves
Convert to life the viewless air; The rocks disorganize to feed
The hungry moss they bear.

There is no death! The forest leaves
Transform the invisible air into life; The rocks break down to nourish
The hungry moss they hold.

There is no death! the dust we tread
Shall change, beneath the summer showers, To golden grain, or mellow fruit,
Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

There is no death! the dust we walk on
Will change, during the summer rains, To golden grain, or ripe fruit,
Or flowers in rainbow colors.

There is no death! the leaves may fall.
The flowers may fade and pass away— They only wait, through wintry hours,
The warm sweet breath of May.

There is no death! The leaves might fall.
The flowers may wilt and vanish— They’re just waiting, through the cold hours,
For the warm, sweet air of May.

There is no death! the choicest gifts
That heaven hath kindly lent to earth Are ever first to seek again
The country of their birth.

There is no death! The best gifts
That heaven has generously provided to earth. Always long to return again
To the place where they were born.

And all things that for growth of joy
Are worthy of our love or care, Whose loss has left us desolate,
Are safely garnered there.

And everything that brings us joy
is worthy of our love and attention, Whose absence has made us feel lost,
Is safely collected there.

Though life become a dreary waste,
We know its fairest, sweetest flowers, Transplanted into paradise,
Adorn immortal bowers.

Though life becomes a dull waste,
We know its most beautiful, sweetest flowers, Transplanted into paradise,
Decorate timeless forests.

The voice of bird-like melody
That we have missed and mourned so long Now mingles with the angel choir
In everlasting song.

The sweet, bird-like melody we’ve missed and grieved for so long now joins the angel choir in an eternal song.

There is no death! although we grieve
When beautiful, familiar forms That we have learned to love are torn
From our embracing arms;

There is no death! although we mourn
When stunning, familiar shapes That we have come to love are taken
From our embrace;

Although with bowed and breaking heart,
With sable garb and silent tread, We bear their senseless dust to rest,
And say that they are "dead."

Although with a heavy and breaking heart,
Dressed in black and moving silently, We lay their lifeless remains to rest,
And say that they're "gone."

They are not dead! they have but passed
Beyond the mists that blind us here Into the new and larger life
Of that serener sphere.

They are not dead! They have only moved on
Beyond the fog that obscures our view here Into a new and bigger life
Of that peaceful place.

They have but dropped their robe of clay
To put their shining raiment on; They have not wandered far away—
They are not "lost" or "gone."

They have just taken off their earthly bodies
To wear their bright new clothes; They haven't gone too far—
They are not "lost" or "missing."

Though disenthralled and glorified,
They still are here and love us yet; The dear ones they have left behind
They never can forget.

Though free and exalted,
They’re still here and still love us. The loved ones they’ve left behind
They will never forget.

And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint
Amid temptations fierce and deep, Or when the wildly raging waves
Of grief or passion sweep,

And sometimes, when we feel weak
When confronted with powerful and intense temptations, Or when the wildly crashing waves
When sorrow or passion strikes us,

We feel upon our fevered brow
Their gentle touch, their breath of balm; Their arms enfold us, and our hearts
Grow comforted and calm.

We feel their gentle touch on our hot forehead
and the calming breath they provide; Their arms wrap around us, and our hearts
find solace and tranquility.

And ever near us, though unseen,
The dear, immortal spirits tread; For all the boundless universe
Is life—there are no dead.

And always close to us, even if we can't see them,
The cherished, timeless spirits walk; Because the entire limitless universe
Is full of life—there are no dead.

JAMES L. M'CREERY.

JAMES L. McCREERY.

1863.

GOING AND COMING.

Comings and goings.

Going—the great round Sun,
Dragging the captive Day Over behind the frowning hill,
Over beyond the bay,— Dying: Coming—the dusky Night,
Silently stealing in, Wrapping himself in the soft warm couch
Where the golden-haired Day hath been Lying.

Going—the great round Sun,
Dragging the stuck Day Over behind the gloomy hill,
Across the bay,— Passing away: Coming—the dark Night,
Creeping in quietly, Wrapping himself in the soft warm bed
Where the golden-haired Day has been Lying.

Going—the bright, blithe Spring;
Blossoms! how fast ye fall, Shooting out of your starry sky
Into the darkness all Blindly! Coming—the mellow days:
Crimson and yellow leaves; Languishing purple and amber fruits
Kissing the bearded sheaves Kindly!

Going—the bright, cheerful Spring;
Blossoms! How fast you fall, Shooting down from your starry sky
Into the darkness, everyone Deaf to reason! Coming—the warm days:
Red and yellow leaves; Languishing purple and amber fruits
Gently touching the bearded stalks Please!

Going—our early friends;
Voices we loved are dumb; Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew;
Fainter the echoes come Ringing: Coming to join our march,—
Shoulder to shoulder pressed,— Gray-haired veterans strike their tents
For the far-off purple West— Singing!

Going—our old friends;
Voices we loved are silent; Footsteps fade in the morning dew;
The echoes fade away Calling: Coming to join our march,—
Shoulder to shoulder pushed,— Gray-haired veterans pack their tents
For the faraway purple West— Singing!

Going—this old, old life;
Beautiful world, farewell! Forest and meadow! river and hill!
Ring ye a loving knell O'er us! Coming—a nobler life;
Coming—a better land; Coming—a long, long, nightless day;
Coming—the grand, grand Chorus!

Going—this old, old life;
Beautiful world, farewell! Forest and meadow! river and hill!
Say a loving goodbye Above us! Coming—a higher life;
Coming—a better place; Coming—a long, long, endless day;
Coming—the awesome Chorus!

EDWARD A. JENKS.

BLIND.

Laughing, the blind boys
Run 'round their college lawn,
Playing such games of buff
Over its dappled grass!

Laughing, the blind boys
Run around their college lawn,
Playing games like tag
Over its speckled grass!

See the blind frolicsome
Girls in blue pinafores,
Turning their skipping ropes!

See the playful blind girls
In blue pinafores,
Jumping their skipping ropes!

How full and rich a world
Theirs to inhabit is!
Sweet scent of grass and bloom,
Playmates' glad symphony.
Cool touch of western wind,
Sunshine's divine caress.
How should they know or feel
They are in darkness?

How full and vibrant the world
They get to live in is!
The sweet smell of grass and flowers,
The joyful music of friends playing.
The cool breeze from the west,
The warm touch of the sun.
How could they ever know or feel
That they are in darkness?

But—O the miracle!
If a Redeemer came,
Laid fingers on their eyes—
One touch—and what a world
New born in loveliness!

But—oh, what a miracle!
If a Savior appeared,
Touched their eyes—
One touch—and what a world
Reborn in beauty!

Spaces of green and sky,
Hulls of white cloud adrift,
Ivy-grown college walls,
Shining loved faces!

Spaces of green and sky,
Hulls of white clouds drifting,
Ivy-covered college walls,
Shining faces of loved ones!

What a dark world—who knows?
Ours to inhabit is!
One touch, and what a strange
Glory might burst on us!
What a hid universe!

What a dark world—who knows?
Ours to live in is!
One touch, and what a strange
Glory could shine on us!
What a hidden universe!

Do we sport carelessly,
Blindly, upon the verge
Of an Apocalypse?

Do we play around carelessly,
Blindly, on the edge
Of an Apocalypse?

ISRAEL ZANGWILL.

Israel Zangwill.

THE DEATH OF DEATH.

THE END OF DEATH.

SONNET CXLVI.

SONNET 146.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Fooled by those rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

Poor soul, the center of my sinful world,
Tricked by those rebellious forces that surround you,
Why do you suffer inside and feel empty,
Decorating your outer walls so extravagantly?
Why spend so much when your time is so short,
On your fading home?
Will worms, the true heirs of this excess,
Consume your wealth? Is this the end of your body?
Then, soul, thrive on your servant's loss,
And let that suffering increase your worth;
Purchase divine moments by selling off wasted time;
Feed within, and be no longer rich on the outside.
So will you dine on Death, who dines on people, And when Death is defeated, there will be no more dying.

SHAKESPEARE.

INDEX: AUTHORS AND TITLES

For occupation, nativity, etc., of Authors, and the American publishers of the American poetical works, see General Index of Authors, Volume X.

For the jobs, birthplace, etc., of Authors, and the American publishers of American poetry, refer to the General Index of Authors, Volume X.

ÆSCHYLUS.
Wail of Prometheus Bound, The (Mrs. Browning's Translation)	156

AGATHIAS.
Time's Revenge (Bland's Translation)	72

ALDRICH, JAMES.
Death-Bed, A	306

ALGER, WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE.
Parting Lovers, The (From the Chinese)	104

ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM.
Dirty Old Man, The	55

ARNOLD, SIR EDWIN.
After Death in Arabia.	452
Secret of Death, The	434

ARNOLD, MATTHEW.
Requiescat	307

AUSTIN, ALFRED.
Agatha	13

AUSTIN, SARAH TAYLOR.
Passage, the (German of Uhland)	342

AYTON OR AYTOUN, SIR ROBERT.
Woman's Inconstancy	71

BACON, FRANCIS, BARON VERULAM.
World, The	151

BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES.
Death in Youth (Festus)	428

BALLANTINE, JAMES.
"Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew"	241

BARBAULD, ANNA LÆTITIA.
Life	400

BARNARD, LADY ANNE.
Auld Robin Gray	32

BARR, AMELIA EDITH.
Bottom Drawer, The	405

BEAUMONT, FRANCIS.
On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey	269

BENJAMIN, PARK.
Old Sexton, The	282

BENNETT, LUCY A.
"Asleep! asleep!"	396
BÉRANGER, PIERRE-JEAN DE.
Old Vagabond, The (Translation)	188

BETHUNE, GEORGE WASHINGTON.
"It is not death to die"	455

BJÖRNSON, BJÖRSTJERNE.
Princess, The (Dole's Translation)	9

BLACKIE, JOHN STUART.
Emigrant Lassie, The	280

BLAMIRE, SUSANNA.
"What ails this heart o' mine"	139

BLAND, ROBERT.
Time's Revenge (Greek of Agathias)	72

BLOOD, HENRY AMES.
Song of Savoyards	248

BODENSTEDT, FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON.
Unchanging (Translation)	242

BONAR, HORATIUS.
"Beyond the smiling and the weeping"	378

BRENAN, JOSEPH.
"Come to me, dearest"	144

BRIDGES, ROBERT (Droch).
Unillumined Verge, The	308

BROOKS, MARIA GOWEN (Maria del Occidente).
Song of Egla	138

BROWN, JOSEPH BROWNLEE.
Thalatta! Thalatta!	388

BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT.
Comfort	433
De Profundis	421
Hopeless Grief	217
Mother and Poet	323
Sleep, The	389
Tears	429
Wail of Prometheus Bound, The (Greek of Æschylus)	156

BROWNING, ROBERT.
Evelyn Hope	310
Prospice	391

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN.
Blessed are They that Mourn	420
Conqueror's Grave, The	442
Thanatopsis	264

BURDETTE, ROBERT JONES.
"When my ship comes in"	245

BURNS, ROBERT.
"Ae fond kiss, and then we sever"	98
Banks o' Doon, The	12
Highland Mary	329
"I love my Jean"	126
Mary in Heaven, To	339
"O my Luve's like a red, red rose"	99
"O, saw ye bonnie Leslie"	130

BURROUGHS, JOHN.
Waiting	238

BYRON, GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD.
"Adieu, adieu, my native shore"	108
Dream, The	73
Farewell to his Wife	109
Latest Verses	169
"Maid of Athens, ere we part"	100
Picture of Death, A (The Giaour)	261

CAMOËNS, LUIS DE.
Blighted Love (Strongford's Translation)	81

CARLETON, WILL.
"Over the hill to the poor-house"	175

CARY, HENRY FRANCIS.
"The fairest thing in mortal eyes" (French of Duke of Orleans)	356

CHADWICK, JOHN WHITE.
Two Waitings, The	409

CHANNING, WILLIAM_ELLERY.
Sleepy Hollow	277

CHATEAUBRIAND, FRANCOIS AUGUSTE, VICOMTE DE.
Jeune Fille et Jeune Fleur (Translation)	305

CHATTERTON, THOMAS.
Minstrel's Song	340

CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH.
Despondency Rebuked	235
Qua Cursum Ventus	107

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR.
Good, Great Man, The	244

COSTELLO, LOUISE STUART.
On the Death of Francis I. (French of Marguerite)	338
Sonnet (French of Labé)	237
To Diane de Poitiers (French of Marat)	69

COWPER, WILLIAM.
Present Good, The (The Task)	150

CRABBE, GEORGE.
Approach of Age, The (Tales of the Hall)	163

CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MULOCK.
Now and Afterwards	268
Only a Woman	86
Too Late	335

CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE.
Compensation	229

CRAWFORD, JULIA (or LOUISA MACARTNEY).
Kathleen Mavourneen	112
"We parted in silence"	113

DELAND, MARGARETTA WADE.
Love and Death	394

DE VERE, AUBREY THOMAS.
"Sad is our youth, for it is ever going"	225

DE VERE, MARY AINGE (Madeline Bridges).
Spinner, The	70

DOBELL, SYDNEY THOMPSON.
Home, Wounded	58

DOBSON, AUSTIN.
Sun-Dial, The	15

DODGE, MARY ELIZABETH MAPES.
Two Mysteries, The (Along the Way)	262

DOLE, NATHAN HASKELL.
Princess, The (Norwegian of Bjornson)	9

DORR, JULIA CAROLINE RIPLEY.
Hush! (After glow)	400

DRAYTON, MICHAEL.
"Come, let us kisse and parte"	111

DUFFERIN, HELEN BELINDA SHERIDAN, LADY (afterwards LADY GIFFORD).
Lament of the Irish Emigrant	343

EASTMAN, ELAINE GOODALE.
Ashes of Roses	51

EDWARDS, AMELIA BLANDFORD.
"Give me three grains of corn, mother"	197

FIELD, EUGENE.
Jim's Kids	290

FITZGERALD, EDWARD.
Anne Allen, On	303

FLEMING, PAUL.
Myself, To (Winkworth's Translation)	218

FLETCHER, JOHN.
"Hence, all ye vain delights"	160
"Take, O, take those lips away" (Bloody Brother)	71

FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS.
My Old Kentucky Home	147
Old Folks at Home	148

GANNETT, WILLIAM CHANNING.
Aunt Phillis's Guest	239

GAY, JOHN.
Black-Eyed Susan	102

GLADDEN, WASHINGTON.
Awakening	375

GLUCK, ——
To Death (Translation)	395

GRAY, THOMAS.
Elegy written in a Country Churchyard	270

HARDINGE, WILLIAM M.
Grave of Sophocles (Greek of Simmias)	200

HAWTREY, E.C.
Hector to his Wife (Greek of Homer)	122

HAY, JOHN.
Woman's Love, A	52

HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON.
In Harbor	398

HEBER, REGINALD.
"Thou art gone to the grave"	445

HEINE, HEINRICH.
Palm and the Pine, The (Houghton's Translation)	40

HEMANS. FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE.
Hour of Death, The	259

HENLEY, WILLIAM ERNEST.
Invictus	221

HERBERT, GEORGE.
Flower, The	219
Virtue Immortal	254

HOBART, MRS. CHARLES.
Changed Cross, The	231

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL.
Last Leaf, The	185
Voiceless, The	172

HOMER.
Hector to his Wife (Hawtrey's Translation)	122
Parting of Hector and Andromache (Pope's Translation)	118

HOOD, THOMAS.
Bridge of Sighs, The	208
Death-Bed, The	300
"Farewell, Life"	384
Song of the Shirt, The	199
"What can an old man do but die"	174

HOUGHTON, RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD.
London Churches	207
Palm and the Pine, The (German of Heine)	40

HOWLAND, MARY WOOLSEY.
Rest	397

HOYT, RALPH.
Old	180

HUDSON, MARY CLEMMER AMES.
Something Beyond	234

INGELOW, JEAN.
Divided	64

JACKSON, HELEN FISKE HUNT (H.H.).
Habeas Corpus	382

JACKSON, HENRY R.
My Wife and Child	226

JENKS, EDWARD A.
Going and Coming	458

KEATS, JOHN.
Nightingale, Ode to a	166

KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE.
Absence	133
Faith	95

KENNEDY, CRAMMOND.
Greenwood Cemetery	279

KEPPEL, LADY CAROLINE.
Robin Adair	134

KING, HENRY.
Sic Vita	253

KINGSLEY, CHARLES.
Rough Rhyme on a Rough Matter, A	191

KNOX, WILLIAM.
Mortality	256

LABE, LOUISE.
Sonnet (Costello's Translation)	237

LAMB, CHARLES.
Old Familiar Faces, The	143

LANDON, LETITIA ELIZABETH (later MRS. MACLEAN).
Female Convict, The	215

LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE.
Farewell	394
Man	151

LANG, ANDREW.
Lament for Heliodore (Greek of Meleager)	337

LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD.
Song (Robert Louis Stevenson an Elegy and other Poems)	417
What of the Darkness (English Poems)	360

LE ROUX, GUIRAUD.
Fidelity in Doubt (Preston's Translation)	95

LINDSAY, BLANCHE ELIZABETH FITZROY, LADY.
Sonnet	304

LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK.
Widow's Mite, The	287

LOGAN, JOHN.
"Thy braes were bonny"	314

LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH.
Death of Minnehaha, The (Song of Hiawatha)	319
Footsteps of Angels	438
God's Acre	276
Rainy Day, The	228
Reaper and the Flowers, The	417
Resignation	430

LOVELACE, COLONEL RICHARD.
Lucasta, To	123
Lucasta, on Going to the Wars, To	97

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL.
Auf Wiedersehen	114
First Snow-Fall, The	283
Palinode	115

LOWELL, MARIA WHITE.
Morning-Glory, The	285

LYTLE, WILLIAM HAINES.
Antony and Cleopatra	380

LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, EARL OF (Owen Meredith).
Portrait, The	82

MCCLEERY, J.L.
"There is no death"	456

MACMANUS, ANNA JOHNSTON (MRS. SEUMAS) (Ethna Carbery).
Thinkin' Long	141

MARGUERITE DE VALOIS.
On the Death of Francis I. (Costello's Translation)	338

MAROT, CLEMENT.
To Diane de Poitiers (Costello's Translation)	69

MARSTON, PHILIP BOURKE.
After Summer	336

MELEAGER.
Lament for Heliodore (Lang's Translation)	337

MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS.
Cumnor Hall	41

MILTON, JOHN.
Lycidas	446
Samson on his Blindness (Samson Agonistes)	158
Sonnet: To Cyriack Skinner	220

MITCHELL, SILAS WEIR.
Quaker Graveyard, The	278

MOIR, DAVID MACBETH.
Rustic Lad's Lament in the Town, The	131

MOORE, THOMAS.
"Alas, how light a cause" (The Light of the Harem)	80
"As slow our ship"	106
"Farewell!—but whenever"	116
"Farewell to thee, Araby's daughter" (Fire Worshippers)	316
Linda to Hafed (Fire Worshippers)	6

MOSS, THOMAS.
Beggar, The	189

MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM.
Jeanie Morrison	127
"My heid is like to rend, Willie"	49

MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM AUGUSTUS.
"I would not live alway"	392

MUNBY, ARTHUR JOSEPH.
Apres	355

NAIRNE, CAROLINA OLIPHANT, LADY.
Land o' the Leal, The	379

NEELE, HENRY.
"Moan, moan, ye dying gales"	152

NOEL, THOMAS.
Pauper's Drive, The	202

NORTON, CAROLINE E.S. SHERIDAN (LADY STIRLING MAXWELL).
King of Denmark's Ride, The	340
"Love not"	8

O'BRIEN, WILLIAM SMITH.
Never Despair	246

ORLEANS, CHARLES, DUKE OF.
"The fairest thing in mortal eyes" (Cary's Trans)	356

O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR.
"Has summer come without the rose?"	54

PALMER, JOHN WILLIAMSON.
For Charlie's Sake	411

PATMORE, COVENTRY [KEARSEY DEIGHTON].
Parting	96

PIATT, SARAH MORGAN BRYAN.
Term of Death, The	261

PIERPONT, JOHN.
My Child	415

POE, EDGAR ALLAN.
Annabel Lee	312
For Annie	385

POLLEN, JOHN.
Last Leaf, The (Russian of Poushkin)	187

POPE, ALEXANDER.
Parting of Hector and Andromache (Greek of Homer)	118

POUSHKIN, ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH.
Last Leaf, The (Pollen's Translation)	187

PRESTON, ANNIE A.
"The green grass under the snow"	442

PRESTON, HARRIET WATERS.
Fidelity in Doubt (French of Le Roux)	95

PRIEST, NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY.
Over the River	406

PRINGLE, THOMAS.
Afar in the Desert	222

PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE.
Doubting Heart, A	171

PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER (Barry Cornwall).
Life	251
"Softly woo away her breath"	318

QUARLES, FRANCIS.
Vanity of the World, The	153

RAMSAY, ALLAN.
Lochaber no More	105

RAYMOND, ROSSITER WORTHINGTON.
"Blessed are They"	425
Christus Consolator	432

RITTER, MARY LOUISE.
Perished	169

ROGERS, ROBERT CAMERON.
Shadow Rose, The	53

ROSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL.
Nevermore, The	82

SANGSTER, MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON.
"Are the children at home?"	288

SCOTT, FREDERICK GEORGE.
Van Elsen	361

SCOTT, SIR WALTER.
Coronach (Lady of the Lake)	309
Song	31
Song of the Young Highlander	101

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM.
"Blow, blow, thou winter wind" (As You Like It)	155
Course of True Love, The (Midsummer Night's Dream)	3
Death of Death	460
Fall of Cardinal Wolsey, The (Henry VIII.)	161
"Farewell! thou art too dear"	112
"Fear no more the heat o' the sun" (Gymbeline)	328
Grief (Hamlet)	348
Love's Memory (All's Well that ends Well)	140
Soliloquy on Death (Hamlet)	252
"Take, O, take those lips away"	71
Unrequited Love (Twelfth Night)	9

SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE.
Lament, A	173
"The sun is warm, the sky is clear"	164

SHIRLEY, JAMES.
Death the Leveler	253

SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP.
"With how sad steps" (Astrophel and Stella)	13

SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND.
Morning Thought, A	267

SILLERY, CHARLES DOYNE.
"She died in beauty"	319

SIMMIAS.
Grave of Sophocles, The (Hardinge's Translation)	269

SMITH, BELLE E.
"If I should die to-night"	374

SOUTHWELL, ROBERT.
"Times go by turns"	228

SPOFFORD, HARRIET ELIZABETH PRESCOTT.
Nun and Harp, The	93

STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS BALFOUR.
In Memoriam F.A.S.	428

STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER.
Lines to the Memory of"Annie"	426
"Only a year"	418

STRANGFORD, LORD.
Blighted Love (Portuguese of Camoens)	81

STURM. JULIUS.
I Hold Still (Translation)	243

SYMONS, ARTHUR.
Portrait, To a	34

TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD.
"Break, break, break"	358
"Home they brought her warrior dead" (Princess)	345
Lady Clare Vere de Vere	4
Locksley Hall	17
May Queen, The	292
"Oh that 'twere possible" (Maud)	331
Selections from "In Memoriam"	340
"Tears, idle tears"	142

THOMPSON, FRANCIS.
Daisy	130

TICHEBORNE, CHEDIOCK.
Lines written in the Tower	159

TIMROD, HENRY.
At Magnolia Cemetery	279

TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND.
Dorothy in the Garret	89

UHLAND, LUDWIG.
Passage, The (Austin's Translation)	342

ULRICH, ANTON, DUKE OP BRUNSWICK.
God's Sure Help in Sorrow (Winkworth's Translation)	236

VAUGHAN, HENRY.
"Happy are the dead"	439
"They are all gone"	403

WASTELL, SIMON.
Man's Mortality	255

WATSON, JOHN WHITTAKER.
Beautiful Snow	205

WHITMAN, WALT.
"When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed"	362

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF.
Absent Sailor, To her (The Tent on the Beach)	124
Angel of Patience, The	402
Maud Muller	35

WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER.
Unseen Spirits	204

WINKWORTH, CATHARINE.
God's Sure Help in Sorrow (German of Ulrich)	236
Myself, To (German of Flemming)	218

ZANGWILL, ISRAEL.
Blind	461

ANONYMOUS.
Absence	141
Fair Helen	330
Good Bye	97
Grief for the Dead	408
Guilty or Not Guilty	212
Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament	47
Lavender	355
Parting Lovers, The	104
Peace	437
Saddest Fate, The	247
"They are dear fish to me"	195
"Waly, waly"	45
Watching for Papa	414
Wife to her Husband, The	146

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THE WORLD'SBEST POETRY

IN TEN VOLUMES, ILLUSTRATED

VOLUME IIISORROW AND CONSOLATION

AN INTERPRETER OF LIFE

By LYMAN ABBOTT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY IN TEN VOLUMES, ILLUSTRATED

Editor-in-Chief

Associate Editors

Managing Editor

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHTS

I.

II.

AN INTERPRETER OF LIFE.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

POEMS OF SORROW AND CONSOLATION.

I. DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE.

II. PARTING AND ABSENCE

III. ADVERSITY.

IV. COMFORT AND CHEER.

V. DEATH AND BEREAVEMENT.

VI. CONSOLATION.

INDEX: AUTHORS AND TITLES

THE
WORLD'S
BEST POETRY

VOLUME III

SORROW AND CONSOLATION

AN
INTERPRETER OF
LIFE

By
LYMAN ABBOTT

THE
WORLD'S
BEST POETRY

IN TEN VOLUMES, ILLUSTRATED