PART THE FIFTH.

Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below. Now my brothers call from the bay; Now the great winds shorewards blow; Now the salt tides seawards flow; 5 Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away. This way, this way. Call her once before you go. 10 Call once yet, In a voice that she will know: ‘Margaret! Margaret!’ Children’s voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother’s ear: 15 Children’s voices, wild with pain: Surely she will come again. Call her once, and come away. This way, this way. ‘Mother dear, we cannot stay.’ 20 The wild white horses foam and fret. Margaret! Margaret! Come, dear children, come away down. Call no more. One last look at the white-walled town, 25 And the little gray church on the windy shore, Then come down. She will not come, though you call all day. Come away, come away. Children dear, was it yesterday 30 We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 35 Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; Where the salt weed sways in the stream; Where the sea-beasts ranged all round Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; 40 Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail, and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye? 45 When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday? Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, 50 On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. 54 She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea; She said; ‘I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the shore to-day. ’Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.’ I said; ‘Go up, dear heart, through the waves. 60 Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.’ She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday? Children dear, were we long alone? ‘The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. 65 Long prayers,’ I said, ‘in the world they say. Come,’ I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town. Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, 70 To the little gray church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: 76 ‘Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here. Dear heart,’ I said, ‘we are long alone. The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.’ But, ah, she gave me never a look, 80 For her eyes were sealed to the holy book. ‘Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.’ Come away, children, call no more. Come away, come down, call no more. Down, down, down. 85 Down to the depths of the sea. She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark, what she sings; ‘O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy, 90 For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well, For the wheel where I spun, And the blessèd light of the sun.’ And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, 95 Till the shuttle falls from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand; And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare; 100 And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh, 105 For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair. Come away, away, children, Come, children, come down. The hoarse wind blows colder, 110 Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. 115 We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl, Singing, ‘Here came a mortal, 120 But faithless was she, And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea.’ But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow; 125 When clear falls the moonlight; When spring-tides are low: When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starred with broom; And high rocks throw mildly 130 On the blanched sands a gloom: Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie; Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. 135 We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town; At the church on the hill-side— And then come back down. Singing, ‘There dwells a loved one, 140 But cruel is she; She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea.’ Matthew Arnold.

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; 5 But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin was a pity. Rats! 10 They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 15 Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women’s chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. 20 At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: ‘’Tis clear,’ cried they, ‘our Mayor’s a noddy; And as for our Corporation—shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 25 For dolts that can’t or won’t determine What’s best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you’re old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking 30 To find the remedy we’re lacking, Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!’ At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. An hour they sate in council, 35 At length the Mayor broke silence: ‘For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell; I wish I were a mile hence! It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain— I’m sure my poor head aches again 40 I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain, Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!’ Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap? ‘Bless us,’ cried the Mayor, ‘what’s that?’ 45 (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister, Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous 50 For a plate of turtle green and glutinous), ‘Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!’ ‘Come in!’—the Mayor cried, looking bigger: 55 And in did come the strangest figure. His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red; And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 60 And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in— There was no guessing his kith and kin! And nobody could enough admire 65 The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: ‘It’s as my great grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone.’ He advanced to the council-table: 70 And, ‘Please your honours,’ said he, ‘I’m able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, After me so as you never saw! 75 And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper.’ (And here they noticed round his neck 80 A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same cheque; And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying, As if impatient to be playing 85 Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) ‘Yet,’ said he, ‘poor Piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; 90 I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats: And, as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?’ 95 ‘One? fifty thousand!’—was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept 100 In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled; 105 And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 110 Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, 115 Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives— Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing And step for step they followed dancing, 120 Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished —Save one, who, stout as Julius Cæsar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he the manuscript he cherished) 125 To Rat-land home his commentary, Which was, ‘At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press’s gripe; 130 And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter casks; And it seemed as if a voice 135 (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, Oh! rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! 140 And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, Come, bore me! —I found the Weser rolling o’er me.’ 145 You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. ‘Go,’ cried the Mayor, ‘and get long poles! Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, 150 And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!’—when suddenly up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, ‘First, if you please, my thousand guilders!’ A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; 155 So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havock With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish. 160 To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! ‘Beside,’ quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, ‘Our business was done at the river’s brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 165 And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think. So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But, as for the guilders, what we spoke 170 Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty; A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!’ The Piper’s face fell, and he cried, ‘No trifling! I can’t wait, beside! 175 I’ve promised to visit by dinner-time Bagdad, and accept the prime Of the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in, For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor— 180 With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe to another fashion.’ ‘How?’ cried the Mayor, ‘d’ye think I’ll brook 185 Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!’ 190 Once more he stept into the street; And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning 195 Never gave the enraptured air), There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, 200 And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. 205 Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry 210 To the children merrily skipping by— And could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat, 215 As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 220 And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. ‘He never can cross that mighty top! He’s forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!’ 225 When lo! as they reached the mountain’s side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, 230 The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say all? No! one was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,— 235 ‘It’s dull in our town since my playmates left; I can’t forget that I’m bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 240 Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, 245 And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings; And horses were born with eagle’s wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, 250 The music stopped, and I stood still, And found myself outside the Hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!’ 255 Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher’s pate A text which says, that Heaven’s Gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle’s eye takes a camel in! 260 The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper by word of mouth, Wherever it was men’s lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart’s content, If he’d only return the way he went, 265 And bring the children behind him. But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour, And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly, 270 If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, ‘And so long after what happened here On the twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:’ 275 And the better in memory to fix The place of the children’s last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street— Where anyone playing on pipe or tabor, Was sure for the future to lose his labour. 280 Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted 285 The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away; And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there’s a tribe 290 Of alien people that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress, On which their neighbours lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison, 295 Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why they don’t understand. So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 300 Of scores out with all men—especially pipers: And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise. Robert Browning.

Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on. The mountains, that infold 5 In their wide sweep the coloured landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings, in purple’ and gold, That guard the enchanted ground. I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendours glow, 10 Where the gay company of trees look down On the green fields below. My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet south-west at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown 15 Along the winding way. And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,— The sweetest of the year. 20 Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom where many branches meet— So grateful, when the noon of summer made The valleys sick with heat? Let in through all the trees 25 Come the strange rays: the forest depths are bright; Their sunny-coloured foliage in the breeze Twinkles, like beams of light. The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, 30 Shines with the image of its golden screen, And glimmerings of the sun. But ’neath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, 35 Her blush of maiden shame. Oh, Autumn! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad; Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, And leave thee wild and sad? 40 Ah! ’twere a lot too blest, For ever in thy coloured shades to stray; Amid the kisses of the soft south-west To rove and dream for aye; And leave the vain low strife 45 That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power, The passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour. William Cullen Bryant.

A heavenly Night!—methinks to me The soul of other times returns; Sweet as the scents the orange-tree Drops in the wind-flower’s scarlet urns, When sunset, like a city, burns 5 Across the glassy midland sea. This night gives back that double day, Which clothed the earth when I was young! A light most like some godlike lay By parted hero-angels sung:— 10 It stirred my heart; and through my tongue It passed, methought,—but passed away. The entrancement of that time is o’er, A calmer, freer soul is here; I dream not as I dreamed of yore, 15 Awake to sin, awake to fear; I own the earth,—I see, I hear, I feel;—oh, may I dream no more! Farewell, wild world of bygone days, Here let me now more safely tread! 20 I ask no glory’s vagrant blaze, To dance around my shining head: Be peace and hope my crown instead, With love, God willing, for my praise! Thomas Burbidge.

Burly, dozing humble-bee, Where thou art is clime for me. Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek; I will follow thee alone, 5 Thou animated torrid-zone! Zigzag steerer, desert-cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines: Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines. 10 Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion! Sailor of the atmosphere; Swimmer through the waves of air; Voyager of light and noon; 15 Epicurean of June; Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum,— All without is martyrdom. When the south wind, in May-days, 20 With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall, And, with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With a colour of romance, 25 And, infusing subtle heats, Turns the sod to violets, Thou, in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace 30 With thy mellow, breezy bass. Hot midsummer’s petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 35 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound, In Indian wildernesses found; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. Aught unsavoury or unclean 40 Hath my insect never seen; But violets and bilberry bells, Maple-sap, and daffodels, Grass with green flag half-mast high, Succory to match the sky, 45 Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony, Clover, catchfly, adder’s-tongue, And brier-roses, dwelt among; All beside was unknown waste, 50 All was picture as he passed. Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher! Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, 55 Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. When the fierce north-western blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep; 60 Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler’s eye 5 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek’st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 10 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast— The desert and illimitable air— 15 Lone-wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. 20 And soon that toil shall end, Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o’er thy sheltered nest. Thou’ art gone—the abyss of heaven 25 Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 30 In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. William Cullen Bryant.

Joy for the promise of our loftier homes! Joy for the promise of another birth! For oft oppressive unto pain becomes The riddle of the earth. A weary weight it lay upon my youth, 5 Ere I could tell of what I should complain; My very childhood was not free, in truth, From something of that pain. Hours of a dim despondency were there, Like clouds that take its colour from the rose, 10 Which, knowing not the darkness of the air, But its own sadness knows. Youth grew in strength—to bear a stronger chain; In knowledge grew—to know itself a slave; And broke its narrower shells again, again, 15 To feel a wider grave. What woe into the startled spirit sank, When first it knew the inaudible recall,— When first in the illimitable blank It touched the crystal wall! 20 Far spreads this mystery of death and sin, Year beyond year in gloomy tumult rolls; And day encircling day clasps closer in Our solitary souls. O for the time when in our seraph wings 25 We veil our brows before the Eternal Throne— The day when drinking knowledge at its springs, We know as we are known. Thomas Burbidge.

Beneath an Indian palm a girl Of other blood reposes; Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl, Amid that wild of roses. Beside a northern pine a boy 5 Is learning fancy-bound, Nor listens where with noisy joy Awaits the impatient hound. Cool grows the sick and feverish calm, Relaxt the frosty twine; 10 The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, The palm-tree of the pine. As soon shall nature interlace Those dimly-visioned boughs, As these young lovers face to face 15 Renew their early vows. Lord Houghton.

I hear no more the locust beat His shrill loud drum through all the day; I miss the mingled odours sweet Of clover and of scented hay. No more I hear the smothered song 5 From hedges guarded thick with thorn: The days grow brief, the nights are long, The light comes like a ghost at morn. I sit before my fire alone, And idly dream of all the past: 10 I think of moments that are flown— Alas! they were too sweet to last. The warmth that filled the languid noons— The purple waves of trembling haze— The liquid light of silver moons— 15 The summer sunset’s golden blaze. I feel the soft winds fan my cheek, I hear them murmur through the rye, I see the milky clouds that seek Some nameless harbour in the sky. 20 The stile beside the spreading pine, The pleasant fields beyond the grove, The lawn where, underneath the vine, She sang the song I used to love. The path along the windy beach, 25 That leaves the shadowy linden tree, And goes by sandy capes that reach Their shining arms to clasp the sea. I view them all, I tread once more In meadow-grasses cool and deep; 30 I walk beside the sounding shore, I climb again the wooded steep. Oh, happy hours of pure delight! Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss! Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright— 35 Each morn and evening seemed to kiss! And that whereon I saw her first, While angling in the noisy brook, When through the tangled wood she burst; In one small hand a glove and book, 40 As with the other, dimpled, white, She held the slender boughs aside, While through the leaves the yellow light Like golden water seemed to glide, And broke in ripples on her neck, 45 And played like fire around her hat, And slid adown her form to fleck The moss-grown rock on which I sat. She standing rapt in sweet surprise, And seeming doubtful if to turn; 50 Her novel, as I raised my eyes, Dropped down amid the tall green fern. This day and that—the one so bright, The other like a thing forlorn; To-morrow, and the early light 55 Will shine upon her marriage morn. For when the mellow autumn flushed The thickets where the chestnut fell, And in the vales the maple blushed, Another came who knew her well, 60 Who sat with her below the pine, And with her through the meadow moved, And underneath the purpling vine She sang to him the song I loved. Nathaniel G. Shepherd.

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But O too fond, when have I answered thee? Ask me no more. 5 Ask me no more: what answer should I give? I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; Ask me no more. 10 Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed: I strove against the stream and all in vain: Let the great river take me to the main: No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; Ask me no more. 15 Alfred Tennyson.

Oh faint, delicious, spring-time violet, Thine odour, like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let A thought of sorrow free. The breath of distant fields upon my brow 5 Blows through that open door, The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low And sadder than of yore. It comes afar, from that belovèd place, And that belovèd hour, 10 When life hung ripening in love’s golden grace, Like grapes above a bower. A spring goes singing through its reedy grass, A lark sings o’er my head, Drowned in the sky—O pass, ye visions, pass, 15 I would that I were dead!— Why hast thou opened that forbidden door From which I ever flee? O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more, Let my vexed spirit be! 20 O violet! thy odour through my brain Hath searched, and stung to grief This sunny day, as if a curse did stain Thy velvet leaf. William W. Story.

Sweet order hath its draught of bliss Graced with the pearl of God’s consent, Ten times ecstatic in that ’tis Considerate and innocent. In vain disorder grasps the cup; 5 The pleasure’s not enjoyed, but spilt; And, if he stoops to lick it up, It only tastes of earth and guilt; His sorry raptures rest destroys; To live, like comets they must roam; 10 On settled poles turn solid joys, And sun-like pleasures shine at home. Coventry Patmore.

He safely walks in darkest ways, Whose youth is lighted from above, Where through the senses’ silvery haze Dawns the veiled moon of nuptial love. Who is the happy husband? He, 5 Who scanning his unwedded life, Thanks Heaven, with a conscience free, ’Twas faithful to his future wife. Coventry Patmore.

I give thee treasures hour by hour, That old-time princes asked in vain, And pined for in their useless power, Or died of passion’s eager pain. I give thee love as God gives light, 5 Aside from merit, or from prayer, Rejoicing in its own delight, And freer than the lavish air. I give thee prayers, like jewels strung On golden threads of hope and fear; 10 And tenderer thoughts than ever hung In a sad angel’s pitying tear. As earth pours freely to the sea Her thousand streams of wealth untold, So flows my silent life to thee, 15 Glad that its very sands are gold. What care I for thy carelessness? I give from depths that overflow, Regardless that their power to bless Thy spirit cannot sound or know. 20 Far lingering on a distant dawn My triumph shines, more sweet than late; When from these mortal mists withdrawn, Thy heart shall know me—I can wait. Rose Terry.

If the base violence of wicked men Prevail at last; if Charles, to please his lord, And Louis, for his glory much concerned, Must needs snatch from us our sea-rescued plains, Which soon the tides will make their own again, 5 When once the strenuous freemen shall have fled, At whose command they ebbed with angry bark; If France must needs prevail and we must yield, Then we will yield our lands, but not ourselves. Ships we have left that will contain, I judge, 10 Two hundred thousand steadfast Hollanders; And ’twixt the realms where our oppressors live A heaving highway lies, to Dutchmen known, And to be known hereafter in all lands— The highway of the exodus of freedom! 15 Prepare then for departure, citizens; And for the little space that yet remains, Make much of home and of your fatherland; Visit your fathers’ graves, take note of all The furniture of your ancestral homes, 20 And let your hearts take the impression off To furnish dreams beside the Southern sea; Fetch home at once your children from the school, And in the garden turn them loose to play, Nor let them want for marbles, hoops, and balls, 25 That in their old age they may tell their boys Their home in the cold North was not unsweet. If any skilful painter be among you, At some resplendent noontide let him sit, And paint the busiest street in Amsterdam; 30 Nor let him slur one stain upon a brick, Nor smoke-dulled slip of greenery in a window; And every old cathedral let him paint, The columns ranged as in some grove of pines, And windows richer than the sunset clouds, 35 Wherein the Christ for centuries has smiled, And rich-robed haloed saints regarded Him; The Colleges of Leyden and Utrecht, The solemn libraries, with portraits hung Of Gerard and à Kempis, let him paint, 40 And let him paint the Liberator’s grave: The artist that preserves our Holland for us Shall be much honoured in our Southern home. So, bearing with us all that can be moved, We will weigh anchor to the sound of psalms, 45 And winds from heaven shall waft us to the west, Between the shores of tyranny on the left, And the pale cliffs of falsehood on the right; While looking towards the north, our captains tell To wondering maidens and exulting boys, 50 How through the helpless Medway’s mouth they sailed, And saw the towering Keep of Rochester; While looking towards the south, another group Hangs on the lips of some book-learnèd man, Who tells the tale of Egmont and St. Quentin: 55 Till the low-lying shores recede from sight, And ancient Europe hide herself in foam, Mother of heroes, nurse of beauteous arts, Of serious letters and high Christian truth, Rich bower of beauty, garden fenced with men, 60 And gorgeous with all blooms of womanhood, Temple inviolate of faith and truth And liberty—until the iron time. She for a while shall seem to us far off, A speck of dimness on the sunbright shield, 65 A roughness on the fine encircling thread, Until the horizon show a perfect ring, And the free nation ride on vaster waves, Plunge onward into more transparent seas, Under more deep ambrosial domes of night, 70 Into that second Holland like the first, But glad with fuller harvests, richer fruits, Where neither Frenchmen nor rude seas encroach. John Robertson.

Last night, among his fellow roughs, He jested, quaffed, and swore; A drunken private of the Buffs, Who never looked before. To-day, beneath the foeman’s frown, 5 He stands in Elgin’s place, Ambassador from Britain’s crown, And type of all her race. Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered, and alone, 10 A heart, with English instinct fraught, He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Bring cord, or axe, or flame: He only knows, that not through him 15 Shall England come to shame. Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed, Like dreams, to come and go; Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, One sheet of living snow; 20 The smoke, above his father’s door, In gray soft eddyings hung: Must he then watch it rise no more, Doomed by himself, so young? Yes, honour calls!—with strength like steel 25 He put the vision by; Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; An English lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent, 30 Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, To his red grave he went. Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron framed; Vain, those all-shattering guns; Unless proud England keep, untamed, 35 The strong heart of her sons. So, let his name through Europe ring— A man of mean estate, Who died, as firm as Sparta’s king, Because his soul was great. 40 Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.

See how the small concentrate fiery force Is grappling with the glory of the main, That follows like some grave heroic corse, Dragged by a sutler from the heap of slain. Thy solemn presence brings us more than pain,— 5 Something which Fancy moulds into remorse, That we, who of thine honour held the gain, Should from its dignity thy form divorce. Yet will we read in thy high vaunting name, How Britain did what France could only dare, 10 And, while the sunset gilds the darkening air, We will fill up thy shadowy lines with fame; And, tomb or temple, hail thee still the same, Home of great thoughts, memorial Téméraire. Lord Houghton.

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook; The purple petals, fallen in the pool, 5 Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 10 Dear, tell them that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew; But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. Ralph Waldo Emerson.

She dwells by Great Kenhawa’s side, In valleys green and cool, And all her hope and all her pride Are in the village school. Her soul, like the transparent air 5 That robes the hills above, Though not of earth, encircles there All things with arms of love. And thus she walks among her girls With praise and mild rebukes; 10 Subduing e’en rude village churls By her angelic looks. She reads to them at eventide Of One who came to save; To cast the captives’ chains aside, 15 And liberate the slave. And oft the blessèd time foretells When all men shall be free; And musical as silver bells, Their falling chains shall be. 20 And following her belovèd Lord In decent poverty, She makes her life one sweet record And deed of charity. For she was rich, and gave up all 25 To break the iron bands Of those who waited in her hall, And laboured in her lands. Long since beyond the Southern Sea Their outbound sails have sped, 30 While she in meek humility, Now earns her daily bread. It is their prayers which never cease, That clothe her with such grace: Their blessing is the light of peace, 35 That shines upon her face. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below. And, calm and patient, Nature keeps 5 Her ancient promise well, Though o’er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle’s breath of hell. And still she walks in golden hours Through harvest-happy farms, 10 And still she wears her fruits and flowers Like jewels on her arms. What mean the gladness of the plain, This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain 15 And yellow locks of corn? Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot; But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not. 20 She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field’s crimson stain. Still, in the cannon’s pause we hear 25 Her sweet thanksgiving psalm; Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm. She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn; 30 For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return. She sees with clearer eye than ours The good of suffering born,— The hearts that blossom like her flowers, 35 And ripen like her corn. O, give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes; And make her fields and fruited trees Our golden prophecies! 40 O, give to us her finer ear! Above this stormy din, We too would hear the bells of cheer Ring peace and freedom in! John George Whittier.

Come up from the fields, father; here’s a letter from our Pete, And come to the front door, mother; here’s a letter from thy dear son. Lo, ’tis autumn; Lo where the fields, deeper green, yellower and redder, Cool and sweeten Ohio’s villages, with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind; 5 Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellised vines (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines? Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?) Above all, lo! the sky, so calm, so transparent after the rain and with wondrous clouds; Below too all calm, all vital and beautiful—and the farm prospers well. 10 Down in the fields all prospers well; But now from the fields come, father—come at the daughter’s call; And come to the entry, mother—to the front door come, right away. Fast as she can she hurries—something ominous—her steps trembling; She does not tarry to smooth her white hair, nor adjust her cap. 15 Open the envelope quickly; Oh this is not our son’s writing, yet his name is signed. Oh a strange hand writes for our dear son—oh stricken mother’s soul! All swims before her eyes—flashes with black—she catches the main words only; Sentences broken—gunshot wound in the breast—cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital, 20 At present low, but will soon be better. Ah! now the single figure to me Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms, Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, By the jamb of a door leans. 25 Grieve not so, dear mother (the just grown daughter speaks through her sobs; The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismayed). See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better. Alas, poor boy, he will never be better (nor, may be, needs to be better, that brave and simple soul). While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, 30 The only son is dead. But the mother needs to be better; She, with thin form, presently drest in black; By day her meals untouched—then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking, In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing, 35 Oh, that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life, escape and withdraw To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son. Walt Whitman.

Through the night, through the night, In the saddest unrest, Wrapt in white, all in white, With her babe on her breast, Walks the mother so pale, 5 Staring out on the gale Through the night! Through the night, through the night, Where the sea lifts the wreck, Land in sight, close in sight! 10 On the surf-flooded deck Stands the father so brave, Drawing on to his grave Through the night! Richard Henry Stoddard.

Genius and its rewards are briefly told A liberal nature and a niggard doom, A difficult journey to a splendid tomb. New writ, nor lightly weighed that story old In gentle Goldsmith’s life I here unfold: 5 Through other than lone wild or desert gloom, In its mere joy and pain, its blight and bloom, Adventurous. Come with me and behold, O friend with heart as gentle for distress, As resolute with wise true thoughts to bind 10 The happiest to the unhappiest of our kind, That there is fiercer crowded misery In garret toil and London loneliness Than in cruel islands mid the far-off sea. John Forster.

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— 5 But tares, self-sown, have over-topped the wheat; Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing— And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet; And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; 10 And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us A newer 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. Aubrey De Vere.

My parents bow, and lead them forth, For all the crowd to see— Ah well! the people might not care To cheer a dwarf like me. They little know how I could love, 5 How I could plan and toil, To swell those drudges’ scanty gains, Their mites of rye and oil. They little know what dreams have been My playmates, night and day, 10 Of equal kindness, helpful care, A mother’s perfect sway. Now earth to earth in convent walls, To earth in churchyard sod: I was not good enough for man, 15 And so am given to God. Charles Kingsley.

O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road! O little hands! that, weak or strong, Have still to serve or rule so long, Have still so long to give or ask; I, who so much with book and pen 10 Have toiled among my fellow-men, Am weary, thinking of your task. O little hearts! that throb and beat With such impatient feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires; 15 Mine that so long has glowed and burned With passions into ashes turned, Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls! as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light 20 Direct from Heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

‘O lady, thy lover is dead,’ they cried; ‘He is dead, but hath slain the foe; He hath left his name to be magnified In a song of wonder and woe.’ ‘Alas! I am well repaid,’ said she, 5 ‘With a pain that stings like joy; For I feared, from his tenderness to me, That he was but a feeble boy. ‘Now I shall hold my head on high, The queen among my kind. 10 If ye hear a sound, ’tis only a sigh For a glory left behind.’ George MacDonald.

A hundred wings are dropt as soft as one; Now ye are lighted—lovely to my sight The fearful circle of your gentle flight, Rapid and mute, and drawing homeward soon: And then the sober chiding of your tone, 5 As ye sit there from your own roofs arraigning My trespass on your haunts, so boldly done, Sounds like a solemn and a just complaining! O happy, happy race! for though there clings A feeble fear about your timid clan, 10 Yet are ye blest! with not a thought that brings Disquietude, while proud and sorrowing man, An eagle weary of his mighty wings, With anxious inquest fills his little span. Charles Tennyson.

The Ocean at the bidding of the Moon For ever changes with his restless tide: Flung shoreward now, to be regathered soon With kingly pauses of reluctant pride, And semblance of return. Anon from home 5 He issues forth anew, high-ridged and free— The gentlest murmur of his seething foam Like armies whispering where great echoes be. O leave me here upon this beach to rove, Mute listener to that sound so grand and lone; 10 A glorious sound, deep drawn, and strongly thrown, And reaching those on mountain heights above, To British ears, (as who shall scorn to own?) A tutelar fond voice, a saviour tone of love. Charles Tennyson.

Blossom of the almond trees, April’s gift to April’s bees, Birthday ornament of spring, Flora’s fairest daughterling; Coming when no flowerets dare 5 Trust the cruel outer air; When the royal kingcup bold Dares not don his coat of gold; And the sturdy black-thorn spray Keeps his silver for the May;— 10 Coming when no flowerets would, Save thy lowly sisterhood, Early violets, blue and white, Dying for their love of light. Almond blossom, sent to teach us 15 That the spring-days soon will reach us, Lest, with longing over-tried, We die as the violets died— Blossom, clouding all the tree With thy crimson broidery, 20 Long before a leaf of green O’er the bravest bough is seen; Ah! when winter winds are swinging All thy red bells into ringing, With a bee in every bell, 25 Almond bloom, we greet thee well. Edwin Arnold.

Oh to be in England Now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf 5 Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough, In England, now! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds and all the swallows! 10 Hark where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field, and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge— That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture 15 The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups—the little children’s dower,— Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower. 20 Robert Browning.

Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-west died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest North-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and gray; ‘Here and here did England help me; how can I help England?’ say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. Robert Browning.

Two brothers freely cast their lot With David’s royal Son; The cost of conquest counting not, They deem the battle won. Brothers in heart, they hope to gain 5 An undivided joy; That man may one with man remain, As boy was one with boy. Christ heard; and willed that James should fall, First prey of Satan’s rage; 10 John linger out his fellows all, And die in bloodless age. Now they join hands once more above, Before the Conqueror’s throne; Thus God grants prayer, but in his love 15 Makes times and ways his own. John Henry Newman.

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. So draw him home to those that mourn 5 In vain; a favourable speed Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead Through prosperous floods his holy urn. All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 10 As our pure love, through early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. Sphere all your lights around, above; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, 15 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. 20 Alfred Tennyson.

A grace though melancholy, manly too, Moulded his being; pensive, grave, serene, O’er his habitual bearing and his mien Unceasing pain, by patience tempered, threw A shade of sweet austerity. But seen 5 In happier hours and by the friendly few, That curtain of the spirit was withdrawn, And fancy light and playful as a fawn, And reason imped with inquisition keen, Knowledge long sought with ardour ever new, 10 And wit love-kindled, showed in colours true What genial joys with sufferings can consist; Then did all sternness melt as melts a mist Touched by the brightness of the golden dawn, Aërial heights disclosing, valleys green, 15 And sunlights thrown the woodland tufts between, And flowers and spangles of the dewy lawn. And even the stranger, though he saw not these, Saw what would not be willingly passed by. In his deportment, even when cold and shy, 20 Was seen a clear collectedness and ease, A simple grace and gentle dignity, That failed not at the first accost to please; And as reserve relented by degrees, So winning was his aspect and address, 25 His smile so rich in sad felicities, Accordant to a voice which charmed no less, That who but saw him once remembered long, And some in whom such images are strong Have hoarded the impression in their heart, 30 Fancy’s fond dreams and memory’s joys among, Like some loved relic of romantic song, Or cherished masterpiece of ancient art. His life was private; safely led, aloof From the loud world,—which yet he understood 35 Largely and wisely, as no worldling could. For he by privilege of his nature proof Against false glitter, from beneath the roof Of privacy, as from a cave, surveyed With stedfast eye its flickering light and shade, 40 And gently judged for evil and for good. But whilst he mixed not for his own behoof In public strife, his spirit glowed with zeal, Not shorn of action, for the public weal,— For truth and justice as its warp and woof, 45 For freedom as its signature and seal. His life thus sacred from the world, discharged From vain ambition and inordinate care, In virtue exercised, by reverence rare Lifted, and by humility enlarged, 50 Became a temple and a place of prayer. In latter years he walked not singly there; For one was with him ready at all hours His griefs, his joys, his inmost thoughts to share, Who buoyantly his burdens helped to bear, 55 And decked his altars daily with fresh flowers. But further may we pass not; for the ground Is holier than the Muse herself may tread; Nor would I it should echo to a sound Less solemn than the service for the dead. 60 Mine is inferior matter,—my own loss,— The loss of dear delights for ever fled, Of reason’s converse by affection fed, Of wisdom, counsel, solace, that across Life’s dreariest tracts a tender radiance shed. 65 Friend of my youth! though younger, yet my guide, How much by thy unerring insight clear I shaped my way of life for many a year! What thoughtful friendship on thy deathbed died! Friend of my youth! whilst thou wast by my side 70 Autumnal days still breathed a vernal breath; How like a charm thy life to me supplied All waste and injury of time and tide, How like a disenchantment was thy death! Henry Taylor.

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, 5 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.’ 10 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. 15 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 doth Christmas make, 20 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 25 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, 30 For any calling, come to me. The bond the angel Death did sign, God sealed—for Charlie’s sake and mine. I’m very poor—this slender stone Marks all the narrow field I own; 35 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 40 Yield barely one forget-me-not— Whether or figs or thistles make My crop, content for Charlie’s sake. I have no houses, builded well— Only that little lonesome cell, 45 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; 50 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, 55 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. 60 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 65 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; 70 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, 75 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, 80 And saved us twice, for Charlie’s sake. John Williamson Palmer.

As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, Under the grass as I lay so deep, As I lay asleep in my cotton sirk Under the shade of Our Lady’s Kirk, I wakened up in the dead of night, 5 I wakened up in my death-sirk white, And I heard a cry from far away, And I knew the voice of my daughter May. ‘Mother, mother, come hither to me! Mother, mother, come hither and see! 10 Mother, mother, mother dear, Another mother is sitting here: My body is bruised, and in pain I cry; On straw in the dark afraid I lie; I thirst and hunger for drink and meat, 15 And, mother, mother, to sleep were sweet!’ I heard the cry, though my grave was deep, And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep. I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep, Up I rose from my grave so deep! 20 The earth was black, but overhead The stars were yellow, the moon was red; And I walked along all white and thin, And lifted the latch and entered in, And reached the chamber as dark as night, 25 And though it was dark, my face was white. ‘Mother, mother, I look on thee! Mother, mother, you frighten me! For your cheeks are thin, and your hair is gray.’ But I smiled, and kissed her fears away, 30 I smoothed her hair, and I sang a song, And on my knee I rocked her long: ‘O mother, mother, sing low to me; I am sleepy now, and I cannot see!’ I kissed her, but I could not weep, 35 And she went to sleep, she went to sleep. As we lay asleep, as we lay asleep, My May and I, in our grave so deep, As we lay asleep in the midnight mirk, Under the shade of Our Lady’s Kirk, 40 I wakened up in the dead of night, Though May, my daughter, lay warm and white, And I heard the cry of a little one, And I knew ’twas the voice of Hugh my son. ‘Mother, mother, come hither to me! 45 Mother, mother, come hither and see! Mother, mother, mother dear, Another mother is sitting here: My body is bruised and my heart is sad, But I speak my mind and call them bad; 50 I thirst and hunger night and day, And were I strong I would fly away!’ I heard the cry, though my grave was deep, And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep. I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep, 55 Up I rose from my grave so deep; The earth was black, but overhead The stars were yellow, the moon was red; And I walked along all white and thin, And lifted the latch and entered in. 60 ‘Mother, mother, and art thou here? I know your face, and I feel no fear; Raise me, mother, and kiss my cheek, For oh I am weary, and sore, and weak.’ I smoothed his hair with a mother’s joy, 65 And he laughed aloud, my own brave boy; I raised and held him on my breast, Sang him a song and bade him rest. ‘Mother, mother, sing low to me; I am sleepy now, and I cannot see!’ 70 I kissed him, and I could not weep, As he went to sleep, as he went to sleep. As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, With my girl and boy in my grave so deep, As I lay asleep, I awoke in fear, 75 Awoke, but awoke not my children dear, And heard a cry so low and weak From a tiny voice that could not speak; I heard the cry of a little one, My bairn that could neither talk nor run, 80 My little little one, uncaressed, Starving for lack of the milk of the breast; And I rose from sleep and entered in, And found my little one pinched and thin, And crooned a song and hushed its moan, 85 And put its lips to my white breast-bone; And the red, red moon that lit the place Went white to look at the little face, And I kissed and kissed, and I could not weep, As it went to sleep, as it went to sleep. 90 As it lay asleep, as it lay asleep, I set it down in the darkness deep, Smoothed its limbs and laid it out, And drew the curtains around about; Then into the dark, dark room I hied, 95 Where he lay awake at the woman’s side, And, though the chamber was black as night, He saw my face, for it was so white; I gazed in his eyes, and he shrieked in pain, And I knew he would never sleep again, 100 And back to my grave went silently, And soon my baby was brought to me; My son and daughter beside me rest, My little baby is on my breast; Our bed is warm, and our grave is deep, 105 But he cannot sleep, he cannot sleep! Robert Buchanan.

‘O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee;’ The western wind was wild and dank with foam, 5 And all alone went she. The creeping tide crept up along the sand, And o’er and o’er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. 10 The blinding mist came down, and hid the land: And never home came she. ‘Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair— A tress of golden hair, A drownèd maiden’s hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee.’ They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, 20 The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee. Charles Kingsley.

Softly! she is lying With her lips apart: Softly! she is dying Of a broken heart. Whisper! she is going 5 To her final rest: Whisper! life is growing Dim within her breast. Gently! she is sleeping, She has breathed her last: 10 Gently! while you’ are weeping, She to Heaven has past. Charles Gamage Eastman.

Her sufferings ended with the day! Yet lived she at its close, And breathed the long long night away In statuelike repose. But when the Sun in all his state 5 Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through glory’s morning gate, And walked in Paradise. James Aldrich.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality 5 Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 10 Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man— So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed To his great heart none other than a God! I asked thee, ‘Give me immortality.’ 15 Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills, And beat me down and marred and wasted me, And though they could not end me, left me maimed 20 To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, though even now, Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, 25 Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift: Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 30 Where all should pause, as is most meet for all? A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, 35 And bosom beating with a heart renewed. Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, 40 And shake the darkness from their loosened manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 45 Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true? ‘The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.’ Ay me! ay me! with what another heart 50 In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch—if I be he that watched— The lucid outline forming round thee; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood 55 Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed 60 Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. Yet hold me not for ever in thine East: How can my nature longer mix with thine? 65 Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, 70 And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground; Thou seëst all things, thou wilt see my grave; Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn; I earth in earth forget these empty courts, 75 And thee returning on thy silver wheels. Alfred Tennyson.

‘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. 5 ‘Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, 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. 10 ‘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. 15 ‘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.’ 20 Alfred Tennyson.

Rise, said the Master, come unto the feast: She heard the call and rose with willing feet; But thinking it not otherwise than meet For such a bidding to put on her best, She is gone from us for a few short hours 5 Into her bridal closet, there to wait For the unfolding of the palace gate, That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. We have not seen her yet, though we have been Full often to her chamber door, and oft 10 Have listened underneath the postern green, And laid fresh flowers, and whispered short and soft; But she hath made no answer, and the day From the clear west is fading fast away. Henry Alford.

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, 5 And noisy fame is proud to win them; Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them! Nay, grieve not for the dead alone, Whose song has told their hearts’ sad story: 10 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 15 On nameless sorrow’s churchyard pillow. O hearts that break, and give no sign, Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine, Slow-dropped from misery’s crushing presses! 20 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! Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Lord, in this dust thy sovereign voice First quickened love divine; I am all thine—thy care and choice, My very praise is thine. I praise Thee, while thy providence 5 In childhood frail I trace, For blessings given, ere dawning sense Could seek or scan thy grace; Blessings in boyhood’s marvelling hour, Bright dreams and fancyings strange; 10 Blessings, when reason’s awful power Gave thought a bolder range; Blessings of friends, which to my door Unasked, unhoped, have come; And choicer still, a countless store 15 Of eager smiles at home. Yet, Lord, in memory’s fondest place I shrine those seasons sad, When looking up, I saw thy face In kind austereness clad. 20 I would not miss one sigh or tear, Heart-pang or throbbing brow; Sweet was the chastisement severe, And sweet its memory now. Yes! let the fragrant scars abide, 25 Love-tokens in thy stead, Faint shadows of the spear-pierced side, And thorn-encompassed head. And such thy tender force be still, When self would swerve or stray, 30 Shaping to truth the froward will Along thy narrow way. Deny me wealth; far, far remove The lure of power or name; Hope thrives in straits, in weakness love, 35 And faith in this world’s shame. John Henry Newman.

I stood within the grave’s o’ershadowing vault; Gloomy and damp it stretched its vast domain; Shades were its boundary; for my strained eye sought For other limit to its width in vain. Faint from the entrance came a daylight ray, 5 And distant sound of living men and things; This, in the encountering darkness passed away, That, took the tone in which a mourner sings. I lit a torch at a sepulchral lamp, Which shot a thread of light amid the gloom; 10 And feebly burning ’gainst the rolling damp, I bore it through the regions of the tomb. Around me stretched the slumbers of the dead, Whereof the silence ached upon mine ear; More and more noiseless did I make my tread, 15 And yet its echoes chilled my heart with fear. The former men of every age and place, From all their wanderings gathered; round me lay; The dust of withered empires did I trace, And stood ’mid generations past away. 20 I saw whole cities, that in flood or fire, Or famine or the plague, gave up their breath; Whole armies whom a day beheld expire, By thousands swept into the arms of Death. I saw the old world’s white and wave-swept bones, 25 A giant heap of creatures that had been; Far and confused the broken skeletons Lay strewn beyond mine eye’s remotest ken. Death’s various shrines—the Urn, the Stone, the Lamp— Were scattered round, confused, amid the dead; 30 Symbols and Types were mouldering in the damp, Their shapes were waning, and their meaning fled. Unspoken tongues, perchance in praise or woe, Were charactered on tablets Time had swept; And deep were half their letters hid below 35 The thick small dust of those they once had wept. No hand was here to wipe the dust away; No reader of the writing traced beneath; No spirit sitting by its form of clay; Nor sigh nor sound from all the heaps of Death. 40 One place alone had ceased to hold its prey; A form had pressed it and was there no more; The garments of the Grave beside it lay, Where once they wrapped Him on the rocky floor. He only with returning footsteps broke 45 The eternal calm wherewith the Tomb was bound; Among the sleeping Dead alone He woke, And blessed with outstretched hands the host around. Well is it that such blessing hovers here, To soothe each sad survivor of the throng 50 Who haunt the portals of the solemn sphere, And pour their woe the loaded air along. They to the verge have followed that they love, And on the insuperable threshold stand; With cherished names its speechless calm reprove, 55 And stretch in the abyss their ungrasped hand. But vainly there the mourners seek relief From silenced voice, and shapes, Decay has swept, Till Death himself shall medicine their grief, Closing their eyes by those o’er whom they wept. 60 All that have died, the Earth’s whole race, repose, Where Death collects his treasures, heap on heap; O’er each one’s busy day the nightshades close; Its Actors, Sufferers, Schools, Kings, Armies—sleep. ‘V.’

I mourn no more my vanished years: Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again. The west winds blow, and singing low, 5 I hear the glad streams run; The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun. No longer forward, nor behind, I look in hope and fear: 10 But grateful, take the good I find, The best of now, and here. I plough no more a desert land For harvest, weed and tare; The manna dropping from God’s hand 15 Rebukes my painful care. I break my pilgrim staff, I lay Aside the toiling oar; The angel sought so far away I welcome at my door. 20 The airs of spring may never play Among the ripening corn, Nor freshness of the flowers of May Blow through the autumn morn; Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 25 Through fringèd lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given; The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south-wind softly sigh, 30 And sweet calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky. Not less shall manly deed and word Rebuke an age of wrong: The graven flowers that wreathe the sword 35 Make not the blade less strong. Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track, That wheresoe’er my feet have swerved, His chastening turned me back; 40 That more and more a Providence Of love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense Sweet with eternal good; That death seems but a covered way, 45 Which opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Father’s sight; That care and trial seem at last, Through memory’s sunset air, 50 Like mountain ranges overpast In purple distance fair; That all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm, And all the angles of its strife 55 Slow rounding into calm. And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west winds play: And all the windows of my heart I open to this day. 60 John Greenleaf Whittier.