WAR
174 A WAR SONG TO ENGLISHMEN
Prepare, prepare the iron helm of War, Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb; The Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands, And casts them out upon the darkened earth! Prepare, prepare!
Prepare your hearts for Death's cold hand! prepare Your souls for flight, your bodies for the earth; Prepare your arms for glorious victory; Prepare your eyes to meet a holy God! Prepare, prepare!
Whose fatal scroll is that? Methinks 'tis mine! Why sinks my heart, why faltereth my tongue? Had I three lives, I'd die in such a cause, And rise, with ghosts, over the well-fought field. Prepare, prepare!
The arrows of Almighty God are drawn! Angels of Death stand in the lowering heavens! Thousands of souls must seek the realms of light, And walk together on the clouds of heaven! Prepare, prepare!
Soldiers, prepare! Our cause is Heaven's cause; Soldiers, prepare! Be worthy of our cause: Prepare to meet our fathers in the sky: Prepare, O troops, that are to fall to-day! Prepare, prepare!
Alfred shall smile, and make his harp rejoice; The Norman William, and the learned Clerk, And Lion Heart, and black-browed Edward, with His loyal Queen, shall rise, and welcome us! Prepare, prepare!
WILLIAM BLAKE
175 FOR SOLDIERS
Ye buds of Brutus' land, courageous youths, now play your parts; Unto your tackle stand, abide the brunt with valiant hearts. For news is carried to and fro, that we must forth to warfare go: Men muster now in every place, and soldiers are prest forth apace. Faint not, spend blood, To do your Queen and country good; Fair words, good pay, Will make men cast all care away.
The time of war is come, prepare your corslet, spear and shield; Methinks I hear the drum strike doleful marches to the field; Tantarâ, tantarâ, ye trumpets sound, which makes our hearts with joy abound. The roaring guns are heard afar, and everything denounceth war. Serve God; stand stout; Bold courage brings this gear about. Fear not; fate run[89]; Faint heart fair lady never won.
Ye curious[90] carpet-knights, that spend the time in sport and play; Abroad and see new sights, your country's cause calls you away; Do not to make your ladies' game, bring blemish to your worthy name. Away to field and win renown, with courage beat your enemies down. Stout hearts gain praise, When dastards sail in Slander's seas; Hap what hap shall, We sure shall die but once for all.
Alarm methinks they cry, Be packing, mates, begone with speed; Our foes are very nigh; shame have that man that shrinks at need! Unto it boldly let us stand, God will give Right the upper hand. Our cause is good, we need not doubt, in sign of coming give a shout. March forth, be strong, Good hap will come ere it be long. Shrink not, fight well, For lusty lads must bear the bell.
All you that will shun evil, must dwell in warfare every day; The world, the flesh, and devil, always do seek our soul's decay; Strive with these foes with all your might, so shall you fight a worthy fight. That conquest doth deserve most praise, where vice do yield to virtue's ways. Beat down foul sin, A worthy crown then shall ye win; If ye live well, In heaven with Christ our souls shall dwell.
HUMPHREY GIFFORD
176 BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps; His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on."
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.
JULIA WARD HOWE
177 "I HEARD A SOLDIER"
I heard a soldier sing some trifle Out in the sun-dried veldt alone: He lay and cleaned his grimy rifle Idly, behind a stone.
"If after death, love, comes a waking, And in their camp so dark and still The men of dust hear bugles, breaking Their halt upon the hill,
"To me the slow, the silver pealing That then the last high trumpet pours Shall softer than the dawn come stealing, For, with its call, comes yours!"
What grief of love had he to stifle, Basking so idly by his stone, That grimy soldier with his rifle Out in the veldt, alone?
HERBERT TRENCH
178 THE DUG-OUT
Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen cold Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you, Deep-shadowed from the candle's guttering gold; And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder; Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head ... You are too young to fall asleep for ever; And when you sleep you remind me of the dead.
SIEGFRIED SASSOON
179 NOCTURNE
Be thou at peace this night Wherever be thy bed, Thy slumbering be light, The fearful dreams be dead Within thy lovely head; God keep thee in His sight.
No hint of love molest Thy quiet mind again; Night fold thee to her breast And hush thy crying pain; Let memory in vain Conspire against thy rest.
So may thy thoughts be lost In the full hush of sleep. Lest any sight accost Thine eyes to make them weep, In darkness buried deep For ever be my ghost.
EDWARD L. DAVISON
180 THE DEAD
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after, Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night.
RUPERT BROOKE
181 THE END
After the blast of lightning from the east, The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne; After the drums of time have rolled and ceased, And, from the bronze west, long retreat is blown--
Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth All death will he annul, all tears assuage?-- Or fill these void veins full again with youth, And wash, with an immortal water, Age?
When I do ask white Age, he saith, "Not so: My head hangs weighed with snow." And when I hearken to the Earth, she saith: "My fiery heart sinks aching. It is death. Mine ancient scars shall not be glorified. Nor my titanic tears, the seas, be dried."
WILFRED OWEN
182 THE CROWNS
Cherry and pear are white, Their snows lie sprinkled on the land like light On darkness shed. Far off and near The orchards toss their crowns of delight, And the sun casts down Another shining crown.
The wind tears and throws down Petal by petal the crown Of cherry and pear till the earth is white, And all the brightness is shed In the orchards far off and near, That tossed by the road and under the green hill; And the wind is fled.
Far, far off the wind Has shaken down A brightness that was as the brightness of cherry or pear When the orchards shine in the sun. --Oh there is no more fairness Since this rareness, The radiant blossom of English earth--is dead!
JOHN FREEMAN
183 CORONACH[91]
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 serest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,[92] Sage counsel in cumber,[93] 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 for ever.
SIR WALTER SCOTT
184 THE CHILDREN'S BELLS
Where are your Oranges? Where are your Lemons? What, are you silent now, Bells of St. Clement's?[94] You, of all bells that rang Once in old London, You, of all bells that sang, Utterly undone? You whom all children know Ere they know letters, Making Big Ben himself Call you his betters? Where are your lovely tones Fruitful and mellow, Full-flavoured orange-gold, Clear lemon-yellow? Ring again, sing again, Bells of St. Clement's! Call as you swing again, "Oranges! Lemons!" Fatherless children Are listening near you-- Sing for the children, The fathers will hear you.
ELEANOR FARJEON
185 MEN WHO MARCH AWAY
We be the King's men, hale and hearty, Marching to meet one Buonaparty; If he won't sail, lest the wind should blow, We shall have marched for nothing, O! Right fol-lol!
We be the King's men, hale and hearty, Marching to meet one Buonaparty; If he be sea-sick, says "No, no!" We shall have marched for nothing, O! Right fol-lol!
We be the king's men hale and hearty, Marching to meet one Buonaparty; Never mind, mates; we'll be merry, though We may have marched for nothing, O! Right fol-lol!
THOMAS HARDY
186 BUDMOUTH DEARS
When we lay where Budmouth Beach is, O, the girls were fresh as peaches, With their tall and tossing figures and their eyes of blue and brown! And our hearts would ache with longing As we paced from our sing-songing, With a smart Clink! Clink! up the Esplanade and down.
They distracted and delayed us By the pleasant pranks they played us, And what marvel, then, if troopers, even of regiments of renown, On whom flashed those eyes divine, O, Should forget the countersign, O, As we tore Clink! Clink! back to camp above the town.
Do they miss us much, I wonder, Now that war has swept us sunder, And we roam from where the faces smile to where the faces frown? And no more behold the features Of the fair fantastic creatures, And no more Clink! Clink! past the parlours of the town?
Shall we once again there meet them? Falter fond attempts to greet them? Will the gay sling-jacket glow again beside the muslin gown? Will they archly quiz and con us With a sideway glance upon us, While our spurs Clink! Clink! up the Esplanade and down?
THOMAS HARDY
187 TRAFALGAR
In the wild October night-time, when the wind raved round the land, And the Back-sea met the Front-sea, and our doors were blocked with sand, And we heard the drub of Dead-man's Bay, where bones of thousands are, We knew not what the day had done for us at Trafalgár. (All) Had done, Had done, For us at Trafalgar!
"Pull hard, and make the Nothe, or down we go!" one says, says he. We pulled; and bedtime brought the storm; but snug at home slept we. Yet all the while our gallants after fighting through the day, Were beating up and down the dark, sou'-west of Cadiz Bay. The dark, The dark, Sou'-west of Cadiz Bay!
The victors and the vanquished then the storm it tossed and tore, As hard they strove, those worn-out men, upon that surly shore; Dead Nelson and his half-dead crew, his foes from near and far, Were rolled together on the deep that night at Trafalgar! The deep, The deep, That night at Trafalgar!
THOMAS HARDY
188 MESSMATES
He gave us all a good-bye cheerily At the first dawn of day; We dropped him down the side full drearily When the light died away. It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there, And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there, Where the Trades and the tides roll over him And the great ships go by.
He's there alone with green seas rocking him For a thousand miles round; He's there alone with dumb things mocking him, And we're homeward bound. It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there, While the months and the years roll over him And the great ships go by.
I wonder if the tramps come near enough As they thrash to and fro, And the battle-ships' bells ring clear enough To be heard down below; If through all the lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there, The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him When the great ships go by.
HENRY NEWBOLT
189 SONG FOR ALL SEAS, ALL SHIPS
To-day a rude brief recitative, Of ships sailing the seas, each with its special flag or ship-signal, Of unnamed heroes in the ships--of waves spreading and spreading far as the eye can reach, Of dashing spray, and the winds piping and blowing, And out of these a chant for the sailors of all nations, Fitful, like a surge.
Of sea-captains young or old, and the mates, and of all intrepid sailors, Of the few, very choice, taciturn, whom fate can never surprise nor death dismay, Picked sparingly without noise by thee, old ocean, chosen by thee, Thou sea that pickest and cullest the race in time, and unitest nations, Suckled by thee, old husky nurse, embodying thee, Indomitable, untamed as thee....
Flaunt out, O sea, your separate flags of nations! Flaunt out visible as ever the various ship-signals! But do you reserve especially for yourself and for the soul of man one flag above all the rest, A spiritual woven signal for all nations, emblem of man elate above death, Token of all brave captains and all intrepid sailors and mates, And all that went down doing their duty, Reminiscent of them, twined from all intrepid captains young or old, A pennant universal, subtly waving all time, o'er all, brave sailors, All seas, all ships.
WALT WHITMAN
190 HOHENLINDEN
On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven; Then rushed the steed, to battle driven; And louder than the bolts of Heaven Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stainèd snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye Brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
THOMAS CAMPBELL
191 HAME, HAME, HAME
Hame, hame, hame, hame, fain wad I be: O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie! When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be! O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning now to fa'; The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a'; But we'll water it with the blude of usurping tyrannie, And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie!
O, there's nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save, But the keys o' kind heaven, to open the grave, That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
The great now are gane, who attempted to save; The green grass is growing abune their graves; Yet the sun through the mirk seems to promise to me-- I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame, hame, fain wad I be; O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM
192 DARK ROSALEEN
O my dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the deep. There's wine from the royal Pope Upon the ocean green, And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My dark Rosaleen!
Over hills and through dales Have I roamed for your sake; All yesterday I sailed the sails On river and on lake. The Erne, at its highest flood, I dashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Oh! there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lightened through my blood, My dark Rosaleen!
All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move. The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen!
Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon. But yèt will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen; 'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! 'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, My dark Rosaleen!
Over dews, over sands, Will I fly for your weal: Your holy delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home, in your emerald bowers, From morning's dawn till e'en, You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! You'll think of me through daylight hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My dark Rosaleen!
I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills! And one beamy smile from you Would float like light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, My dark Rosaleen!
Oh! the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal and slogan-cry Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, Ere you shall fade, ere you can die, My dark Rosaleen!
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
193 MY LUVE'S IN GERMANY
"My Luve's in Germany; Send him hame, send him hame; My Luve's in Germany, Send him hame: My Luve's in Germany, Fighting for Royalty; He may ne'er his Jeanie see; Send him hame, send him hame; He may ne'er his Jeanie see, Send him hame.
"He's brave as brave can be, Send him hame, send him hame; He's brave as brave can be, Send him hame. He's brave as brave can be, He wad rather fa' than flee; But his life is dear to me, Send him hame, send him hame; Oh! his life is dear to me, Send him hame.
"Our faes are ten to three, Send him hame, send him hame; Our faes are ten to three, Send him hame. Our faes are ten to three, He maun either fa' or flee, In the cause o' Loyalty; Send him hame, send him hame; In the cause o' Loyalty, Send him hame."
"Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, Bonnie Dame, winsome Dame; Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, Winsome Dame. Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, But he fell in Germany, Fighting brave for Loyalty, Mournfu' Dame, bonnie Dame, Fighting brave for Loyalty, Mournfu' Dame!"
"He'll ne'er come owre the sea, Willie's slain, Willie's slain; He'll ne'er come owre the sea, Willie's gane! He'll ne'er come owre the sea, To his Love and ain Countrie-- This warld's nae mair for me, Willie's gane, Willie's gane! This warld's nae mair for me Willie's slain!"
194 A WEARY LOT IS THINE
"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 doubtlet of the Lincoln green-- No more of me you knew, My love! No more of me you knew.
"This 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 the bridle-reins a shake, Said, "Adieu for evermore, My love! And adieu for evermore."
SIR WALTER SCOTT
195 CHARLIE HE'S MY DARLING
An' Charlie he's my darling, My darling, my darling! Charlie he's my darling, The young Chevalier!
'Twas on a Monday morning, Right early in the year, That Charlie cam' to our town, The young Chevalier!
As he was walking up the street, The city for to view, O, there he spied a bonnie lass The window lookin' through.
Sae light's he jimpèd up the stair, An' tirlèd at the pin; An' wha sae ready as hersel To let the laddie in?
He set Jenny on his knee, A' in his Highland dress; For brawlie weel he kenned the way To please a lassie best.
It's up yon heathery mountain, An' down yon scroggy glen, We daur na gang a-milking For Charlie an' his men!
An' Charlie he's my darling, My darling, my darling! Charlie he's my darling, The young Chevalier!
196 THE FAREWELL
It was a' for our rightfu' king We left fair Scotland's strand; It was a' for our rightfu' king We e'er saw Irish land, My dear, We e'er saw Irish land.
Now a' is done that man can do, And a' is done in vain; My love, and native land, farewell, For I maun cross the main, My dear, For I maun cross the main.
He turned him right and round about Upon the Irish shore; And gae his bridle-reins a shake, With Adieu for evermore, My dear, Adieu for evermore.
The sodger frae the wars returns, The sailor frae the main; But I hae parted frae my love, Never to meet again, My dear, Never to meet again.
When day is gane, and night is come, And a' folks bound to sleep; I think on him that's far awa', The lee-lang night, and weep, My dear, The lee-lang night, and weep.
ROBERT BURNS
197 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST
I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning:-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning; The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.
In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering: The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray. At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, be guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.
We'll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning: The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
JEAN ELLIOT
198 "AS I WAS GOING"
As I was going by Charing Cross, I saw a black man upon a black horse; They told me it was King Charles the First; Oh dear, my heart was ready to burst!
199 OF THE GREAT AND FAMOUS
EVER TO BE HONOURED KNIGHT, SIR FRANCIS DRAKE, AND OF MY LITTLE-LITTLE SELFE.
The Dragon that our Seas did raise his Crest And brought back heapes of gold unto his nest, Unto his Foes more terrible than Thunder, Glory of his age, After-ages' wonder, Excelling all those that excelled before; It's feared we shall have none such any more; Effecting all he sole did undertake, Valiant, just, wise, milde, honest, Godly Drake. This man when I was little I did meete As he was walking up Totnes' long street. He asked me whose I was? I answered him. He asked me if his good friend were within? A faire red Orange in his hand he had, He gave it me whereof I was right glad, Takes and kist me, and prayes God blesse my boy: Which I record with comfort to this day. Could he on me have breathèd with his breath, His gifts, Elias-like, after his death, Then had I beene enabled for to doe Many brave things I have a heart unto. I have as great desire as e're had hee To joy, annoy, friends, foes; but 'twill not be.
ROBERT HAYMAN
200 A LAMENTATION
All looks be pale, hearts cold as stone, For Hally now is dead and gone. Hally in whose sight, Most sweet sight, All the earth late took delight. Every eye, weep with me, Joys drowned in tears must be.
His ivory skin, his comely hair, His rosy checks so clear and fair, Eyes that once did grace His bright face, Now in him all want their place. Eyes and hearts, weep with me, For who so kind as he?
His youth was like an April flower, Adorned with beauty, love, and power. Glory strewed his way, Whose wreaths gay Now are all turnèd to decay. Then, again, weep with me, None feel more cause than we.
No more may his wished sight return. His golden lamp no more can burn. Quenched is all his flame, His hoped fame Now hath left him nought but name. For him all weep with me, Since more him none shall see.
THOMAS CAMPION
201 WHAT IF SOME LITTLE PAIN THE PASSAGE HAVE
... What if some little paine the passage have, That makes fraile flesh to feare the bitter wave? Is not short paine well borne, that brings long ease, And layes the soule to sleepe in quiet grave? Sleep after toyle, port after stormie seas, Ease after warre, death after live does greatly please....
EDMUND SPENSER
202 HENRY BEFORE AGINCOURT: OCTOBER 25, 1415
... Our King went up upon a hill high And looked down to the valleys low: He saw where the Frenchmen came hastily As thick as ever did hail or snow. Then kneeled our King down, in that stound,[95] And all his men on every side: Every man made a cross and kissed the ground, And on their feet fast gan abide. Our King said, "Sirs, what time of the day?" "My Liege," they said, "it is nigh Prime." "Then go we to our journey, By the grace of JESU, it is good time: For saints that lie in their shrine To GOD for us be praying. All the Religious of England, in this time, Ora pro nobis for us they sing." ST. GEORGE was seen over the host: Of very truth this sight men did see. Down was he sent by the HOLY GHOST, To give our King the victory....
JOHN LYDGATE
203 ALEXANDER THE GREAT
Four men stood by the grave of a man, The grave of Alexander the Proud: They sang words without falsehood Over the prince from fair Greece.
Said the first man of them: "Yesterday there were around the king The men of the world--a sad gathering! Though to-day he is alone."
"Yesterday the king of the brown world Rode upon the heavy earth: Though to-day it is the earth That rides upon his neck."
"Yesterday," said the third wise author, "Philip's son owned the whole world: To-day he has nought Save seven feet of earth."
"Alexander the liberal and great Was wont to bestow silver and gold: To-day," said the fourth man, "The gold is here, and it is nought."
Thus truly spoke the wise men Around the grave of the high-king: It was not foolish women's talk What those four sang.
204 THE MYRTLE BUSH GREW SHADY
"The myrtle bush grew shady Down by the ford."-- "Is it even so?" said my lady. "Even so!" said my lord. "The leaves are set too thick together For the point of a sword."
"The arras in your room hangs close, No light between! You wedded one of those That see unseen."-- "Is it even so?" said the King's Majesty. "Even so!" said the Queen.
MARY COLERIDGE
205 THE FORT OF RATHANGAN
The fort over against the oak-wood, Once it was Bruidge's, it was Cathal's, It was Aed's, it was Ailill's, It was Conaing's, it was Cuiline's, And it was Maelduin's; The fort remains after each in his turn-- And the kings asleep in the ground.
DANCE,
MUSIC AND BELLS.
206 A PIPER
A piper in the streets to-day Set up, and tuned, and started to play, And away, away, away on the tide Of his music we started; on every side Doors and windows were opened wide, And men left down their work and came, And women with petticoats coloured like flame. And little bare feet that were blue with cold, Went dancing back to the age of gold, And all the world went gay, went gay, For half an hour in the street to-day.
SEUMAS O'SULLIVAN
207 THE LITTLE DANCERS
Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky Dreams; and lonely, below, the little street Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy. Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat; And all is dark, save where come flooding rays From a tavern window: there, to the brisk measure Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays, Two children, all alone and no one by, Holding their tattered frocks, through an airy maze Of motion, lightly threaded with nimble feet, Dance sedately: face to face they gaze, Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure.
LAURENCE BINYON
208 TWO NUT TREES
i
I had a little nut tree, Nothing would it bear, But a silver nutmeg, And a golden pear. The King of Spain's daughter Came to visit me, And all was because of My little nut tree. I skipped over water I danced over sea, And all the birds in the air Could not catch me.
THOMAS ANON
ii
The King of China's daughter So beautiful to see With her face like yellow water, left Her nutmeg tree. Her little rope for skipping She kissed and gave it me-- Made of painted notes of singing-birds Among the fields of tea. I skipped across the nutmeg grove,-- I skipped across the sea; But neither sun nor moon, my dear, Has yet caught me.
EDITH SITWELL
209 WHEN THE GREEN WOODS LAUGH
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;
When the meadows laugh with lively green, And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene, When Mary and Susan and Emily With their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, Ha, He!"
When the painted birds laugh in the shade, Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread, Come live, and be merry, and join with me, To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, Ha, He!"
WILLIAM BLAKE
210 FA LA LA
My mistress frowns when she should play; I'll please her with a Fa la la. Sometimes she chides, but I straightway Present her with a Fa la la.
You lovers that have loves astray May win them with a Fa la la. Quick music's best, for still they say None pleaseth like your Fa la la.
211 IT WAS A LOVER
It was a Lover, and his lasse, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That ore the greene corne-field did passe, In spring time, the onely pretty ring time, When Birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: Sweet Lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the Rie, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, These prettie Country folks would lie, In spring time, the onely pretty ring time, When Birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: Sweet Lovers love the spring.
This Carroll they began that houre, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that a life was but a Flower, In spring time, the only pretty ring time, When Birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: Sweet Lovers love the spring.
And therefore take the present time, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino; For love is crownèd with the prime In spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: Sweet lovers love the spring.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
212 HEY, NONNY NO!
Hey, nonny no! Men are fools that wish to die! Is't not fine to dance and sing When the bells of death do ring? Is't not fine to swim in wine, And turn upon the toe, And sing Hey nonny no!
When the winds blow and the seas flow? Hey, nonny no!
213 TARANTELLA
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? And the tedding and the spreading Of the straw for a bedding, And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees, And the wine that tasted of the tar? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers (Under the dark of the vine verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, Do you remember an Inn? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers Who hadn't got a penny, And who weren't paying any, And the hammer at the doors and the Din? And the Hip! Hop! Hap! Of the clap Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl Of the girl gone chancing, Glancing, Dancing, Backing and advancing, Snapping of the clapper to the spin Out and in-- And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the guitar! Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn?
Never more; Miranda, Never more. Only the high peaks hoar: And Aragon a torrent at the door. No sound In the walls of the Halls where falls The tread Of the feet of the dead to the ground. No sound: Only the boom Of the far Waterfall like Doom.
HILAIRE BELLOC
214 "I LOVED A LASS"
I loved a lass, a fair one, As fair as e'er was seen; She was indeed a rare one, Another Sheba Queen: But, fool as then I was, I thought she loved me too: But now, alas! she has left me, Falero, lero, loo!...
And as abroad we walkèd As lovers' fashion is, Oft as we sweetly talkèd The sun would steal a kiss. The wind upon her lips Likewise most sweetly blew; But now, alas! she has left me Falero, lero, loo!
Many a merry meeting My love and I have had; She was my only sweeting, She made my heart full glad; The tears stood in her eyes Like to the morning dew: But now, alas! she has left me, Falero, lero, loo!
Her cheeks were like the cherry, Her skin was white as snow; When she was blithe and merry She angel-like did show; Her waist exceeding small, The fives did fit her shoe: But now, alas! she has left me, Falero, lero, loo!
In summer time or winter She had her heart's desire; I still did scorn to stint her From sugar, sack, or fire; The world went round about, No cares we ever knew: But now, alas! she has left me, Falero, lero, loo!...
No riches now can raise me, No want make me despair; No misery amaze me, Nor yet for want I care. I have lost a world itself, My earthly heaven, adieu, Since she, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo....
GEORGE WITHER
215 GREEN GRASS
A dis, a dis, a green grass, A dis, a dis, a dis; Come all you pretty fair maids And dance along with us.
For we are going roving, A roving in this land; We take this pretty fair maid, We take her by the hand.
She shall get a duke, my dear, As duck do get a drake; And she shall have a young prince, For her own fair sake.
And if this young prince chance to die, She shall get another; The bells will ring, and the birds will sing, And we clap hands together.
216 THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER
When I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire, Full well I served my master for more than seven year, Till I took up to poaching--as you shall quickly hear: Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night In the season of the year!
As mé and my cómrade were setting of a snare, Twas then we spied the gamekeeper, for him we did not care, For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er anywhere: Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night In the season of the year!
As me and my comrade were setting four or five, And taking on 'em up again we caught a hare alive, We took the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer: Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night In the season of the year!
I threw him on my shoulder, and then we trudged home, We took him to a neighbour's house and sold him for a crown We sold him for a crown, my boys, but I did not tell you where: Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night In the season of the year!
Success to every gentleman that lives in Lincolnshire, Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare, Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:[96] Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night In the season of the year!
217 THE MEN OF GOTHAM
Seamen three! What men be ye? Gotham's three wise men we be. Whither in your bowl so free? To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine-- And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thóu, so fast adrift? I am he they call Old Care. Here on board we will thee lift. No: I may not enter there. Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree, In a bowl Care may not be-- In a bowl Care may not be.
Fear ye not the waves that roll? No; in charmèd bowl we swim. What the charm that floats the bowl? Water may not pass the brim. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine-- And your ballast is old wine.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK
218 EARLY MORNING MEADOW SONG
Now some may drink old vintage wine To ladies gowned with rustling silk, But we will drink to dairymaids, And drink to them in rum and milk-- O, it's up in the morning early, When the dew is on the grass, And St. John's bell rings for matins, And St. Mary's rings for mass!
The merry skylarks soar and sing, And seem to Heaven very near-- Who knows what blessed inns they see, What holy drinking songs they hear? O, it's up in the morning early, When the dew is on the grass, And St. John's bell rings for matins, And St. Mary's rings for mass!
The mushrooms may be priceless pearls A queen has lost beside the stream; But rum is melted rubies when It turns the milk to golden cream! O, it's up in the morning early, When the dew is on the grass, And St. John's bell rings for matins, And St. Mary's rings for mass!
CHARLES DALMON
219 DABBLING IN THE DEW
Oh, where are you going to, my pretty little dear, With your red rosy cheeks and your coal-black hair? I'm going a-milking, kind sir, she answered me: And it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Suppose I were to clothe you, my pretty little dear, In a green silken gown and the amethyst rare? O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me, For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Suppose I were to carry you, my pretty little dear, In a chariot with horses, a grey gallant pair? O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me, For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Suppose I were to feast you, my pretty little dear, With dainties on silver, the whole of the year? O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me, For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
O but London's a city, my pretty little dear, And all men are gallant and brave that are there-- O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me, For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
O fine clothes and dainties and carriages so rare Bring grey to the cheeks and silver to the hair; What's a ring on the finger if rings are round the eye? But it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
220 BONNY LASSIE O!
O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O! To meet the cooler air and walk an angel there, With the dark dishevelled hair, Bonny lassie O!
The bloom's on the brere, bonny lassie O! Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to see The shed I've made for thee, Bonny lassie O!
'Tis agen the running brook, bonny lassie O! In a grassy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky, And a bush to keep us dry, Bonny lassie O!
There's the daisy all the year, bonny lassie O! There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold, And the arum leaves unrolled, Bonny lassie O!
O meet me at the shed, bonny lassie O! With the woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skin Blushing, thy praise to win, Bonny lassie O!
I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O! When the bee sips in the bean, and grey willow branches lean, And the moonbeam looks between, Bonny lassie O!
JOHN CLARE
221 THE MAD MAID'S SONG
Good-morrow to the Day so fair, Good-morning, Sir, to you: Good-morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew.
Good-morning to this Prim-rose too, Good-morrow to each maid, That will with flowers the Tomb bestrew Wherein my Love is laid.
Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me, Alack and welladay! For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee Which bore my Love away.
Ile seek him in your Bonnet brave, Ile seek him in your eyes; Nay, now, I think they've made his grave I' the bed of strawburies.
Ile seek him there; I know, ere this, The cold, cold Earth doth shake him; But I will go, or send a kiss By you, Sir, to awake him.
Pray hurt him not, though he be dead, He knowes well who do love him, And who with green-turfes reare his head, And who do rudely move him.
He's soft and tender (Pray take heed); With bands of Cowslips bind him, And bring him home--but 't is decreed That I shall never find him.
ROBERT HERRICK
222 TELL ME WHERE IS FANCIE BRED
Tell me where is Fancie bred, Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourishèd? Replie, replie! It is engendered in the eyes, With gazing fed; and Fancie dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring Fancie's knell: Ile begin it: Ding, dong, bell. All. Ding, dong, bell.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
223 MUSIC
Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory-- Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
224 THE BELLS OF SHANDON
With deep affection and recollection I often think of the Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood, Fling around my cradle their magic spells. On this I ponder where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine, While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate; But all their music spoke naught to thine; For memory, dwelling on each proud swelling Of thy belfry, knelling its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
I've heard bells tolling old "Adrian's Mole" in, Their thunder rolling from the Vatican, And cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly. O! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
There's a bell in Moscow; while on Tower and Kiosk, O! In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, And loud in air, calls men to prayer, From the tapering summit of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them; But there is an anthem more dear to me,-- 'Tis the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER PROUT)
225 UPON A RING OF BELLS
Bells have wide mouths and tongues, but are too weak, Have they not help, to sing, or talk or speak. But if you move them they will mak't appear, By speaking they'll make all the Town to hear. When Ringers handle them with Art and Skill, They then the ears of their Observers fill, With such brave Notes, they ting and tang so well As to out strip all with their ding, dong, Bell.
Comparison
These Bells are like the Powers of my Soul; Their Clappers to the Passions of my mind; The Ropes by which my Bells are made to tole, Are Promises (I by experience find.) My body is the Staple where they hang, My graces they which do ring ev'ry Bell: Nor is there any thing gives such a tang, When by these Ropes these Ringers ring them well. Let not my Bells these Ringers want, nor Ropes; Yea let them have room for to swing and sway: To toss themselves deny them not their Scopes. Lord! in my Steeple give them room to play. If they do tole, ring out, or chime all in, They drown the tempting tinckling Voice of Vice: Lord! when my Bells have gone, my Soul has bin As 'twere a tumbling in this Paradice! Or if these Ringers do the Changes ring, Upon my Bells, they do such Musick make, My Soul then (Lord) cannot but bounce and sing, So greatly her they with their Musick take. But Boys (my Lusts) into my Belfry go, And pull these Ropes, but do no Musick make They rather turn my Bells by what they do, Or by disorder make my Steeple shake. Then, Lord! I pray thee keep my Belfry Key, Let none but Graces meddle with these Ropes: And when these naughty Boys come, say them Nay. From such Ringers of Musick there's no hopes. O Lord! If thy poor Child might have his will, And might his meaning freely to thee tell; He never of this Musick has his fill, There's nothing to him like thy ding, dong, Bell.
JOHN BUNYAN
226 THE BELFRY
Dark is the stair, and humid the old walls Wherein it winds, on worn stones, up the tower. Only by loophole chinks at intervals Pierces the late glow of this August hour.
Two truant children climb the stairway dark, With joined hands, half in glee and half in fear, The boy mounts brisk, the girl hangs back to hark If the gruff sexton their light footsteps hear.
Dazzled at last they gain the belfry-room. Barred rays through shutters hover across the floor Dancing in dust; so fresh they come from gloom That breathless they pause wondering at the door.
How hushed it is! what smell of timbers old From cobwebbed beams! The warm light here and there Edging a darkness, sleeps in pools of gold, Or weaves fantastic shadows through the air.
How motionless the huge bell! Straight and stiff, Ropes through the floor rise to the rafters dim. The shadowy round of metal hangs, as if No force could ever lift its gleamy rim.
A child's awe, a child's wonder, who shall trace What dumb thoughts on its waxen softness write In such a spell-brimmed, time-forgotten place, Bright in that strangeness of approaching night?
As these two gaze, their fingers tighter press; For suddenly the slow bell upward heaves Its vast mouth, the cords quiver at the stress, And ere the heart prepare, the ear receives
Full on its delicate sense the plangent stroke Of violent, iron, reverberating sound. As if the tower in all its stones awoke, Deep echoes tremble, again in clangour drowned,
That starts without a whir of frighted wings And holds these young hearts shaken, hushed, and thrilled, Like frail reeds in a rushing stream, like strings Of music, or like trees with tempest filled,
And rolls in wide waves out o'er the lone land, Tone following tone toward the far-setting sun, Till where in fields long shadowed reapers stand Bowed heads look up, and lo, the day is done....
LAURENCE BINYON
227 IL PENSEROSO
... Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musicall, most melancholy! Thee chauntress of the Woods among I woo to hear thy eeven-song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the Heaven's wide pathles way, And oft, as if her head she bowed, Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a Plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off Curfeu sound Over some wide-watered shoar, Swinging slow with sullen roar: Or if the Ayr will not permit, Som still removèd place will fit, Where glowing Embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, Far from all resort of mirth, Save the Cricket on the hearth, Or the Belman's drousie charm To bless the dores from nightly harm....
JOHN MILTON
228 CHIMES
Brief, on a flying night, From the shaken tower, A flock of bells take flight, And go with the hour.
Like birds from the cote to the gales, Abrupt--O hark! A fleet of bells set sails, And go to the dark.
Sudden the cold airs swing, Alone, aloud, A verse of bells takes wing And flies with the cloud.
ALICE MEYNELL
229 CITIES DROWNED
Cities drowned in olden time Keep, they say, a magic chime Rolling up from far below When the moon-led waters flow.
So within me, ocean deep, Lies a sunken world asleep. Lest its bells forget to ring, Memory! set the tide a-swing!
HENRY NEWBOLT
230 THE BELL-MAN
From noise of Scare-fires rest ye free, From Murders--Benedicite. From all mischances, that may fright Your pleasing slumbers in the night: Mercie secure ye all, and keep The Goblin from ye, while ye sleep. Past one aclock, and almost two, My Masters all, Good day to you!
ROBERT HERRICK
AUTUMN LEAVES: WINTER SNOW
231 TO MEADOWS
Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been filled with flowers: And ye the Walks have been Where Maids have spent their houres.
You have beheld, how they With Wicker Arks did come To kisse, and beare away The richer Couslips home.
Ye have heard them sweetly sing And seen them in a Round: Each Virgin, like a Spring, With Hony-succles crowned.
But now, we see, none here, Whose silverie feet did tread, And with dishevelled Haire, Adorned this smoother Mead.
Like Unthrifts, having spent, Your stock, and needy grown, Ye are left here to lament Your poore estates, alone.
ROBERT HERRICK
232 THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT
The days are cold, the nights are long, The North wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty love!
The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth; There's nothing stirring in the house Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse, Then why so busy thou? Nay! start not at the sparkling light; 'Tis but the moon that shines so bright On the window-pane Bedropped with rain: Then, little darling! sleep again, And wake when it is day.
DOROTHY WORDSWORTH
233 TO AUTUMN
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells--
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
JOHN KEATS
234 THE SOLITARY REAPER
Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the cuckoo bird. Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?-- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago; Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
235 "THE HEAVING ROSES OF THE HEDGE ARE STIRRED"
The heaving roses of the hedge are stirred By the sweet breath of summer, and the bird Makes from within his jocund voice be heard.
The winds that kiss the roses sweep the sea Of uncut grass, whose billows rolling free Half drown the hedges which part lea from lea.
But soon shall look the wondering roses down Upon an empty field cut close and brown, That lifts no more its height against their own.
And in a little while those roses bright, Leaf after leaf, shall flutter from their height, And on the reapèd fields lie pink and white.
And yet again the bird that sings so high Shall ask the snow for alms with piteous cry; Take fright in his bewildering bower, and die.
CANON DIXON
236 AUTUMN
A DIRGE
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; And the year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; Follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.
The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling. Come, months, come away; Put on white, black, and grey; Let your light sisters play-- Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
237 "WHEN THAT I WAS AND A LITTLE TINY BOY"
When that I was and a little tinie boy, With hey, ho, the winde and the raine: A foolish thing was but a toy, For the raine it raineth every day.
But when I came to man's estate, With hey, ho, the winde and the raine: 'Gainst Knaves and Theeves men shut their gate, For the raine it raineth every day.
But when I came, alas, to wive, With hey, ho, the winde and the raine: By swaggering could I never thrive, For the raine it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the raine, With tos-pottes still had drunken heades,-- For the raine it raineth every day.
A great while ago the world begon, With hey, ho, the winde and the raine, But that's all one, our Play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
238 SONG
The feathers of the willow Are half of them grown yellow Above the swelling stream; And ragged are the bushes, And rusty are the rushes And wild the clouded gleam.
The thistle now is older, His stalk begins to moulder, His head is white as snow; The branches all are barer, The linnet's song is rarer The robin pipeth now.
CANON DIXON
239 FALL, LEAVES, FALL
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me, Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night's decay Ushers in a drearier day.
EMILY BRONTË
240 THE SANDS OF DEE
"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, And all alone went she.
The western 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. The rolling 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, 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
241 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK
Break, break, break, On thy cold grey stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in 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!
And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!
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.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
242 ODE TO THE WEST WIND
I
O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O, thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!
II
Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!
III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystàlline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O, uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
243 THAT WIND
That wind, I used to hear it swelling; With joy divinely deep; You might have seen my hot tears welling, But rapture made me weep.
I used to love on winter nights To lie and dream alone Of all the rare and real delights My lonely years had known;
And oh!--above the best--of those That coming time should bear, Like heaven's own glorious stars they rose, Still beaming bright and fair.
EMILY BRONTË
244 A FROSTY NIGHT
Mother. Alice, dear, what ails you, Dazed and white and shaken? Has the chill night numbed you? Is it fright you have taken?
Alice. Mother, I am very well, I felt never better; Mother, do not hold me so, Let me write my letter.
Mother. Sweet, my dear, what ails you? Alice. No, but I am well. The night was cold and frosty, There's no more to tell.
Mother. Ay, the night was frosty, Coldly gaped the moon, Yet the birds seemed twittering Through green boughs of June.
Soft and thick the snow lay, Stars danced in the sky, Not all the lambs of May-day Skip so bold and high.
Your feet were dancing, Alice, Seemed to dance on air, You looked a ghost or angel In the starlight there.
Your eyes were frosted starlight, Your heart, fire, and snow. Who was it said "I love you?" Alice. Mother, let me go!
ROBERT GRAVES
245 IN A DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER
In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime.
In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writhed not at passèd joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbèd sense to steal it, Was never said in rhyme.
JOHN KEATS
246 A SONG OF WINTER
Cold cold! Cold to-night is broad Moylurg, Higher the snow than the mountain-range, The deer cannot get at their food.
Cold till Doom! The storm has spread over all: A river is each furrow upon the slope, Each ford a full pool.
A great tidal sea is each loch, A full loch is each pool: Horses cannot get over the ford of Ross, No more can two feet get there.
The fish of Ireland are a-roaming, There is no strand which the wave does not pound, Not a town there is in the land, Not a bell is heard, no crane talks.
The wolves of Cuan-wood get Neither rest nor sleep in their lair, The little wren cannot find Shelter in her nest on the slope of Lon.
Keen wind and cold ice Has burst upon the little company of birds, The blackbird cannot get a lee to her liking, Shelter for its side in Cuan-wood.
Cosy our pot on its hook, Crazy the hut on the slope of Lon: The snow has crushed the wood here, Toilsome to climb up Ben-bo.
Glenn Rye's ancient bird From the bitter wind gets grief; Great her misery and her pain, The ice will get into her mouth.
From flock and from down to rise-- Take it to heart!--were folly for thee; Ice in heaps on every ford-- That is why I say "cold"!
247 COLD BLOWS THE WIND
Cauld blows the wind frae north to south, And drift is driving sairly; The sheep are couring[97] in the heugh,[98] Oh sirs! it's winter fairly. Now up in the morning's no' for me, Up in the morning early; I'd rather gae supperless to my bed, Than rise in the morning early.
Loud rairs the blast amang the woods, The branches tirling barely, Amang the chimley taps it thuds, And frost is nippin sairly. Now up in the morning's no' for me, Up in the morning early; To sit a' the night I'd rather agree, Than rise in the morning early.
The sun peeps o'er the southlan' hill, Like ony tim'rous carlie[99]; Just blinks a wee, then sinks again, And that we find severely. Now up in the morning's no' for me, Up in the morning early; When snaw blaws into the chimley cheek, Wha'd rise in the morning early.
Nae linties[100] lilt on hedge or bush, Poor things, they suffer sairly; In cauldrife[101] quarters a' the night, A' day they feed but sparely. Now up in the morning's no' for me, Up in the morning early; Nae fate can be waur,[102] in winter time, Than rise in the morning early.
JOHN HAMILTON
248 SKATING
... So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle; with the din Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still In rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me--even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep....
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
249 LONDON SNOW
When men were all asleep the snow came flying, In large white flakes falling on the city brown, Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town; Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; Lazily and incessantly floating down and down: Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing; Hiding difference, making unevenness even, Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing. All night it fell, and when full inches seven It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven; And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare: The eye marvelled--marvelled at the dazzling whiteness; The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air; No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing; Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees; Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder, "O look at the trees!" they cried, "O look at the trees!" With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, Following along the white deserted way, A country company long dispersed asunder: When now already the sun, in pale display Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day. For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow; And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go: But even for them awhile no cares encumber Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken, The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.
ROBERT BRIDGES
250 FOR SNOW
Oh the falling Snow! Oh the falling Snow! Where does it all come from? Whither does it go? Never never laughing, Never never weeping, Falling in its Sleep, Forever ever sleeping-- From what Sleep of Heaven Does it flow, and go Into what Sleep of Earth, The falling falling Snow?
ELEANOR FARJEON
251 VELVET SHOES
Let us walk in the white snow In a soundless space; With footsteps quiet and slow, At a tranquil pace, Under veils of white lace.
I shall go shod in silk, And you in wool, White as a white cow's milk, More beautiful Than the breast of a gull.
We shall walk through the still town In a windless peace; We shall step upon white down, Upon silver fleece, Upon softer than these.
We shall walk in velvet shoes: Wherever we go Silence will fall like dews On white silence below. We shall walk in the snow.
ELINOR WYLIE
252 LUCY GRAY
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night-- You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow."
"That, Father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon-- The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!"
At this the father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;--and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood That overlook'd the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood A furlong from their door.
They wept--and, turning homeward, cried "In heaven we all shall meet!" --When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall:
And then an open field they crossed, The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came:
They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none!
--Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
253 GONE WERE BUT THE WINTER COLD
"Gane were but the winter cauld, And gane were but the snaw, I could sleep in the wild woods, Where primroses blaw.
"Cauld's the snaw at my head, And cauld at my feet, And the finger o' death is at my e'en Closing them to sleep,
"Let nane tell my father, Or my mither sae dear; I'll meet them baith in heaven At the Spring o' the year."
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM
254 A CHILD'S WINTER EVENING
The smothering dark engulfs relentlessly With nightmare tread approaching steadfastly; All horrors thicken as the daylight fails And, is it wind, or some lost ghost that wails?
Tongue cannot tell the stories that beset, With livid pictures blackness dense as jet, Or that wild questioning--whence we are; and why; If death is darkness; and why I am I.
The children look through the uneven pane Out to the world, to bring them joy again; But only snowflakes melting into mire Without, within the red glow of the fire.
They long for something wonderful to break This long-drawn winter wistfulness, and take Shape in the darkness; threatening like Fate There comes a hell-like crackling from the grate.
But hand in hand they urge themselves anear And watch the cities burning bright and clear; Faces diabolical and cliffs and halls And strangely-pinnacled, molten castle walls.
Tall figures flicker on the ceiling stark Then grimly fade into one ominous dark; Dream terrors iron-bound throng on them apace, And dusk with fire, and flames with shadows race.
GWEN JOHN
255 A CAROL FOR SAINT STEPHEN'S DAY
Seynt Stevene was a clerk, In kyng Herowdės halle, And servyd him of bred and cloth, As every kyng befalle.
Stevyn out of Kechoun cam, Wyth boris bed on honde, He saw a sterr was fayr and bryght Over Bedlem stonde.
He kyst adoun the bores hed, And went into the halle: "I forsake the, kyng Herowde, And thi werkės alle.
"I forsak the, kyng Herowde, And thi werkės alle: Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born, Is better than we alle."
"Quhat eylyt the, Stevene? Quhat is the befalle? Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk In kyng Herowdės halle?"
"Lakyt me neyther mete ne drynk In kyng Herowdės halle; Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born, Is better than we alle."
"Quhat eylyt the, Stevyn, art thu wod? Or thu gynnyst to brede? Lakyt the eyther gold or fe, Or ony rychė wede?"
"Lakyt me neyther gold ne fe, Ne non rychė wede; Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born, Shal helpyn us at our nede."
"That is al so soth, Stevyn, Al so soth, I wys, As this capon crowė schel That lyth her in myn dych."
That word was not so sonė seyd, That wordė in that halle, The capon crew, Christus natus est! Among the lordės alle.
"Rysyt up, myn túrmentowres Be to and al be on, And ledyt Stevyn out of this town, And stonyt hym wyth ston."
Tokyn hem Stevene, And stonyd hym in the way: And therfor is his evyn On Crystės owyn day.
256 THE BURNING BABE
As I in hoary winter's night Stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat, Which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye To view what fire was near, A pretty babe all burning bright, Did in the air appear: Who, scorchèd with excessive heat, Such floods of tears did shed, As though his floods should quench his flames, Which with his tears were fed: "Alas!" quoth he, "but newly born, In fiery heats I fry,[103] Yet none approach to warm their hearts Or feel my fire, but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is, The fuel wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, The ashes shames and scorns; The fuel Justice layeth on, And Mercy blows the coals; The metal in this furnace wrought Are men's defilèd souls: For which, as now on fire I am, To work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood." With this he vanished out of sight, And swiftly shrunk away, And straight I called unto my mind That it was Christmas Day.
ROBERT SOUTHWELL
257 THE HOLLY AND THE IVY
The holly and the ivy, Now both are full-well grown, Of all the trees that are in the wood, The holly bears the crown. O the rising of the sun, The running of the deer, The playing of the merry Organ, Sweet singing in the quire. Sweet singing in the quire.
The holly bears a blossom, As white as lily-flower; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, To be our sweet Saviour. O the rising of the sun,...
The holly bears a berry, As red as any blood; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, To do poor sinners good. O the rising of the sun,...
The holly bears a prickle, As sharp as any thorn; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, On Christmas Day in the morn. O the rising of the sun,...
The holly bears a bark, As bitter as any gall; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, For to redeem us all. O the rising of the sun,...
The holly and the ivy, Now both are full well grown, Of all the trees that are in the wood, The holly bears the crown.
O the rising of the sun, The running of the deer, The playing of the merry Organ, Sweet singing in the quire. Sweet singing in the quire.
258 WELCOME YULE!
... Wolcum be thu, hevene kyng, Wolcum, born in on morwenyng, Wolcum for home[104] we shal syng, Wolcum yol.
Wolcum be ye Stefne and Jon, Wolcum Innocentes everychon, Wolcum Thomas martyr on, Wolcum yol.
Wolcum be ye, good newe yere, Wolcum twelthe-day, bothe infer,[105] Wolcum syentės lef[106] and der, Wolcum yol.
Wolcum be ye Candylmesse, Wolcum be ye qwyn of blys, Wolcum both to mor and lesse, Wolcum yol.
Wolcum be ye that am her,[107] Wolcum alle and mak good cher, Wolcum alle another yer, Wolcum yol.
259 NAY, IVY, NAY
Nay, Ivy, nay, Hyt shal not be, I wys; Let Holy hafe the maystry, As the maner[108] ys.
Holy stond in the halle, Fayre to behold; Ivy stond wythout the dore, She ys ful sore a-cold. Nay, Ivy, nay ...
Holy and hys mery men, They dawnsyn and they syng; Ivy and hur maydenys, They wepyn and they wryng. Nay, Ivy, nay ...
Ivy hath a kybe,[109] She kaght yt wyth the colde, So mot thay all haf ae, That wyth Ivy hold. Nay, Ivy, nay ...
Holy hath berys, As rede as any rose, The foster[110] and the hunter Kepe hem[111] fro the doos. Nay, Ivy, nay ...
Ivy hath berys, As blake as any slo, Ther com the oulė, And ete hym as she goo. Nay, Ivy, nay ...
Holy hath byrdys, A ful fayre flok, The nyghtyngale, the poppynguy, The gayntyl lavyrok. Nay, Ivy, nay ...
Gode Ivy [tell me] What byrdys ast thu?[112] Non but the howlat, That kreye[113] how, how!
_Nay, Ivy, nay, Hyt shal not be, I wys, Let Holy hafe the maystry, As the maner ys._
260 TU-WHIT TO-WHO
When Isicles hang by the wall, And Dicke the shepheard blowes his naile, And Tom beares Logges into the hall, And Milke comes frozen home in paile: When blood is nipt, and waies be fowle, Then nightly sings the staring Owle, Tu-whit to-who A merrie note, While greasie Jone doth keele[114] the pot.
When all aloud the winde doth blow, And coifing drownes the Parson's saw; And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marrian's nose lookes red and raw; When roasted Crabs[115] hisse in the bowle, Then nightly sings the staring Owle, Tu-whit to-who A merrie note, While greasy Jone doth keele the pot.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
261 BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND
Blow, blow, thou winter winde, Thou art not so unkinde As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keene, Because thou art not seene, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh ho! sing heigh ho, unto the green holly, Most friendship is fayning, most Loving meere folly: Then heigh ho, the holly, This Life is most jolly.
Freize, freize, thou bitter skie, That dost not bight so nigh As benefitts forgot; Though thou the waters warpe, Thy sting is not so sharpe, As friend remembered not. Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly, Most friendship is fayning, most Loving meere folly: Then heigh ho, the holly, This Life is most jolly.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
"LIKE STARS UPON SOME GLOOMY GROVE"
262 SPRING QUIET
Gone were but the Winter, Come were but the Spring, I would go to a covert Where the birds sing.
Where in the whitethorn Singeth a thrush, And a robin sings In the holly-bush.
Full of fresh scents Are the budding boughs Arching high over A cool green house:
Full of sweet scents, And whispering air Which sayeth softly: "We spread no snare;
"Here dwell in safety, Here dwell alone, With a clear stream And a mossy stone.
"Here the sun shineth Most shadily; Here is heard an echo Of the far sea, Though far off it be."
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
263 A WIDOW BIRD
A widow bird sat mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below.
There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
264 ECHO'S LAMENT FOR NARCISSUS
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears; Yet, slower yet; O faintly, gentle springs; List to the heavy part the music bears; Woe weeps out her division when she sings. Droop herbs and flowers; Fall grief in showers, Our beauties are not ours; O, I could still, Like melting snow upon some craggy hill, Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil.
BEN JONSON
265 THIS LIFE
This Life, which seems so fair, Is like a bubble blown up in the air By sporting children's breath, Who chase it everywhere, And strive who can most motion it bequeath. And though it sometimes seem of its own might Like to an eye of gold to be fixed there, And firm to hover in that empty height, That only is because it is so light. But in that pomp it doth not long appear; For when' tis most admired--in a thought, Because it erst[116] was nought, it turns to nought.
WILLIAM DRUMMOND
266 SWEET CONTENT
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O, sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? O, punishment! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers golden numbers? O, sweet content! O, sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring? O, sweet content! Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O, punishment! Then he that patiently want's burden bears, No burden bears, but is a king, a king! O, sweet content! O, sweet, O, sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!
THOMAS DEKKER
267 OH, SWEET CONTENT
Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweat To tears of joy, and shines the roughest face; How often have I sought you high and low, And found you still in some lone quiet place;
Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams, With no life heard beyond that merry sound Of moths that on my lighted ceiling kiss Their shadows as they dance and dance around;
Or in a garden, on a summer's night, When I have seen the dark and solemn air Blink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright face Twitch with the stars that shine in thousands there.
WILLIAM H. DAVIES
268 RARELY, RARELY, COMEST THOU
Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Spirit of Delight! Wherefore hast thou left me now Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day 'Tis since thou art fled away.
How shall ever one like me Win thee back again? With the joyous and the free Thou wilt scoff at pain. Spirit false! thou hast forgot All but those who need thee not.
As a lizard with the shade Of a trembling leaf, Thou with sorrow art dismayed; Even the sighs of grief Reproach thee, that thou art not near, And reproach thou wilt not hear.
Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure, Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure. Pity then will cut away, Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.
I love all that thòu lovest, Spirit of Delight! The fresh Earth in new leaves drest, And the starry night, Autumn evening, and the morn When the golden mists are born.
I love snow, and all the forms Of the radiant frost; I love waves, and winds, and storms, Everything almost Which is Nature's, and may be Untainted by man's misery.
I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good; Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less.
I love Love--though he has wings, And like light can flee, But above all other things, Spirit, I love thee-- Thou art love and life! O come, Make once more my heart thy home!
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
269 BIRTHRIGHT
Lord Rameses of Egypt sighed Because a summer evening passed; And little Ariadne cried That summer fancy fell at last To dust; and young Verona died When beauty's hour was overcast.
Theirs was the bitterness we know Because the clouds of hawthorn keep So short a state, and kisses go To tombs unfathomably deep, While Rameses and Romeo And little Ariadne sleep.
JOHN DRINKWATER
270 O SORROW!
... "O Sorrow, Why dost borrow The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?-- To give maiden blushes To the white rose bushes? Or is't thy dewy hand the daisy tips?
"O Sorrow, Why dost borrow The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?-- To give the glow-worm light? Or, on a moonless night, To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?
"O Sorrow, Why dost borrow The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?-- To give at evening pale Unto the nightingale, That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?
"O sorrow, Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?-- A lover would not tread A cowslip on the head, Though he should dance from eve till peep of day-- Nor any drooping flower Held sacred for thy bower, Wherever he may sport himself and play.
"To Sorrow, I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly; She is so constant, to me, and so kind: I could deceive her And so leave her, But oh! she is so constant and so kind....
"Come then, Sorrow! Sweetest Sorrow! Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast: I thought to leave thee And deceive thee, But now of all the world I love thee best.
"There is not one, No, no, not one But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid; Thou art her mother, And her brother, Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade."...
JOHN KEATS
271 WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED
When the lamp is shattered, The light in the dust lies dead-- When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute:-- No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell.
When hearts have once mingled Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possest. O Love, who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
Its passions will rock thee As the storm rocks the ravens on high: Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee to naked laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
272 ONCE
He sees them pass As the light is graying, Each lad and lass In their beauty gaying And a voice in his aching heart is saying:
"Once--once even I Was straight as these, As clear of eye, And as apt to please When I tuned my voice to balladries.
Now my eyes are dim, Their old fires forsaking, And each wasted limb As a branch is shaking, And my grief-bowed heart will soon be breaking.
--Ah, if One comes not Beckoning nigh To that land where hums not One small fly, These Strong and Fair shall be as I."
ERIC N. BATTERHAM
273 UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH
Before my face the picture hangs That dailie should put me in minde Of those cold qualms and bitter pangs That shortly I am like to finde: But yet, alas! full little I Do think hereon, that I must die.
I often look upon a face Most uglie, grislie, bare, and thin; I often view the hollow place Where eyes and nose have sometime been; I see the bones across that lie; Yet little think, that I must die.
I read the label underneathe, That telleth me whereto I must: I see the sentence eke that saithe "Remember, man, that thou art duste;" But yet, alas, but seldom I Do think indeed, that I must die!
Continually at my bed's head An hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I, ere morning, may be dead, Though now I feel myself full well: But yet, alas, for all this, I Have little minde that I must die!
The gowne which I do use to weare, The knife, wherewith I cut my meate, And eke that old and ancient chair Which is my only usual seate, All these do tell me I must die; And yet my life amende not I!
My ancestors are turned to clay, And many of my mates are gone; My youngers daily drop away;-- And can I think to 'scape alone? No, no, I know that I must die; And yet my life amende not I!
Not Solomon, for all his wit, Nor Samson, though he were so strong, No king, nor ever person yet, Could 'scape, but Death laid him along! Wherefore I know that I must die; And yet my life amende not I!
Though all the east did quake to hear Of Alexander's dreadful name, And all the west did likewise fear The sound of Julius Caesar's fame, Yet both by death in duste now lie; Who then can 'scape, but he must die?
If none can 'scape Death's dreadful darte, If rich and poor his beck obey, If strong, if wise, if all do smarte, Then I to 'scape shall have no way. O grant me grace, O God, that I My life may mende, sith I must die!
ROBERT SOUTHWELL
274 ADIEU! FAREWELL EARTH'S BLISS!
Adieu! farewell earth's bliss! This world uncertain is: Fond are life's lustful joys, Death proves them all but toys. None from his darts can fly: I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!
Rich men, trust not in wealth, Gold cannot buy you health; Physic himself must fade; All things to end are made; The plague full swift goes by: I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!
Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour: Brightness falls from the air; Queens have died young and fair Dust hath closed Helen's eye: I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!
Strength stoops unto the grave Worms feed on Hector brave; Swords may not fight with fate; Earth still holds ope her gate; Come! come! the bells do cry: I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!
Wit with his wantonness, Tasteth death's bitterness. Hell's executioner Hath no ears for to hear What vain art can reply. I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!
Haste, therefore, each degree To welcome destiny! Heaven is our heritage; Earth but a player's stage. Mount we unto the sky! I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!
THOMAS NASH
275 MESSAGES
What shall I your true-love tell, Earth-forsaking maid? What shall I your true-love tell, When life's spectre's laid?
"Tell him that, our side the grave, Maid may not conceive Life should be so sad to have, That's so sad to leave!"
What shall I your true-love tell, When I come to him? What shall I your true-love tell-- Eyes growing dim!
"Tell him this, when you shall part From a maiden pined; That I see him with my heart, Now my eyes are blind."
What shall I your true-love tell? Speaking-while is scant. What shall I your true-love tell, Death's white postulant?
"Tell him--love, with speech at strife, For last utterance saith: I, who loved with all my life, Love with all my death."
FRANCIS THOMPSON
276 DOUBTS
When she sleeps, her soul, I know, Goes a wanderer on the air, Wings where I may never go, Leaves her lying, still and fair, Waiting, empty, laid aside, Like a dress upon a chair.... This I know, and yet I know Doubts that will not be denied.
For if the soul be not in place, What has laid trouble in her face? And, sits there nothing ware and wise Behind the curtains of her eyes, What is it, in the self's eclipse, Shadows, soft and passingly, About the corners of her lips, The smile that is essential she?
And if the spirit be not there, Why is fragrance in the hair?
RUPERT BROOKE
277 HARK
Hark! now everything is still, The screech-owl and the whistler shrill Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud.
Much you had of land and rent; Your length in clay's now competent. A long war disturbed your mind; Here your perfect peace is signed. Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?-- Sin their conception, their birth weeping, Their life a general mist of error, Their death a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, Don clean linen, bathe your feet, And (the foul fiend more to check) A crucifix let bless your neck: 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day; End your groan, and come away.
JOHN WEBSTER
278 A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE
This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle, Fire and sleet and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thy saule.
When thou from hence away art past, Every nighte and alle, To Whinny-muir thou comest at last; And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, Every nighte and alle, Sit thee down and put them on; And Christe receive thy saule.
If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane, Every nighte and alle, The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thy saule.
From Whinny-muir that thou may'st pass, Every nighte and alle, To Brig o' Dread thou comest at last, And Christe receive thy saule.
From Brig o' Dread that thou may'st pass, Every nighte and alle, To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last, And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest meat or drink, Every nighte and alle, The fire sall never make thee shrink; And Christe receive thy saule.
If meat and drink thou ne'er gav'st nane Every nighte and alle, The fire will burn thee to the bare bane, And Christe receive thy saule.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle, Fire and sleet and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thy saule.
279 HE IS THE LONELY GREATNESS
He is the lonely greatness of the world-- (His eyes are dim), His power it is holds up the Cross That holds up Him.
He takes the sorrow of the threefold hour-- (His eyelids close), Round Him and round, the wind--His Spirit--where It listeth blows.
And so the wounded greatness of the World In silence lies-- And death is shattered by the light from out Those darkened eyes.
MADELEINE CARON ROCK
280 "O SING UNTO MY ROUNDELAY"
O sing unto my roundelay, O drop the briny tear with me, Dance no more at holyday Like a running river be! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne[117] as the winter night, White his rode[118] as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree....
See, the white moon shines on high; Winter is my true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree....
With my hands I'll dent[119] the briars Round his holy corse to gre;[120] Ouph[121] and fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree....
THOMAS CHATTERTON
281 FEAR NO MORE
Feare no more the heate o' th' Sun, Nor the fureous Winters rages, Thou thy worldly task hast don, Home art gon, and tane thy wages. Golden Lads and Girles all must, As Chimney-Sweepers, come to dust.
Feare no more the frowne o' th' Great, Thou art past the Tirants stroake, Care no more to cloath, and eate, To thee the Reede is as the Oake: The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must, All follow this, and come to dust.
Feare no more the Lightning flash, Nor the all-dreaded Thunder-stone, Feare not Slander, Censure rash, Thou hast finished joy and mone. All Lovers young, all Lovers must, Consigne to thee, and come to dust....
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
282 A LAND DIRGE
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
JOHN WEBSTER
283 THE GRAVE OF LOVE
I dug, beneath the cypress shade, What well might seem an elfin's grave; And every pledge in earth I laid, That erst thy false affection gave.
I pressed them down the sod beneath; I placed one mossy stone above; And twined the rose's fading wreath Around the sepulchre of love.
Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead Ere yet the evening sun was set: But years shall see the cypress spread, Immutable as my regret.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK
284 THE BURIAL
All the flowers of the spring Meet to perfume our burying; These have but their growing prime, And man does flourish but his time. Survey our progress from our birth-- We are set, we grow, we turn to earth, Courts adieu, and all delights, All bewitching appetites! Sweetest breath and clearest eye, Like perfumes go out and die; And consequently this is done As shadows wait upon the sun. Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind.
JOHN WEBSTER
285 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.
FRANCIS BEAUMONT
286 A FUNERALL SONG
(Lamenting Syr Phillip Sidney)
Come to me, grief, for ever; Come to me, tears, day and night; Come to me, plaint, ah, helpless; Just grief, heart tears, plaint worthy.
Go from me dread to die now; Go from me care to live more; Go from me joys all on earth; Sidney, O Sidney is dead.
He whom the court adornèd, He whom the country courtesied, He who made happy his friends, He that did good to all men.
Sidney, the hope of land strange, Sidney, the flower of England, Sidney, the spirit heroic, Sidney is dead, O dead.
Dead? no, no, but renownèd, With the Anointed onèd;[122] Honour on earth at his feet, Bliss everlasting his seat.
Come to me, grief, for ever; Come to me, tears, day and night; Come to me, plaint, ah, helpless; Just grief, heart tears, plaint worthy.
287 ON JOHN DONNE'S BOOK OF POEMS
I see in his last preached and printed Booke, His Picture in a sheet. In Pauls I looke, And see his Statue in a sheete of stone, And sure his body in the grave hath one. Those sheetes present him dead; these, if you buy, You have him living to Eternity.
JOHN MARRIOT
288 O, LIFT ONE THOUGHT
Stop, Christian passer-by!--Stop, child of God, And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod A poet lies, or that which once seemed he. O, lift one thought in prayer for S.T.C.; That he who many a year with toil of breath Found death in life, may here find life in death. Mercy for praise--to be forgiven for fame He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same!
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
289 ELEGY
To the Memory of an unfortunate Lady.
... Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age, Dull, sullen prisoners in the body's cage; Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years, Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; Like eastern kings, a lazy state they keep, And close confined to their own palace, sleep.... Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressed, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy relics made. So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth and fame. How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee: 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he whose soul now melts in mournful lays Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart: Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!
ALEXANDER POPE
290 UPON A CHILD THAT DIED
Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood: Who, as soone, fell fast asleep, As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings; but not stir The earth, that lightly covers her.
ROBERT HERRICK
291 THE TURNSTILE
Ah! sad wer we as we did peäce The wold church road, wi' downcast feäce, The while the bells, that mwoaned so deep Above our child a-left asleep, Wer now a-zingėn all alive Wi' tother bells to meäke the vive. But up at woone pleäce we come by, 'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry; On Steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong, Up where, as vo'k do pass along, The turnėn stile, a-païnted white, Do sheen by day an' show by night.
Vor always there, as we did goo To church, thik stile did let us drough, Wi' spreadėn eärms that wheeled to guide Us each in turn to tother zide. An' vu'st ov all the traïn he took My wife, wi' winsome gaït an' look; An' then zent on my little maïd, A-skippen onward, over-jaÿ'd To reach ageän the pleäce o' pride, Her comely mother's left han' zide. An' then, a-wheelėn roun', he took On me, 'ithin his third white nook. An' in the fourth, a-sheäken wild, He zent us on our giddy child.
But eesterday he guided slow My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe, An' then my little maïd in black, A-walkėn softly on her track; An' after he'd a-turned ageän, To let me goo along the leäne, He had noo little bwoy to vill His last white eärms, an' they stood still.
WILLIAM BARNES
292 THE EXEQUY
... Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted! My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in that tomb. Stay for me there: I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale. And think not much of my delay: I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed. Each minute is a short degree And every hour a step towards thee....
HENRY KING
293 "I FOUND HER OUT THERE"
I found her out there On a slope few see, That falls westwardly To the salt-edged air, Where the ocean breaks On the purple strand, And the hurricane shakes The solid land.
I brought her here, And have laid her to rest In a noiseless nest No sea beats near. She will never be stirred In her loamy cell By the waves long heard And loved so well.
So she does not sleep By those haunted heights The Atlantic smites And the blind gales sweep, Whence she often would gaze At Dundagel's famed head, While the dipping blaze Dyed her face fire-red;
And would sigh at the tale Of sunk Lyonnesse, As a wind-tugged tress Flapped her cheek like a flail; Or listen at whiles With a thought-bound brow To the murmuring miles She is far from now.
Yet her shade, maybe, Will creep underground Till it catch the sound Of that western sea As it swells and sobs Where she once domiciled, And joys in its throbs With the heart of a child.
THOMAS HARDY
294 I NEVER SHALL LOVE THE SNOW AGAIN
I never shall love the snow again Since Maurice died: With corniced drift it blocked the lane And sheeted in a desolate plain The country side.
The trees with silvery rime bedight Their branches bare. By day no sun appeared; by night The hidden moon shed thievish light In the misty air.
We fed the birds that flew around In flocks to be fed: No shelter in holly or brake they found. The speckled thrush on the frozen ground Lay frozen and dead.
We skated on stream and pond; we cut The crinching snow To Doric temple or Arctic hut; We laughed and sang at nightfall, shut By the fireside glow.
Yet grudged we our keen delights before Maurice should come. We said, In-door or out-of-door We shall love life for a month or more, When he is home.
They brought him home; 'twas two days late For Christmas day: Wrapped in white, in solemn state, A flower in his hand, all still and straight Our Maurice lay.
And two days ere the year outgave We laid him low. The best of us truly were not brave, When we laid Maurice down in his grave Under the snow.
ROBERT BRIDGES
295 THE COMFORTERS
When I crept over the hill, broken with tears, When I crouched down on the grass, dumb in despair, I heard the soft croon of the wind bend to my ears, I felt the light kiss of the wind touching my hair.
When I stood lone on the height my sorrow did speak, As I went down the hill, I cried and I cried, The soft little hands of the rain stroking my cheek, The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.
When I went to thy grave, broken with tears, When I crouched down in the grass, dumb in despair, I heard the sweet croon of the wind soft in my ears, I felt the kind lips of the wind touching my hair.
When I stood lone by thy cross, sorrow did speak, When I went down the long hill, I cried and I cried, The soft little hands of the rain stroked my pale cheek, The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.
DORA SIGERSON SHORTER
296 THE CHILDLESS FATHER
"Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away! Not a soul in the village this morning will stay; The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."
--Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen; With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow, The girls on the hills made a holiday show.
Fresh sprigs of green boxwood, not six months before, Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door; A coffin through Timothy's threshold had passed; One child did it bear, and that child was his last.
Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, The horse and the horn, and the "hark! hark away!" Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut, With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.
Perhaps to himself at that moment he said, "The key I must take, for my Helen is dead." But of this in my ears not a word did he speak, And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
297 "LYDIA IS GONE THIS MANY A YEAR"
Lydia is gone this many a year, Yet when the lilacs stir, In the old gardens far or near, This house is full of her.
They climb the twisted chamber stair; Her picture haunts the room; On the carved shelf beneath it there, They heap the purple bloom.
A ghost so long has Lydia been, Her cloak upon the wall, Broidered, and gilt, and faded green, Seems not her cloak at all.
The book, the box on mantle laid, The shells in a pale row, Are those of some dim little maid, A thousand years ago.
And yet the house is full of her, She goes and comes again; And longings thrill, and memories stir, Like lilacs in the rain.
Out in their yards the neighbours walk, Among the blossoms tall; Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, Of Lydia not at all.
LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE
298 REMEMBRANCE
Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?
Now--when alone--do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed, without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion-- Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?
EMILY BRONTË
299 SONG
When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember And haply may forget.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
300 "WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST"
Where shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast Parted for ever?-- Where, through groves deep and high Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die Under the willow. Eleu loro Soft shall be his pillow.
There through the summer day Cool streams are laving: There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake Never, O never! Eleu loro Never, O never!
SIR WALTER SCOTT
301 REMEMBER
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
302 READEN OV A HEAD-STWONE
As I wer readėn ov a stwone, In Grenley churchyard, all alwone, A little maïd ran up, wi' pride To zee me there; an' pushed azide A bunch o' bennets, that did hide A verse her father, as she zaïd, Put up above her mother's head To tell how much he loved her.
The verse wer short, but very good, I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:-- "Mid[123] God, dear Meäry, gi'e me greäce "To vind, lik' thee, a better pleäce, "Where I, oonce mwore, mid zee thy feäce; "An' bring thy children up, to know "His word, that they mid come an' show "Thy soul how much I loved thee."
"Where's father, then," I zaid, "my chile?" "Dead, too," she answered wi' a smile; "An' I an' brother Jem do bide "At Betty White's, o'tother zide "O' road." "Mid He, my chile," I cried, "That's father to the fatherless, "Become thy father now, an' bless "An' keep, an' leäd, an' love thee."
--Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much, Still He don't let the thoughts o't touch Her litsome heart, by day or night; An' zoo, if we could teäke it right, Do show He'll meäke his burdens light To weaker souls; an' that his smile, Is sweet upon a harmless chile, When they be dead that loved it.
WILLIAM BARNES
303 GOLDEN SLUMBERS
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you; You are care, and care must keep you. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby: Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
THOMAS DEKKER
304 MATER DOLOROSA
I'd a dream to-night As I fell asleep, O! the touching sight Makes me still to weep: Of my little lad, Gone to leave me sad, Ay, the child I had, But was not to keep.
As in heaven high, I my child did seek, There in train came by Children fair and meek, Each in lily white, With a lamp alight; Each was clear to sight, But they did not speak.
Then, a little sad, Came my child in turn, But the lamp he had O it did not burn! He, to clear my doubt, Said, half-turned about, "Your tears put it out; Mother, never mourn."
WILLIAM BARNES
305 WEEP YOU NO MORE
Weep you no more, sad fountains! What need you flow so fast? Look how the snowy mountains Heaven's sun doth gently waste! But my sun's heavenly eyes View not your weeping, That now lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping.
Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets: Doth not the sun rise smiling When fair at even he sets? Rest you then, rest, sad eyes! Melt not in weeping, While she lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping.
306 FAERY SONG
Shed no tear--O shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more--O weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core. Dry your eyes--O dry your eyes! For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies-- Shed no tear.
Overhead--look overhead 'Mong the blossoms white and red-- Look up, look up--I flutter now On this flush pomegranate bough-- See me--'tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill-- Shed no tear--O shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Adieu--Adieu--I fly, adieu, I vanish in the heaven's blue-- Adieu, Adieu!
JOHN KEATS
307 THE WORLD OF LIGHT
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know At first sight if the bird be flown; But what fair Well, or Grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.
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....
HENRY VAUGHAN
308 SILENT IS THE HOUSE
Silent is the house: all are laid asleep: One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths deep, Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.
Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor; Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door; The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far: I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star.
Frown, my haughty sire; chide, my angry dame; Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame! But neither sire, nor dame, nor prying serf shall know, What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.
What I love shall come like visitant of air, Safe in secret power from lurking human snare; What loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray, Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.
Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear-- Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air: He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me; Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.
EMILY BRONTË
309 THE MISTRESS OF VISION
... Secret was the garden; Set i' the pathless awe Where no star its breath can draw. Life, that is its warden, Sits behind the fosse of death. Mine eyes saw not, and I saw.
It was a mazeful wonder; Thrice three times it was enwalled With an emerald-- Sealèd so asunder. All its birds in middle air hung a-dream, their music thralled.
The Lady of fair weeping, At the garden's core, Sang a song of sweet and sore And the after-sleeping; In the land of Luthany, and the tracts of Elenore.
With sweet-pangèd singing, Sang she through a dream-night's day; That the bowers might stay, Birds bate their winging, Nor the wall of emerald float in wreathèd haze away....
Her song said that no springing Paradise but evermore Hangeth on a singing That has chords of weeping, And that sings the after-sleeping To souls which wake too sore. "But woe the singer, woe!" she said; "beyond the dead his singing-lore, All its art of sweet and sore He learns, in Elenore!" Where is the land of Luthany, Where is the tract of Elenore? I am bound therefor.
"Pierce thy heart to find the key; With thee take Only what none else would keep; Learn to dream when thou dost wake, Learn to wake when thou dost sleep. Learn to water joy with tears, Learn from fears to vanquish fears; To hope, for thou dar'st not despair, Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve; Plough thou the rock until it bear; Know, for thou else couldst not believe; Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive; Die, for none other way canst live. When earth and heaven lay down their veil, And that apocalypse turns thee pale; When thy seeing blindeth thee To what thy fellow-mortals see; When their sight to thee is sightless; Their living, death; their light, most lightless; Search no more-- Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."
Where is the land of Luthany, And where the region Elenore? I do faint therefor. "When to the new eyes of thee All things by immortal power, Near or far, Hiddenly To each other linkèd are, That thou canst not stir a flower Without troubling of a star; When thy song is shield and mirror To the fair snake-curlèd Pain, Where thou dar'st affront her terror That on her thou may'st attain Perséan conquest; seek no more, O seek no more! Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."
So sang she, so wept she, Through a dream-night's day; And with her magic singing kept she-- Mystical in music-- The garden of enchanting In visionary May; Songless from my spirits' haunting, Thrice-threefold walled with emerald from our mortal mornings grey....
FRANCIS THOMPSON