CORONACH

HE is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest, The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing, Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever!

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 doublet 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 his bridle-reins a shake, Said Adieu for evermore, My love. And adieu for evermore.'

ALLEN-A-DALE

ALLEN-A-DALE has no fagot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale! And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side. The mere for his net, and the land for his game, The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-dale.

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; Allen-a-dale is no baron or lord, Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil, Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; The mother, she asked of his household and home: 'Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, My hall,' quoth bold Allen, 'shows gallanter still; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, And with all its bright spangles!' said Allen-a-Dale.

The father was steel, and the mother was stone; They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry: He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war array, Gentles and Commons!

Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky; The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlochy. Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one; Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one!

Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, The bride at the altar. Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges; Come with your fighting-gear, Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended: Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded. Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster; Chief, vassal, page, and groom, Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume, Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set; Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset!

SONG FROM 'THE PIRATE'

LOVE wakes and weeps While Beauty sleeps! O for music's softest numbers, To prompt a theme For Beauty's dream, Soft as the pillow of her slumbers!

Through groves of palm Sigh gales of balm, Fire-flies on the air are wheeling; While through the gloom Comes soft perfume, The distant beds of flowers revealing.

O wake and live! No dreams can give A shadowed bliss, the real excelling; No longer sleep, From lattice peep, And list the tale that Love is telling!

ROSABELLE

'O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

The blackening wave is edged with white; To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?

''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

'Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'

—O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply.

Seem'd all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.

Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair— So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high Saint Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.

And each Saint Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

PROUD MAISIE

PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely.

'Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?'— 'When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.'

'Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?'— 'The grey-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. The glowworm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady.'



THOMAS CAMPBELL

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, Cries,'Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry.'

'Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?' 'Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

'And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together; For, should he find us in the glen My blood would stain the heather.

'His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?'

Out spoke the hardy island wight, 'I'll go, my chief—I'm ready It is not for your silver bright; But for your winsome lady:

'And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer.

Oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, 'Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.'

The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,— When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing; Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed through storm and shade, His child he did discover: One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.

Come back! come back!' he cried in grief, Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!—oh! my daughter!'

'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing; The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

OUR bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had lowered And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battlefield's dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us—rest, thou art weary and worn'; And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

EXILE OF ERIN

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

Erin my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But alas! in a fair foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all? Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it doat on a fast fading treasure? Tears like the rain-drop may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields—sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion Erin mavournin!—Erin go bragh!

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

YE mariners of England, That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe; And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow!

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave; For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow!

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain wave, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow!

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return; Then, then, ye ocean warriors, Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC

OF Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone: By each gun the lighted brand In a bold, determined hand; And the prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their Bulwarks on the brine, While the sign of battle flew O'er the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime, As they drifted on their path; There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time.

But the might of England flushed, To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between. Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feebler cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; Their shots along the deep slowly boom: Then ceased, and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave: 'Ye are brothers! we are men! And we conquer but to save: So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King.'

Then Denmark blessed our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day; While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Now joy, Old England raise, For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant good Riou: Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave; While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave.

NAPOLEON AND THE SAILOR

NAPOLEON'S banners at Boulogne Arm'd in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman.

They suffer'd him—I know not how— Unprison'd on the shore to roam; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain half-way over; With envy they could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought To England nearer.

At last, when care had banish'd sleep, He saw one morning—dreaming—doating, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating;

He hid it in a cave, and wrought The livelong day laborious; lurking Until he launch'd a tiny boat By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond Description wretched: such a wherry Perhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond, Or cross'd a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt sea-field, It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, No sail—no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd The foaming billows— But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, His little Argo sorely jeering; Till tidings of him chanced to reach Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood, Serene alike in peace and danger; And in his wonted attitude, Address'd the stranger:—

Rash man that wouldst yon channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd; Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassion'd.'

'I have no sweetheart,' said the lad; But—absent long from one another— Great was the longing that I had To see my mother!'

'And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said, 'Ye've both my favour fairly won; A noble mother must have bred So brave a son.'

He gave the tar a piece of gold, And with a flag of truce commanded He should be shipp'd to England Old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner plain and hearty; But never changed the coin and gift Of Bonaparte.



THE PARROT

A PARROT, from the Spanish main, Full young and early caged came o'er, With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mullah's shore.

To spicy groves where he had won His plumage of resplendent hue, His native fruits, and skies, and sun, He bade adieu.

For these he changed the smoke of turf, A heathery land and misty sky, And turned on rocks and raging surf His golden eye.

But petted in our climate cold, He lived and chattered many a day: Until with age, from green and gold His wings grew grey.

At last when blind, and seeming dumb, He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, A Spanish stranger chanced to come To Mullah's shore;

He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech, The bird in Spanish speech replied; Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech, Dropt down, and died.

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 hill, 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 stained 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 sulph'rous 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.

MEN OF ENGLAND

MEN of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on land and flood:

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Sidney's matchless shade is yours,— Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a thousand Agincourts!

We're the sons of sires that baffled Crown'd and mitred tyranny: They defied the field and scaffold, For their birthright—so will we.



JAMES HOGG

WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME

COME all ye jolly shepherds That whistle through the glen, I'll tell ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken; What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonny lassie When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame, Tween the gloamin' and the mirk, When the kye comes hame.

'Tis not beneath the coronet, Nor canopy of state, 'Tis not on couch of velvet, Nor arbour of the great— 'Tis beneath the spreading birk, In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame.

See yonder pawky shepherd That lingers on the hill— His yowes are in the fauld, And his lambs are lying still; Yet he downa gang to bed, For his heart is in a flame To meet his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame.

When the little wee bit heart Rises high in the breast, And the little wee bit stars Rise bright in the east, O there's a joy sae dear, That the heart can hardly frame, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame.

Then since all nature joins In this love without alloy, O' wha wad prove a traitor To nature's dearest joy? Or wha wad choose a crown, Wi' its pearls and its fame, And miss his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame? When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame, 'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk, When the kye comes hame.

THE SKYLARK

BIRD of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place— O to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth, Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place— O to abide in the desert with thee!



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM

THE YOUNG MAXWELL

'WHERE gang ye, thou silly auld carle? And what do you carry there?' I'm gaun to the hillside, thou sodger gentleman, To shift my sheep their lair.'

Ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle, An' a gude lang stride took he: 'I trow thou to be a feck auld carle, Will ye shaw the way to me?'

And he has gane wi' the silly auld carle, Adown by the greenwood side; 'Light down and gang, thou sodger gentleman, For here ye canny ride.'

He drew the reins o' his bonny gray steed, An' lightly down he sprang: Of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat, Whare the gowden tassels hang.

He has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld carle, An' his bonnet frae 'boon his bree; An' wha was it but the young Maxwell! An' his gude brown sword drew he!

'Thou killed my father, thou vile South'ron! An' ye killed my brethren three! Whilk brake the heart o' my ae sister, I loved as the light o' my e'e!

'Draw out thy sword, thou vile South'ron Red wat wi' blude o' my kin! That sword it crapped the bonniest flower E'er lifted its head to the sun!

'There's ae sad stroke for my dear auld father! There's twa for my brethren three! An' there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister, Wham I loved as the light o' my e'e.'

HAME, HAME, HAME

HAME, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyalty's begun for to fa', The bonny white rose it is withering an' a'; But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will grow in my ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!

O there's naught frae ruin my country 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. Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save, The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave; But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e, 'I'll shine on ye yet in yer ain countrie.' Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie.

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA

A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a landsman cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free— The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free— While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.

MY NANIE O

RED rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae, Mirk is the night and rainie O, Though heaven and earth should mix in storm, I'll gang and see my Nanie O; My Nanie O, my Nanie O; My kind and winsome Nanie O, She holds my heart in love's dear bands, And nane can do't but Nanie O.

In preaching-time sae meek she stands, Sae saintly and sae bonny O, I cannot get ae glimpse of grace, For thieving looks at Nanie O; My Nanie O, my Nanie O; The world's in love with Nanie O; That heart is hardly worth the wear That wadna love my Nanie O.

My breast can scarce contain my heart, When dancing she moves finely O; I guess what heaven is by her eyes, They sparkle sae divinely O; My Nanie O, my Nanie O, The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie O; Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, And says, I dwell with Nanie O.

Tell not, thou star at grey daylight, O'er Tinwald-tap sae bonny O, My footsteps 'mang the morning dew When coming frae my Nanie O; My Nanie O, my Nanie O; Nane ken o' me and Nanie O; The stars and moon may tell't aboon, They winna wrang my Nanie O!



THOMAS MOORE

CANADIAN BOAT-SONG

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There's not a breath the blue wave to curl! But, when the wind blows off the shore, Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Ottawa's tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float o'er thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE

Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee, Oh, still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh, then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, Oh, then remember me.

When at eve thou rovest By the star thou lovest, Oh, then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning. Oh, thus remember me. Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses, Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, Oh, then remember me.

When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, Oh, then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, Oh, still remember me. Then, should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee, Oh, then remember me.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS

THE harp that once through Tara's halls, The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE

RICH and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; But, oh! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand.

'Lady, dost thou not fear to stray, So lone and lovely, through this bleak way? Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, As not to be tempted by woman or gold?'

Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm, No son of Erin will offer me harm: For, though they love women and golden store Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more.

On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the green isle; And blest for ever is she who relied Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! No—it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND

SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking;— Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM

OH, the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life from morn till night Was love, still love. New hope may bloom, And days may come Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream; No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.

Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past; Though he wins the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one loved name.

No—that hallowed form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste. 'Twas odour fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream; 'Twas a light there ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream: Oh!'twas light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream.

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER

'Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, To give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

THE MINSTREL-BOY

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.— 'Land of song!' said the warrior-bard, 'Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!'

The Minstrel fell—but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its cords asunder; And said, 'No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the brave and free, They shall never sound in slavery!'

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING

THE time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing.

Though Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorned the lore she brought me, My only books Were women's looks, And folly's all they'ye taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the Sprite Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted.

Like him, too, Beauty won me; But while her eyes were on me, If once their ray Was turned away, Oh, winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing?

No—vain, alas! th'endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever;— Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS

OFT in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends so link'd together, I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled Whose garlands dead And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.



LORD BYRON

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

WHEN WE TWO PARTED

WHEN we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning Sank chill on my brow— It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.

They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met— In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee?— With silence and tears.

SONG

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING

So, we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY

SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes, and starry skies: And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace, Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent. A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!



B. W. PROCTER

KING DEATH

KING DEATH was a rare old fellow, He sat where no sun could shine, And he lifted his hand so yellow, And poured out his coal-black wine! Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!

There came to him many a maiden Whose eyes had forgot to shine, And widows with grief o'erladen, For a draught of his coal-black wine. Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!

The scholar left all his learning, The poet his fancied woes, And the beauty her bloom returning, Like life to the fading rose. Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!

All came to the rare old fellow, Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, And he gave them his hand so yellow, And pledged them in Death's black wine. Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!

SONG FOR TWILIGHT

HIDE me, O twilight air, Hide me from thought, from care, From all things foul or fair, Until to-morrow! To-night I strive no more; No more my soul shall soar: Come, sleep, and shut the door 'Gainst pain and sorrow!

If I must see through dreams, Be mine Elysian gleams, Be mine by morning streams To watch and wander; So may my spirit cast (Serpent-like) off the past, And my free soul at last Have leave to ponder.

And shouldst thou 'scape control, Ponder on love, sweet soul; On joy, the end and goal Of all endeavour: But if earth's pains will rise, (As damps will seek the skies,) Then, night, seal thou mine eyes, In sleep for ever.



CHARLES WOLFE

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,— But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE

I ARISE from dreams of thee, In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright; I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me—who knows how? To thy chamber-window, Sweet.

The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream,— The champetre odours fail, Like sweet thoughts in a dream, The nightingale's complaint It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail. Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast. Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last.

LAMENT

O WORLD! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more—oh, never more!

Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more—oh, never more!

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY

THE fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle— Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother: And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea;— What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me?

HYMN OF PAN

FROM the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb, Listening to my sweet pipings. The wind in the reeds and the rushes, The bees on the bells of thyme, The birds on the myrtle bushes, The cicale above in the lime, And the lizards below in the grass, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day, Speeded by my sweet pipings. The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns, And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow, Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the daedal earth, And of heaven, and the giant wars, And love, and death, and birth. And then I changed my pipings Singing how down the vale of Maenalus I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed: Gods and men, we are all deluded thus; It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. All wept—as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood— At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.



JOHN KEATS

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

'O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.

'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.

'I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew. And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.'

'I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

'I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

'I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song.

'She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true."

'She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.

'And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side.

'I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried—"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!"

'I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side.

'And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.'



THOMAS HOLCROFT

GAFFER GRAY

HO, why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray? And why does thy nose look so blue? ''Tis the weather that's cold, 'Tis I'm grown very old, And my doublet is not very new, Well-a-day!'

Then line thy worn doublet with ale, Gaffer Gray; And warm thy old heart with a glass. Nay, but credit I've none, And my money's all gone; Then say how may that come to pass? Well-a-day!'

Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray; And knock at the jolly priest's door. 'The priest often preaches Against worldly riches, But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, Well-a-day!'

The lawyer lives under the hill, Gaffer Gray; Warmly fenced both in back and in front. 'He will fasten his locks, And will threaten the stocks Should he ever more find me in want, Well-a-day!'

The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray; And the season will welcome you there. 'His fat beeves and his beer, And his merry new year, Are all for the flush and the fair, Well-a-day!'

My keg is but low, I confess, Gaffer Gray; What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live.' The poor man alone, When he hears the poor moan, Of his morsel a morsel will give, Well-a-day!'



FELICIA HEMANS

THE PILGRIM FATHERS

THE breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast; And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;—

Not as the flying come, In silence, and in fear;— They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang: Till the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang, To the anthem of the free.

The ocean-eagle soar'd From his nest, by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd: Such was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band: Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas? the spoils of war?— No—'twas a faith's pure shrine.

Yes, call it holy ground, Which first their brave feet trod! They have left unstain'd what there they found— Freedom to worship God!

THE VOICE OF SPRING

I COME, I come! ye have called me long, I come o'er the mountains with light and song; Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers; And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. —But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free, And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky, From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain: They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain-brows, They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come! Where the violets lie may now be your home. Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye, And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly, With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, Come forth to the sunshine,—I may not stay.

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, The waters are sparkling in wood and glen; Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth, Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, And Youth is abroad in my green domains.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND

THE stately homes of England, How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England— Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told; Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England, How softly on their bowers, Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chime Floats through their woods at morn, All other sounds in that still time Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free fair homes of England, Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall. And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God.

THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF

'OH, call my brother back to me! I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee— Where is my brother gone?

'The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track; I care not now to chase its flight Oh, call my brother back!

'The flowers run wild— the flowers we sow'd Around our garden tree; Our vine is drooping with its load Oh, call him back to me!'

'He could not hear thy voice, fair child, He may not come to thee; The face that once like spring-time smiled, On earth no more thou'lt see.

'A rose's brief bright life of joy, Such unto him was given; Go—thou must play alone, my boy! Thy brother is in heaven!'

'And has he left his birds and flowers, And must I call in vain? And, through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again?

'And by the brook, and in the glade, Are all our wanderings o'er? Oh, while my brother with me play'd, Would I had loved him more!'

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

THEY grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home with glee, Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow, She had each folded flower in sight, Where are those dreamers now?

One midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream, is laid; The Indian knows his place of rest Far in the cedar's shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep, He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain; He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one, o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; She faded midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band.

And, parted thus, they rest—who played Beneath the same green tree, Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee! They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth, Alas for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, oh earth!

CASABIANCA

THE boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form.

The flames roll'd on—he would not go, Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud—'Say, father, say If yet my task is done?' He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!' once again he cried, If I may yet be gone!' —And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair; And look'd from that lone post of death, In still, yet brave despair:

And shouted but once more aloud, 'My father! must I stay?' While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And stream'd above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound— The boy—oh, where was he? —Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strew'd the sea!



THOMAS HOOD

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM

'TWAS in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran, and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouch'd by sin; To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in; Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran— Turning to mirth all things of earth, As only boyhood can: But the usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man.

His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease: So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees.

Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside; For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide: Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome; With a fast and fervent grasp He strain'd the dusky covers close, And fix'd the brazen hasp: 'O Heav'n, could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp!'

Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took; Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook: And lo, he saw a little boy That pored upon a book.

'My gentle lad, what is't you read— Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page Of kings and crowns unstable?' The young boy gave an upward glance— 'It is the death of Abel.'

The usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain; Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again: And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain;

And long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves; Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves; Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves;

And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod— Ay, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod; And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from God.

He told how murderers walk'd the earth Beneath the curse of Cain With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain: For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain.

'And well,' quoth he, 'I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme— Wo, wo, unutterable wo— Who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought last night I wrought A murder in a dream!

'One that had never done me wrong— A feeble man, and old; I led him to a lonely field, The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold!

'Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone, One hurried gash with a hasty knife, And then the deed was done: There was nothing lying at my feet, But lifeless flesh and bone!

'Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me ill; And yet I fear'd him all the more, For lying there so still: There was a manhood in his look That murder could not kill.

'And lo, the universal air Seem'd lit with ghastly flame— Ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame: I took the dead man by the hand, And call'd upon his name!

'Oh me, it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain! But when I touch'd the lifeless clay, The blood gush'd out amain! For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain!

'My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the devil's price: A dozen times I groan'd; the dead Had never groan'd but twice.

'And now from forth the frowning sky, From the heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice—the awful voice Of the blood-avenging sprite: "Thou guilty man, take up thy dead, And hide it from my sight!"

'I took the dreary body up And cast it in a stream A sluggish water, black as ink, The depth was so extreme. My gentle boy, remember, this Is nothing but a dream!

'Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanish'd in the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And washed my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young That evening in the school.

'O heaven, to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim! I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in evening hymn: Like a devil of the pit I seem'd, 'Mid holy cherubim!

'And peace went with them, one and all, And each calm pillow spread; But Guilt was my grim chamberlain That lighted me to bed, And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody red!

'All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep; My fever'd eyes I dared not close, But star'd aghast at Sleep; For sin had render'd unto her The keys of hell to keep!

'All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint, That rack'd me all the time— A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime.

'One stern tyrannic thought that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave— Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave.

'Heavily I rose up—as soon As light was in the sky— And sought the black accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye; And I saw the dead, in the river bed, For the faithless stream was dry!

'Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing; But I never mark'd its morning flight, I never heard it sing: For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing.

'With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran— There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began: In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murder'd man.

'And all that day I read in school, But my thought was otherwhere; As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there: And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare!

'Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep; For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep; Or land, or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep.

So wills the fierce avenging sprite, Till blood for blood atones; Ay, though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh The world shall see his bones.

Oh me—that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake! Again, again, with a dizzy brain, The human life I take; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake.

'And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mould allow; The horrid thing pursues my soul— It stands before me now The fearful boy looked up and saw Huge drops upon his brow.

That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin's eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn. Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walk'd between, With gyves upon his wrist.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT

WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread—

Stitch—stitch—stitch In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the Song of the Shirt.

'Work—work—work While the cock is crowing aloof; And work—work—work Till the stars shine through the roof It 's O! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save If this is Christian work!

'Work—work—work Till the brain begins to swim; Work—work—work Till the eyes are heavy and dim I Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

'O men with Sisters dear! O men with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch—stitch—stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

But why do I talk of Death? That phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own— It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh God, that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

'Work—work—work! My labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread—and rags. That shattered roof—and this naked floor,— A table,—a broken chair,— And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there.

'Work—work—work From weary chime to chime, Work—work—work As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

'Work—work—work, In the dull December light, And work—work—work, When the weather is warm and bright While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the Spring.

'Oh, but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet, For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal!

'Oh, but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!'

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread— Stitch—stitch—stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,— Would that its tone could reach the Rich! She sang this 'Song of the Shirt!'

THE STARS ARE WITH THE VOYAGER

THE stars are with the voyager, Wherever he may sail; The moon is constant to her time, The sun will never fail, But follow, follow, round the world, The green earth and the sea; So love is with the lover's heart, Wherever he may be.

Wherever he may be, the stars Must daily lose their light, The moon will veil her in the shade, The sun will set at night; The sun may set, but constant love Will shine when he's away, So that dull night is never night, And day is brighter day.

RUTH

SHE stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened—such a blush In the midst of brown was born— Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled a light That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim:— hus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks:—

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come Share my harvest and my home.



LORD MACAULAY

IVRY

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The king is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, 'God save our lord the King.' 'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray— Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre.'

Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies—upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding-star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, 'Remember St. Bartholomew,' was passed from man to man; But out spake gentle Henry: No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.' Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war, Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls! Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre.

THE ARMADA

ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise: I sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible, against her bore, in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, There came a gallant merchant ship full sail to Plymouth bay; The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall; Many a light fishing bark put out, to pry along the coast; And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.

With his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums: The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and ample space, For there behoves him to set up the standard of her grace: And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield; So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids! Ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! ho, gallants! draw your blades! Thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide! Our glorious semper eadem the banner of our pride!

The fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold: Night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea; Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford bay, That time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day; For swift to east, and swift to west, the warning radiance spread— High on St. Michael's Mount it shone—it shone on Beachy Head.

Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves, The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's sunless caves; O'er Longleat's towers, or Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge—the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells rang out all night from Bristol town; And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down.

The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw, o erhanging Richmond Hill, that streak of blood-red light: The bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke; At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear, And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer: And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each rousing street: And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; And eastward straight, for wild Blackheath, the warlike errand went; And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent: Southward, for Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright coursers forth; High on black Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; All night from tower to tower they sprang, all night from hill to hill; Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Derwent's rocky dales; Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales; Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height; Till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the Wrekin's crest of light; Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane, And town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly towers the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.



LORD TENNYSON

LADY CLARE

IT was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trove they did not part in scorn: Lovers long-betroth'd were they: They two will wed the morrow morn; God's blessing on the day!

'He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well,' said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, Who was this that went from thee?' 'It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare, To-morrow he weds with me.'

O God be thank'd!' said Alice the nurse, That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare.'

'Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?' Said Lady Clare, that ye speak so wild?' As God's above,' said Alice the nurse, I speak the truth: you are my child.

'The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth, as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead.'

Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother,' she said, 'if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due.'

Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife'

'If I'm a beggar born,' she said, I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.'

'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, 'But keep the secret all ye can.' She said, 'Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man.'

'Nay now, what faith?' said Alice the nurse, 'The man will cleave unto his right.' 'And he shall have it,' the lady replied, Tho' I should die to-night.'

'Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee.' 'O mother, mother, mother,' she said, So strange it seems to me.

'Yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go.'

She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, ropt her head in the maiden's hand, And follow'd her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: 'O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?'

'If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born,' she said, And not the Lady Clare.'

'Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, Your riddle is hard to read.'

O and proudly stood she up! Her heart within her did not fail: She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: He turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood 'If you are not the heiress born, And I,' said he, the next in blood—

'If you are not the heiress born, And I,' said he, the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare.'

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH

IN her ear he whispers gaily, 'If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well.' She replies, in accents fainter, 'There is none I love like thee.' He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof: Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's roof. 'I can make no marriage present: Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life.' They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand: Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, 'Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell.' So she goes by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer: Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. O but she will love him truly! He shall have a cheerful home; She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before: Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall. And, while now she wonders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, 'All of this is mine and thine.' Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the colour flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove: But he clasp'd her like a lover, And he cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirits sank: Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank: And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her, And perplex'd her, night and morn, With the burthen of an honour Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter, As she murmur'd, 'Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter, Which did win my heart from me!' So she droop'd and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from his side: Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her, And he look'd at her and said, 'Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed.' Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest.

EDWARD GRAY

SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, 'And have you lost your heart?' she said; And are you married yet, Edward Gray?'

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me: Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: 'Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.

'Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father's and mother's will: To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill.

'Shy she was, and I thought her cold; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; Fill'd I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for me.

'Cruel, cruel the words I said! Cruelly came they back to-day: "You're too slight and fickle," I said, "To trouble the heart of Edward Gray."

'There I put my face in the grass Whisper'd, "Listen to my despair: I repent me of all I did: Speak a little, Ellen Adair!"

'Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, "Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; And here the heart of Edward Gray!"

'Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree: But I will love no more, no more, Till Ellen Adair come back to me.

'Bitterly wept I over the stone: Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: There lies the body of Ellen Adair! And there the heart of Edward Gray!'

THE OWL

I

WHEN cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round: Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

II

When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay: Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

ORIANA

MY heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana. When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana.

Ere the light on dark was growing, Oriana, At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriana: Winds were blowing, waters flowing, We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana; Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriana.

In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, Ere I rode into the fight, Oriana, While blissful tears blinded my sight By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriana, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana.

She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana: She watch'd my crest among them all, Oriana: She saw me fight, she heard me call, When forth there stept a foeman tall, Oriana, Atween me and the castle wall, Oriana.

The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana: The false, false arrow went aside, Oriana: The damned arrow glanced aside, And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana!

Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana! Oh, narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana. Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, Oriana. Oh, deathful stabs were dealt apace, The battle deepen'd in its place, Oriana; But I was down upon my face, Oriana.

They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana! How could I rise and come away, Oriana? How could I look upon the day? They should have stabb'd me where I lay Oriana— They should have trod me into clay, Oriana.

O breaking heart that will not break, Oriana! O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana! Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana: What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, Oriana?

I cry aloud: none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skies, Oriana. I feel the tears of blood arise Up from my heart unto my eyes, Oriana. Within my heart my arrow lies, Oriana.

O cursed hand! O cursed blow! Oriana! O happy thou that liest low, Oriana! All night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana.

When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, I walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana.

THE LADY OF SHALOTT

PART I

ON either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle embowers The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott.'

PART II

There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care has she, The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights, And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; 'I am half sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.

PART III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trod; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'Tirra lirra,' by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; 'The curse is come upon me,' cried The Lady of Shalott.

PART IV

In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott.