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— Aye, 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 wash'd 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 rendered 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! Aye, 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 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.

T. Hood



LII

THE BELEAGUERED CITY

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And with a sorrowful deep sound, The river flow'd between.

No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace; The mist-like banners clasp'd the air, As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell Proclaim'd the morning prayer, The wild pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far, The troubled army fled; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.

H. W. Longfellow



LIII

JAFFAR

Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer. Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust Of what the good, and e'en the bad might say, Ordain'd that no man living from that day Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. All Araby and Persia held their breath.

All but the brave Mondeer.—He, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go, And facing death for very scorn and grief, (For his great heart wanted a great relief,) Stood forth in Bagdad, daily in the square Where once had stood a happy house, and there Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.

'Bring me this man,' the caliph cried: the man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. 'Welcome, brave cords,' cried he; 'From bonds far worse Jaffar deliver'd me; From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears; Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; Restor'd me, loved me, put me on a par With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?'

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate Might smile upon another half as great. He said, 'Let worth grow frenzied if it will; The caliph's judgment shall be master still. Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, The richest in the Tartar's diadem, And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.'

'Gifts!' cried the friend. He took; and holding it High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaim'd, 'This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar.'

Leigh Hunt



LIV

COLIN AND LUCY

Three times, all in the dead of night, A bell was heard to ring; And shrieking at the window thrice, The raven flapp'd his wing. Too well the love-lorn maiden knew The solemn boding sound; And thus, in dying words bespoke, The virgins weeping round:

'I hear a voice you cannot hear, Which says I must not stay; I see a hand you cannot see, Which beckons me away. By a false heart and broken vows, In early youth I die: Was I to blame, because his bride Was thrice as rich as I?

'Ah, Colin, give not her thy vows, Vows due to me alone: Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, Nor think him all thy own. To-morrow in the church to wed, Impatient, both prepare! But know, fond maid, and know, false man, That Lucy will be there!

'Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear, This bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding trim so gay, I, in my winding-sheet.' She spoke, she died, her corse was borne The bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding trim so gay, She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts? How were these nuptials kept? The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead, And all the village wept. Confusion, shame, remorse, despair, At once his bosom swell: The damps of death bedew'd his brow, He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

T. Tickell



LV

THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY

Art thou the bird whom man loves best, The pious bird with the scarlet breast, Our little English robin? The bird that comes about our doors When autumn winds are sobbing? Art thou the Peter of Norway boors? Their Thomas in Finland, And Russia far inland? The bird, that by some name or other All men who know thee call their brother: The darling of children and men? Could father Adam open his eyes, And see this sight beneath the skies, He'd wish to close them again. —If the butterfly knew but his friend, Hither his flight he would bend; And find his way to me, Under the branches of the tree: In and out, he darts about; Can this be the bird to man so good, That after their bewildering, Cover'd with leaves the little children, So painfully in the wood? What ail'd thee, robin, that thou could'st pursue A beautiful creature, That is gentle by nature? Beneath the summer sky, From flower to flower let him fly; 'Tis all that he wishes to do. The cheerer, thou, of our in-door sadness, He is the friend of our summer gladness: What hinders, then, that ye should be Playmates in the sunny weather, And fly about in the air together? His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, A crimson as bright as thine own: Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, Oh, pious bird! whom man loves best, Love him, or leave him alone!

W. Wordsworth



LVI

THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD

Now ponder well, you parents dear, These words which I shall write; A doleful story you shall hear, In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account In Norfolk dwelt of late, Who did in honour far surmount Most men of his estate.

Sore sick he was, and like to die, No help his life could save; His wife by him as sick did lie, And both possess'd one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kind; In love they lived, in love they died, And left two babes behind.

The one, a fine and pretty boy, Not passing three years old; The other, a girl more young than he. And framed in beauty's mould, The father left his little son, As plainly doth appear, When he to perfect age should come Three hundred pounds a year.

And to his little daughter Jane, Five hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on her marriage day, Which might not be controll'd: But if the children chanced to die, Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth; For so the will did run.

'Now, brother,' said the dying man, 'Look to my children dear; Be good unto my boy and girl, No friends else have they here: To God and you I recommend My children dear this day; But little while be sure we have Within this world to stay.

'You must be father and mother both, And uncle all in one; God knows what will become of them, When I am dead and gone.' With that bespake their mother dear, 'O, brother kind,' quoth she, 'You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or misery.

'And if you keep them carefully, Then God will you reward; But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deeds regard.' With lips as cold as any stone, They kiss'd their children small: 'God bless you both, my children dear;' With that their tears did fall.

These speeches then their brother spake To this sick couple there: 'The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not fear. God never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children dear When you are laid in grave.'

The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes, And brings them straight unto his house, Where much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a day, But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both away.

He bargain'd with two ruffians strong Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young And slay them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale: He would the children send To be brought up in fair London, With one that was his friend.

Away then went those pretty babes, Rejoicing at that tide, Rejoicing with a merry mind, They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they rode on the way, To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives' decay.

So that the pretty speech they had, Made murder's heart relent: And they that undertook the deed, Full sore did now repent. Yet one of them, more hard of heart, Did vow to do his charge, Because the wretch that hired him, Had paid him very large.

The other won't agree thereto, So here they fall to strife; With one another they did fight About the children's life: And he that was of mildest mood, Did slay the other there, Within an unfrequented wood: The babes did quake for fear!

He took the children by the hand, Tears standing in their eye, And bade them straightway follow him, And look they did not cry; And two long miles he led them on, While they for food complain: 'Stay here,' quoth he, 'I'll bring you bread, When I come back again.'

These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and down; But never more could see the man Approaching from the town: Their pretty lips with blackberries Were all besmear'd and dyed, And when they saw the darksome night, They sat them down and cried.

Thus wandered these poor innocents Till death did end their grief, In one another's arms they died, As wanting due relief: No burial this pretty pair Of any man receives, Till Robin Redbreast piously Did cover them with leaves.

And now the heavy wrath of God Upon their uncle fell; Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, His conscience felt an hell: His barns were fired, his goods consumed, His lands were barren made, His cattle died within the field, And nothing with him stayed.

And in the voyage to Portugal Two of his sons did die; And to conclude, himself was brought To want and misery. He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land Ere seven years came about, And now at length this wicked act Did by this means come out:

The fellow that did take in hand These children for to kill, Was for a robbery judged to die, Such was God's blessed will. Who did confess the very truth, As here hath been display'd: Their uncle having died in gaol, Where he for debt was laid.

You that executors be made, And overseers eke Of children that be fatherless, And infants mild and meek; Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right, Lest God with such like misery Your wicked minds requite.

Old Ballad



LVII

ROBIN REDBREAST

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! For Summer's nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun; Our thrushes now are silent, Our swallows flown away,— But Robin's here in coat of brown, And scarlet breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian princes, But soon they'll turn to ghosts; The leathery pears and apples Hang russet on the bough; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And what will this poor Robin do? For pinching days are near.

The fire-side for the cricket, The wheatstack for the mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house. The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow,— Alas! in winter dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer.

W. Allingham



LVIII

THE OWL

In the hollow tree in the grey old tower, The spectral owl doth dwell; Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour, But at dusk,—he's abroad and well: Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him; All mock him outright by day; But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, The boldest will shrink away; O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then is the reign of the horned owl!

And the owl hath a bride who is fond and bold, And loveth the wood's deep gloom; And with eyes like the shine of the moonshine cold She awaiteth her ghastly groom! Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, As she waits in her tree so still; But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, She hoots out her welcome shrill! O, when the moon shines, and the dogs do howl, Then, then is the cry of the horned owl!

Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight! The owl hath his share of good: If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, He is lord in the dark green wood! Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate; They are each unto each a pride— Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate Hath rent them from all beside! So when the night falls, and dogs do howl, Sing Ho! for the reign of the horned owl! We know not alway who are kings by day, But the king of the night is the bold brown owl.

B. Cornwall



LIX

HART LEAP WELL

PART I

The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor, With the slow motion of a summer's cloud, And now, as he approach'd a vassal's door, 'Bring forth another horse!' he cried aloud.

'Another horse!' that shout the vassal heard, And saddled his best steed, a comely grey; Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes; The horse and horseman are a happy pair; But though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, And as they galloped made the echoes roar; But horse and man are vanished, one and all; Such race, I think, was never seen before.

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain; Blanche, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The Knight halloed, he cheered and chid them on With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern; But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one, The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race? The bugles that so joyfully were blown? This chase, it looks not like an earthly chase: Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side; I will not stop to tell how far he fled, Nor will I mention by what death he died; But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.

Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn; He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy: He neither cracked his whip nor blew his horn, But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned, And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet:

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched; His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill, And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched; The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest, (Never had living man such joyful lot!) Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, And gazed, and gazed upon that darling spot.

And climbing up the hill, (it was at least Four roods of sheer ascent), Sir Walter found Three several hoof-marks, which the hunted beast Had left imprinted in the grassy ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face and cried, 'Till now Such sight was never seen by human eyes; Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, Down to the very fountain where he lies.

'I'll build a pleasure house upon this spot, And a small arbour made for rural joy; 'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, A place of love for damsels that are coy.

'A cunning artist will I have to frame A basin for that fountain in the dell! And they who do make mention of the same, From this day forth shall call it Hart Leap Well.

'And, gallant stag, to make thy praises known, Another monument shall here be raised; Three several pillars, each a rough hewn stone, And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.

'And in the summer time, when days are long, I will come hither with my paramour, And with the dancers and the minstrels' song, We will make merry in that pleasant bower.

'Till the foundations of the mountains fail, My mansion with its arbour shall endure; The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!'

Then home he went and left the Hart, stone-dead, With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring. Soon did the Knight perform what he had said; And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.

Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered, A cup of stone received the living well; Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, And built a house for pleasure in the dell.

And near the fountain flowers of stature tall, With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,— Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.

And thither, when the summer days were long, Sir Walter led his wandering paramour, And with the dancers and the minstrels' song, Made merriment within that pleasant bower.

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, And his bones lie in his paternal vale. But there is matter for a second rhyme, And I to this would add another tale.

PART II

The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts; 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts.

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, It chanced that I saw standing in a dell Three aspens at three corners of a square; And one, not four yards distant, near a well.

What this imported I could ill divine; And pulling now the rein my horse to stop, I saw three pillars standing in a line,— The last stone-pillar on a dark hill top.

The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head; Half wasted the square mound of tawny green, So that you might just say, as then I said, 'Here in old time the hand of man hath been.'

I looked upon the hill both far and near, More doleful place did never eye survey; It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, And Nature here were willing to decay.

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired, Came up the hollow:—him I did accost, And what this place might be I then inquired.

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed; 'A jolly place,' said he, 'in times of old! But something ails it now; the spot is curst.

'You see those lifeless stumps of aspen wood— Some say that they are beeches, others elms— These were the bower; and here a mansion stood, The finest palace of a hundred realms!

'The arbour does its own condition tell; You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream; But as to the great lodge! you might as well Hunt half the day for a forgotten dream.

'There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, Will wet his lips within that cup of stone; And oftentimes when all are fast asleep, This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

'Some say that here a murder has been done, And blood cries out for blood; but for my part I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun, That it was all for that unhappy Hart.

'What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past! Even from the topmost stone upon the steep, Are but three bounds—and look, Sir, at this last— O master! it has been a cruel leap.

'For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race; And in my simple mind we cannot tell What cause the Hart might have to love this place, And come and make his death-bed near the well.

'Here on the grass, perhaps, asleep he sank, Lulled by the fountain in the summer tide; This water was perhaps the first he drank, When he had wandered from his mother's side.

'In April here beneath the flowering thorn, He heard the birds their morning carols sing; And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

'Now here is neither grass nor pleasant shade; The sun on drearier hollow never shone; So will it be, as I have often said, Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone.'

'Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; Small difference lies between thy creed and mine. This beast not unobserved by Nature fell; His death was mourned by sympathy Divine.

'The Being that is in the clouds and air, That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

'The pleasure house is dust, behind, before, This is no common waste, no common gloom. But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

'She leaves these objects to a slow decay, That what we are, and have been, may be known; But at the coming of a milder day, These monuments shall all be overgrown.

'One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught both by what she shows and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride, With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.'

W. Wordsworth



LX

THE SUMMER SHOWER

Before the stout harvesters falleth the grain, As when the strong storm-wind is reaping the plain, And loiters the boy in the briery lane; But yonder aslant comes the silvery rain, Like a long line of spears brightly burnish'd and tall.

Adown the white highway like cavalry fleet, It dashes the dust with its numberless feet. Like a murmurless school, in their leafy retreat, The wild birds sit listening the drops round them beat; And the boy crouches close to the blackberry wall.

The swallows alone take the storm on their wing, And, taunting the tree-sheltered labourers, sing, Like pebbles the rain breaks the face of the spring, While a bubble darts up from each widening ring; And the boy in dismay hears the loud shower fall.

But soon are the harvesters tossing their sheaves; The robin darts out from his bower of leaves; The wren peereth forth from the moss-covered eaves; And the rain-spatter'd urchin now gladly perceives That the beautiful bow bendeth over them all.

T. B. Read



LXI

THE MOUSE'S PETITION

Oh, hear a pensive prisoner's prayer, For liberty that sighs; And never let thine heart be shut Against the wretch's cries!

For here forlorn and sad I sit, Within the wiry grate; And tremble at the approaching morn, Which brings impending fate.

If e'er thy breast with freedom glowed, And spurned a tyrant's chain, Let not thy strong oppressive force A free-born mouse detain!

Oh, do not stain with guiltless blood Thy hospitable hearth! Nor triumph that thy wiles betrayed A prize so little worth.

The scattered gleanings of a feast My frugal meals supply; But if thy unrelenting heart That slender boon deny,—

The cheerful light, the vital air, Are blessings widely given; Let Nature's commoners enjoy The common gifts of heaven.

Beware, lest in the worm you crush, A brother's soul you find; And tremble lest thy luckless hand Dislodge a kindred mind.

Or if this transient gleam of day Be all the life we share, Let pity plead within thy breast, That little all to spare.

So may thy hospitable board With health and peace be crowned; And every charm of heartfelt ease Beneath thy roof be found.

So when destruction works unseen, Which man, like mice, may share, May some kind angel clear thy path, And break the hidden snare.

A. L. Barbauld



LXII

THE GRASSHOPPER

Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee, All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice: Man for thee does sow and plough; Farmer he and landlord thou! Thou dost innocently joy, Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee, country minds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year: Thee Phoebus loves and does inspire; Phoebus is himself thy sire. To thee of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth. Happy insect! happy thou, Dost neither age nor winter know: But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal) Sated with the summer feast Thou retir'st to endless rest.

A. Cowley



LXIII

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME

My banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets blow.

Not a pine in the grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweet-briar entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.

I have found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me such plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed; For he ne'er could be true, she averred, Who would rob a poor bird of its young; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

W. Shenstone



LXIV

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH

In her ear he whispers gaily, 'If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watched 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 ordered 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 footsteps 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 clasped her like a lover, And he cheered her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Though 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 weighed upon her, And perplexed her night and morn, With the burden of an honour Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter, As she murmured, 'O that he Were once more that landscape painter Which did win my heart from me!' So she drooped and drooped 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 mourned the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh House by Stamford town. And he came to look upon her, And he looked 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.

A. Tennyson



LXV

THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter 'Little prig;' Bun replied, 'You are doubtless very big, But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year, And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry: I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track. Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.'

R. W. Emerson



LXVI

EVENING

Shepherds all, and maidens fair, Fold your flocks up, for the air 'Gins to thicken, and the sun Already his great course has run. See the dew-drops how they kiss Every little flower that is, Hanging on their velvet heads, Like a rope of crystal beads. See the heavy clouds low falling, And bright Hesperus down calling The dead night from underground, At whose rising, mists unsound, Damps and vapours fly apace, Hovering o'er the wanton face Of these pastures, where they come Striking dead both bud and bloom. Therefore from such danger lock Every one of his loved flock; And let your dogs lie loose without, Lest the wolf come, as a scout From the mountain, and ere day Bear a kid or lamb away; Or the crafty, thievish fox Break upon your simple flocks. To secure yourselves from these, Be not too secure in ease. So shall you good shepherds prove, And deserve your master's love. Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers And soft silence fall in numbers On your eyelids: so, farewell; Thus I end my evening knell.

J. Fletcher



LXVII

THE PARROT

A true story

A parrot, from the Spanish main, Full young and early caged came o'er, With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mulla'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 Mulla'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.

T. Campbell



LXVIII

SONG

I had a dove, and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving; Sweet little red feet! why should you die— Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why? You lived alone in the forest tree, Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me? I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas; Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

J. Keats



LXIX

THE BLIND BOY

O say what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy; What are the blessings of the sight, O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy, Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.

C. Cibber



LXX

FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE

When I was still a boy and mother's pride, A bigger boy spoke up to me so kind-like, 'If you do like, I'll treat you with a ride In this wheel-barrow.' So then I was blind-like To what he had a-working in his mind-like, And mounted for a passenger inside; And coming to a puddle, pretty wide, He tipp'd me in a-grinning back behind-like. So when a man may come to me so thick-like, And shake my hand where once he pass'd me by, And tell me he would do me this or that, I can't help thinking of the big boy's trick-like, And then, for all I can but wag my hat, And thank him, I do feel a little shy.

W. Barnes



LXXI

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL

A true story

Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill, That evermore his teeth they chatter, Chatter, chatter, chatter still? Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, Good duffil grey, and flannel fine; He has a blanket on his back, And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

Young Harry was a lusty drover, And who so stout of limb as he? His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; His voice was like the voice of three. Old Goody Blake was old and poor; Ill fed she was and thinly clad; And any man who passed her door Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling: And then her three hours' work at night, Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candle-light. Remote from sheltered village green, On a hill's northern side she dwelt, Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, And hoary dews are slow to melt.

By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old Dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage; But she, poor woman! housed alone. 'Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer day, Then at her door the canty dame Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter, Oh, then how her old bones would shake! You would have said, if you had met her, 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead: Sad case it was, as you may think, For very cold to go to bed, And then for cold not sleep a wink.

O joy for her! whene'er in winter The winds at night had made a rout; And scattered many a lusty splinter, And many a rotten bough about. Yet never had she, well or sick, As every man who knew her says, A pile beforehand, turf or stick, Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could any thing be more alluring Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed, To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected This trespass of old Goody Blake; And vowed that she should be detected— That he on her would vengeance take; And oft from his warm fire he'd go, And to the fields his road would take; And there, at night, in frost and snow, He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once behind a rick of barley, Thus looking out did Harry stand: The moon was full and shining clearly, And crisp with frost the stubble land. —He hears a noise—he's all awake— Again?—on tip-toe down the hill He softly creeps—'tis Goody Blake; She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!

Right glad was he when he beheld her; Stick after stick did Goody pull: He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had fill'd her apron full. When with her load she turned about, The by-way back again to take; He started forward with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her, And by the arm he held her fast, And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, 'I've caught you then at last!' Then Goody who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall, And kneeling on the sticks she prayed To God that is the judge of all.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, While Harry held her by the arm— 'God, who art never out of hearing, O may he never more be warm!' The cold, cold moon above her head, Thus on her knees did Goody pray; Young Harry heard what she had said, And icy cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow That he was cold and very chill: His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, Alas! that day for Harry Gill! That day he wore a riding coat, But not a whit the warmer he: Another was on Thursday bought; And ere the Sabbath he had three.

'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, And blankets were about him pinned, Yet still his jaws and teeth they chatter, Like a loose casement in the wind. And Harry's flesh it fell away; And all who see him say 'tis plain, That live as long as live he may, He never will be warm again.

No word to any man he utters, A-bed or up, to young or old; But ever to himself he mutters, 'Poor Harry Gill is very cold!' A-bed or up, by night or day, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!

W. Wordsworth



LXXII

THE JOVIAL BEGGAR

There was a jovial beggar, He had a wooden leg, Lame from his cradle, And forced for to beg. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go.

A bag for his oatmeal, Another for his salt, And a long pair of crutches, To show that he can halt. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go.

A bag for his wheat, Another for his rye, And a little bottle by his side, To drink when he's a-dry. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go.

Seven years I begg'd For my old master Wilde, He taught me how to beg When I was but a child. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go.

I begg'd for my master, And got him store of pelf, But goodness now be praised, I'm begging for myself. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go.

In a hollow tree I live, and pay no rent, Providence provides for me, And I am well content. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go.

Of all the occupations A beggar's is the best, For whenever he's a-weary, He can lay him down to rest. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go.

I fear no plots against me, I live in open cell: Then who would be a king, lads, When the beggar lives so well? And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go.

Old Song



LXXIII

BISHOP HATTO

The summer and autumn had been so wet That in winter the corn was growing yet; 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door, For he had a plentiful last year's store, And all the neighbourhood could tell His granaries were furnish'd well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay; He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flock'd from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old.

Then when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; And while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn and burnt them all.

'I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!' quoth he, 'And the country is greatly obliged to me, For ridding it in these times forlorn Of rats, that only consume the corn.'

So then to his palace returned he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man, But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning as he enter'd the hall, Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he look'd there came a man from the farm, He had a countenance white with alarm; 'My lord, I open'd your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn.'

Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be, 'Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly,' quoth he, 'Ten thousand rats are coming this way— The Lord forgive you for yesterday!'

'I'll go to my tower on the Rhine,' replied he, ''Tis the safest place in Germany; The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the stream is strong, and the water deep.'

Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away, And he cross'd the Rhine without delay, And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care All the windows, doors, and loopholes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes, But soon a scream made him arise; He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow from whence the screaming came.

He listen'd and look'd; it was only the cat; But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that, For she sat screaming, mad with fear, At the army of rats that was drawing near.

For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climb'd the shores so steep, And up the tower their way is bent To do the work for which they were sent.

They are not to be told by the dozen or score, By thousands they come, and by myriads and more Such numbers had never been heard of before, Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore.

Down on his knees the Bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder drawing near The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.

And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls helter-skelter they pour, And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below, And all at once to the Bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the Bishop's bones; They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him.

R. Southey



LXXIV

THE OLD COURTIER

An old song made by an aged old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier.

With an old lady whose anger one word assuages; They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, And never knew what belong'd to coachman, footman, nor pages, But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier.

With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier.

With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, And an old frieze coat to cover his worship's trunk hose, And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper nose; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier.

With a good old fashion when Christmas was come To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, With a good cheer enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier.

With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawk'd nor hunted but in his own grounds, Who like a wise man kept himself within his own bounds, And when he died gave every child a thousand good pounds; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier.

Old Song



LXXV

JOHN GILPIN

John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London Town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 'Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.

'To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton, All in a chaise and pair.

'My sister and my sister's child, Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we.'

He soon replied, 'I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done.

'I am a linen-draper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend, the Calender, Will lend his horse to go.'

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, 'That's well said; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnish'd with our own, Which is both bright and clear.'

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; O'erjoy'd was he to find That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, Where they did all get in, Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folk so glad; The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin, at his horse's side, Seiz'd fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again;

For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty, screaming, came downstairs, 'The wine is left behind!'

'Good lack!' quoth he, 'yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise.'

Now mistress Gilpin, (careful soul!) Had two stone-bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be Equipp'd from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which gall'd him in his seat.

So, 'Fair and softly,' John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, And eke, with all his might.

His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, Till loop and button failing both, At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, Well done! As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin—who but he? His fame soon spread around, 'He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound!'

And still as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shatter'd at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke As they had basted been.

But still he seem'd to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay;

And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride.

'Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here's the house'— They all aloud did cry; 'The dinner waits, and we are tired;' Said Gilpin, 'So am I!'

But yet his horse was not a whit Inclin'd to tarry there; For why? his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly—which brings me to The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin, out of breath, And sore against his will, Till, at his friend the Calender's, His horse at last stood still.

The Calender, amazed to see His neighbour in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him.

'What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall— Say, why bare-headed you are come, Or why you come at all?'

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus, unto the Calender, In merry guise he spoke:

'I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road.'

The Calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Return'd him not a single word, But to the house went in;

Whence straight he came, with hat and wig, A wig that flowed behind; A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn Thus show'd his ready wit; 'My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit.

But let me scrape the dust away, That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case.'

Said John, 'It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware.'

So, turning to his horse, he said, 'I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine.'

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And gallop'd off with all his might, As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig; He lost them sooner than at first, For why?—they were too big.

Now Mrs. Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pull'd out half-a-crown;

And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, 'This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well.'

The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The rumbling of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They rais'd a hue and cry:— 'Stop thief!—stop thief!—a highwayman!' Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space: The toll-men, thinking as before That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopp'd till where he had got up He did again get down.

Now let us sing, long live the king, And Gilpin, long live he; And, when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see.

W. Cowper



LXXVI

THE MILKMAID

Once on a time a rustic dame, (No matter for the lady's name) Wrapt up in deep imagination, Indulg'd her pleasing contemplation; While on a bench she took her seat, And plac'd the milk-pail at her feet. Oft in her hand she chink'd the pence, The profits which arose from thence; While fond ideas fill'd her brain Of layings up, and monstrous gain, Till every penny which she told Creative fancy turn'd to gold; And reasoning thus from computation, She spoke aloud her meditation.

'Please heaven but to preserve my health, No doubt I shall have store of wealth; It must of consequence ensue I shall have store of lovers too. O, how I'll break their stubborn hearts With all the pride of female arts. What suitors then will kneel before me! Lords, Earls, and Viscounts shall adore me. When in my gilded coach I ride, My Lady, at his Lordship's side, How will I laugh at all I meet Clattering in pattens down the street! And Lobbin then I'll mind no more, Howe'er I lov'd him heretofore; Or, if he talks of plighted truth, I will not hear the simple youth, But rise indignant from my seat, And spurn the lubber from my feet.'

Action, alas! the speaker's grace, Ne'er came in more improper place, For in the tossing forth her shoe What fancied bliss the maid o'erthrew! While down at once, with hideous fall, Came lovers, wealth, and milk, and all.

R. Lloyd



LXXVII

SIR SIDNEY SMITH

Gentlefolks, in my time, I've made many a rhyme, But the song I now trouble you with Lays some claim to applause, and you'll grant it, because The subject's Sir Sidney Smith, it is; The subject's Sir Sidney Smith.

We all know Sir Sidney, a man of such kidney, He'd fight every foe he could meet; Give him one ship or two, and without more ado, He'd engage if he met a whole fleet, he would; He'd engage if he met a whole fleet.

Thus he took, every day, all that came in his way, Till fortune, that changeable elf, Order'd accidents so, that, while taking the foe, Sir Sidney got taken himself, he did; Sir Sidney got taken himself.

His captors, right glad of the prize they now had, Rejected each offer we bid, And swore he should stay, lock'd up till doomsday, But he swore he'd be hang'd if he did, he did; But he swore he'd be hang'd if he did.

So Sir Sid got away, and his gaoler next day Cried, 'Sacre, diable, morbleu! Mon prisonnier 'scape, I 'ave got in von scrape, And I fear I must run away, too, I must; I fear I must run away too.'

T. Dibdin



LXXVIII

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser deep and wide Washes its walls on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity.

Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in their cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body To the Town-hall came flocking: ''Tis clear,' cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy: And as for our Corporation—shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease! Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!' At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sat in council, At length the Mayor broke silence: 'For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain— I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!' Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door, but a gentle tap? 'Bless us,' cried the Mayor, 'what's that? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!

'Come in!' the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow, and half of red; And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in— There was no guessing his kith and kin! And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire: Quoth one, 'It's as if my great-grandsire, Starting up at the trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!'

He advanced to the council table: And, 'Please your honours,' said he, 'I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole, the toad, the newt, the viper; And people call me the Pied Piper. Yet,' said he, 'poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats: And as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?' 'One? fifty thousand!' was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling— Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails, and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives— Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped, advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished, Save one, who stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across, and lived to carry (As he the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary, Which was, 'At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples wondrous ripe Into a cider press's gripe; And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter casks; And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, dinner, supper, luncheon! And just as a bulky sugar puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious, scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, "Come, bore me!" —I found the Weser rolling o'er me.'

You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple; 'Go,' cried the Mayor, 'and get long poles! Poke out the nests, and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!' When suddenly up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a 'First, if you please, my thousand guilders!'

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue, So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havock With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! 'Besides,' quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, 'Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But, as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke— Beside, our losses have made us thrifty: A thousand guilders! come, take fifty!'

The Piper's face fell, and he cried, 'No trifling! I can't wait beside! I've promised to visit by dinner-time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left in the caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no surviver. With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe to another fashion.'

'How?' cried the Mayor, 'd'ye think I'll brook Being worse treated than a cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst.'

Once more he stept into the street, And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air), There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering Out came the children running: All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by— And could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. And now the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from south to west, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. 'He never can cross that mighty top; He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!' When, lo! as they reached the mountain's side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced, and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain side shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,— 'It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me: For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow-deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!'

The Mayor sent east, west, north, and south To offer the Piper by word of mouth, Wherever it was man's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly, If after the day of the month and year These words did not as well appear, 'And so long after what happened here On the twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:' And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street— Where any one playing on pipe or tabor, Was sure for the future to lose his labour. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away; And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people, that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbours lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long ago in a mighty band, Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand.

So Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men,—especially pipers, And whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.

R. Browning



LXXIX

THE TIGER

Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forest of the night! What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the ardour of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire— What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? Did God smile his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?

W. Blake



LXXX

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY

An ancient story I'll tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with main and with might, For he did great wrong and maintain'd little right.

And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; How for his housekeeping and high renown, They rode post for him to fair London town.

An hundred men, the king did hear say, The Abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty gold chains, without any doubt, In velvet coats waited the Abbot about.

'How now, father Abbot; I hear it of thee, Thou keepest a far better house than me; And for thy housekeeping and high renown, I fear thou work'st treason against my crown.'

'My liege,' quoth the Abbot, 'I would it were known, I never spend nothing but what is my own; And I trust your grace will do me no deere For spending of my own true gotten geere.'

'Yes, yes, father Abbot, thy fault it is high, And now for the same thou needest must die; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

'And first,' quoth the king, 'when I'm in this stead, With my crown of gold so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birth, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth.

'Secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soon I may ride the whole world about; And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think.'

'O these are hard questions for my shallow wit, Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weeks space, I'll do my endeavour to answer your Grace.'

'Now three weeks space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me.'

Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold, And he met his shepherd a going to fold: 'How now, my lord Abbot, you are welcome home; What news do you bring us from good King John?'

'Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give, That I have but three days more to live; For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie.

'The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crown of gold so fair on his head, Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth.

'The second, to tell him without any doubt, How soon he may ride this whole world about; And at the third question I must not shrink, But tell him there truly what he does think.'

'Now cheer up, sir Abbot, did you never hear yet That a fool he may learn a wise man wit? Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.

'Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me, I am like your lordship as ever may be; And if you will but lend me your gown There is none shall know us in fair London town.'

'Now horses and serving men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave, With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appear 'fore our father the Pope.'

'Now welcome, sir Abbot,' the King he did say, ''Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day: For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.

'And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crown of gold so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birth, Tell me to one penny what I am worth.'

'For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jews, as I have been told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I think thou art one penny worser than he.'

The King he laugh'd, and swore by St. Bittel, 'I did not think I had been worth so little! Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soon I may ride this whole world about.'

'You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth again; And then your Grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.'

The King he laugh'd, and swore by St. Jone, 'I did not think it could be gone so soon. Now from the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think.'

'Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry; You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.'

The King he laugh'd, and swore by the mass, 'I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!' 'Nay, nay, my liege, be not in such speed, For alack, I can neither write nor read.'

'Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast shewn unto me; And tell the old Abbot, when thou com'st home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.'

Old Ballad



LXXXI

THE FAIRIES

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.

High on the hill-top The old king sits; He is now so old and grey He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the queen Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again, Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lakes, On a bed of flag leaves, Watching till she wakes.

By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring As dig one up in spite, He shall find the thornies set In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

W. Allingham



LXXXII

THE SUFFOLK MIRACLE

A wonder stranger ne'er was known Than what I now shall treat upon. In Suffolk there did lately dwell A farmer rich and known full well.

He had a daughter fair and bright, On whom he placed his chief delight; Her beauty was beyond compare, She was both virtuous and fair.

There was a young man living by, Who was so charmed with her eye, That he could never be at rest; He was by love so much possest.

He made address to her, and she Did grant him love immediately; But when her father came to hear, He parted her and her poor dear.

Forty miles distant was she sent, Unto his brothers, with intent That she should there so long remain, Till she had changed her mind again.

Hereat this young man sadly grieved, But knew not how to be relieved; He sigh'd and sobb'd continually That his true love he could not see.

She by no means could to him send, Who was her heart's espoused friend; He sigh'd, he griev'd, but all in vain, For she confined must still remain.

He mourn'd so much that doctor's art Could give no ease unto his heart, Who was so strangely terrified, That in short time for love he died.

She that from him was sent away Knew nothing of his dying day, But constant still she did remain, And loved the dead, although in vain.

After he had in grave been laid A month or more, unto this maid He came in middle of the night, Who joy'd to see her heart's delight.

Her father's horse which well she knew, Her mother's hood and safeguard too, He brought with him to testify Her parents' order he came by.

Which when her uncle understood, He hoped it would be for her good, And gave consent to her straightway, That with him she should come away.

When she was got her love behind, They passed as swift as any wind, That in two hours, or little more, He brought her to her father's door.

But as they did this great haste make, He did complain his head did ache; Her handkerchief she then took out, And tied the same his head about.

And unto him she thus did say: 'Thou art as cold as any clay, When we come home a fire we'll have;' But little dreamed he went to grave.

Soon were they at her father's door, And after she ne'er saw him more; 'I'll set the horse up,' then he said, And there he left this harmless maid.

She knocked, and straight a man he cried, 'Who's there?' ''Tis I,' she then replied; Who wondered much her voice to hear, And was possest with dread and fear.

Her father he did tell, and then He stared like an affrighted man: Down stairs he ran, and when he see her, Cried out, 'My child, how cam'st thou here?'

'Pray, sir, did you not send for me By such a messenger?' said she: Which made his hair stand on his head, As knowing well that he was dead.

'Where is he?' then to her he said; 'He's in the stable,' quoth the maid. 'Go in,' said he, 'and go to bed; I'll see the horse well littered.'

He stared about, and there could he No shape of any mankind see, But found his horse all on a sweat; Which made him in a deadly fret.

His daughter he said nothing to, Nor none else, (though full well they knew That he was dead a month before,) For fear of grieving her full sore.

Her father to the father went Of the deceased, with full intent To tell him what his daughter said; So both came back unto this maid.

They asked her, and she still did say 'Twas he that then brought her away; Which when they heard, they were amazed, And on each other strangely gazed.

A handkerchief she said she tied About his head, and that they tried; The sexton they did speak unto That he the grave would then undo.

Affrighted then they did behold His body turning into mould, And though he had a month been dead This handkerchief was about his head.

This thing unto her then they told, And the whole truth they did unfold; She was thereat so terrified And grieved, that she quickly died.

Old Ballad



LXXXIII

THE NIGHTINGALE

As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring, Everything did banish moan, Save the Nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast against a thorn, And there sung the dolefullest ditty That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; Tereu, Tereu, by and by: That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs so lively shewn Made me think upon mine own. —Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee; King Pandion, he is dead, All thy friends are lapp'd in lead. All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing. Even so, poor bird, like thee None alive will pity me.

R. Barnefield



LXXXIV

ON A FAVOURITE CAT DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES

'Twas on a lofty vase's side Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared: The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw, and purr'd applause.

Still had she gazed, but midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view Betray'd a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize; What female heart can gold despise? What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between— Malignant fate sat by and smiled— The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in!

Eight times emerging from the flood She mew'd to every watery god Some speedy aid to send: No dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard— A favourite has no friend!

T. Gray



LXXXV

THE FOX AT THE POINT OF DEATH

A fox, in life's extreme decay, Weak, sick and faint, expiring lay; All appetite had left his maw, And age disarm'd his mumbling jaw. His numerous race around him stand To learn their dying sire's command: He rais'd his head with whining moan, And thus was heard the feeble tone: 'Ah, sons, from evil ways depart; My crimes lie heavy on my heart. See, see, the murdered geese appear! Why are those bleeding turkeys there? Why all around this cackling train Who haunt my ears for chickens slain?' The hungry foxes round them star'd, And for the promised feast prepar'd. 'Where, sir, is all this dainty cheer? Nor turkey, goose, nor hen is here. These are the phantoms of your brain; And your sons lick their lips in vain.' 'O, gluttons,' says the drooping sire, 'Restrain inordinate desire, Your liquorish taste you shall deplore, When peace of conscience is no more. Does not the hound betray our pace, And gins and guns destroy our race? Thieves dread the searching eye of power And never feel the quiet hour. Old age (which few of us shall know) Now puts a period to my woe. Would you true happiness attain, Let honesty your passions rein; So live in credit and esteem, And the good name you lost, redeem.' 'The counsel's good,' a son replies, 'Could we perform what you advise. Think what our ancestors have done; A line of thieves from son to son. To us descends the long disgrace, And infamy hath marked our race. Though we like harmless sheep should feed, Honest in thought, in word, in deed, Whatever hen-roost is decreas'd, We shall be thought to share the feast. The change shall never be believ'd, A lost good name is ne'er retriev'd.' 'Nay then,' replies the feeble fox, '(But hark, I hear a hen that clucks,) Go; but be moderate in your food; A chicken, too, might do me good.'

J. Gay



LXXXVI

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM

'You are old, Father William,' the young man cried, 'The few locks which are left you are grey; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man Now tell me the reason, I pray.'

'In the days of my youth,' Father William replied, 'I remember'd that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last.'

'You are old, Father William,' the young man cried, 'And pleasures with youth pass away; And yet you lament not the days that are gone, Now tell me the reason, I pray.'

'In the days of my youth,' Father William replied, I remember'd that youth could not last; I thought of the future whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past.'

'You are old, Father William,' the young man cried, 'And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death, Now tell me the reason, I pray.'

'I am cheerful, young man,' Father William replied, 'Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth I remember'd my God, And He hath not forgotten my age.'

R. Southey



LXXXVII

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

1

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

2

'Forward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man dismay'd? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

3

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred.

4

Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery smoke, Right through the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd; Then they rode back, but not— Not the six hundred.

5

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

6

When can their glory fade? O, the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!

A. Tennyson



LXXXVIII

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-waves, 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.

T. Campbell



LXXXIX

NAPOLEON AND THE SAILOR

A true story

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.

T. Campbell



XC

BOADICEA

An Ode

When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods;

Sage beneath a spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief.

Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish—write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground— Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.

Regions Caesar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.

Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow; Rush'd to battle, fought, and died; Dying hurl'd them at the foe;

Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd, Shame and ruin wait for you.

W. Cowper



XCI

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring faggot 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 battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd 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 kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd 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 return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

T. Campbell



XCII

LOVE AND GLORY

Young Henry was as brave a youth As ever graced a gallant story; And Jane was fair as lovely truth, She sigh'd for Love, and he for Glory!

With her his faith he meant to plight, And told her many a gallant story; Till war, their coming joys to blight, Call'd him away from Love to Glory!

Young Henry met the foe with pride; Jane followed, fought! ah, hapless story! In man's attire, by Henry's side, She died for Love, and he for Glory.

T. Dibdin



XCIII

AFTER BLENHEIM

It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh— ''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 'Who fell in the great victory.'

'I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough The ploughshare turns them out. For many a thousand men,' said he, 'Were slain in that great victory.'

'Now tell us what 'twas all about,' Young Peterkin he cries: And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; 'Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.'

'It was the English,' Kaspar cried, 'Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for I could not well make out. But every body said,' quoth he, 'That 'twas a famous victory.

'My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly: So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.

'With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then And new-born baby died: But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

'They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene;' 'Why 'twas a very wicked thing!' Said little Wilhelmine; 'Nay, nay, my little girl,' quoth he, 'It was a famous victory.

'And every body praised the Duke Who this great fight did win.' 'But what good came of it at last?' Quoth little Peterkin. 'Why that I cannot tell,' said he, 'But 'twas a famous victory.'

R. Southey



XCIV

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER

One morning (raw it was and wet— A foggy day in winter time) A woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Proud was I that my country bred Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begged an alms like one in poor estate; I looked at her again nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke, 'What is it?' said I, 'that you bear Beneath the covert of your cloak, Protected from this cold damp air?' She answered, soon as she the question heard, 'A simple burthen, Sir, a little singing bird.'