'O what a mountain is yon,' she said, 'All so dreary with frost and snow?' 'O yon is the mountain of hell,' he cried, 'Where you and I will go.'

And aye when she turn'd her round about Aye taller he seem'd for to be; Until that the tops of that gallant ship No taller were than he.

The clouds grew dark and the wind grew loud, And the levin filled her ee; And waesome wail'd the snow-white sprites Upon the gurlie sea.

He struck the topmast with his hand, The foremast with his knee; And he brake that gallant ship in twain, And sank her in the sea.

Old Ballad



CXXXVIII

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOW-WORM

A Nightingale that all day long Had cheer'd the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite; When looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the Glowworm by his spark; So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop. The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent: 'Did you admire my lamp,' quoth he, 'As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song: For 'twas the self-same Power Divine Taught you to sing, and me to shine; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night.' The songster heard this short oration, And warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else.

W. Cowper



CXXXIX

THE LADY TURNED SERVING-MAN

You beauteous ladies great and small, I write unto you, one and all, Whereby that you may understand What I have suffer'd in this land.

I was by birth a lady fair, My father's chief and only heir, But when my good old father died, Then I was made a young knight's bride.

And then my love built me a bower, Bedeck'd with many a fragrant flower; A braver bower you ne'er did see Than my true love did build for me.

But there came thieves late in the night, They robb'd my bower, and slew my knight, And after that my knight was slain I could no longer there remain.

My servants all from me did fly In the midst of my extremity, And left me by myself alone With a heart more cold than any stone.

Yet, though my heart was full of care, Heaven would not suffer me to despair; Wherefore in haste I changed my name From fair Elise to Sweet William.

And therewithal I cut my hair, And dress'd myself in man's attire; And in my beaver, hose, and band, I travell'd far through many a land.

With a silver rapier by my side, So like a gallant I did ride; The thing that I delighted on, It was to be a serving-man.

Thus in my sumptuous man's array I bravely rode along the way; And at the last it chanced so That I to the king's court did go.

Then to the king I bow'd full low, My love and duty for to show; And so much favour I did crave, That I a serving-man's place might have.

'Stand up, brave youth,' the king replied, 'Thy service shall not be denied; But tell me first what thou canst do; Thou shalt be fitted thereunto.

'Wilt thou be usher of my hall, To wait upon my nobles all? Or wilt thou be taster of my wine, To wait on me when I do dine?

'Or wilt thou be my chamberlain, To make my bed both soft and fine? Or wilt thou be one of my guard? And I will give thee thy reward.'

Sweet William, with a smiling face, Said to the king, 'If't please your Grace To show such favour unto me, Your chamberlain I fain would be.'

The king then did the nobles call, To ask the counsel of them all; Who gave consent Sweet William he The king's own chamberlain should be.

Now mark what strange thing came to pass: As the king one day a-hunting was, With all his lords and noble train, Sweet William did at home remain.

Sweet William had no company then With him at home, but an old man: And when he saw the house was clear He took a lute which he had there:

Upon the lute Sweet William play'd, And to the same he sang and said, With a sweet and noble voice, Which made the old man to rejoice:

'My father was as brave a lord As ever Europe did afford, My mother was a lady bright, My husband was a valiant knight:

'And I myself a lady gay, Bedeck'd with gorgeous rich array; The bravest lady in the land Had not more pleasure at command.

'I had my music every day, Harmonious lessons for to play; I had my virgins fair and free Continually to wait on me.

'But now, alas! my husband's dead, And all my friends are from me fled; My former joys are pass'd and gone, For I am now a serving-man.'

At last the king from hunting came, And presently, upon the same, He called for this good old man, And thus to speak the king began:

'What news, what news, old man?' quoth he; 'What news hast thou to tell to me?' 'Brave news,' the old man he did say. 'Sweet William is a lady gay.'

'If this be true thou tell'st to me, I'll make thee lord of high degree; But if thy words do prove a lie, Thou shalt be hang'd up presently.'

But when the king the truth had found, His joys did more and more abound: According as the old man did say, Sweet William was a lady gay.

Therefore the king without delay Put on her glorious rich array, And upon her head a crown of gold Which was most famous to behold.

And then, for fear of further strife, He took Sweet William for his wife; The like before was never seen, A serving-man to be a queen.

Old Ballad



CXL

PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED

It chanced upon a winter's day, But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design To forestall sweet St. Valentine, In many an orchard, copse, and grove, Assembled on affairs of love, And with much twitter and much chatter, Began to agitate the matter. At length a Bullfinch, who could boast More years and wisdom than the most, Entreated, opening wide his beak, A moment's liberty to speak; And, silence publicly enjoin'd; Deliver'd briefly thus his mind: 'My friends! be cautious how ye treat The subject upon which we meet; I fear we shall have winter yet.' A finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing and satin poll, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried What pairing means, thus pert replied: 'Methinks the gentleman,' quoth she, 'Opposite, in the apple-tree, By his good will would keep us single Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, Or (which is likelier to befall) Till death exterminate us all. I couple without more ado; My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?' Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turning short round, strutting, and sidling, Attested glad his approbation Of an immediate conjugation. Their sentiments so well express'd Influenced mightily the rest; All pair'd, and each pair built a nest. But though the birds were thus in haste, The leaves came on not quite so fast, And Destiny, that sometimes bears An aspect stern on man's affairs, Not altogether smiled on theirs. The wind, of late breath'd gently forth, Now shifted east, and east by north; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain and snow, Stepping into their nests, they paddled, Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled. Soon every father bird and mother Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other. Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learn'd in future to be wiser Than to neglect a good adviser.

W. Cowper



CXLI

TO A WATER FOWL

Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air,— Lone wandering but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd, At that far height the cold thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form: yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.

W. C. Bryant



CXLII

ROBIN HOOD AND THE BISHOP OF HEREFORD

Some will talk of bold Robin Hood, And some of barons bold; But I'll tell you how he served the bishop of Hereford, When he robbed him of his gold.

As it befel in merry Barnsdale, All under the greenwood tree, The bishop of Hereford was to come by, With all his company.

'Come kill me a ven'son,' said bold Robin Hood, 'Come kill me a good fat deer; The bishop of Hereford is to dine with me to-day, And he shall pay well for his cheer.

'We'll kill a fat ven'son,' said bold Robin Hood, 'And dress it by the highway side; And we will watch the bishop narrowly, Lest some other way he should ride.'

Robin Hood dressed himself in shepherd's attire, With six of his men also; And, when the bishop of Hereford came by, They about the fire did go.

'O what is the matter?' then said the bishop, 'Or for whom do you make this ado? Or why do you kill the king's ven'son, When your company is so few?'

'We are shepherds,' said bold Robin Hood, 'And we keep sheep all the year, And we are disposed to be merry this day, And to kill of the king's fat deer.'

'You are brave fellows,' said the bishop, 'And the king your doings shall know: Therefore make haste and come along with me, For before the king you shall go.'

'O pardon, O pardon,' said bold Robin Hood, 'O pardon, I thee pray! For it becomes not your lordship's coat To take so many lives away.'

'No pardon, no pardon,' said the bishop, 'No pardon I thee owe; Therefore make haste and come along with me, For before the king you shall go.'

Then Robin set his back against a tree, And his foot against a thorn, And from underneath his shepherd's coat He pull'd out a bugle horn.

He put the little end to his mouth, And a loud blast did he blow, Till three score and ten of bold Robin's men Came running all on a row.

All making obeisance to bold Robin Hood, 'Twas a comely sight for to see. 'What is the matter, master?' said Little John, 'That you blow so hastily?'

'O here is the bishop of Hereford, And no pardon we shall have:' 'Cut off his head, master,' said Little John, And throw him into his grave.'

'O pardon, O pardon,' said the bishop, 'O pardon, I thee pray! For if I had known it had been you, I'd have gone some other way.'

'No pardon, no pardon,' said bold Robin Hood, 'No pardon I thee owe; Therefore make haste and come along with me, For to merry Barnsdale you shall go.'

Then Robin he took the bishop by the hand, And led him to merry Barnsdale; He made him to stay and sup with him that night, And to drink wine, beer, and ale.

'Call in a reckoning,' said the bishop, 'For methinks it grows wondrous high:' 'Lend me your purse, master,' said Little John, And I'll tell you bye and bye.'

Then Little John took the bishop's cloak, And spread it upon the ground, And out of the bishop's portmantua He told three hundred pound.

'Here's money enough, master,' said Little John, 'And a comely sight 'tis to see; It makes me in charity with the bishop, Though he heartily loveth not me.'

Robin Hood took the bishop by the hand, And he caused the music to play; And he made the bishop to dance in his boots, And glad he could so get away.

Old Ballad



CXLIII

SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S CAMPAIGN

Sir John got him an ambling nag, To Scotland for to ride-a, With a hundred horse more, all his own he swore, To guard him on every side-a.

No errant knight ever went to fight With half so gay a bravado; Had you seen but his look, you'd have sworn on a book He'd have conquered a whole armado.

The ladies ran all to the windows to see So gallant and warlike a sight-a, And as he pass'd by, they began to cry, 'Sir John, why will you go fight-a?'

But he like a cruel knight spurred on, His heart did not relent-a; For, till he came there, he show'd no fear; Till then, why should he repent-a?

The king (Heaven bless him!) had singular hopes Of him and all his troop-a; The Borderers they, as they met him on the way, For joy did holloa and whoop-a.

None liked him so well as his own colonel, Who took him for John de Wert-a; But when there were shows of gunning and blows, My gallant was nothing so pert-a.

For when the Scots' army came within sight, And all men prepared to fight-a, He ran to his tent; they ask'd what he meant; He swore that his stomach ached quite-a.

The colonel sent for him back again, To quarter him in the van-a, But Sir John did swear, he came not there To be kill'd the very first man-a.

To cure his fear he was sent to the rear, Some ten miles back and more-a; Where he did play at trip and away, And ne'er saw the enemy more-a.

But now there is peace, he's return'd to increase His money which lately he spent-a; But his lost honour must still lie in the dust; At Berwick away it went-a.

Old Ballad



CXLIV

THE NUN'S LAMENT FOR PHILIP SPARROW

When I remember'd again How my Philip was slain, I wept and I wailed, The tears down hailed; But nothing it avail'd To call Philip again Whom Gib our cat hath slain. Heu, heu, me, That I am woe for thee! Levavi oculos meos in montis; Would that I had Xenophontis Or Socrates the Wise, To show me their device Moderately to take This sorrow that I make For Philip Sparrow's sake! It had a velvet cap, And would sit on my lap, And seek after small worms, And sometimes white bread crumbs; And many times and oft Within my breast soft It would lie and rest. Sometimes he would gasp When he saw a wasp; A fly or a gnat, He would fly at that; And prettily he would pant When he saw an ant; Lord, how he would pry After the butterfly! Lord, how he would hop After the grasshop! And when I said, Phip, Phip, Then he would leap and skip, And take me by the lip. De profundis clamavi When I saw my sparrow die. Vengeance I ask and cry, By way of exclamation, On all the whole nation Of cats wild and tame; That cat especially That slew so cruelly My little pretty sparrow That I brought up at Carow. O cat of churlish kind, The fiend was in thy mind. I would thou hadst been blind! The leopards savage, The lions in their rage, May they catch thee in their paws, And gnaw thee in their jaws; The dragons with their tongues May they poison thy liver and lungs. Of India the greedy gripes May they tear out all thy tripes; Of Arcady the bears May they pluck away thine ears; The wild wolf Lycaon Bite asunder thy back-bone; Of AEtna the burning hill, That night and day burneth still, Set thy tail in a blaze, That all the world may gaze And wonder upon thee, From Ocean, the great sea, Unto the Isles of Orchadye; From Tilbury Ferry To the plain of Salisbury.

J. Skelton



CXLV

TO A BUTTERFLY

I've watch'd you now a full half-hour, Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little Butterfly! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Has found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days when we were young; Sweet childish days that were as long As twenty days are now.

W. Wordsworth



CXLVI

THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY

Old stories tell how Hercules A dragon slew at Lerna, With seven heads and fourteen eyes, To see and well discern-a: But he had a club, this dragon to drub, Or he ne'er had done it, I warrant ye: But More of More-hall, with nothing at all, He slew the dragon of Wantley.

This dragon had two furious wings, Each one upon each shoulder; With a sting in his tail as long as a flail, Which made him bolder and bolder. He had long claws, and in his jaws Four and forty teeth of iron; With a hide as tough as any buff, Which did him round environ.

Have you not heard how the Trojan horse Held seventy men in his belly? This dragon was not quite so big, But very near, I'll tell ye; Devour'd he poor children three, That could not with him grapple; And at one sup he ate them up, As one would eat an apple.

All sorts of cattle this dragon would eat, Some say he ate up trees, And that the forests sure he would Devour up by degrees: For houses and churches were to him geese and turkies; He ate all and left none behind, But some stones, dear Jack, that he could not crack, Which on the hills you will find.

Hard by a furious knight there dwelt; Men, women, girls, and boys, Sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging, And made a hideous noise. O save us all, More of More-hall, Thou peerless knight of these woods; Do but slay this dragon, who won't leave us a rag on, We'll give thee all our goods.

This being done, he did engage To hew the dragon down; But first he went new armour to Bespeak at Sheffield town; With spikes all about, not within but without, Of steel so sharp and strong, Both behind and before, arms, legs, and all o'er, Some five or six inches long.

Had you but seen him in this dress, How fierce he look'd, and how big, You would have thought him for to be Some Egyptian porcupig: He frighted all, cats, dogs, and all, Each cow, each horse, and each hog: For fear they did flee, for they took him to be Some strange, outlandish hedge-hog.

To see this fight all people then Got up on trees and houses, On churches some, and chimneys too; But these put on their trousers, Not to spoil their hose. As soon as he rose, To make him strong and mighty, He drank, by the tale, six pots of ale And a quart of aqua-vitae.

It is not strength that always wins, For wit doth strength excel; Which made our cunning champion Creep down into a well, Where he did think this dragon would drink, And so he did in truth; And as he stoop'd low, he rose up and cried, boh! And kick'd him in the mouth.

Oh, quoth the dragon with a deep sigh, And turn'd six times together, Sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing Out of his throat of leather: More of More-hall, O thou rascal, Would I had seen thee never; With the thing at thy foot thou hast prick'd my throat, And I'm quite undone for ever.

Murder, murder, the dragon cried, Alack, alack, for grief; Had you but miss'd that place, you could Have done me no mischief. Then his head he shaked, trembled and quaked, And down he laid and cried; First on one knee, then on back tumbled he; So groan'd, and kick'd, and died.

Old Ballad



CXLVII

THE UNGRATEFUL CUPID

At dead of night, when mortals lose Their various cares in soft repose, I heard a knocking at my door: 'Who's that,' said I, 'at this late hour Disturbs my rest?' It sobb'd and cried, And thus in mournful tone replied, 'A poor, unhappy child am I, That's come to beg your charity; Pray, let me in. You need not fear; I mean no harm, I vow and swear; But, wet and cold, crave shelter here; Betray'd by night, and led astray, I've lost, alas! I've lost my way.' Moved with this little tale of fate, I took a lamp, and oped the gate! When, see! a naked boy before The threshold; at his back he wore A pair of wings, and by his side A crooked bow and quiver tied. 'My pretty angel! come,' said I, 'Come to the fire, and do not cry.' I stroked his neck and shoulders bare, And squeez'd the water from his hair; Then chafed his little hands in mine, And cheer'd him with a draught of wine Recover'd thus, says he, 'I'd know, Whether the rain has spoilt my bow; Let's try'—then shot me with a dart. The venom throbb'd, did ache and smart, As if a bee had stung my heart. 'Are these your thanks, ungrateful child, Are these your thanks?' The impostor smiled. 'Farewell, my loving host,' says he, All's well; my bow's unhurt, I see; But what a wretch I've made of thee!'

J. Hughes



CXLVIII

THE KING OF THE CROCODILES

'Now, woman, why without your veil? And wherefore do you look so pale? And, woman, why do you groan so sadly, And wherefore beat your bosom madly?'

'Oh, I have lost my darling boy, In whom my soul had all its joy; And I for sorrow have torn my veil, And sorrow hath made my very heart pale.

'Oh, I have lost my darling child, And that's the loss that makes me wild; He stoop'd by the river down to drink, And there was a Crocodile by the brink.

'He did not venture in to swim, He only stoop'd to drink at the brim; But under the reeds the Crocodile lay, And struck with his tail and swept him away.

'Now take me in your boat, I pray, For down the river lies my way, And me to the Reed Island bring, For I will go to the Crocodile King.

'He reigns not now in Crocodilople, Proud as the Turk at Constantinople; No ruins of his great city remain; The Island of Reeds is his whole domain.

'Like a dervise there he passes his days, Turns up his eyes, and fasts and prays; And being grown pious and meek and mild, He now never eats man, woman, or child.

'The King of the Crocodiles never does wrong, He has no tail so stiff and strong, He has no tail to strike and slay, But he has ears to hear what I say.

'And to the King I will complain How my poor child was wickedly slain; The King of the Crocodiles he is good, And I shall have the murderer's blood.'

The man replied, 'No, woman, no; To the Island of Reeds I will not go; I would not for any worldly thing See the face of the Crocodile King.'

'Then lend me now your little boat, And I will down the river float, I tell thee that no worldly thing Shall keep me from the Crocodile King.

'The King of the Crocodiles he is good, And therefore will give me blood for blood; Being so mighty and so just, He can revenge me, he will, and he must.'

The woman she leapt into the boat, And down the river alone did she float, And fast with the stream the boat proceeds, And now she is come to the Island of Reeds.

The King of the Crocodiles there was seen; He sat upon the eggs of the Queen, And all around, a numerous rout, The young Prince Crocodiles crawl'd about.

The woman shook every limb with fear As she to the Crocodile King came near, For never a man without fear and awe The face of his Crocodile Majesty saw.

She fell upon her bended knee, And said, 'O King, have pity on me, For I have lost my darling child, And that's the loss that makes me wild.

'A crocodile ate him for his food: Now let me have the murderer's blood; Let me have vengeance for my boy, The only thing that can give me joy.

'I know that you, sire, never do wrong, You have no tail so stiff and strong, You have no tail to strike and slay, But you have ears to hear what I say.'

'You have done well,' the king replies, And fix'd on her his little eyes; 'Good woman, yes, you have done right; But you have not described me quite.

'I have no tail to strike and slay, And I have ears to hear what you say; I have teeth, moreover, as you may see, And I will make a meal of thee.'

Wicked the word, and bootless the boast, As cruel King Crocodile found to his cost, And proper reward of tyrannical might; He show'd his teeth, but he miss'd his bite.

'A meal of me!' the woman cried, Taking wit in her anger, and courage beside; She took him his forelegs and hind between, And trundled him off the eggs of the Queen.

To revenge herself then she did not fail; He was slow in his motions for want of a tail; But well for the woman was it the while That the Queen was gadding abroad in the Nile.

Two Crocodile Princes, as they play'd on the sand, She caught, and grasping them one in each hand, Thrust the head of one into the throat of the other, And made each Prince Crocodile choke his brother.

And when she had truss'd three couple this way, She carried them off and hasten'd away, And plying her oars with might and main, Cross'd the river and got to the shore again.

When the Crocodile Queen came home, she found That her eggs were broken and scatter'd around, And that six young princes, darlings all, Were missing; for none of them answered her call.

Then many a not very pleasant thing Pass'd between her and the Crocodile King; 'Is this your care of the nest?' cried she; 'It comes of your gadding abroad,' said he.

The Queen had the better in this dispute, And the Crocodile King found it best to be mute; While a terrible peal in his ears she rung, For the Queen had a tail as well as a tongue.

In woful patience he let her rail, Standing less in fear of her tongue than her tail, And knowing that all the words which were spoken. Could not mend one of the eggs that were broken.

The woman, meantime, was very well pleased, She had saved her life, and her heart was eased; The justice she ask'd in vain for her son, She had taken herself, and six for one.

'Mash-Allah!' her neighbours exclaim'd in delight, She gave them a funeral supper that night, Where they all agreed that revenge was sweet, And young Prince Crocodiles delicate meat.

R. Southey



CXLIX

THE LION AND THE CUB

A lion cub, of sordid mind, Avoided all the lion kind; Fond of applause, he sought the feasts Of vulgar and ignoble beasts; With asses all his time he spent, Their club's perpetual president. He caught their manners, looks, and airs; An ass in everything but ears! If e'er his Highness meant a joke, They grinn'd applause before he spoke; But at each word what shouts of praise; Goodness! how natural he brays! Elate with flattery and conceit, He seeks his royal sire's retreat; Forward and fond to show his parts, His Highness brays; the lion starts. 'Puppy! that curs'd vociferation Betrays thy life and conversation: Coxcombs, an ever-noisy race, Are trumpets of their own disgrace. 'Why so severe?' the cub replies; 'Our senate always held me wise!' 'How weak is pride,' returns the sire: 'All fools are vain when fools admire! But know, what stupid asses prize, Lions and noble beasts despise.'

J. Gay



CL

THE SNAIL

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall. As if he grew there house and all Together.

Within that house secure he hides, When danger imminent betides Of storm, or other harm besides Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch, His self-collecting power is such, He shrinks into his house with much Displeasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, Except himself has chattels none, Well satisfied to be his own Whole treasure.

Thus hermit-like his life he leads, Nor partner of his banquet needs, And, if he meets one, only feeds The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind, (He and his house are so combined,) If, finding it, he fails to find Its master.

V. Bourne



CLI

THE COLUBRIAD

Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast, Three kittens sat; each kitten look'd aghast. I, passing swift and inattentive by, At the three kittens cast a careless eye; Not much concern'd to know what they did there, Not deeming kittens worth a Poet's care. But presently a loud and furious hiss Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, 'What's this?' When lo! upon the threshold met my view, With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, Darting it full against a kitten's nose; Who having never seen, in field or house, The like, sat still and silent as a mouse: Only projecting, with attention due, Her whisker'd face, she asked him, 'Who are you? On to the hall went I, with pace not slow, But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe: With which well arm'd I hasten'd to the spot, To find the viper, but I found him not. And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, Found only, that he was not to be found. But still the kitten, sitting as before, Sat watching close the bottom of the door. 'I hope,' said I, 'the villain I would kill Has slipp'd between the door and the door-sill; And if I make despatch, and follow hard, No doubt but I shall find him in the yard;' For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 'Twas in the garden that I found him first. Even there I found him—there the full-grown cat, His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat; As curious as the kittens each had been To learn what this phenomenon might mean. Fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight, And fearing every moment he would bite, And rob our household of our only cat That was of age to combat with a rat, With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door, And taught him never to come thither more.

W. Cowper



CLII

THE PRIEST AND THE MULBERRY-TREE

Did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare, And merrily trotted along to the fair? Of creature more tractable none ever heard, In the height of her speed she would stop at a word; But again with a word, when the curate said, Hey, She put forth her mettle and gallop'd away.

As near to the gates of the city he rode, While the sun of September all brilliantly glow'd, The good priest discover'd, with eyes of desire, A mulberry-tree in a hedge of wild briar; On boughs long and lofty, in many a green shoot, Hung large, black, and glossy, the beautiful fruit.

The curate was hungry and thirsty to boot; He shrunk from the thorns, though he long'd for the fruit; With a word he arrested his courser's keen speed, And he stood up erect on the back of his steed; On the saddle he stood while the creature stood still, And he gather'd the fruit till he took his good fill.

'Sure never,' he thought, 'was a creature so rare, So docile, so true, as my excellent mare; Lo, here now I stand,' and he gazed all around, 'As safe and as steady as if on the ground; Yet how had it been, if some traveller this way, Had, dreaming no mischief, but chanced to cry, Hey?'

He stood with his head in the mulberry-tree, And he spoke out aloud in his fond reverie; At the sound of the word the good mare made a push, And down went the priest in the wild-briar bush. He remember'd too late, on his thorny green bed, Much that well may be thought cannot wisely be said.

T. L. Peacock



CLIII

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH

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

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

'Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?' 'The grey-headed sexton That delves the grave duly.

'The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady.'

Sir W. Scott



CLIV

SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE

When Arthur first in court began, And was approved king, By force of arms great victories wan And conquest home did bring,

Then into England straight he came With fifty good and able Knights, that resorted unto him, And were of his round table:

And he had jousts and tournaments, Whereto were many prest, Wherein some knights did far excel And eke surmount the rest.

But one Sir Lancelot du Lake, Who was approved well, He for his deeds and feats of arms All others did excel.

When he had rested him awhile, In play, and game, and sport, He said he would go prove himself In some adventurous sort.

He armed rode in a forest wide, And met a damsel fair Who told him of adventures great, Whereto he gave great ear.

'Such would I find,' quoth Lancelot: 'For that cause came I hither.' 'Thou seem'st,' quoth she, 'a knight full good. And I will bring thee thither,

'Whereas a mighty knight doth dwell, That now is of great fame: Therefore tell me what wight thou art, And what may be thy name.'

'My name is Lancelot du Lake.' Quoth she, 'It likes me than; Here dwells a knight who never was Yet match'd with any man:

'Who has in prison three-score knights And four that he did wound; Knights of King Arthur's court they be, And of his table round.'

She brought him to a river side, And also to a tree, Whereon a copper basin hung, And many shields to see.

He struck so hard the basin broke; And Tarquin soon he spied: Who drove a horse before him fast, Whereon a knight lay tied.

'Sir knight,' then said Sir Lancelot, 'Bring me that horse-load hither, And lay him down and let him rest; We'll try our force together:

'For, as I understand, thou hast, So far as thou art able, Done great despite and shame unto The knights of the round table.'

'If thou be of the table round,' Quoth Tarquin speedily, 'Both thee and all thy fellowship I utterly defy.'

'That's overmuch,' quoth Lancelot, 'tho, Defend thee bye and bye,' They set their spears unto their steeds, And each at other fly.

They couch'd their spears, (their horses ran As though there had been thunder,) And struck them each immidst their shields, Wherewith they broke in sunder.

Their horses' backs brake under them, The knights were both astound: To avoid their horses they made haste To light upon the ground.

They took them to their shields full fast, Their swords they drew out then, With mighty strokes most eagerly, Each at the other ran.

They wounded were and bled full sore, They both for breath did stand, And leaning on their swords awhile, Quoth Tarquin, 'Hold thy hand,

'And tell to me what I shall ask.' 'Say on,' quoth Lancelot, 'tho.' 'Thou art,' quoth Tarquin, 'the best knight That ever I did know;

'And like a knight that I did hate: So that thou be not he, I will deliver all the rest, And eke accord with thee.

'That is well said,' quoth Lancelot; But sith it must be so, What knight is that thou hatest thus? I pray thee to me show.'

'His name is Lancelot du Lake, He slew my brother dear; Him I suspect of all the rest: I would I had him here.'

'Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknown, I am Lancelot du Lake, Now knight of Arthur's table round; King Haud's son of Schuwake;

'And I desire thee do thy worst.' 'Ho, ho!' quoth Tarquin, 'tho: One of us two shall end our lives Before that we do go.

'If thou be Lancelot du Lake, Then welcome shalt thou be. Wherefore see thou thyself defend, For now defy I thee.'

They buckled then together so Like unto wild boars rashing; And with their swords and shields they ran, At one another slashing:

The ground besprinkled was with blood: Tarquin began to yield; For he gave back for weariness, And low did bear his shield.

This soon Sir Lancelot espied, He leapt upon him then, He pull'd him down upon his knee, And, rushing off his helm,

Forthwith he struck his neck in two, And, when he had so done, From prison threescore knights and four Delivered every one.

Old Ballad



CLV

THE THREE FISHERS

Three fishers went sailing away to the west, Away to the west as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down; They look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work and women must weep, And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

C. Kingsley



CLVI

ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY

The post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drown'd; When, as we hurried on, my ear Was smitten with a startling sound.

As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound,—and more and more; It seem'd to follow with the chaise, And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy call'd out; He stopp'd his horses at the word, But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

The boy then smack'd his whip, and fast The horses scamper'd through the rain; But hearing soon upon the blast The cry, I made him halt again.

Forthwith alighting on the ground, 'Whence comes,' said I, 'that piteous moan?' And there a little girl I found, Sitting behind the chaise alone.

'My cloak!' no other word she spake, But loud and bitterly she wept, As if her innocent heart would break; And down from off her seat she leapt.

'What ails you, child?'—she sobb'd, 'Look here!' I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scarecrow dangled.

There, twisted between nave and spoke, It hung, nor could at once be freed; But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, A miserable rag indeed!

'And whither are you going, child, To-night, along these lonesome ways?' 'To Durham,' answer'd she, half wild— 'Then come with me into the chaise.'

Insensible to all relief Sat the poor girl, and forth did send Sob after sob, as if her grief Could never, never have an end.

'My child, in Durham do you dwell?' She check'd herself in her distress, And said, 'My name is Alice Fell; I'm fatherless and motherless.

'And I to Durham, sir, belong.' Again, as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong; And all was for her tatter'd cloak!

The chaise drove on; our journey's end Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, As if she had lost her only friends, She wept, nor would be pacified.

Up to the tavern door we post; Of Alice and her grief I told; And I gave money to the host, To buy a new cloak for the old:

'And let it be of duffil grey, As warm a cloak as man can sell!' Proud creature was she the next day, The little orphan, Alice Fell!

W. Wordsworth



CLVII

THE FIRST SWALLOW

The gorse is yellow on the heath, The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding, and, beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath, of May.

The welcome guest of settled Spring, The swallow, too, has come at last; Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, I saw her dash with rapid wing, And hail'd her as she past.

Come, summer visitant, attach To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch At the grey dawn of day.

C. Smith



CLVIII

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

They grew in beauty side by side, They fill'd one home with glee;— Their graves are sever'd far and wide,— By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow: She had each folded flower in sight,— Where are those dreamers now?

One, midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream is laid— The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one— He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where Southern vines are drest Above the noble slain: He wrapt his colours round his breast, On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one—o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; She faded midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest who play'd Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they pray'd Around one parent knee;

They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheer'd with song the hearth!— Alas for love! if thou wert all, And naught beyond, O, Earth!

F. Hemans



CLIX

THE THRUSH'S NEST

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, That overhung a mole-hill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound With joy; and oft, an unintruding guest, I watch'd her secret toils from day to day, How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest, And modell'd it within with wool and clay. And bye and bye, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue; And there I witness'd, in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

J. Clare



CLX

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK

1

In distant countries have I been, And yet I have not often seen A healthy man, a man full grown, Weep in the public roads alone; But such a one, on English ground, And in the broad highway I met; Along the broad highway he came, His cheeks with tears were wet; Sturdy he seem'd, though he was sad; And in his arms a lamb he had.

2

He saw me, and he turn'd aside, As if he wish'd himself to hide: And with his coat did then essay To wipe those briny tears away. I follow'd him and said, 'My friend, What ails you! wherefore weep you so?' —'Shame on me, sir! this lusty lamb, He makes my tears to flow. To-day I fetch'd him from the rock; He is the last of all my flock.

3

'When I was young, a single man, And after youthful follies ran, Though little given to care and thought, Yet so it was, an ewe I bought; And other sheep from her I raised, As healthy sheep as you might see; And then I married, and was rich As I could wish to be; Of sheep I number'd a full score, And every year increas'd my store.

4

'Year after year my stock it grew; And from this one, this single ewe, Full fifty comely sheep I raised, As fine a flock as ever grazed! Upon the Quantock Hills they fed; They throve, and we at home did thrive: —This lusty lamb of all my store Is all that is alive; And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty.

5

'Six children, sir, had I to feed; Hard labour, in a time of need! My pride was tamed, and in our grief, I of the parish ask'd relief, They said I was a wealthy man; My sheep upon the uplands fed, And it was fit that thence I took Whereof to buy us bread. 'Do this; how can we give to you,' They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'

6

'I sold a sheep, as they had said, And bought my little children bread, And they were healthy with their food; For me—it never did me good. A woful time it was for me, To see the end of all my gains, The pretty flock which I had rear'd With all my care and pains, To see it melt like snow away— For me it was a woful day.

7

Another still! and still another! A little lamb, and then its mother! It was a vein that never stopp'd— Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd, Till thirty were not left alive; They dwindled, dwindled, one by one; And I may say that many a time I wish'd they all were gone; Reckless of what might come at last, Were but the bitter struggle past.

8

To wicked deeds I was inclined, And wicked fancies cross'd my mind; And every man I chanced to see, I thought he knew some ill of me. No peace, no comfort could I find, No ease within doors or without; And crazily and wearily I went my work about; And oft was moved to flee from home And hide my head where wild beasts roam.

9

'Sir, 'twas a precious flock to me, As dear as my own children be; For daily with my growing store I loved my children more and more. Alas! it was an evil time; God cursed me in my sore distress; I pray'd, yet every day I thought I loved my children less; And every week, and every day, My flock it seem'd to melt away; They dwindled, sir, sad sight to see From ten to five, from five to three, A lamb, a wether, and a ewe; And then at last from three to two; And, of my fifty, yesterday I had but only one: And here it lies upon my arm, Alas, and I have none; To-day I fetch'd it from the rock— It is the last of all my flock.'

W. Wordsworth



CLXI

THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST

Little Ellie sits alone 'Mid the beeches of a meadow, By a stream-side on the grass; And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow On her shining hair and face.

She has thrown her bonnet by; And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow waters' flow— Now she holds them nakedly In her hands, all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie sits alone, And the smile she softly useth Fills the silence like a speech: While she thinks what shall be done, And the sweetest pleasure chooseth For her future, within reach.

Little Ellie in her smile Chooseth—'I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds! He shall love me without guile; And to him I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds.

'And the steed it shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath, And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death.

'And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind; And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind.

'He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover, Through the crowds that praise his deeds; And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds.'

Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gaily,— Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe, And went homeward round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding by the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads— Past the boughs she stoops and stops: Lo! the wild swan had deserted, And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds.

Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not! but I know She could never show him—never, That swan's nest among the reeds.

E. B. Browning



CLXII

SONG

I wander'd by the brook-side, I wander'd by the mill,— I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, Nor chirp of any bird; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree, I watch'd the long, long shade. And as it grew still longer I did not feel afraid; For I listen'd for a foot-fall, I listen'd for a word,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,—no, he came not; The night came on alone; The little stars sat one by one Each on his golden throne; The evening air pass'd by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr'd,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing, When some one stood behind; A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer, nearer; We did not speak a word,— For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.

R. M. Milnes



CLXIII

TIMOTHY

Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away! Not a soul in the village this morning will stay: The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.'

Of coats and of jackets, grey, scarlet, and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen; With their comely blue aprons and caps white as snow, The girls on the hills make a holiday show.

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before, Fill'd the funeral basin at Timothy's door; A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past; One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away! Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut, With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said; 'The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.' But of this, in my ears, not a word did he speak; And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.

W. Wordsworth



CLXIV

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

1—THE MAGIC SLEEP

1

Year after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purple coverlet, The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl: The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl.

2

The silk star-broider'd coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould, Languidly ever; and, amid Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, Glows forth each softly shadow'd arm With bracelets of the diamond bright: Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light.

3

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd, That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly press'd: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

II—THE FAIRY PRINCE'S ARRIVAL

1

A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt, There rose a noise of striking clocks, And feet that ran and doors that clapt, And barking dogs, and crowing cocks; A fuller light illumin'd all, A breeze through all the garden swept, A sudden hubbub shook the hall, And sixty feet the fountain leapt.

2

The hedge broke in, the banner blew, The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd, The fire shot up, the martin flew, The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd, The maid and page renew'd their strife, The palace bang'd and buzz'd and clackt, And all the long pent stream of life Dash'd downward in a cataract.

3

And last with these the king awoke, And in his chair himself uprear'd, And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke, 'By holy rood, a royal beard! How say you? we have slept, my lords. My beard has grown into my lap.' The barons swore, with many words, 'Twas but an after-dinner's nap.

4

'Pardy,' return'd the king, 'but still My joints are something stiff or so. My Lord, and shall we pass the bill I mention'd half an hour ago?' The chancellor sedate and vain In courteous words return'd reply: But dallied with his golden chain, And, smiling, put the question by.

A. Tennyson



CLXV

CHORAL SONG OF ILLYRIAN PEASANTS

Up! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay! To the meadows trip away. Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, And scare the small birds from the corn. Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house To the cricket and the mouse: Find grannam out a sunny seat, With babe and lambkin at her feet. Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

S. T. Coleridge



CLXVI

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

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

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

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever were still.

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through them there roll'd not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

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

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

Lord Byron



CLXVII

THE WIDOW BIRD

A widow bird sate mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound.

P. B. Shelley



CLXVIII

DORA

With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And often thought, 'I'll make them man and wife.' Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said: 'My son, I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too, beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years.' But William answer'd short: 'I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora.' Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: 'You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to't; Consider, William; take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack And nevermore darken my doors again!' But William answer'd madly, bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said: 'My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law.' And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 'It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change.' And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest-time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: 'I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all through me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that, when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.' And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it on his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work And came and said, 'Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? what are you doing here?' So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, 'This is William's child.' 'And did I not,' said Allan, 'did I not Forbid you, Dora?' Dora said again: 'Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.' And Allan said: 'I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well—for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more.' So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field. More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said: 'My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more.' Then answer'd Mary, 'This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother: therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back; And if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child until he grows Of age to help us.' So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch; they peep'd and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her: And Allan sat him down, and Mary said: 'O Father!—if you let me call me so— I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well; O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me. I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus: "God bless him!" he said, "and may he never know The troubles I have gone through!" then he turn'd His face and pass'd—unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before.' So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room, And all at once the old man burst in sobs:— 'I have been to blame—to blame! I have kill'd my son! I have kill'd him—but I loved him—my dear son! May God forgive me!—I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children!' Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times, And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

A. Tennyson



CLXIX

A WITCH

Spoken by a Countryman

There's that old hag Moll Brown, look, see, just past! I wish the ugly sly old witch Would tumble over in the ditch; I wouldn't pick her out not very fast. I don't think she's belied, 'tis clear's the sun That she's a witch if ever there was one. Yes, I do know just hereabout of two Or three folk that have learnt what Moll can do. She did, one time, a pretty deal of harm To Farmer Gruff's folks, down at Lower Farm. One day, you know, they happen'd to offend her, And not a little to their sorrow, Because they would not give or lend her The thing she came to beg or borrow; And so, you know, they soon began to find That she'd a-left her evil wish behind. She soon bewitch'd them; and she had such power, That she did make their milk and ale turn sour, And addle all the eggs their fowls did lay; They couldn't fetch the butter in the churn, And cheeses soon began to turn All back again to curds and whey. The little pigs a-running with the sow Did sicken somehow, nobody knew how, And fall, and turn their snouts towards the sky, And only give one little grunt and die; And all the little ducks and chicken Were death-struck while they were a-pickin' Their food, and fell upon their head, And flapp'd their wings and dropp'd down dead. They couldn't fat the calves; they wouldn't thrive; They couldn't save their lambs alive; Their sheep all took the rot and gave no wool; Their horses fell away to skin and bones, And got so weak they couldn't pull A half a peck of stones; The dog got dead-alive and drowsy, The cat fell sick and wouldn't mousey; And if the wretched souls went up to bed The hag did come and ride them all half dead. They used to keep her out o' the house 'tis true, A-nailing up at door a horse's shoe; And I've a-heard the farmer's wife did try To drive a needle or a pin In through her old hard wither'd skin And draw her blood, a-coming by; But she could never fetch a drop, She bent the pin and broke the needle's top Against her skin, you know, and that, in course, Did only make the hag bewitch them worse.

W. Barnes



CLXX

NURSERY RHYMES

1

Jenny Wren fell sick; Upon a merry time, In came Robin Redbreast, And brought her sops of wine

Eat well of the sop, Jenny, Drink well of the wine; Thank you Robin kindly, You shall be mine.

Jenny she got well, And stood upon her feet, And told Robin plainly She loved him not a bit.

Robin, being angry, Hopp'd on a twig, Saying, Out upon you, Fye upon you, bold-faced jig!

2

There were three jovial Welshmen, As I have heard them say, And they would go a-hunting Upon St. David's day.

All the day they hunted, And nothing could they find, But a ship a-sailing, A-sailing with the wind.

One said it was a ship, The other he said, nay; The third said it was a house, With the chimney blown away.

And all night they hunted, And nothing could they find, But the moon a-gliding, A-gliding with the wind.

One said it was the moon, The other he said, nay; The third said it was a cheese, And half o't cut away.

3

There was an old woman, as I've heard tell, She went to market her eggs for to sell; She went to market all on a market day; And she fell asleep on the king's highway.

There came by a pedlar whose name was Stout, He cut her petticoats all round about; He cut her petticoats up to the knees, Which made the old woman to shiver and freeze.

When this little woman first did wake, She began to shiver and she began to shake. She began to wonder and she began to cry, 'Lauk-a-mercy on me, this is none of I:

'But if it be I, as I do hope it be, I've a little dog at home, and he'll know me; If it be I, he'll wag his little tail, And if it be not I, he'll loudly bark and wail!'

Home went the little woman all in the dark, Up got the little dog, and he began to bark; He began to bark, so she began to cry, 'Lauk-a-mercy on me, this is none of I!'

4

If all the world was apple-pie, And all the sea was ink, And all the trees were bread and cheese, What should we have to drink?

5

There was a little boy and a little girl Lived in an alley; Says the little boy to the little girl, 'Shall I, oh! shall I?'

Says the little girl to the little boy, 'What shall we do?' Says the little boy to the little girl, 'I will kiss you!'



CLXXI

THE AGE OF CHILDREN HAPPIEST

if they had still wit to understand it

Laid in my quiet bed in study as I were I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear, And every thought did show so lively in mine eyes, That now I sigh'd, and then I smiled, as cause of thoughts did rise. I saw the little boy, in thought how oft that he Did wish of God, to 'scape the rod, a tall young man to be, The young man eke that feels his bones with pain opprest, How he would be a rich old man, to live and lie at rest! The rich old man that sees his end draw on so sore, How would he be a boy again to live so much the more. Whereat full oft I smiled, to see how all those three, From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree.

Earl of Surrey



CLXXII

THE NOBLE NATURE

It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night— It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauty see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

B. Jonson



CLXXIII

THE RAINBOW

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky; So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

W. Wordsworth



INDEX OF WRITERS

Allingham, W., XLIV, LVII, LXXXI Arnold, M., XXXIV

Barbauld, A. L., LXI Barnefield, R., LXXXIII Barnes, W., XXI, LXX, CLXIX Beddoes, T. L., CXXIV Blake, W., I, LXXIX Bourne, V., CL Browning, E. B., CLXI Browning, R., XXVII, L, LXXVIII Bruce, M., XXX Bryant, W. C., CXLI Byron, Lord, CLXVI

Campbell, T., LXVII, LXXXVIII, LXXXIX, XCI, CVI, CXXI, CXXIII Chatterton, T., CXVIII Cibber, C., LXIX Clare, J., CLIX Coleridge, S. T., IV, XXIX, XXXVIII, CLXV Cornwall, B., VI, XLIII, LVIII Cowley, A., LXII Cowper, W., XIII, XXXVI, XLIX, LXXV, XC, CXXII, CXXVII, CXXXVIII, CXL, CLI Cunningham, J., CXXVI

Dibdin, XLII, LXXVII, XCII, CXX Delone, T., CXIV Dobell, S., XL Drayton, M., IX, XXIV

Emerson, R. W., LXV

Fletcher, J., LXVI

Garnett, R., XLVIII, XCVIII Gay, J., LXXXV, CVII, CXXXVI, CXLIX Goldsmith, O., CXIX Gray, T., LXXXIV

Hemans, F., XXV, CIII, CLVIII Herrick, R., CII Hood, T., LI Hughes, J., CXLVII Hunt, Leigh, XIV, LIII, XCV

Jenner, E., XXVI Jonson, B., CLXXII

Keats, J., XV, LXVIII Keble, J., XXVIII Kingsley, C., XXXV, CLV

Lloyd, R., LXXVI Longfellow, H. W., XII, XLV, LII Lowell, J. R., CXIII

Macaulay, Lord, XLI MacDonald, G., CXVII Marlowe, C., VII Milnes, R. M., CLXII Milton, J., II Moore, T., XLVI Moultrie, J., XXXII

Nash, T., CXI

Peacock, T. L., CLII Poe, E. A., XCVII

Read, T. B., LX Rogers, S., CXXVIII

Scott, Sir W., XXXIII, XLVII, CI, CXXXIII, CLIII Shakespeare, W., III, X, XVI, XXXVII, XXXIX, CV, CXXX, CXXXII Shelley, P. B., XCVI, CLXVII Shenstone, W., LXIII Skelton, J., CXLIV Smith, C., CLVII Southey, R., XVII, LXXIII, LXXXVI, XCIII, CIV, CVIII, CXLVIII Surrey, Earl of, CLXXI Swift, J., CXXIX

Tennyson, A., V, LXIV, LXXXVII, C, CLXIV, CLXVIII Tickell, T., LIV

Wordsworth, W., VIII, XI, XVIII, XXIII, LV, LIX, LXXI, XCIV, XCIX, CXXV, CXXXIV, CXLV, CLVI, CLX, CLXIII, CLXXIII

Old Ballads, XIX, XX, XXXI, LVI, LXXX, LXXXII, CIX, CX, CXII, CXVI, CXXXI, CXXXV, CXXXVII, CXXXIX, CXLII, CXLIII, CXLVI, CLIV

Old Songs, XXII, LXXII, LXXIV, CXV

RICHARD CLAY AND SONS. LIMITED. LONDON AND BUNGAY.



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