Produced by Meredith Bach, Delphine Lettau and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Fifteenth Volume LITTLE CLASSICS EDITED BY ROSSITER JOHNSON Minor Poems BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1900 COPYRIGHT, 1875, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CONTENTS. PAGE AE FOND KISS _Robert Burns_ 52 AGE OF WISDOM, THE _William Makepeace Thackeray_ 115 ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD, THE _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 146 ASTARTE _Robert Bulwer Lytton_ 54 BETROTHED ANEW _Edmund Clarence Stedman_ 86 BLINDNESS, ON HIS _John Milton_ 143 BRAVE AT HOME, THE _Thomas Buchanan Read_ 142 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK _Alfred Tennyson_ 53 BRIDAL DIRGE, A _Bryan Waller Procter_ 163 BROOKSIDE, THE _Richard Monckton Milnes_ 36 BUGLE-SONG _Alfred Tennyson_ 40 CAVALIER'S SONG, THE _William Motherwell_ 132 CHAMBERED NAUTILUS, THE _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 214 CHANGES _Robert Bulwer Lytton_ 71 CHILDREN'S HOUR, THE _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 152 CHRISTMAS HYMN, A _Alfred Dommett_ 217 CLOUD, THE _John Wilson_ 213 COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM _Thomas Moore_ 46 CORONACH _Sir Walter Scott_ 133 COURTIN', THE _James Russell Lowell_ 26 DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE, THE _Alfred Tennyson_ 65 DEATH-BED, THE _Thomas Hood_ 160 DEATH OF THE FLOWERS, THE _William Cullen Bryant_ 100 DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST _James Shirley_ 182 DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER _George Henry Boker_ 134 DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN _Fitz-Greene Halleck_ 169 DRIVING HOME THE COWS _Kate Putnam Osgood_ 140 EAGLE, THE _Alfred Tennyson_ 105 ENTICED _William C. Wilkinson_ 224 EPILOGUE _The Editor_ 231 EVELYN HOPE _Robert Browning_ 161 FAREWELL, A _Charles Kingsley_ 199 FAREWELL, A _Alfred Tennyson_ 112 GIRDLE, ON A _Edmund Waller_ 23 GOING HOME _Benjamin F. Taylor_ 185 GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD, THE _Felicia Hemans_ 174 HAUNTED HOUSES _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 73 HEALTH, A _Edward Coate Pinkney_ 21 HERMIT, THE _James Beattie_ 175 HEROES _Edna Dean Proctor_ 144 HIGHLAND MARY _Robert Burns_ 166 HOW'S MY BOY? _Sydney Dobell_ 150 HYMN TO THE NIGHT _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 103 ICHABOD _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 123 INDIAN GOLD COIN, TO AN _John Leyden_ 183 IN MEMORIAM _Thomas K. Hervey_ 173 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER _Thomas Hood_ 72 IVY GREEN, THE _Charles Dickens_ 90 KNIGHT'S TOMB, THE _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 133 KUBLA KHAN _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 16 LAMENT, A _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 192 LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT _Lady Dufferin_ 158 LAND OF LANDS, THE _Alfred Tennyson_ 126 LAND O' THE LEAL, THE _Lady Nairne_ 156 LAST LEAF, THE _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 117 LAST ROSE OF SUMMER, THE _Thomas Moore_ 111 LIE, THE _Sir Walter Raleigh_ 204 LIFE _Anna Lætitia Barbauld_ 193 LIFE _Henry King_ 192 LINES ON A SKELETON _Anonymous_ 201 LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 42 LITTLE BLACK BOY, THE _William Blake_ 181 LITTLE YEARS, THE _Robert T. S. Lowell_ 114 LONG-AGO, THE _Richard Monckton Milnes_ 88 LOST LEADER, THE _Robert Browning_ 119 LOVE NOT _Caroline Norton_ 51 LUCASTA, TO _Richard Lovelace_ 125 MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART _Lord Byron_ 45 MANGO TREE, THE _Charles Kingsley_ 59 MAN'S MORTALITY _Simon Wastel_ 189 MARIANA _Alfred Tennyson_ 37 MARY IN HEAVEN, TO _Robert Bums_ 61 MINSTREL'S SONG _Thomas Chatterton_ 171 MONTEREY _Charles Fenno Hoffman_ 128 MOORE, THOMAS, TO _Lord Byron_ 110 MUSICAL INSTRUMENT, A _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_ 11 MY CHILD _John Pierpont_ 154 MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND _William Motherwell_ 56 MY PSALM _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 221 MY SLAIN _Richard Realf_ 219 NICE CORRESPONDENT, A _Frederick Locker_ 24 NIGHT AND DEATH _Joseph Blanco White_ 104 NOT FAR TO GO _William Barnes_ 43 ODE _William Collins_ 139 ODE _Theodore P. Cook_ 137 ODE _Sir William Jones_ 148 ODE _Henry Timrod_ 136 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN _John Keats_ 199 OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT _Thomas Moore_ 64 OLD FAMILIAR FACES, THE _Charles Lamb_ 66 OLD MAN'S IDYL, AN _Richard Realf_ 84 ON A PICTURE OF PEEL CASTLE _William Wordsworth_ 209 OVER THE RIVER _Nancy Priest Wakefield_ 78 O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? _William Knox_ 177 PAUPER'S DEATH-BED, THE _Caroline Bowles Southey_ 208 PETITION TO TIME, A _Bryan Waller Procter_ 122 PHILIP, MY KING _Dinah Maria Mulock Craik_ 149 PROGRESS _Robert Bulwer Lytton_ 179 QUA CURSUM VENTUS _Arthur Hugh Clough_ 69 RIVER PATH, THE _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 82 ST. AGNES _Alfred Tennyson_ 215 SANDS OF DEE, THE _Charles Kingsley_ 102 SERENADE _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 41 SHE DIED IN BEAUTY _Charles Doyne Sillery_ 164 SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND _Thomas Moore_ 170 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY _Lord Byron_ 34 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT _William Wordsworth_ 18 SHE WAS NOT FAIR, NOR FULL OF GRACE _Bryan Waller Procter_ 165 SKYLARK, THE _James Hogg_ 104 SKYLARK, TO THE _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 106 SLANTEN LIGHT O' FALL, THE _William Barnes_ 20 SNOW-STORM, A _Charles Gamage Eastman_ 97 SOLDIER'S DREAM, THE _Thomas Campbell_ 127 SONG,--"THE HEATH THIS NIGHT" _Sir Walter Scott_ 124 SONG FOR SEPTEMBER, A _Thomas William Parsons_ 63 SONG OF THE CAMP, A _Bayard Taylor_ 130 SONNETS _William Shakespeare_ 48 SPINNING-WHEEL SONG, THE _John Francis Waller_ 32 STANZAS,--"MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE" _Richard Henry Wilde_ 113 SUMMER LONGINGS _Denis Florence Mac-Carthy_ 91 THANATOPSIS _William Cullen Bryant_ 75 THEY ARE ALL GONE _Henry Vaughan_ 80 THREE FISHERS, THE _Charles Kingsley_ 143 TIGER, THE _William Blake_ 96 TIME'S CHANGES _David Macbeth Moir_ 67 TITHONUS _Alfred Tennyson_ 193 TOM BOWLING _Charles Dibdin_ 168 TOO LATE! _Dinah Maria Mulock Craik_ 167 TOO LATE _Fitz-Hugh Ludlow_ 120 TOUJOURS AMOUR _Edmund Clarence Stedman_ 228 TREASURES OF THE DEEP, THE _Felicia Hemans_ 212 TWO WOMEN _Nathaniel Parker Willis_ 207 UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY, THE _Edmund Clarence Stedman_ 220 VIRTUE _George Herbert_ 203 VOICELESS, THE _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 229 VOYAGE, THE _Alfred Tennyson_ 13 WEARINESS _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 227 WELCOME, THE _Thomas Davis_ 35 WHEN THE KYE COME HAME _James Hogg_ 30 WOMAN OF THREE COWS, THE _James Clarence Mangan_ 196 WOMAN'S QUESTION, A _Adelaide Anne Procter_ 46 YARROW UNVISITED _William Wordsworth_ 93 * * * * * A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river. He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep cool bed of the river: The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river. High on the shore sat the great god Pan, While turbidly flowed the river; And hacked and hewed as a great god can, With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river. He cut it short, did the great god Pan, (How tall it stood in the river!) Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, And notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sat by the river. "This is the way," laughed the great god Pan (Laughed while he sat by the river), "The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed." Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river. Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man: The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,-- For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river. _Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ * * * * * THE VOYAGE. We left behind the painted buoy That tosses at the harbor-mouth: And madly danced our hearts with joy, As fast we fleeted to the south: How fresh was every sight and sound On open main or winding shore! We knew the merry world was round, And we might sail forevermore. Warm broke the breeze against the brow, Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail: The lady's-head upon the prow Caught the shrill salt, and sheered the gale. The broad seas swelled to meet the keel, And swept behind: so quick the run, We felt the good ship shake and reel, We seemed to sail into the sun! How oft we saw the sun retire, And burn the threshold of the night, Fall from his ocean-lane of fire, And sleep beneath his pillared light! How oft the purple-skirted robe Of twilight slowly downward drawn, As through the slumber of the globe Again we dashed into the dawn! New stars all night above the brim Of waters lightened into view; They climbed as quickly, for the rim Changed every moment as we flew. Far ran the naked moon across The houseless ocean's heaving field, Or flying shone, the silver boss Of her own halo's dusky shield; The peaky islet shifted shapes, High towns on hills were dimly seen, We passed long lines of northern capes And dewy northern meadows green. We came to warmer waves, and deep Across the boundless east we drove, Where those long swells of breaker sweep The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, Gloomed the low coast and quivering brine With ashy rains, that spreading made Fantastic plume or sable pine; By sands and steaming flats, and floods Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, And hills and scarlet-mingled woods Glowed for a moment as we passed. O hundred shores of happy climes, How swiftly streamed ye by the bark! At times the whole sea burned, at times With wakes of fire we tore the dark; At times a carven craft would shoot From havens hid in fairy bowers, With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, But we nor paused for fruits nor flowers. For one fair Vision ever fled Down the waste waters day and night, And still we followed where she led In hope to gain upon her flight. Her face was evermore unseen, And fixed upon the far sea-line; But each man murmured, "O my Queen, I follow till I make thee mine." And now we lost her, now she gleamed Like Fancy made of golden air, Now nearer to the prow she seemed Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, Now high on waves that idly burst Like Heavenly Hope she crowned the sea, And now, the bloodless point reversed, She bore the blade of Liberty. And only one among us,--him We pleased not,--he was seldom pleased: He saw not far: his eyes were dim: But ours he swore were all diseased. "A ship of fools!" he shrieked in spite, "A ship of fools!" he sneered and wept. And overboard one stormy night He cast his body, and on we swept. And never sail of ours was furled Nor anchor dropped at eve or morn; We loved the glories of the world, But laws of nature were our scorn; For blasts would rise and rave and cease, But whence were those that drove the sail Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, And to and through the counter-gale? Again to colder climes we came, For still we followed where she led: Now mate is blind and captain lame, And half the crew are sick or dead. But blind or lame or sick or sound, We follow that which flies before: We know the merry world is round, And we may sail forevermore. _Alfred Tennyson._ * * * * * KUBLA KHAN. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree Where Alph, the sacred river, ran, Through caverns measureless to man, Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And there were gardens, bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm, which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced, Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail; And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale, the sacred river ran,-- Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war. The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves, Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device,-- A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw; It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me That, with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air,-- That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! beware His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. _Samuel Taylor Coleridge._ * * * * * SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death: The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel-light. _William Wordsworth._ * * * * * THE SLANTEN LIGHT O' FALL. (DORSET DIALECT.) Ah! Jeane, my maid, I stood to you, When you wer' christen'd, small an' light, Wi' tiny earms o' red an' blue, A-hangen in your robe o' white. We brought ye to the hallow'd stwone, Vor Christ to teake ye vor his own, When harvest-work wer' all a-done, An' time brought round October zun,-- The slanten light o' Fall. An' I can mind the wind wer' rough, An' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms, An' you wer' nessled warm enough, 'Ithin your smilen mother's earms. The whindlen grass did quiver light, Among the stubble, feaded white, An' if at times the zunlight broke Upon the groun', or on the vo'k, 'Twer' slanten light o' Fall. An' when we brought ye droo the door O' Knapton church, a child o' greace, There cluster'd roun' a'most a score O' vo'k to zee your tiny feace. An' there we all did veel so proud, To zee an op'nen in the cloud, An' then a stream o' light break droo, A-sheenen brightly down on you,-- The slanten light o' Fall. But now your time's a-come to stan' In church a-blushen at my zide, The while a bridegroom vrom my han' Ha' took ye vor his faithvul bride. Your christen neame we gi'd ye here, When Fall did cool the weasten year; An' now, agean, we brought ye droo The doorway, wi' your surneame new, In slanten light o' Fall. An' zoo vur, Jeane, your life is feair, An' God ha' been your steadvast friend, An' mid ye have mwore jay than ceare, Vor ever, till your journey's end. An' I've a-watch'd ye on wi' pride, But now I soon mus' leave your zide, Vor you ha' still life's springtide zun, But my life, Jeane, is now a-run To slanten light o' Fall. _William Barnes._ * * * * * A HEALTH. I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose. Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,-- The idol of past years! Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon,-- Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. _Edward Coate Pinkney._ * * * * * ON A GIRDLE. That which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown, His arms might do what this hath done. It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair. Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round! _Edmund Waller._ * * * * * A NICE CORRESPONDENT! The glow and the glory are plighted To darkness, for evening is come; The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted; The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. I'm alone at my casement, for Pappy Is summoned to dinner at Kew: I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy,-- I'm thinking of you. I wish you were here. Were I duller Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear; I am dressed in your favorite color,-- Dear Fred, how I wish you were here! I am wearing my lazuli necklace, The necklace you fastened askew! Was there ever so rude or so reckless A darling as you? I want you to come and pass sentence On two or three books with a plot; Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"? I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, The story of Edgar and Lucy, How thrilling, romantic, and true; The master (his bride was a goosey!) Reminds me of you. To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning The beacon; its magic still lures, For up there you discoursed about Browning, That stupid old Browning of yours. His vogue and his verve are alarming, I'm anxious to give him his due; But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming A poet as you. I heard how you shot at The Beeches, I saw how you rode Chanticleer, I have read the report of your speeches, And echoed the echoing cheer. There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,-- I envy their owners, I do! Small marvel that Fortune is making Her idol of you. Alas for the world, and its dearly Bought triumph, and fugitive bliss! Sometimes I half wish I were merely A plain or a penniless miss; But perhaps one is best with a measure Of pelf, and I'm not sorry, too, That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, My dearest, to you. Your whim is for frolic and fashion, Your taste is for letters and art; This rhyme is the commonplace passion That glows in a fond woman's heart. Lay it by in a dainty deposit For relics,--we all have a few!-- Love, some day they'll print it, because it Was written to you. _Frederick Locker._ * * * * * THE COURTIN'. God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur'z you can look or listen. Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten. Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in,-- There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's arm thet Gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blesséd cretur. A dog-rose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. He was six foot o' man, Al, Clean grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter. He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells,-- All is, he couldn't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il. She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher. An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it. Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some_! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper,-- All ways to once her feelin's flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle; His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder. "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal ... no ... I come dasignin'"-- "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." To say why gals acts so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean _yes_ an' say _no_ Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t' other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, "I'd better call agin"; Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes. For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, And gin 'em both her blessin'. Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday. _James Russell Lowell._ * * * * * WHEN THE KYE COME HAME. Come, all ye jolly shepherds, That whistle through the glen! I'll tell ye o' a secret That courtiers dinna ken: What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie When the kye come hame. When the kye come hame, When the kye come hame,-- 'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk, When the kye come hame. 'Tis not beneath the burgonet, Nor yet beneath the crown; 'Tis not on couch o' velvet, Nor yet in bed o' down: 'Tis beneath the spreading birk, In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame. There the blackbird bigs his nest For the mate he lo'es to see, And on the tapmost bough O, a happy bird is he! There he pours his melting ditty, And love is a' the theme; And he'll woo his bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame. When the blewart bears a pearl, And the daisy turns a pea, And the bonnie lucken gowan Has fauldit up his ee, Then the laverock, frae the blue lift, Draps down and thinks nae shame To woo his bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame. See yonder pawky shepherd, That lingers on the hill: His yowes are in the fauld, And his lambs are lying still; Yet he downa gang to bed, For his heart is in a flame, To meet his bonnie lassie When the kye come hame. When the little wee bit heart Rises high in the breast, And the little wee bit starn Rises red in the east, O, there's a joy sae dear That the heart can hardly frame! Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame. Then since all nature joins In this love without alloy, O, wha wad prove a traitor To nature's dearest joy? Or wha wad choose a crown, Wi' its perils an' its fame, And miss his bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame? _James Hogg._ * * * * * THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning; Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting, Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,-- "Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." "'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." "Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." "'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. "What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?" "'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." "What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong that old song of 'The Coolun'?" There's a form at the casement,--the form of her true-love,-- And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love; Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly, We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers, Steals up from her seat,--longs to go, and yet lingers; A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother, Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other. Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round; Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound; Noiseless and light to the lattice above her The maid steps,--then leaps to the arms of her lover. Slower--and slower--and slower the wheel swings; Lower--and lower--and lower the reel rings; Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving, Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving. _John Francis Waller._ * * * * * SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. She walks in beauty like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. _Lord Byron._ * * * * * THE WELCOME. Come in the evening, or come in the morning; Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!" I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them! Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom; I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. O, your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer, Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me. We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyry; We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy; We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her,-- O, she'll whisper you, "Love, as unchangeably beaming, And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming; Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." So come in the evening, or come in the morning: Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!" _Thomas Davis._ * * * * * THE BROOKSIDE. I wandered by the brookside, I wandered by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow,-- The noisy wheel was still. There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree: I watched the long, long shade, And, as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid; For I listened for a footfall, I listened 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 wind passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast, silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind: A hand was on my shoulder,-- I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer--nearer-- We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. _Richard Monckton Milnes._ * * * * * MARIANA. "Mariana in the moated grange."--_Measure for Measure._ With blackest moss the flower-pots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden-wall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch: Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The clustered marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarléd bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creaked; The blue-fly sung i' the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about. Old faces glimmered through the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, O God, that I were dead!" _Alfred Tennyson._ * * * * * BUGLE-SONG. The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. _Alfred Tennyson._ * * * * * SERENADE. Stars of the summer night! Far in yon azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps! Moon of the summer night! Far down yon western steeps, Sink, sink in silver light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps! Wind of the summer night! Where yonder woodbine creeps, Fold, fold thy pinions light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps! Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch, while in slumbers light She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps! _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._ * * * * * LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. I arise from dreams of thee, In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright; I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me,--who knows how? To thy chamber-window, sweet! The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream,-- The champak odors fail, Like sweet thoughts in a dream. The nightingale's complaint It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art! O lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail. Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast. Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last. _Percy Bysshe Shelley._ * * * * * NOT FAR TO GO. As upland fields were sunburnt brown, And heat-dried brooks were running small, And sheep were gathered, panting all, Below the hawthorn on the down,-- The while my mare, with dipping head, Pulled on my cart above the bridge,-- I saw come on, beside the ridge, A maiden white in skin and thread, And walking, with an elbow-load, The way I drove along my road. As there with comely steps up hill She rose by elm-trees all in ranks, From shade to shade, by flowery banks, Where flew the bird with whistling bill, I kindly said, "Now won't you ride, This burning weather, up the knap? I have a seat that fits the trap, And now is swung from side to side." "O no," she cried, "I thank you, no. I've little farther now to go." Then, up the timbered slope, I found The prettiest house a good day's ride Would bring you by, with porch and side By rose and jessamine well bound; And near at hand a spring and pool, With lawn well sunned and bower cool; And while the wicket fell behind Her steps, I thought, "If I would find A wife I need not blush to show, I've little farther now to go." _William Barnes._ * * * * * MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, O give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, [Greek: Zôê mou sas agapô.] By those tresses unconfined, Wooed by each Ægean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, [Greek: Zôê mou sas agapô.] By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love's alternate joy and woe, [Greek: Zôê mou sas agapô.] Maid of Athens! I am gone. Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! [Greek: Zôê mou sas agapô.] _Lord Byron._ * * * * * COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer: Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh! what was love made for, if 't is not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I 'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too! _Thomas Moore._ * * * * * A WOMAN'S QUESTION. Before I trust my fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine, Before I let thy future give Color and form to mine, Before I peril all for thee, Question thy soul to-night for me. I break all slighter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret: Is there one link within the past That holds thy spirit yet? Or is thy faith as clear and free As that which I can pledge to thee? Does there within thy dimmest dreams A possible future shine, Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, Untouched, unshared by mine? If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost! Look deeper still: if thou canst feel, Within thy inmost soul, That thou hast kept a portion back, While I have staked the whole, Let no false pity spare the blow, But in true mercy tell me so. Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfil? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still? Speak now, lest at some future day My whole life wither and decay. Lives there within thy nature hid The demon-spirit, change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange? It may not be thy fault alone,-- But shield my heart against thine own. Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day And answer to my claim, That fate, and that to-day's mistake,-- Not thou,--had been to blame? Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou Wilt surely warn and save me now. Nay, answer _not_,--I dare not hear,-- The words would come too late; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So comfort thee, my fate: Whatever on my heart may fall, Remember, I _would_ risk it all! _Adelaide Anne Procter._ * * * * * SONNETS. When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tattered weed, of small worth held: Then being asked where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer,--"This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse--" Proving his beauty by succession thine. This were to be new-made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. * * * * * When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silvered o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves, Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard; Then, of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, And die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence, Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence. * * * * * My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee Time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me; How can I then be elder than thou art? O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary, As I not for myself but for thee will; Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain; Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again. * * * * * As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might. O let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast; Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed. O learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. * * * * * Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing coarse, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest; So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. _William Shakespeare._ * * * * * LOVE NOT. Love not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers,-- Things that are made to fade and fall away Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. Love not! Love not! the thing ye love may change; The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange, The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not! Love not! the thing you love may die,-- May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. Love not! Love not! O warning vainly said In present hours as in years gone by! Love flings a halo round the dear ones' head, Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. Love not! _Caroline Norton._ * * * * * AE FOND KISS. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel, alas! forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,-- Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love forever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met,--or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel, alas! forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. _Robert Burns._ * * * * * BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on, To the haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. _Alfred Tennyson._ * * * * * ASTARTE. When the latest strife is lost, and all is done with, Ere we slumber in the spirit and the brain, We drowse back, in
{'title': 'Minor Poems by Rossiter Johnson', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}