======================================== SAMPLE 1 ========================================
--
And it must be decided.
It must be decided,
And it must be decided.
It must be decided,
And it must be considered.
It will be decided,
Though the hill be steep,
And the dale and forest
Hold the land of sheep.
And it must be decided,
There's a jolt above,
And its paths are narrow,
And its paths are long.
Yes, it is decided,
And it is completely.
All the hills are covered
With grey snowdrifts,
Shaded with a shimmer of misty veils,
And the hills have a shimmer of hills between,
And the valleys are covered with misty veils,
And there lie a vast, grey land, like a queen,
And they are not, in truth, but many and many streams,
O'er the purple-grey sea whose waves are white
As the limbs of a child of ten.  And there
The river stands, like a garden-fair
In the valleys of the north, the valleys of the west,
Blue and green in the summer, and runneth softly forth
To the blue far upland beyond the sea;
And over the high white upland far away
Floats a white and tender water, and wearily
Through the trees the rosiest water-lilies play
In the sun, and rise and fall--the purple and red
Of the streams.  The waters are hidden in their bed
By the stone o'er the darkling hills.  The waters run
Like a ringlet under the stone.  The water flows
Through the rocks like a river, and the stream
Is a ribbon of gold spun by the sun.  It gleams
Like a gold sunbeam shining through the gleam
Of a sudden silver, and silently falls
On the pool, and is lost in the darkling deeps--
Sink, sink in the shadows, ere it flee
Into the darkling depths.  And the waters sleep
In the light of the moon and the silver of dawn,
And silently float past the mountains of heaven.
As we gazed the city fades into the clouds
Of the sky, and we are above the roofs.
And suddenly as the moon, flurrying,
Dazzles the sea with her swan-throated song,
And there is a faint far singing of birds,
And a sound from the land, as of swarming seas,
The grey sea, and the land that hideth rest,
And the sky that hides the lovely green of God.
So we are caught, like the moving sea,
That calleth unto its sleeping
Soft and still, like the moon that calleth
In the twilight depths vast and hoary--
Till we see the City changing toward the dark,
And its changing towers in the distance darken.
In the city is a calm and quiet street,
Full of sunlight, and a smell of rain,
That falls from unseen towers like soft white feet
On sleeping city's rue and misty pane.
There is peace, and a vague peace over death,
And a far-off singing in the city's breath.
And all fair cities must go to dust,
And every body be one tomb--
And all white houses dwindle and grow dull,
And the city's breath is a dull death-blow.
But this place is a place of peace and trust,
And it is but a little street,
Whose idle heads and sunken faces
Are bright with light that makes them bright.
Then it is not alone fair Town that lies,
With open pillared streets beneath a sun,
And many a weary world and dusty town,
And a sunflowers and a great tide onward run
In the blue of the heavens that are not gray,
But only blue and pale, like tender wings
Sailing with wide-spread, languid, luminous eyes.
This place is the very heart of it,
Whose quiet hours with its peace throng
The silent nights and the perpetual sea.
The City slept with her silent towers,
A stream that ran in an idle stream,
And a mist hung at the windows of the tower.
And it was a street--a sunlit dream,
A dream of a world that lay
Open in the summer morning,
And in its heart a joy all gay.
For its sunshines and palaces were there,
Till a wind came softly here.
And it was a new, new city,
A city that arose in the early morning;
That opened its gates on June morning,
With a sunset and a moonrise sweet.
The city was a cathedral;
And out of the sound of the bells and t
======================================== SAMPLE 2 ========================================
 of the world
The best, that, when once dead, is found again.
And what is this?  Where can we find a place,
Save in the solitude, where he may be
The friend of all beneath the sun, and be
An unseen presence, if the traveller's eye
Can follow where he cannot:  there he stands
Dark in majestic pomp, like those whom owls
Could once have told down with a lion's maw.
His form is like his fathers, and the crown
Of all his race:  the very colours are
As his to-day, which we must see and bear;
The only parent is the creature's he.
His face, where we have marked it, is but veiled
In twilight, when we see, and he appears
Himself in all his nature--where, if man
Can recollect, he saw it in the frame:
'Tis clay wherever found--and so is called,
When nature gives him back her clay.  It means
That clay was form'd; but clay is form'd elsewhere;
He needs must feel through all this frame, and, lo,
The horse he rears, is human in his mind.
So too, his nature is a thing apart
From the great Nature, which has made him thus
A likeness of himself:  and he beholds
The creatures that he knows, and not intends
To visit them, and only in their hearts
Deserts them; and if they come indeed,
And if the sea doth bring them, then the man
Is still a child of theirs.  He can recall
His mother's features and the father's look.
And often he has said that he foresaw
The sea, the winds, that he may all at will
Be sea.  In short, the man is all he sees.
He fears the sea may hurt him.
Lashed to the helm,
The ship was in the sea, and, on its moor
And the sails furled, in silence sat the maid
Motionless, like a star; no sound was heard
Save of the distant ocean's fitful hum;
The sounds of tempest came to him, his ears
Mercurially listless, and his heart
Disturbed like a distempered sea; he stood,
And gazed from heaven in an unblest thought;
He had not heard his mother's voice; he gazed;
The mother's look was of a loftier mood;
He had not heard his own; he had not heard
What ever was, where his own heart has been;
He had not understood the very thought
Of his own heart, where life could find no shore.
The sea beats on:  the vessel's bell strikes six:
Dive down, O death! to earth, to heaven! to heaven!
And it is sweet thus to be two souls alone:
Dive down for home, and to the air renounce
The galling bonds of everlasting life
In some lone bark, that, dying, to the last
Are still as death without her:  so to him,
The mother's voice, still sweeter, spoke of home;
And as the young man fell upon her breast,
The mother's oracle, the words of death,
Even as he spoke, a living death arose:
He feels his heart rise, and ascend the sky.
The wreck shall surely reach the sea; he dies,
A mortal change, as earth, in which it was;
And God, though dead, had still a dying man.
But when they parted, he can never die.
There are thousands, yes, there are thousands who,
Without a mother, could not die unheard
Of by a hand unseen:  yet some are sad,
Lonely and wretched here, without a mate;
Or if the grave touch, the great hearts' light
Have no soft touch, even of a brother's grief
Scarce suffered, they shall each a new life yield;
And one, once more on earth, to heaven, or God,
Shall meet his father's face, or bless his grave.
Not vainly on these mocking thoughts he breathes;
They sink to nothing when he sinks to rise:
The tears of fatherly compassion reach
The mother's eyelids, her, but not her eyes.
And now a voice was heard by the wild bird,
With words of comfort from the infant boy.
Oh, had it stayed the angel's birth, and then
Those tresses streaming, would have felt the strain
For the bright star, and for a glorious man.
It is a noble deed:  and, through the world,
Doth woman triumph, though she suffer loss
And poverty and pain, and,
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 the word _toucan_ from the son of the
Schuoucan, and the other works of Otho with such rare
And excellent skill was shown to make the whole thing square.
Ondes and Olenos he showed so kind in their variety,
That many could tell how the work went on together.
And then the oldest monk of the house, the Reverend Friar,
He took with him his Latin; he used all the words of his
own thoughts.
And then there was one more quarrelsome, discordant, and
grim, and savage.
Then there was a hurry of made wings, and a slight
creature took refuge in the forms of foreign and
others.
And now, O my Lord, the years are coming and gone,
And on my bare bones in this life of mine they lie;
I have lived too long and have gladly served wrong, and
with my own hand helped to lift the burden from my
grave.
Last, Lord of the Tabard, I stand upon this height,
With hands together clasped, as is meet for a little night.
Who says the weather is fair as new-mown wheat,
Or the fields as bright as a bride, for her sake we mourn?
Or who seeth the houses of old, in the brisk old manner
and comforting kind?
Or what is the use of us here, for the grass it is dry,
and the skies above?
Or who sayeth "The neighbors shall change the weather by and by,"
And the neighbors--of course not one is free--by and by!
Or who sayeth it down to the roof, and they will
not be found in the way.
When the old bell clacks, and the blind blind comes in with a
soundless tread,
When the last shriek of the unseen is the squeak and the
stifled scream of the dead;
When the house is full of the voice of the homeless and
silent sea,
When the doors are wide with a weary world--and the
little neighbours come.
I long for the ways in which I long to ride, for the
whole-lit woods below;
I long for that quiet air where the restless water
wanders in and out;
I long for those winds where the ocean's breast is a
sheaf of golden thread,
And the soft sweet kisses that fall on the rushes and
seeded scum at my head.
Come down to me, O ye who have no dwelling,
Come down and tell me of my haven, bright and wide,
Of the little garrets that have opened over us,
Of the fragrant ferns that sleep on the slumbrous side;
That ye have nigh forgotten, O ye who fare
For a little season out in the cold and heat,
That ye have nigh forgotten the joy that filled those
glimmerings sweet.
And yet ye shall not forget, O ye who fare
For a little season out in the cold and heat,
That ye have nigh forgotten the bliss that thrilled
you into life.
Come down to me, O ye who have no dwelling,
Hear the story of a house, a lover's home,
A friend who knew that he was all his own,
He loved his father, and he made his name
The founder of his race and held the land in fee,
And knew his heart--He named the house of his
So spake he, and his name it thrilled the more
The wonder in his eyes, and he loved his Master
And worshipped in a place apart from men,
And laid the stones of long ago at birth,
And worshipped when a little child, and then
He heard the well-beloved, the happy cry
That filled his soul with rapture, and he knew
His God was in His wisdom, and His love
And loveliness that made his heart to beat
For a little while, and far away he knew
His God was in His wisdom, and His face
Was full of light and living and his life
As the full tide is in the running stream,
And in the light on golden strand and shore
And leafy island--all that he possessed.
He passed away--the birds made holiday,
And all the wandering things that he had made
The very heart within him woke within him,
And his soul came back to him and said, "Come in,
Come in;" and he said, "Come, now that I forgive him,
Come in"--and at the door he flung himself
Into the dim and silent room that led
In into street and mart and corridor
To his own heart. There they met that day in bed
But they went out together to bed alone,
And
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, _The Deefal-darry_, etc.
_Stor._ Then ye wanner, try it once more,
And when wilt thou find that _Stock_ again,
(Which makes me _ exceedingly sorry_,)
May it be a _Dung-hill_ or _Mate_,
And _Sturger_ of a _Brury_ make,
And may I, in a word, strike on _thee_,
And thou wilt, with yourself, _prejudice_!
_Mephistopheles_. And now, my kindest friend,
I shall at once inform this you,
How, when you see that _Stock_ again,
Thou can'st _still_ give the _husbands_ pain;
And not five steps beyond all comprehension,
Will I warrant that you will not _really_ stare.
_Sturger_, a name whate'er the words are found
When in America thou find'st them,
And thou'lt see before the latter eighty,
I am sure thou'lt feel _within_ the right.
_Hogg_, a name whate'er the word may be,
_Hogg_, father, mother, all these things,
Be thou both helpful, both commanding,
For in this case I _am willing_,
And so will I as well as you.
_Spring-Nile, Fall-Nile_, all things.
_Hush-a-bye, Spring-Nile_.
_My little boy, thy father's good,
And he shall love you to a day,
And thou shalt be my loving boy
When thou art grown to man full dear;
Be this my blessing, that I sing,
My song, my counsel, my adieu!
And as to-day, so with my singing,
My pretty maids, so joy be with us.
But if to-day, when thou art fled,
And comest home for more, thy father
Shall hearken to the raven huzzas
That crows upon the _Ascaurus_,--
Then shalt thou see how in thy wishes
The _Aurora_ loves her _husband_.
_Meli consummate_.
_Hull._ All present days, and future years,
My lovely _Ausora_ will not miss thee.
Thou seest a poor, neglected maiden,
Her beauty is a waste of cares.
But still my _Ausora_ loves her _Ausora_--
And she in time must yield to thee:
For she is but a child of thine own mother,
A child of thine own mother's mother.
_Spir._ O dearest _Meli_, for another--
Thy sister's beauty's only pride!
_Meli_. O, dearest Meli, do not so;
Take not her heart for such a crime.
She is so fair and full of beauty,
That like thine own will be her heart;
Thy portion is in all things so,
And she will soon be hers by part.
_Mephistopheles_. My heart is hard and full of woes,
And yet I know of few, not one,
But, if I did, I would bequeath her
Unto thy mistress from the sin;
And if she needs must be betrayed
That she is jealous as a maid
At home, thy duty to fulfil,
And 'tis the custom of the will.
_Mephistopheles_. Since, maid, it must be right divine
I had before my _Ausora_ thine.
'Tis but a word that is expos'd
To give her heart the rest it can,
But yet it is the gift I seek,
Which I will give her heart to speak.
_Mephistopheles_. A man is not a servant here
To bear the task to my dear relative,
And yet I was forbid to speak so brave,
To ask her for a favor at her hand.
No, she is wrong; she needs a groupe of heart:
I feel it now, and must now, when she dies.
_Enter_ FAUST _in enters, in accents hoarse with _a long formal
introduction_.
_Mephistopheles_. We all have made a little effort, Sir,
to render this young stalwart gentleman
As welcome as a servant worthy to be
The very thing we have.
And to accomplish this I will proceed.
Now I will give him thanks for such sweet words.
_Mephistopheles_. I would give this to thee; no one denies.
He
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,
The good Natura, the chaste Penelope.
Who in her presence, and with loving eyes,
Saw the pure face of health, and how that shine
Seemed changed to beauty; and where, with the light
Of heaven's own glory, she had ceased to be
From the loud tumult of her blinded sight,
Caught the divine, and taught to be divine.
Thence, gentle boy, now gone, I left my home,
And with these friends have left my devious ways,
And to a lonely, dreary woodlands come.
I go the first to offer ever begs
A simple prayer for your ungentle mays;
So have your tears and prayers of love and love,
Unchanged for love of me; and so forget
The sorrows I must bear, that like as yet,
Like yet unpitied, I will mourn above.
There is a little pathway that would lead
For pilgrims safe upon the dusty way;
The way is narrow, but the way is steep,
And we may tread the rocks, as erst at play,
Unharmed,--without a guide,--if anything.
The sun, as erst, was shining on the sea;
But only the red sun, as it rose
And fell again in mist, was lost to me.
We sat there on the hillside by the sea,
The night across the sea, and saw afar
The shore, white with a sandy plain below,
And the white sands, with crumbling capitals,
Where the tall masts like armies perished; saw
The boats, that moved to row in the cold flood,
And the dark armies flying like the clouds
That filled the heaven; and heard the sudden cry
Of peoples hurrying through the desolate sky,
Like waves that rise above the wrecks of ships
That leave their ancient lodges dark and high.
To-night along the road, I miss these things;
The rain, the rain, the wind; still runs the gull;
The mottled lightning flashes on the trees;
The mill below; the masts, that all day long
Crests the brown masts, and towers among the clouds;
The rain and sun; I look, but see no more
The rain, the rain, the wind, the wind above;
The mottled lightning flashes through the air;
The masts are gone; their sails are strewn with green;
And round me round the world, the sun and moon.
"How can I leave you, ye poor honest folk,
For one brief, happy moment? nor regret
The briefer bliss that I possess to-night?
O, I can leave you, every wretched joke
Upon this present life, since you despise
The present joys, and grieve that ye abound
So wretched as to leave one little hoard
Of senseless wealth, one little hoard of joys,
To be sent back again, to be sent forth.
But leave the rest to Fate, or rather live
A little lane in Heaven's sunshine, where
Some day we two may meet, and learn to know
What endless mirth-inspiring choristers
Are like the soothing song of one sweet child.
I am no king; yet all men's hearts are brave
Against the great and mighty odds that hurt
Our single lives, and we may well turn back
To the long roads we came from. Many a time
We've drunk to Heaven of Heaven's peace; nor faint
After long years of patient wandering on,
And always yearning, still in mind for home.
If we could leave the world, O, very soon
We'd die, unless the world went back to us,
And all the evil days of life go by.
And then, perhaps, we'd die; for we could leave
This world of sorrows, and at last a world
Of little pleasures, and a single heart,
And the tired head, the weary head, the weary form.
Then, that we'd live together for a year,
And live apart from all our world would seem;
That we would have a joy apart from all
The troubles of the world, and one regret
For what we were,--a tear would hold us back,
And one regret grow into perfect joys.
As one who has been glad, and knows not how
That he must leave his home, nor if he come
And his old country, he must see the past
And future years, and his fair name too fair.
But now he must behold another scene,
Such as he sees before him as he turns
The gleaming globe of nature in the sky,
Or in the sky alone, but makes it dim.
So, through the world, O
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._ Why, it's quite clear what do you think?
If I were up next week in Regent Street--
_The Townshelf_ should be busy pretty soon--
All the next week, I think, I'll see the job.
_S'posing S. loosins._ And I'll take the place,
We'll see what lets me have to say the least.
_State Spirits._ I'm sure I don't understand!
The way I take is not so delicate.
_Cor._ You'd better look at it yourself.
_Cor._ No doubt! Most likely. _S. W. T._
How? I'm not sure; I guess 't would be too quick
To make such guys at all in Sixty-three.
I've never seen the beat since Regent Street!
_State Spirits._ Why, this was why they didn't know.
The only writer who can write, without
The greatest pain of life, is writing _The Poet_.
_Cor._ To do the same instead of writing _The Bookworm_, do.
We are in Lincolnshire at nine o'clock
And have done as many sorts of scholars
As I think it is right to call a Mayor
That didn't notice much of Dean Swift's Odes.
With Mr. Gaunt he writes so,
That, without the least encouragement,
It is all one way wrong to speak for.
At any rate, we can't afford to boast,
This era calls us to try an action
So noble, with the slowest steps to earth
That ever travelled at St. Martin's.
So, I don't object to style it right,
For I am ready to essay it.
_State Spirits._ I'm not prepared to say a word,
And I am not prepared to say,
But I am willing to essay
What I can ne'er accomplish.
_State Spirits._ To attain admission!
The power of the author must then be sought.
It is his power that forms the word:
He will not be found dead who has written "The Book,"
With as much guile as he could find
As you would his true genius know.
His works, however, he's delighted to spoil,
And is delighted to know what a master he will
To do at the publication of any new volume.
Then you can tell it, I pray,
For I am ready to essay it.
I have done the work for the true poetic style.
_Mephistopheles._ The original. Now, pray, what have I to fear?
_Eld. Bro._                                                       CLOT.
_John._ And the devil has left no devil himself!
_John._ How say you?
_F. Bro._                                                      G.
_John._ I have heard your story
And I believe you true to the truth,
At a certain price, as the devil did.
_John._ If the devil has left no devil himself
You must have a task for it.
_Count._ But I would it were easy to deny,
If the devil has left no devil to do it.
_Mephistopheles._ If the world has a devil with him
You must work for a good end.
_John._                                                    G.
_John._ There's an example of this,
That is, what we sometimes call it,
An adventure against the devil.
_John._ This is a man's method, though;
And the devil knows an other,
That is, what is, and what was,
What the devil knows of the other.
_John._ Well, I see so, too, so lately.
The devil can't do it.
_Mephistopheles._ Othere, in whose face I see nothing!
Do you think it is hell?
_John._ Never mind that. You mean to say nothing.
I'm a devil indeed.
_John._ I'll not have it so.
_Appius and Titius! Oh, no!

======================================== SAMPLE 7 ========================================
, at
last, by having a short excursion to the city, he has been
supposed to find his punishment.
(continued)
(continued)
(b)
(b)
The next is to be considered for the second occident; for the
season, which follows, however, points to the end of the book, not
(absconding)
(b)
"There are many persons in this book certain whom I have mentioned,
who are in the first place, I think, have arrived late at
blanch, I see, in this country to be in succession a separate
minister. On this grain (which I have brought from the seas
of the east) they are making their attack.
(c)
(ab) I note in what is said to be certain of them that is
charging with shot; whereas I intend to see how the men do
proceed, according to three orders. The second is also
another; on the other, a moredirect and subtle enemy of the
(e) awaits the destruction of the southern land.
(b) Heark, hark!
(c) Heark, heark, I have heard huzzaing of huzzaing and of blows. In
this country [near the]
(b) Heark, hark!
(c) Heark, hark !
(da) 'I am not to be shot after this.'
(a) Deirdre, a famous general, and I know, have yet fled before
them, and in plain terms they agree, I fear, with incredible
understanding of those who were to come to the aid of the
(e) Thrale, in some small sense of decency.
(e) Recollect, then, what I shall now publish; for I think it
generous to both the subject and to the reader, when the
reader is satisfied.]
But it came into my power to remember, how one day I first
(e) returning from the sea had led my barque into the ocean.
"And I sat down before the sea, and with many a sigh
And oft-times thought to leave off, as one who was confused with
me. I could not help but laugh, knowing it was the sea which
drives and devour'd my vessel in such wise as I was at that
point. Thereafter I was gone about in my ship and was left
behind, and I came to my own country, as was the custom of the
kingdom, when, with the wind's aid, it cut the water through
out among the rocks, and the waves broke up all the vessels,
and the ship was moreover voyaging over the wastes of the sea.
Then came to my own country a certain warrior, a man good, well
speaking, but a very bold hero, Cteatus, who was not of the
following family; whereupon I told them all my history and
thirty-six times told them me; that with his vaunt they
might have been less dared to stand against the whole in the
against the will of the ships, and I had my eye upon the
wicked ship. My men, therefore, soon as they reach'd the land,
reached Ithaca, but came to them disguised and insolent,
stout Eurymachus, who, disguised as a skilled chevalier,
following his lord, whom he gave me when he took me to his
obstacles, and he was very rich and very wise. As we
passed the [surrounded by mountains], so great the virtue was
when we came to the place where the ship was first named, and
roamed in an inner court, and the people all crowded into a
place. The men of the ship drew in my sail, and stood by my side,
staunch of limb he well knew, that my vessel was lost, and
was carried back in the deep by a long sandal. He said that
he would go back to his own country, and that he should
fall into the deep, and leave his son behind him, to gaze at
the time of his death. He too promised in my house the gods
to let him, so he promised that whatever should be his, should
have his way home. As for these things, he showed no favour at
his hands, but sat with his own eyes, expecting the gods'
desire. Thus I say, and thus I tell thee what answer the
father of gods and men went on from the land, and spoke the word
beware lest thou hear it, and it shall soon be foretold,
that the gods all perished in the sea.
(ll. 577- hesitant) As for the returning of Od
======================================== SAMPLE 8 ========================================
.
This night as of the year I think of her,
But as the day of April weather
A full and loving look she gave me,
And, on my knees, I felt her fingers,
As of a tune the harmony suspended,
Shed light and hope and odors from her
That o'er the chords responsive came.
And so, as that night came, as before,
I think of her, and, as I think of her,
Love's lightest pulse within me responds
To that blest assurance and assurance,
Which now, with all its store of rapture,
I see, in the long night of rapture,
My blissful spirit will assume.
The night hath fallen, the moon is setting,
The stars are high above my head;
The earth is wet with morning dew;
The shadows on the meadows o'er it
Are drawn as by a passing wraith.
The stars are beauteous, and all the stars are
The heralds of a nuptial bed;
But, oh, my soul, how full of dearest
Is thy long-lost, sweet maidenhead!
I know a maiden fair and free,
Who is not fair to outward view
In any land: no, no, her face
Her eyes are dim to earthly joy,
And all the hopes of love she trace
In her deep heart are well employ'd;
I know a maiden bright and blest,
By slumber never chain'd or press'd,
Who walks where nought are chill and cold,
And looks not on the earth with love.
Who to the holy virgin's breast
Her holy limbs and virgin breast
Has drawn and taught the way of rest;
I know a maiden pure and true;[U]
And every childless hour she knew
Is taught the way to purest joy,
And all their dearer joys below
To sanctify the vow which is
The blessed boon of maidenhood.
The nightingale is heard no more
To lure her lover from her nest:
The nightingale is left no more
To circle down an earthly nest:
I know a maid so wildly blest,
Though every day some cruel foe
Had stung her with his darting dart;
And she will love, and she will do,
And she will cherish fond desire,
As mother once caress'd a dove;
And I will follow, though afar,
On wings of love, and songs of joy,
And follow still, along the star,
The lonely maiden's path of fire,
To hear the thrilling whispers say;
I know a maid so wildly blest,
Who is not fair to outward view
In any land: no, no, her heart
Is innocent and innocent:
I know a maid who loves not me,
Who loves not me, nor loves indeed:
I know a maid who lives not free,
Who loves not me, nor loves indeed:
I know a maid whose love is free--
A shepherd's life on sunny days,
A maiden's lot who early vows,
And vows of love just warm and sure;
Who has no peer, who loves not me,
Yet I will wed whom I approve.
A maid who loves, but hath not heard
A lover's vows, a soldier's word;
Who hath no peer, who loves not me,
Yet I will wed whom I approve.
Be shepherds' mistress, so divinely bright,
Come when the dawn of rapture calls you by;
And let not even a cloud of care,
Nor sorrow's dark disheart'ring gloom,
Your dear eyes be your only star;
Oh, come when morning holds the sway,
And every sorrow wears an easy crown;
And come when lust of conquest stains
The sleeping rose of conquest, and her crown.
The roses of thy lips grow there
With every virtue dear;
And like the breath of Spring is thine,
Sweet odors from the lovely vine,
That bend life's journey while they shine,
And guard it as 't were cold and dead,
If pure and white they bloom not red.
The rose of beauty, for that thy lips
Resemble sweet its scentless fire
From pearly stone to amber fair,
And, lip to cheek, its soul unite
In one long syllable of love,
Which speaks the hour of maidenhood.
Oh! come to me, and tell me so
Of all sweet things that Love hath done;
Of all Love's words, and of his bow,
And of his arrows and his sun;
And of his storm, and of his smile;
And of his sighs, and of his kiss
Blent both in thee
======================================== SAMPLE 9 ========================================

But _he_ will _not_ be ever,
If he is faithful;
_She_ will be faithful.
If any man will trust his friend,
Give him a helping hand, I say,
And tell him he's my friend,
For he'll be honest.
The little girl on the old house there,
Was not long in appearance;
She was not fit to be the smallest flower
That curled up in the wood from the crush,
Nor yet was she far from well;
She was not cross, nor yet disheartened,
But still in her early youth,
And the high grace that graces a woman
Comes back to her as in the clover
Athwart the year's nocturnal sun;
No shape can be so lovely, no face so sweet
As the dark eyes that never meet,
Nor the step so slow, as the step that touches
The heart or the mind with its silken feet.
But, oh! they were happy, the tears were a-plenty,
The lashes a-dance on the cheeks of a boy,
And the boy's mirth a-tinkle and clover-bell;
His mirth was as sweet as the voice of a rill,
When summer is over and summer is over
And summer is lost in the gladsome gold of the hill.
There is always a song where the roses are glowing,
There is always a hint in the warm summer air,
There is always a wistful note in the song growing,
And the lilt of the lark as it rises and goes,
While the sun of his life and the sky of his soul
Are as hot to his heart as his breath to his hair.
Why do you ever try to match the wild air?
Why do you ever stop and look at the sky?
Why do you ever think of the sky
And go away so soon?
O! do you ever feel the sun
And go away so soon?
O! when the flowers of green
Are lost in the evening breeze;
And in one spot to-day
The air is heavy with bees--
The heaven is bitter with bees;
Ah! it was a cruel world
And we were never free:
We were born within a world
Of wilders and degree;
And where we went we know
What we have learned to be.
When the sun has laid his gold
Dew upon the flowers,
And the days are long and cold
Where the shadows slumber,
Then my soul will stray away
To the quiet village,
Where the children play;
And my tears will fall like rain
On the stones that over it
Stood in the early spring,
When the early summer's past,
With the sun a-dancing,
And the days were long
As the sun and the sky and the sun of the days!
Do you ever think of the sky
And its quiet splendour?
O! there is no place like this
Where our hands have conquered
Time and place can never be
That is better than the sky,
And is better than the sea.
Where the trees are snapping
Their boughs of clover,
And the birds are trilling
Their notes of lover.
Where the snow is whitest,
And the wind is most cruel,
There's no place like this
Where my heart can live;
Is not there the heaven
Where one face could live?
Do you ever know the sky
Or its glories only,
When the grass grows green
And the leaves are seen
Singing blithe and cheery
And kisses light as they?
Do you ever feel the dew
Where one face could meet
When the sun and the wind and the rain are glad
That it brings the happy rain?
Do you ever feel his kiss
Sweeter than the swallow
That in April's bowers is spilled
On the hills or the meadows -
Where the rose is red
And the lilies are blest,
Than in summer's heat
And love is the dream of the sun at his set.
Do you ever breathe low
As though he were kneeling,
As though he were seeking
For one face to meet our eyes,
Do you ever feel the dew
That makes tears from the eyes of the sun at his set?
As though his hands were strong to hold
The flowers that round his feet
Shall live when the days are young,
And he lives not for you and me,
O! do not leave your heart a-throb
When summer is over and gone,
For your heart is young with love
And your love to know;
Do not leave your heart a-flame
When summer is over and gone
======================================== SAMPLE 10 ========================================
.  The first edition of this poem is identical with the
the second, as it is manifest in the _AEgæ_ of Iülus, which
is said to have been written at the bottom of the river Peneus,
as Eurydiclus and the father of the sons of Autos, which was a
good place.
"But now again, when the moon is at full,
And no stars brighten, and no moon is near,
Why do we fear, lest everything that is so fair
Should some strange trouble on the world begin?
What, then, is famine, pestilence, or pain
To us, that have the generations yet?
See, see, the birds that build their nests again
About the bed of some old man and beast!
A thousand years are coming in thy mood,
And man is weary of his tedious toil,
And what his friends of old have done, are good."
--On the same night Flood and Pharisee were playing in the streets,
And with the same bright torch, the same light,
And the same sun, and she brought up one day
A long black settle in the river near,
And dropped a bitter tear in greeting there,
And she said, "I shall stay there for a year
But these three ships are coming home again,
And there is one that lives a thousand years;
And he that is a man must stay at home,
And he shall not stay long, and I have gone
And left them to another."
'Odysse' had come to Pindus on the twelfth day of the voyage of
"The third time that your lips touched," replied she
"Then you should have spoken with my mother so
That I myself might have offended you,
And when the waves beat at their break you would say,
'You are not here--you are not there, you say.'
"There is a new thing growing in your heart--
To live with you in company, you and I."
--For the third time she looked up, and when she
Found you most lonely she said, "How are you?"
But when the fourth time, "All the questions ended
Our long talk was the same as to the three;
So for all we could answer, she answered, 'Yes;
My mother says that there is nothing wrong
But God in heaven, and God, in the Heaven,
Give you a strong hold on our strong hands, for I
A strong hold on it.'
And this one day, O woman, when you cried
To her that had no name, she held the key
Of her heart and went about her way.
How could she ask her heart what I had done?
And who absorbed her heart, and who had been
In my house, what could I have said to her,
If she had never loved?"
"Yes, it is true," said Una, "and I knew
That there were many times a little home
To hear you tell so often, and a child,
You would have called it harmless." He replied
That it was foolish. And her speech indeed
Was but the tongue which all unstrange things show
Beneath the moon and stars. And so she said,
'I will be true to you, and then to you.'
And she looked farther up, and saw in dreams
Her father sitting still upon his bed;
And heard him say, 'When death comes, and can life
Be only what the dead love is, and then,
Why do you make your children desolate
And go away again? That was not you,
Not I who had no children?' "You were kind,
And I know sorrow may not be again.
But now I know he is unhappy now.
We should be happy, yet no heart-felt pangs
Tore out my heart, and made me think of things.
And I have had my play with books and flowers,
And I have known sweet thoughts, which of their own
Hath power to drown the anguish of the dead.
You do but come in April, after all,
When blossoms are upon us, and the sun,
With all the world's best hopes in the long hours,
But we are sick and weary, and we run
As we who run.
I have some fears, for, when the strong sun sets,
There came a day when birds were singing, and
The rose-tree by the road led thro' the wood,
And the brown meadow over all the grass
Was healed with dew.
With every morn the dew had disappeared,
And the whole wood grew bright, not even the ferns,
And yet no birds were singing in the wood,
Only
======================================== SAMPLE 11 ========================================
, on her hands; and the
soul of the mother. There are many ways of saying these
things in the tongue. When I was alone, and knew you were only
your nurse, I called on you and said, "My dear, how do you know
what I have to say?" and you answered, "My dear, how do I know
you?" and I went on with you--every night we learned of you.
It is not the hour of dawn, the little birds still sing through
the dusk, and the sweet grey light of morning plays on the
sea-beach. It is the hour of the meeting of many hands.
I was alone here; I had no word to give you.  You were so
wonderful that I never said anything to you of you. You spoke
from your depth of longing to-morrow, and I came to you to
whisper that you might not be afraid--that I might not be afraid.
I was alone here in the night, and my prayers could not reach
you in my waking. I was weary of light and I had no strength
to raise my eyes, and my eyes were heavy with tears. I was hungry
with thirst; my body had no strength, nor yet I knew you.
Where you went I was alone, tired, and sitting among the
shepherds.
The night passed out of the sky and I found you at your feet
and bending among the reeds. You had tired me of the long
sway of the reeds, and tired of the long hunger that
throws all hunger into slumber.
Your feet were tired, hungry, tired of the long hunger that
throws all hunger into perfect rest. The long hours you
harked for were worn out with all that loneliness after
and had your hour of sleep. It was long, long before you had
passed from us.
I lay still and strove to wake you to weep, but always you
laid your head on my hands and took up my prayers. It was
time for you to go back to Phoenicia, where your father
left me but a month ago, and you had nine months been away.
There is a wall which has no crevice and narrow not a single
vice in the way.
At last the wind sweeps through the trees and cuts them down,
and cuts them sheer across the marsh. The water breaks
into tatters and makes a splash in the water, and the reeds
tumble in and out to the shore.
You can see the reeds all fringed with crimson and yellow,
half in front, and half back to the shore.
When your watchman comes back from the water in the dead of night,
and all the doors are closed before you, and the cold and
weary soil is moist beneath your feet, you will find the
fountain sweet with water.
When the stars are shining, and the sky is clear above,
and the sky and the marsh are sprinkled with white water,
and the water carries you along its white breast, through the
hills and the great hills, and the warm sand flows over the
passing plains; and the sky is like a blue sky that has no
visions of any sky.
When the dusk is done, and the earth, deep churning in sleep
with the ancient ocean, bursts upward into flame, like a
sword at the wind's great smouldering. Then, when the sun
comes in the east, and the hills are strewn with light,
when the land is all still and deep with shadows, and
the marsh is like a white face pressed to the edge of the
countryside, the marsh rears its crest and pushes its
flanks in the wind in the east.
O my heart! my heart! my heart! when we two meet no more, and
meet no more, I am so old that life will seem a long while
forgotten at last.
You never knew a more divine or divine being, and you never
taken from it its happy and immortal youth. It is like a
Song, with thy strings around my heart, thy myriad
fluttering garments, O my heart, I love, you are like
this, I love thee evermore.
O my heart! my heart! I feel thy wings in my body. O my
love, my heart!
O my heart! my heart! where hast thou been? O my love, my
love, my love, my love, I am in the arms of men.
Thou art my heaven, my soul, my body, my body, my
love, my love, I am in the arms of God.
The earth-shaking God through his golden fingers beckoned into
her, through his magic hand
======================================== SAMPLE 12 ========================================
, etc.
When I have given above the heads
Of these my works I'll have a show,
And though they be to thee a store,
Send them here o'er the world to thee,
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that would not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Slight Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Mysterious Spirits! that will not stay
Till they have gathered many a lay,
Sweet breathing from thy native air;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not stay;
Proud Spirits! that will not stay;
Proud Spirits! that will not stay;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not stay;
A voice I hear this passing night,--
In the deeps of the dark--there's a lonely spot in the dark.
The day is cold and grey,
As on our paths we stay;
But who is there to say
That night will be to-morrow?
Our hearts grow light and lighter as they bear us along,
And, on our watch-fires' light,
No other thought we keep
But to look back upon the weary watches of the night.
"How long, O Lord! how long
Since thou, with labor and pain,
Hast suffered and laboured and paid thy servant's wages."
All that is worthless and base,
And false, and false, and true,
From those dull chambers of chantry, shame, and shame,
Toil, and reproach, and sin!
The watch-fires' feeble light
We must not even pace,
But follow their watch-fires on every Sabbath night.
Through them we march to-day,
Or sometimes through thy holy ways
May all thy children pray
That they would stay and pray,
Till the darkness fell, and the daylight vanished away.
Till through them come the sins
Of earth's deep-hidden ills,
And all the travail of frail souls
Great mourning fills.
But, at the last and least,
The people pray around
That the scourge of the just be cast
From out the hands of the Lord.
Their prayers for the Lord in prayer
That He still rule the day,
And still the watch-fires brightly burn and light the way.
Till, at the last, the light
Of light, in darkness lost,
Shall shine, O Father! upon all thy children's light.
No longer the bells toll
Above the cottage roof;
No longer the children weep
In sorrow's ancient gloom;
No longer the watchmen raise
Their hands from the lonely tomb;
No more let in the gloom
The firefly firemen's warnings come;
The day hath dawned;--the long, long night is past,
The day hath come and gone,
And like the last smile of the dawn
The city sinks at last.
What is that tranquil brow,
Gleaning with joy and pleasure?
What is its soft light now?
Is it the light of summer?
Is it the fragrant glow
Of opening heaven's doors?
What is the dear delight
That follows after?
And can it be the last
Of all the splendor and gladness
That fills the earth and sky,--
These innocent eyes, these lips of hers,--
Those innocent eyes?
The moon, serene and still,
Looks o'er the city's wall;
But she looks up to the tower,
And hush'd is the mother's heart,
And she will see her children's smiles,
As the white folds of a robe,
Are clasping their mother's arms,
And she will feel, as the midnight hour,

======================================== SAMPLE 13 ========================================
,
The day arrived, the hour that brings surcease.
He saw the matin bell peal forth its message,
And, with his soul in danger, spoke the message:
"Dost thou not hear it, O my trembling heart?"
He turned, and as he spoke, the bells were sounding,
Held fast the door and opened with a clang.
The dead man's voice, like music, on the gable
Was like the voice of one, ten thousand fathoms:
"Dost thou not hear the death-bell's iron chime?"
"The arabes of the villeggi' moil," said Bofe,
"O, let me breathe on the dead man's corse."
But the wild cries of the accursed Monarch,
When the last trumpet sounded from the tomb,
Fierce anger in the look of Whittington
Gaped as he answered, "Blessings for thy home!"
"It is not the dead man's hour," quoth Earl Hugh,
"I, only the king's man, wot if this is true.
O, it is not the young king's birthday hour,"
Said Camden; "'tis the good man's birthday hour!"
Then, with a rush of words, he vanished,
Leaving the slumberer in a swoon
Before the step of the pale King, who muttered;
"Yes, it is time, then, O my friend, my man!"
"I have a father," whimpered Camden;
"A brother, if a sire slew not his son
I give him an ancestral name."
"Ay, but my father," answered Camden,
"He hath a noble name.
The lord that called him forth was a brother
"Good! my father, I will go with thee,
Take me upon thy knee."
"Go, little one, go!" he cried, "but stay,
There is no death," said Camden;
"But thou, whose name shall all the world be,
Hast thou no name for me?"
The pale King screamed, his great heart breaking,
Forth through the iron town he swept
Beside a cold hearth-stone.
"God, let me bear thy name," said Camden,
"Ever my name to me."
"Nay, I shall name thee, O my friend, my friend!"
"Nay, I did wrong thy child," said Camden;
"All day, for truth, I would go with thee."
"But then the thought came, thou shalt be dead."
"Nay, I have wronged thee" ... Charles began.
Sudden, before his face, the stones
Shattered their wraps and tossed about;
And, like a thought in the brain that cloys,
From a live man, that bodily doubt,
Whispered that soul-red light in his,
"Give me my name for life, I pray thee,
For death's dark valley after my own name."
"Then let thy name be an echo
Of every word I speak about," said Camden;
"And let thy name be a dream on me,
A hope, a hope.
"O give me name for love," said Camden;
"The name of girlhood, the name of truth."
"Nay, what is the name?" said Camden;
"The name I speak of is Death," said Camden.
"And what is the name?" said Camden;
"The name I speak of is Death," said Camden.
"Nay, no name!" said Camden;
"Nay, nothing. It is Love," said Camden.
Sudden and still, like a clamour
The silence came and went.
No sound came out of the shadows,
And no sound of the long-gone days.
"Now, what is the name?" said Camden;
"The name I speak of is Death," said Camden.
A thousand years ... still more and more
Rolled down and vanished into gloom.
The shadows were worn with a deeper weariness,
And they crept to the couch, and crept, and crept;
It is over, the years have piled the corses
And covered the grass with a summer's heaped.
And where should the lad sit and rest his bones,
Not a chair would move, and no boy would talk?
And one would smile, in the gloom of a room,
But one would go blind with a hundred eyes.
For life has been one day, a thousand years,
And the sun rose and walked on the hills,
And the wind went whirling like a flail;
The leaves broke and fell like the pennons;
And the yellow leaves fell like flakes of dust;
======================================== SAMPLE 14 ========================================
 on the bank--
Hawk--Bayard--the bat that flew!
And the big-bellied frog, Bill Owl,
Heard their speech, and went to graze,
Till he nearly killed himself,
And, with holes in his ugly eyes,
Looked at poor fighting flies!
But in vain; for pigs, I guess,
Are not cunning enough
To take counsel of me to break
The silence that lies below,
My boots and his pipe I know,
Being one that's but ill at ease,
And the other--but see him, please,
I can't catch a squeak alive,
And they're both so sharp and sharp, Will't,
Very much better than his teeth!
How the big-bellied frog, Bill Owl,
Heard them say that he was dead,
And when he awoke, how bold
And how full of fear he was,
How his eyes were wild and bright
With a gleam of sunny light!
Now he is all black and white.
It's only our little ball
That holds his legs and all
This long day under the ground!
He is stretched on the log at the foot of the hill!
And, after a while, I'm sitting still,
With the weight of the shade on his heavy arm,
Upon the mud-hued ridge of the hill--
Oh, there is the quiet, you hear, of the sea!
And the big red sun is a-shining down,
As he journeys down to the fairies' town,
Leaving his pipe behind him;
And there's the sort of talk, at the edge of the town,
Of the men and the talk of the cattle and ships,
When he's moving along like a wink in his eye,
And you see they have business to try and fly.
You're a-shouting, and I'm thinking now,
Of the men and the talk of the cattle and ships
That I am in league with the folks to be,
When they come to the store with the things you see.
I'm sure they all don't look like those days,
And you'll think that the men who don't know.
The little boys and the little girls
Have just turned wrinkled and wise,
And more like the big fat-faced girls
That only the children can see.
So here is the end of you, Bill;
Let it be as it may please you,
For we cannot be happy now
In the ways of the olden scenes.
The man who thinks and the woman who dreads
Has only a care to make good his days.
The man who thinks and the woman who dreads
Has only a thought for a while,
While the brown cow follows her, day and night
That is only a moment of fright.
And the little old man in the lumber-bed,
For something has happened to be,
Has noticed the woman, and noticed her face
Was freshest, and freshest, and best,
As it seemed, till the moment it passed,
Looking just how red it was; so he thought
He had seen her last Summer come
With a vision of her, the tall rooster's crow,
That trims his eyes and his elbows is blue and bright,
As she looks with a look of delight
On the great sleek building that made him so glad,
When in school he was reading aloud
The Man in the Moon so young;
That made a most elegant remark
On the monkey in pink and black.
This picture of dirt, and of mud, and of clay--
He had seen it before!  And he felt sure
He had seen it before!  And his boyish glee
Compelled him to think he had never been there
Till some picture of dirt it was set on.
The monkey he rose at the woman, and said
That the picture was real, and behaved like a bird;
And he said, "It is quite absurd!"
Then he made himself known to her so by his word:--
"This picture of dirt, and of rubbish--oh, hush!
It was good in this world, that you did, when it gave
Me your beauty, you took it with you and me,
And we made it a beautiful prize, you and I."
Then his mother, his sister, his own boy, who bore
To what use of the world, said, "That's more than you know;
Take and use it and use it; as glad as before,
It will take the old age of my beauties, and grow
To a beauty that others would choose for a while,
And a sweet little beauty, though ugly, to smile.
But the monkey, he spoke
======================================== SAMPLE 15 ========================================
 of the best clothes to appear.
The most suitable to the costume, and the more beautiful, too,
As it was, in the last year, I met it with a Mr. appearance, in
It was then, "Miss Meoney," that I had my pocket's turned over;
And I can't remember what it was when I went out to the water, with
the water, from which I had just discovered it, I found it by no
In the next year, however, it was my prospects of getting back on
I have been all those years in which I had to keep my temper in
turtle, and the next, but by the way, the same way; and I have
been to get the first big party, and had to kill the master
whom I had killed among half my families, or in which some
biscuit, and now that I am a little old, can only be remembered,
again I find them anyway, and I will not have them take the
presents to me or take the kind of wormwood out of me, or
go about into the public streets to learn their names from me.
It would be equally engaging for me if I had had my head first
But to return to the first and the proper kind of people, the
I will not have no time to practise any more than that.
I will be a kind of connecting link between the gentlemen and the
I do not know what to think and what to think, or whether to
observe this ignorance.
I can only leave my own opinion on men and women, or to leave
them untranslated, and to be an edifying gab and a pipe.
I do not like being always jealous; I have to-night, at any rate,
for having one's judgment of the irremediable injury.
You look superinticerently at your two fine eyes; you look at my
propped upon a stool; you see I am naturally wrapt in my cap;
I do not like being enraged at the idea that I am a man; I
make no exception to my habitual opinion of the more diaphanous
The fact which you conceive is this: that I mean more than I do.
You seem surprised to say: if you are not prevented, you will
never be surprised, for I've a thousand tongues as well as any
truthful person.  To my wish I cannot be permitted to use a
If I do not wish to see my friend, you needn't make him, like
wedding; I hope him well will excuse you; and if he succeeds
into your knowledge and makes you consider the more as the
more anything.
I will find the proof that you believe was the motive I have learned
to complete in speaking of the different principles in life; but
by your coaxing, I say to you, I see a man either alive or not.
You don't want to hear the story of a man--a man whose work is
quite important; you never know how far he goes, nor how long he
gives a poor one's credit.  He will, in the taking in, say all he
possessions of his master and of his mistress are yours.  If you
take a flute of music you have the right to find a flute of
newly cut, and if you have a flute of sweet metheglin--a piece of
imperishable oakwood and a white flute, and unless you die of
blinding that you have done aught to make the thing look stale--
even before you die of casting a flute can and will, I think
you are a man of great concern.  If you play at evening and
can play at night, you will find that you are a poet, and there
are no great deal like him.  You look at your own songs, and
see what is there to tell you.  If you play at evening and go
on the heave of the tune, you will find that you have seen
"A good night and a fair day for you, lady."
The door of the parlour and the rustling fountain stopped
greeting her; she was so beautiful and kind, she had
heard all that had happened; her eyes were all blue and bright,
and her hair was all free when she was asking of the company
who had just come to visit.  She found her lover lingering
close by; they found her all neglected, but it seems that
he had not been there.
They took their seats and sat down by the water in further
drunkenness.  She was so overcome with grief, that her
eyes were filled with tears and so wasted that she turned
to the wall, and called for her father; but he
======================================== SAMPLE 16 ========================================
,
You've not the time to lose
When the door has cried at you!
But you may remember well,
It was in the days of old,
A-many merry meetings
That they took in to take the air,
And I--I had a dream
That the little room
Was a place in which they spoke,
And the room had room
For an old man out to seek.
Then the old man saw and knew
Though he said at once
That his heart was never in
Where the shadows now are dim
And it was but a thought;
And he said: "There is no place
Where I'd not my face,
There are no friends to share with me,
And only friendship there.
There's a room in which I'll meet
And my friends I'll make at home,
And my friends I'll travel in,
Will understand and love
When they talk about my name."
So he climbed up on that floor,
And he pushed me off with a roar,
But he couldn't see me again
Till I turned and was glad again.
Then he cried: "He'll come to us!"
But he couldn't see me now.
For the door was open wide,
And I knew he was alone.
Then the old man made a call,
But he looked and he did not fall;
When he got up he stood appalled.
Then he cried again and cried:
"What a mess to go to see!
There's that house in here. They're there."
And that was on the kitchen door
Then he shook his head and cried,
And he don't think I am asleep
Though the little boys are wise.
But I'm sure they never had
Such a chance as that. They sent
For us to see the baby there.
And we were told that both of us
Had at first no need of care,
And I knew we'd got no estate
After that. But I did not
Sit and kiss my little hand,
If I had no heart to say,
Though I was so young and gay,
Though I'd put away my pride,
And find out that I have died,
Too late for the world to know
It is only when we know,
The spring is coming slow,
This only thing
That I know.
And yet I know
This is the thing,
And I like to go
Where my dear one stays
Without a fear.
The frost has pierced my breast
And burned across my face;
The heat has left my cheek,
And turned my lips to stone;
Yet still my kisses lie
As he could kiss them, one by one.
When you come home again to me,
Come with your soft grey eyes;
For oh, how beautiful
These faces are, alas!
With your brown hands and white teeth,
Your lips curled black and red;
You are more beautiful
Than his own eyes and his,
But not the mouth that speaks.
He was singing a song of Springtime
When a wild, glad, amorous breeze
Caught from his yellow locks,
And swept like an Indian sea-bird,
Dropped on the swaying trees,
And fluttered like a bird,
And drifted away
Into the rosy deeps.
Out across the dreaming sunlight
He went as one who dreams;
Sighed a song he can not sing.
"Spring is over,
And Summer will be over,"
He said. But his dream was light.
Blooms covered his hands
And his face was hidden under
The shadow of his dreams.
But now the storm goes on,
The wind blows cold and loud;
Blooms covered his hands
And his face was all a-stone,
Blue-green, blue-green,
With great big brown arms and pale blue eyes.
"There is only a name for you, Dear," he said.
"I am tired of talking," he said, "or a line.
I want to be a lover with a kiss, Dear," she said.
In love we parted yester-year, long ago.
I thought a happy thing upon my poet's lips
To stay forever for a little while,
And think, a moment on that careless bliss,
I hardly dreamed that I coud see again, Dear,
I knew myself, Dear, since the world grew so old,
And the baby that I loved with a laugh could hold, Dear.
I have forgotten how far off, dear, I know--
Love grew upon me, Dear,
Like a great, red, gold serpent
That sucks my heart,
And draws it and it--
And so I am alone.
The wind has left the roses
======================================== SAMPLE 17 ========================================
 of our lives!
They are not what they were,
We, who have left so good,
Save when among us, while
Between us, on the flood
They wandered, for a while,
Amid the storm they lay,--
Their little ones and they
Lived, and are gone away!
Their little ones and they
Lived with us, and are dead,
The peace of God doth pass
That mocks their idle reed;
They have not met the blast
That swept those gentle wings,
Or swept those gentle wings,
Nor visited the light
Of those dear feet of ours;
But perished in the night
In hopes that they might see
Some brighter planet rise,
To meet their promised skies;
And we must sigh and faint
For that they died so soon;
Must seek a brighter morn
And lose those gentle shapes
That bloomed for us, but we
Have farther been unfurled
In the bright track called Heaven.
God's love had taken place
No more on earth to dwell;
The angel of that grace
Had crushed the soul in hell;
And, though the angels shrieked
And wept, the sinless child
Forced out its silly cry,
And knew its frailty well.
The child was given to earth,
And we will seek again
Those shining angel bands
That in the happy lands
Of Paradise were born,
And learn the blessed Word
That still doth hide the strife
Of fiendish souls and strife--
And win eternal life.
God's love was not unfinished,
But it must be done
Ere joy or sorrow burst
From out the clasp of one.
A flower was plucked at evening,
A garland on the hill;
A star was on the heaven,--
A fire upon the hill;
A star that led the morning
And left the night still;
A star whose light enfolds us,
A star that never dies;
And love, and faith, and courage,
In sunshine and in rain;
And faith, and hope, and courage--
And hope, and hope, and faith,
In sunshine and in darkness,
And love, and hope, and faith,
In the endless march of years.
Oh, to be hailed at evening!
Oh, to be hailed at night!
When the star of love is beaming,
When the light of truth is light.
My spirit is bewailing,
And seeks to understand
The words of a love that's pleading,
As all the world may understand.
With words of passion spoken,
With whispers of a sigh,
With kisses that bring the morning
And kisses that bring the day;
With sighs that seem to hover
And murmurs ever new,
With silent lips that seem to say,
"Love sees no day of sorrow;
And dies with joy alone,
And lives to its own deep own deep own deep own worth."
I've heard, at times, a father say,
"Dear mother, bid me go away:
Your words are bitter,--truly, indeed,
Seldom at all,--but so were best.
"For now, dear mother, if you must
With mother and with mother starve,
You can't go in that way, at least;
And no one else would care to have you;
Not carrying weight at all, my friend,
And cheering words,--but giving, and giving,
And knowing always that life must end."
And so, dear mother, when you have done
This sad task of my life, and tired
With all the penitential ways
That touch the souls, a-smiling lay
Your lesson, mother, on my heart.
As other children, I might go
Along your banks, through woods, and cocks,
Or fields that rip the golden corn,
Or some small mountain that uprears
Its head above your darkest rocks,
And knows itself, and not at last
A gleam of all my human years.
And when you go, and when you come
To any man's great house of God,
God's own high room a place will have,
Your shrine the altar. There shall He
Grin for you, follow, saith, and you
Shall love your little house and sheep,
And all their lineal rings, and He
Grin for you, follow, saith, and you
Shall drink the golden cup of love.
For me, I have not any gift
To offer to my mother dear;
My heart has been so full of thought,
I know it by my mother's hearth.
Her love, my mother, never scorned
The cost of that dear debt
======================================== SAMPLE 18 ========================================
 from the
The following description of Dr. Watts's Poem:
He who would thence by his own chariot ride,
Shall bear a lighter yoke, and bear it on:
And, having mends and accidents, shall ride
Upon the light fantastic joy:
Nor let him languish in the dusty shade,
By no ignoble action made.
The sun, emerging from the sea,
Shall with his flaming shafts to Heaven up-turn
In his meridian height:
Nor shall he sink, till his last fiery glow
Is quite forgot, and all is dark below.
The sun, emerging from the sea,
Shall with his flaming shafts to Heaven ascend,
But shall be blinded in his noon-day rage,
By no astonishment,
While each atom rises in his own dear age.
The year's young days are past: the new begun
Perform their whole; and every hour is theirs;
For God sees armies in their ranks to run,
And all must equal to the hopes they are:
And Day descries them, in his golden car,
With thousand lesser lights; and on his throne
The great Tri corresponds;
And the great quire of Heaven suspends his car.
The glorious host of heaven descends,
And greets their joyful rays with joyful shouts;
The glowing Seraphim obey,
And meet their Angel on their downward ways.
Such glorious sight, and such celestial rays,
One hour hath made all heaven alear, and Hell
Glow double! and the next of his descends
In heavenly colloquy.                                     G.
_Quicquid agunt hominis, quae vidit unquam,
Aut aliudque ahat: securi vidit aevi._
In what sort hast thou come?                         CR.
_Quicquid agunt hominis, quae vidit unquam._
I am come to tell you things as strange,
And find thee in a strange, sad state.
I fear thy presence, awful Form!
I fear thy awful, awful Form.
I fear the terror of thy looks,
And the bold indignation of thy looks:
I fear thy awful wrath, which marred the wise,
That gave me courage not to speak, nor durst,
Nor couldst, nor couldst, nor couldst, nor errest,
At the first moment of thine anger curst.
Thy look is mockery, and on earth
I tremble, as I hear thee not.
In thy mysterious transports, I see many
All that are better known of thee,--the Good,
That dwells in Heaven, and on Earth, and under
The Eternal everlasting seal of God.
I fear thy mighty wrath; thy hate; thy pride;
Thy scorn with which I madden, as I mused;
And though my words are weak, yet I replied
With calm and easy expectation bold,
And made thee lord of thy realities.
For, without thy almighty power, I feared
The wrath of the offended Deity.                          G.
_In dieis petit morbi; vestras iterum._ Joan. xiii. 8.
Vulnera vinctus per vestri, sexne fidelis
Dissimulis, atque novum habes invectus
Molus, nec jactare gemmam siccula; neque ipsa
Pervideas hanc, satis adhuc quibus iris:
Atque novum vento jussit tenebrasque secutos.
_To the thirsty soul the cooling juice assign'd._
O thou stern Lord, that seest this land,
As if thy name already here
Had never and never been
A witness of a new dispute;
That men may dread the Lord to see
The dwellers in the forest dank,
The forest dank, that doth not poll,
The living waters--that doth drink
The living waters.
O would I were as thou art now
In this high place by nature shown,
That one day they would hold thee fast,
As thou dost hold thy self in scorn.                R. WI.
Haec ec risueret;
======================================== SAMPLE 19 ========================================
 and
_Echo_, _a song full of cheer_,
_The city of London, where are they born?_
And the _espers and the belleons_ of the _Blair_,
And her boy he has gone to the fields and the corn.
And they who sell ale at the inn and buy bread at the inn,
And they know where their bread is, they know it is divine.
But they pray in their despair, and their longing for bread
In the hunger and thirst, for the love of the Lord they fed.
And they think there may be no hope that they will return --
The hope they might have for a little of joy that it may return,
In the darkness and heat, and the dearth, and the Lord they do mourn.
They know how the Lord is good -- or they should be sore afraid
Of what the great Judge had made for them this day --
That the children of God are the men oppressed and made poor
Of the babes they are born to suffer, and Lord is their price.
And they pray in their fear, and they think who starve and die
They know who it is that makes life good and give.
Though the Master keep the door, yet the Lord keeps the key,
Though the Lord be no more, and the Lord be no more.
A little house on the mountain side
Where a man may come to live,
And he may come to be the bride
When all that is sad shall give;
And the long road winds from the land away
And the good house stands alone,
Awaiting a sweeter bride,
And a better one none.
A little house on the mountain side --
A castle fair to see,
But lo, the door shows seven ways wide --
A palace full of thee.
The little house on the hillside,
And all the rest at home,
And the little house on the hillside,
And all the rest on the hill,
And all the rest on the hill-side --
All the wan winter's day,
And the faint autumn's snows,
Will die before they close.
A little house on the mountain side,
And all the rest on the hill.
And little house on the mountain side
And all the rest on the hill.
It is well for the little house that has died
In the darkness and cold and the snow,
For a spirit cometh through the land
And a spirit cometh down,
And all the thoughts of the little house
Sprinkle the icy firths about,
And a soul cometh through the land,
And a soul cometh to the earth,
And a soul cometh forth.
A little house on the mountain side,
And all the rest on the hill.
"He is the King and is little his bride:
Follow him, and he will bring thee rest
Under his mantle of snow,
For the voice of the hand of the fairy
Is calling thee, and thou shalt go
Wherever thou wishest."
Thither the fairy went, and they went
And lay in the mould a lovelier head,
And the tiny hands of the fairy drew
Hands folded under a fairy's bed,
And under the mantle the fairy wove
A coronal round the sleeping love.
When the morning star went up the hill,
Pale grew the east and wan;
The sun went down the western sky
And died into the dappled grass.
"God give thee sleep, good fairy-star!
For the little souls thou keepest here,
That sleep the sleep of a weary world,
And God from out His care:
"They neither wake nor work, they neither roam,
But out upon the unknown sea!"
He left a gift to mortals on the ocean wave,
And gave it not its music and its mystery.
Then swiftly flew the bugle on the shore
And sang a war-song wild and shrill:
"O whither dost thou ride, whither dost thou ride?
And what dost thou desire and what to do?"
"I am a knight of England, born of olden days,
Well read in knightly honor of my birth,"
"My father used to say, 'Where speedest thou then?
Where stayest thou now, good knight?  What wouldst thou have?"
"On foot thou goest, a very little thing,
And nothing else, O knight-at-arms, is thine."
"I wander by the forest where thou dwellest:
It is the mountain echo that I hear;
And it is pleasant sounds that I myself repeat
To hear the merry voices that I see.
"O gentle knight and gentle, say
======================================== SAMPLE 20 ========================================
ing the creeks and the great rocks,
They are but shapes of the soul.
But, ah! that face, those eyes are dim,
With its glare of the lurid light,
That is only as yonder swim
Of waters that, in a cloudy night,
Cloudward, in a cloudy void,
Toward infinity,
Then, again, the eternal gleam
Of the spirit that moves in quest
Of that heart we knew
With its all-transcending skill--
The soul of the soul, that holds us thrall
With the powers of light and love,
That are only as phantoms small.
Ah! but is it not for each lovely sight
That from the trance of the soul has fled?
'Tis a symbol and type of the universe-
Life's work-triumphal, which the soul
Walks through, and through its whole,
Escheambic and infinite
Is life, the lifeless ageless soul
Which overcometh day, and night, and noon,
Maketh the heart to leap,
And the head to bow.
And hence, oh! life is beautiful
To the soul that, in such holy calm,
Is waiting with indifferent gaze
For a spirit's calm.
It is like a calm that flows
From the heart to the body, and no words
That are known to be spoken, these silent years
Of the spirit, like minutes in silver, or tears.
And, as a sudden sun
Comes from his clouded pathway all the day,
It gleams like a golden bird
Above in the gloom,--
So the sun falls in on my life's dark track,
So comes the sound of its breath
From these heart-searchings of life and death,
Which are uttered and whispered and uttered just
As a song by the soul's long sighing.
And the light glitters, and far and near
Its own sun doth the shadow cast over it,
As a song by the singer sung,
So comes the light from the soul's divine
And floats it with life, and the memory
Of the words of the soul is like a kiss,
And the music comes in the voice of the soul,
In the soul's high atmosphere,
And mingles, and mingles, and trembles.
Then the heart that is moved by the music,
The soul that is moved by the music,
Is rocked by one in the sacred words
That the soul's love-song reveals,
And we are acquainted, and know each other,
Not as one, but as one, with each other.
"I wish I was dead!" said the voice so close,
It waned into a sweet and tender mist,
It shone so bright on my fevered eyes,
It made my soul to cry its own grief mad,
And my heart to bring its tears to an end;
"I wish I was dead," said every voice
In the music of the soul, and in each
Sighing, each whispering instrument
Had a meaning, a secret of joy and grief:
Yet in the singer was nothing worth;
He was dead ere he was aware of us;
He came back to the past and its pain,
And its sorrows, and its ecstacies,
A song that has power to pierce belief,
To stir its heart like a bird's soul in spite;
While his own harp in the strings would toss,
And his quivering finger prints a smile,
Or his own breath would tremble and fail,
And his lips would catch a song from his finger.
In my lady's chamber I stand,
Gazing with strained eyes:
Fantastic ivy, and pale yew mixt,
And a violin's flute.
In the soft light gleams the light,
In the yellow gleam the light,
In the green light glow the lips,
And a moment's dreamy gleams.
As I gaze on the dark boughs of my love
In the dark tower's shadow.
They are passing with magic power,
And a secret hearts are beating
At the meeting of the lips.
I can hear in the dark tower,
And the dark forest and the stream
Leap up to the sun-bleached low,
And the white moon shines.
In the bright tower' I see waves
Drift their dark-hollowed waves below
And dash their foamy beds against the sky;
While to my sight the sweet heavens seem,
And down along the green waves lie
With stars and daffodil waves,
And silver lights, like gems from the shrine.
And on the dark tower, high aloft,
There in the soft sun-gl
======================================== SAMPLE 21 ========================================
.
"Cursed be the King, and cursed be his reign!
No more to vex me, now I am his foe;
Hate his command, or else usurp the throne."
"The face of heaven! what can I assume?
Darkness, and dolor! This would seem to all
A stupid tempest, born to rage and flame
For love, for service,--all that war can name.
How is this nature? and the human soul
Could dwarf an eddy, when with form erect
She stands, and seems to rise, erect and free;
Her looks, her thoughts, her ways, are not their own.
Nothing can e'er arrest the form she holds:
A moment's silence is too stern for her
Whose glance would scorch her, when with wing outspread,
The creatures in her flight from her should shun.
That is her heart, her thoughts, her thoughts. To him
She means to hold the hope she seeks; to win,
To gratify his will, the power to please;
The power to triumph, and to prove it less.
To curb his pride he now must yield his throne!
"How shall I meet him, from my secret springs?
When he is there, who gave me life, to take
His name from me, the power to rule, the joy
To live and die, and teach the world to die?"
She sighed inwardly, her thoughts turned to the sun.
"I see him, as thou art, yet am I not
Sensible of joy, that he should quit my throne!"
"Thy blood, my sister, for my realm shall pay,
And every day shall find its honors all,
Thee, too, my sisters, and thy brothers more."
"I have no more to say, O maid, but let
To thee my wishes and my wishes call,
Whatever passes, to illumine thy lot."
Thus by her heart those words did she recall.
And he, with smiling countenance, replied:
"The joy, O maid, to conquer life were sweeter than
To follow the bright path which leads to God.
Thou comest with me,--on this path dost see
My mother first, she after thee will be;
And on those pleasant paths thy footsteps will I guide."
To whom, in brief, the aged mother said:
"I love thee; and in love I trust thy love
For ever and for ever. I do love
My God the King; and that reminds me I
Have passed in pain, beyond my hope to die;
And that my love is all that is to be.
It is not for my grief to tell His cause,
But for His wisdom, to my deepest root
I bear the sorrows of so wild a fate.
Not for my love thy hope of Him to wait,
Who sent me forth to show my heart how great
Is wealth, wealth is, thou hast owned,--and have no fear,"
"Oh, thou hast come, fair queen!" The queen began,
"My lord, my king, my subjects to adorn!
Thy kingdom has, as God most holy is,
A curse to God and to His people sworn,
The solemn thing which makes thee sad and proud."
"My lord," the monarch said, "I ask of thee
No more; I am a king,--and then I go
To take thee to the waiting court in Rome.
But take the message to the queen--her fate
Is sealed, and she is lost. To be a queen
I am prepared, because thou, king of men,
Upon the way dost make my fame thy foe."
"That is, thou heedest all that thou hast said;
And if they should, thou canst not in my death
Be found a victim on a foreign shore."
"Ah, that is true," the good king said, "for so
Thou shouldst,--to such as thee no shame should show!
To be thy king was but to find deceit,
Of cowardice in soul and subtle guile.
Yet I will go, a child, to be thy guide
Through all the world, and thou from day to day
Shalt not have come; and if a child thou be,
No power shall know of this base life of ours.
Thou farest not; and yet, if but to find
A mother's love, or step that must not break,
Thou'lt see thy love in every heart set free,
By giving death to her, one limb to thee."
"Who is this foolish youth?"
"Ask of the man,"
"Ask of the maiden, king of men and truth.
Forgive me if
======================================== SAMPLE 22 ========================================
, as has been said,
By young and old, of hunger and despair,
He was the first and most enamoured by
The prince, his country and dear mother's love.
The Emperor of the world was not appeased
By an appearance, nor a voice to stir,
As his Imperial strength had said enough
To stir, and not to take of him the power
Of thundering cannon, or the iron mace
Of his great engines, but his mighty soul
Shrank sick and useless.
That very night
Woke up the council, who had given the Prince
His crown of power, and strove to make a change
By that same Prince triumphant, who before
Called up the past to council.  Then the Prince
Looked up, and saw beneath his feet the flag
Of the new army; and his heart was fixed
For the last time to do all things, and now
His head was heavy at the thought of death.
"This is the day," the Emperor said.  His voice
Was weak and halting, but so strong he took
That silence which is better than despair,
And in his thought found great relief; he saw
The sun beat out in the last Emperor.
And all at once from the Campoucell, who had
His country under his command, he rose
And hastened to the council to accept
His crown, and all around him, armed with bows
And spears, stood gazing on him and his name.
He lifted his great voice up to the skies
And sounded it like thunder, till he fell
In the dead tumult, and his life was gone.
Then said the Emperor, "Far be wished to God,
And to Him only, the great Emperor.
For the great Emperor is my chief, and I
Shall have his council and his throne and power.
And as for Him, who sees what moves in Him
The universal law, Whose law is love,
And whose sole image is the soul of Man,
And whose sole image is the law of Love,
So that the Powers that fashion are below,
And wield their sceptres, shall be overthrown
Before Thy judgment.  This I have bequeathed
Into a strange land, and my people shall
Be all before Thee, knowing not which way
To go, nor whence they came.
"Yet I may not endure the chances,
Being a King in camps.  My enemies
Shall not be at my beck.  I have no right
To take them by the violence of their hands.
My enemies shall learn to bend the bows
That were not fashioned for my hands.  If this
Be so, at Thy will shall I go forth, knowing
The way to God or to the end of time.
"I swear by all I have, by all I have
By my own head, by this act of my emprise
To do Thy will in all things.  This shall be
The way to Thine this day, for it is best
If I forsake the throne where I have failed.
This day shall be my path.  To walk the earth's
Alter is not enough.  I will go forth
And see the light.  But all my thoughts are fixed,
And my thoughts darkened, in this world of man.
I dare not look upon the sun like those
That at the dull west wind have missed their beams,
Nor on the moonbeam see the birds of night
Sitting beside their quiet fires; these thoughts
Are but the rain, and the blind clouds, grown dull
And duller, will be heavy overhead.
I shall forget the place where I was born.
My head will rest not on this earth, I say.
I go forth, lo, of that royal feast my crown,
And my imperial sceptre, crown of thorns
And thorn-crowned garland, on the barren heights.
My throne of darkness, on the desolate sea,
Will not be thine, for I am thine at last.
Thine now?
Ay, and thy doom not ours; for this sad day
Shall we not meet?  Yea, and the end shall come.
I dare not breathe upon myself the words
That shame my words, who am my own dead self.
My blood shall wash the soil of my dead limbs
With the fresh water of thy blood, and then
Be covered from my eyes.
"But what are thine and mine,
Grown old and hollow and withered and dry and sick?
Is the past Thine, and the day that was my life,
A dream of little happy things?  Is one
So slightly broken that for aught we mourn?
Canst thou not hear the song of the
======================================== SAMPLE 23 ========================================
 a maddening disease
Into our bodies, to and fro,
As moths that on new-cut roses blow.
The heart that hitherto has beat
As heretofore,
Is throbbing with the sweetest sound
Of joy without alloy:
The song that once all hearts found here
With all that music is of yore
Has echoed through the years or years;
And hearts that all things here perceive
Are beating here more strongly still,
As here each year in white processions
The heavens themselves are growing less,
And now the earth is all in session
Of one who's much beyond our reach
With every pang that mortals feel
For all the lands that now we reach.
A little flower-cup,
Oh, sweet and strange,
That with my mother's lips,
The baby's in my pocket,
The baby it is small,
And it is pure and round,
And like a petal on the ground,
Is sleeping with a sound.
A wee little bud,
Just pink and white,
Just like a flower in flower,
A wee little wee bud,
Just like a flower.
The dews were dim and warm.
They dropped down at the root.
The sky was black and blue,
And blue birds told their tale,
Of this wee little bud.
The little flowers all,
It was so very long,
And I was glad, for all
The little stars were song-birds all.
But soon the sun was bright,
And then the wind was sweet.
The flowers all waked up:
The young lambs slept alone,
But I waked up and waked,
And it was sleep that made them all.
Oh, who is so afraid of lovers,
Such lilies in the Spring?
Oh, who is so afraid of lovers,
Such flowers in the Spring?
Ah! I am so afraid of lovers,
The lilies all are here;
And yet my heart is thinking of them,
And of them in the year;
And yet my love is not so lonely,
The lilies all are here.
Oh, who is so afraid of lovers,
For he is longing for them,
Who yearn for them with such hot kisses
As never lover has;
And who doth so desire for them,
For such brief love of yours?
What do you think of _him_?
My heart's as wide as heaven,
As any heaven,
As any ocean,
Even to the utmost bound,
And if there be a man for me
No man is quite so glad as he.
Oh, when I had my heart
I think of him as one that's high
And runs a race with every step,
And hopes to play his game
With all the thousand slaves at play,--
Some grand old friend or gay
To lead the life of man, and hold
The chance of cracking bread and gold
With all his heart's desire untold,
While all the world goes round,
And, oh, it makes me think,
Could I but leap to some great goal,
And plumb to it the whole
Of all my love for him,
And play with him the whole
Of all that's sweet in every sense,
The very life of him I love,
The very love of my true love!
All for a journey,
All that's wild as life,
All that is fierce and fiery
And loves and loves and loves,
And yet how far is God,
I wonder, love,
Which has the secret power
To make the thing to be sublime!
But the journey's ending.
Come when you're happy,--
He will give you ease,
And you will have your laughter
For he will give you ease.
And you will have your fortunes,
And you will take your share
Of love and work and friendship
For he will take care.
But the journey's ending
And it's far to seek
A brighter world around us
Than the bright world air.
I wonder what you will tell me
Of things that no man knows
Of the years that fret us
Each day as a joke,
All through the summer-time,
While all the year as a brook
Washes the leafy forest
With moon and cloud and star;
And the path beyond it
Is the path of fools,
For the thought of them makes our life
Our only self, our whole.
There's a road that winds through lonely woods
From the place where we once had birth;
There's a road that tells me--
My road that runs as a river,
That is no one I can see.
I wonder how you will tell me
Of things that no
======================================== SAMPLE 24 ========================================
ly there the little
And the little birds were busy and their life,
The little birds, and all the summer flowers
Of all the trees were happy in their love,
And all the hearts of all the birds were glad.
The little hills of grass were green and cool,
The little birds sang east, and north, and south,
And all the pretty flowers of all the flowers
Turned to the sun with dear and tender looks
Of tenderness and love, and there the rose,
Fragrant and lovely and the yellowing thorn,
Made dew in the green leaves, and when the wind
Blept overlaid upon the leafless boughs,
The little leaves were glad and glad again.
Only a few gay flowers I know well of,
And all the morning roses gathered here.
All the grassy meadows with the summer flowers
All the fields of bare wheat fields were full,
And all the roads that lead us do for me,
And all the flowers and flowers of all the flowers
Drooped in the sun to me, and everywhere
The quiet house ran by our open door,
Where, by the roadside, slept the weary hours.
We spoke with the few friends, and passed across
To where the wood-birds build their nests for me.
I sat with my good Father, and he said:
"See, all this summer long, what work is good
And what to-morrow brings--but play once more.
Play then you may it, Father."
In the fields by the brook,
There were flower and grass,
And the fallen leaves,
And the fallen leaves.
The world is like a play;
On the grass and flowers you see them playing,
And the meadow's grasses, and the skies
Like funereal things;
And the waving grasses, and the clover,
And the larkspurs, and the quail, and daisy
And the merry bee-cups, and the green leaves,
And the sun-flecked clover,
And the flying flowers, and the bleating sheep,
And all the leaves of all the happy flowers
That nod their sweet humility,
And all the sweet birds singing together
For joy of the shining day.
And so we came
And lo, the leaves were falling
And the earth was glad with singing.
It was mid-noon: the sky
Was gray and sober:
Only the plaining grass
And the wind were clamoring
And blowing away,
And over the roofs,
Out of the world,
On to the unknown places,
I saw the distant far away
The great sad city,
The seven winding streets
And golden minster alleys,
And the cloisters dim
Of the midnight,
Where was I wont to meet
The coming of an angel
For I longed to follow
And go when I might come to sing
The song of the wind,
The wind,
The past, the present only,
The present, and the past,
My passionate striving,
The endless striving,
And all the ceaseless striving,
The endless striving,
And all the ceasing and the dream
That I longed to follow.
He is no child of air that rocks the hill:
A naked wretch that lies a-dangling on a stone.
He flings his body prone upon the gale:
The wintry wind
Blows a wild wit of wrath between his bones:
His face is seamed upon a stone, and prone
He lies, a-bleeding, as when some fierce beast,
Whose kingly heart begins to hatch its brood,
Is feasting on a dead man, who is glad
To see a living man salute his grave.
A wretch that's shrieking choked among the crowd;
A shrivelled man, upon a crumpled corpse:
The dying man, who counts his dead men o'er,
Looks upward where the corpse-cloths crowd the door.
The place is damp and dismal, but the voice
That issues through the dimness is more sad;
The broken heart goes shuddering to the roofs:
The wind and I are moaning to the dead,
Remembering that our love was never dead.
In the young moonlight the waters gleam
Outward in a silver gleam;
The great waves, girding the mountain-stream,
Are like a silver sea
That yields up all of the golden dream,
For the moon shines in on the sea.
The cedars are white in the moonlight;
The blue sea flows.
I hear a wind singing in the night,
And a wail of water moans in the sea.
Wailings and
======================================== SAMPLE 25 ========================================
,
I am afraid.
The day will never dawn,
When I shall find you sleeping on the ground.
I do not care; you need not freeze or harm.
I am afraid of nothing, being a child.
I have nothing to ask, nothing to care for;
Nothing is ever so far from any man.
No one can know, nothing to see or hear.
All would be curious enough to see.
The day will never dawn.
It will not do,
It will not come soon.
It will not come soon,
It will not come soon,
It will not come soon.
The night will not come,
The day will never dawn;
There must be four.
The day will not come,
For you must either stay, or speed with me.
Oh do not tread upon our common earth,
And in the hands of every child of man
Take what it gives.
The great shall be the small,
But in their hearts full joyfully
We part for ever, and for evermore
I seek your presence, O my father.
The sun will never rise
Nor the moon leave her maidenly eyes;
Love has not built himself a dwelling
On the hills of happiness, oh, father.
And when your father left his door
With a smile he greets me; oh, my brother!
How kind it were to live
With all who come to share your bounty;
You will not be the sharer
Among the many who may chance to thrive
Whose hearts are sick with pain
Who walk with you at dawn and evening;
For you will be our helper,
And our whole destiny determines by
The blessed way that leads us forth to Heaven.
I shall not cease complaining
That my poor heart is weary
Of the burden of the burden
And the burden of my burden;
My mind will be at rest
With God until the end;
When I am no more a wanderer
And no longer weary,
Will not go back to where I lie
In the deepest shadow, maybe;
No longer young and full of youth
Will I hear the music of the sea
And its ceaseless murmuring music
Of the old-time shores.
I shall not go
Where the young children play,
To be busy in cities
And fields where the ripe clover
And the ripe clover
And the soft south wind
And the soft south wind
Are talking, talking; talking, talking,
I shall hear the sound of the rain
And the voice of the great stars tolling
And the voice of the mountains calling
And the tramp of the terrible white steed
And the cry of the great seas after.
I shall not go in the morning
And I shall not go in the evening;
My feet are weary, weary,
For God has left me lying sick
With my burden of life lying at rest
On God's great western border
In a dim and distant Country,
Where the houses stand on the broad white road
With a wide and open path
And a light is abroad from the dim earth
And it is good to be glad about their hearts
And they will give you happiness
And that will be the joy of it;
For it is good to be all alone,
And the world will never know
The joy of a good old woman
And she will give you health, strength, and strength,
Which I could give you health, strength, and strength
And to live her life, her life.
The world has set its gifts upon me,
And I would give my life, my daily life,
All to keep back for it, to bear with me
And give my life, and to live it.
That is the world.
I cannot give
The life that I have given.  Let them stand.
I cannot give the victory
To victors in the strife
For that defeat which brings defeat,
The battle for the life that leads.
But you must give your life
And give your life
And the strength to live it in this narrow world.
I have made a garden of my soul,
A little house wherein to sleep
And none can know it from the dust of life.
There I could lay no gift of flowers
To please the unsleeping passer by
If I were only near to God.
But there to lie no living thing
To cause another's love for me.
There have I taken from my soul
The music that my heart can make.
A little house with walls of black
And black against the azure sky;
And through a pleasant little door
I built a garden to my love.
A little house I cannot make,
A little house with walls of black,
And when I go I may not keep
A rose
======================================== SAMPLE 26 ========================================
, which he
_inheritura_; _Eph'l, tu Diana_, II. 454.
_inpulso_:--_inpulso_, and _quia aris_, _eripe_; _he_, _erope_; _he_, _he_, _he_, _he_, _he_, _he_, _he_, _he_, _he_, _he_, _quibin_, _quibin_."
_convoyants_, _convoyants_, _convoyants_, _convoyants_, _convoyants_.
_convoyant slave_, _convoyant slave_, _convoyant slave_, _convoyant slave_,
_convoyant slave,_
_comparéiséiséis_, _conroyant slave_, _conroyant slave_, _foeman_,
_convoyant slave,_
_convoyant slave,_
_conveyant slave,_
_King William's ambassador_.
_King William's ambassador_.
_King William's messenger_,
_King William's ambassador_.
_King William's messenger_, etc.
_King William's messenger_.
_King William's ambassador_.
_King William's ambassador_.
King William's ambassador, etc.
_King William's messenger_, etc.
_King William's messenger_, etc.
_King William's messenger_, etc.
_King William's messenger_, etc.;
_King William's messenger_, etc.
_King William's messenger_, etc.
_King William's messenger_, etc.
_King William's messenger_, etc.
_King William's messenger_, etc.
_King William's messenger_, etc.
_King William's messenger_, etc.
_King William's messenger_, etc.
_St. George's ambassador_, etc.
_St. David's messenger_, etc.
_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
King William's messenger, etc."
_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
"_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
"_St. John's ambassador_, etc."
"_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
"_St. John's ambassador_, etc."
_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
"_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
"_St. John's ambassador_, etc."
"_Royalgovernment_, etc.
"_St. John's ambassador_, etc."
"_St. John's ambassador_, etc."
"_St. John's ambassador_, etc.
"_St. John's ambassador_, etc."
Here are the numerous translations which, if made in Greek, are
entertaining to St. Andrew's meetings, this day, in the year
called from the "Christ at Patmore than St. John's Feast," and this
title "Josephus William's ambassador_.
Oxford and Cambridge." Cambridge, 17th May, 17th June, 1660.
In the year 1660, the "In Memory of Edward I. Sousin."
"St. February," 1759, however, he appeased.
"St. March, 1661."
"St. Martin's, Cambridge, New-York, July, 1661.
"St. Martin's, Cambridge, St. Giles's, Cambridge, New-York,
"St. Martin's, Cambridge, St. February, 1661."
"St. Martin's, Cambridge, St. Giles's, Cambridge, New-York,
Marty's Brest, Cambridge, St. Giles's, St.
Marty's Droit, Brest, Cambridge, St. Ben's, St.
Martyrdom, Cambridge, St. Will, St. Gilding, St. Peter's, St.
Martyrdom, Cambridge, St. T.
Martyrdom, Cambridge, St. Gregory's, St. Gregory's, St.
Martyns, Cambridge, St. Gregory's, St. T.
Martyrdom, Cambridge, St. Gregory's, St. Gregory's
Martyr
======================================== SAMPLE 27 ========================================
 it the world,
And the world-worn man with it is all of the same!"
From the house the Emperor arose. Our lord, the workman, made an
all in a row; and the women joined in the work.
"It is worth the while," he said, "to live through orators and
pagan poets and gentlemen, and one--the King--the Lord
of Silence--of the heavens and the World--to be an instrument and
minister. It is worth the while to fight, and be merry with the
preasters for the new, for it is worth much pleasure and
friends, and the women and the maids that have joined in the
streets--they that hold the wide world in their care--and a
free man who is free. It is worth the life--with the whole
world to be his wife."
Before the Emperor came to King Malchopiso the headsman
took the road. He stopped the crowd and said: "Hosier
Than thou art, thou hast a heart, why dost thou leave the
world, and from what crosser shouldst thou wander, even to
the end of time?"
King Malchopiso bowed his head, and consented to the
marshal Casal, who had heard of the sword upon the shore of
Florence, and not a jot of aught beside the way. "I would
make the gods with heaven," he spake, "and the other gods
should also have it."
Then they twain formed a cross-stair, and the heathen, with
a loud cry, rushed to the king, who sat there, until he came
to his palace, and in fear and sorrow rose, and he cried out
far off to the ships. No one might not stay him from getting
its place; because the king had returned not because he had
set so much gold, the best, and the price of money. Thus
come away again to the camp, to look upon the host."
Him the king called to his retainers, and bade them bring
the bodies of the slain of the slain friends. Then they raised
themselves within the tent and sat throughout the whole space,
seeking to slay the foe. And as the dove flieth up on
the wing, and the roasted peacocks make wing to fly, so
that they may have life and safety, the livelong day, and
the dark night. And Malchopiso, poisonous wight, turned
her face to the foe, and spoke his thought:
"Be not dismayed; thy fortune is already settled upon
thy death. For if any mortal man shall come hither and see
Thy becoming old and gray, thou and Calvus shalt have
cheer of me: and if perchance any overmuch shall come in
thine agony, thou shalt possess a greater power than thou
canst hope to kill me."
Then the king, Malchopiso, spoke, and called on the
hors of the dead, and showed them the great deeds of his
reftless son.
After these words he went in silence, and they heard his
prayer. And the dead, thereafter, were taken by the armourers
and the women who were with him. And they sat the judges
in the dust, the judges in the companies, with a heavy heart
and sin, and the high court within, were going to the hill
within, and the judges within. Then the lord of Athens
among the Phaeacians spake to them, saying:
"Be of good heart and speak among his ladyes, that thou mayest
speak to him according to the word."
And they rose, each thanking him his grace; and he led them
to a seat, and laid it on the chest of the woman and her
bride, and she said:
"Hear my words, all ye that have loved me, and ye that have
been friends, and ye that have loved me, ye that have lost
me now, have here your doom. If I return, O goddess, I
will send on my return to my own dear country. But if
I must stay here forever, be it so, for willingly, each one
of you, if it may be, shall put me on my raft to bear with
your hand this wondrous load, yea and for that my weary sides
shall endure; and if the gods shall give me grace to bear my
horses in triumph over the dark water, I will offer up
enwrought treasure, as is meet, to her that bare me. There
shall I hold the ship of my desire. And if some other
man, as I think, should put me here on board his ship with a
======================================== SAMPLE 28 ========================================
,--
For the men who can't get it,
For the men who can't get it.
If any man wants it,
He'll give up the house for a station,
Give up the house for a station,
Give up all the farm for it,
The rich and the poor for it,
That's the motto for us;
That's the motto for us.
But, to come to the end of your long run,--
If any man wants a man, you'll see,--
If any man wants a man and you,
Give up the house to him then.
The fiddle-dee called was a romping lad,
He laughed like a lapidado,
The dancing cat she sat in a fook,
And a merry tune she played with the man.
He sprang to his feet, and she sat upright,
And laughed like the man in a drunken dream,
And she said, "The man's to be ready for supper."
Piggy, pigggy, chubby,
Little brother Jacky,
Little maid with wool in mouth,
Singing gaily and glancing,
Shouting the mop-ball shot,
Turning the kop-ball quick,
Dancing the kop-ball quick,
Dancing the flamy ball,
Turning the flamy ball,
With a green ribbon round her wrist,
And a sweet word with her dimpled lips,
And a little song that was "Little lass."
Simple little Tommy Trout,
Under the rosewood bough,
With the sweet words he uttered them,
He was sitting down.
Under the rosewood bough.
The soft tears fell to his eyes,
With a wee patter of pretty pinky,
That made a little rabbit laugh,
Or a nice little robin cackle,
Or any big black bird so merry.
He ate and drank and ate,
And every rabbit crept,
And every little black-fowl made
Robes of gold for his cloak and brooch.
And aye two little black-fowl made
Joins of their soft green gowns,
And a broad tail's tail was seen displaying,
All freckled all with down.
And O the sad shame! when he took off
The piece of blue jade,
The buckles from his pocket caught,
And he gabbled and was gone.
For a hundred and twenty years
The old bear was so old,
That he could not carry them,
And he couldn't carry them.
Four-and-twenty tailors
Went to kill a snail,
All of which were there,
Not a soul alive,
Made you jump and dive,
And you almost lived.
You jump and swim and dive,
As you thought of this.
If you had a hundred pockets,
I would then have caught
In my nice green gown,
Little black-tailed squirrels
A-moving toward you,
And you descend again,
And I don't much trust you.
But suppose I lived on sheep,
And I ran and wallered,
I would not trust those
Black-and-sea birds.
And what were the white birds?
Perhaps it bred bad
With the curs on our doorsteps,
That you might have gone to school,
Or been naughty, I know not.
And if any one hurt you,
I suppose you did it, too,
Or I don't think you did,
Or I don't think I do.
I don't care if you told me.
You want to give me trouble,
Or I will not wait
Till the tars are off my head,
Or people take you to them,
Or buy you in the street,
If your rents are black.
Of course it's only pleasant
To hear them on the hill;
But if I chance to steal them
I'll try to understand
They are quite correct, and yet,
Just understand.
When the snow lies thick about,
I would think to fill
Their wrinkles in a minute
With the wrinkles of a month.
I should like to look at them,
But alas! they are gray.
How they crash and rattle
On the window-pane!
How they riot!
How they rattle
Round the load again!
Now, when you must nurse them,
Or the pout to hurt;
When the tortoise-shell is thrown
With a little dirt;
When the house upstairs is spread
With the scalloped flowers;
When the cherry's set with the organ-pearls;
When the woodchuck hides her face;
When the hen is shrieking
======================================== SAMPLE 29 ========================================
, and the other
Aurora; or the sea;--the name is given
To a dark, cruel race from Euxine:
Whom, without reason, hence you may descry,
In Aulis, offhand on humanity;
And mark you where the sires of Athens see
Their old and better days, and better life,
With Troy's few children;--and what time shall be
Of all this war and carnage, the expense
Of such sweet luxury;--what war shall rise
Of cruelty or kindness, if your gain
Of charity and soft repose were gain;
And what so grievous as e'er pain or drouth
Shall be your ruin, if you love the more,
And the same country bring you deathless pain!
For what were death less dreadful, if, when love
With kindling flames can burn you to the end!
But all is changed save where you are above
The ruin and destruction, and the friend
Of faith, who, when a spark from being caught,
Caught in the darkness, can a moment turn
To the dark earth, and, while this country mourns,
Can give you peace, when, on the verge of war,
You think of all things, and the wrong and strife,
As on the ocean, and the man-bathed main,
You hope--and hope for--ALMIGHT SIRNY'S Wreath!--
And, looking from the precipice's height,
You see the light of the last Day, and mark
That Wrong, and the reverse of injury,
The helpless victim of its cruel laws,
And, seeming nigh, with aching heart, that beats
But the first shudder of her murderous chains;
And that her very children cease to feel,
With the first agony, the horror there!
And what goes on? the tumult of men
And cities, while the fury of their crimes!
The blood they shed is black as night, and black
As the black water; and, like water, all
Rush, if they can, like fiercer rain--now falls
On, and on either side, the waves they roll;
And, as 'twere falling, wildly, far and wide
Each other comes, and, hurling, points at each;
Though but in vain the waves must pierce that wall,
Yet, from the surface to the sandy beach,
The outstretched arms of those portculls burst,
And plunge down all their thunder-bolts, to lash
The ooze which bears them, till the sea beneath
With mighty pressure covers all the air,
And seems to strike the moment, as it falls,
With bellowing of the waves, and, lo! the wall
Stiffens, and turns, and drops into the sea,
Which, in the moment of its strength, grows taller,
And stronger, and that wall meets solid wall.
Oh! then, oh! soon 't would break! but ere ye mark
How high, upon a plank, doth stand the surge!
And thou canst deem that, like the wind's scurf blown
High-towering, and fast fading into cloud,
It spreads, and roars, and roars incessantly:
Though, from the summit to the temple borne,
It roars, yet howls, yet howls, there is no sound,
With such a horrid sound, as if in rage
The water, peeling on the ruin's brink,
Had seized it, and would bear it from the sea;
Such mighty noise as thunders in a crowd,
As, when upon a sudden on the ear
Wakes a wild tempest, when the wind's tolorn
Swings round it, and the waters, ere they swoon,
Will shake their bosoms, and will plunge, and run
With all their swelling fury, from the height
Of their grim revel, in a wailful light.
And now we are alone, 't is twilight hour,
But, in the silence of that awful night,
A voice is heard, a footstep, hurrying, past;
A glimmer from a hand, a voice, a sound,
As the third watchful hour creeps slowly round.
A solemn silence! with the breath of God
It is not till then, nor till to-night,
But when the stars begin to peep, and then
Th' appointed time turns darkness, then, the light
Turns black and black, until it burns again.
And--even as I look o'er yon blue abyss
From which those clouds have risen!--I see,
On either hand, the innumerable stars
Are sparkling o'er that liquid
======================================== SAMPLE 30 ========================================
-Hair)
The Lady of the Forest in the forest,
The Forest of the Forest, the Forest of Dreams--
Dove-eyed Malinche, with the eyes of the sunrise,
Daughter of the gods of the night;
Daughter of the white sea-lover,
In a little golden ring;
With hair like a wheat-bloom over the sea-slopes and borders,
And hair of the wind blown back!
Dove-eyed Malinche--Ah, she hath not known!
For she is a world of wonder, and they are dancing,
And she is a world of wonder,
And they are the winds of the morning,
And they are the moon's shining arrows
That run into these solitudes
That follow the dance of the water-courses--
Delight that they hear
And the music of coming far away.
The dance of the wind comes soft
With the silver-slashed tinkle of the sea:
'What pleasure,' say they, 'to stay at home
With the beautiful breath of the foam?'
The laughter is in their faces, the children run to and fro,
For Malinche's eyes are blue and bright,
And his little heart is merry with the burden of the sea,
And his little heart is merry,
Ah, my little lover!
She was not fair in her first love of her youth,
When first I saw her smile,
She was not fair, in the forest high and dim,
When Pride was not the feathery tree
That waved its gay gay fronds and shone
On the morning of a single sun.
She was not sweet, in the forest tall,
When Pride was not the feathery tree;
When I had gazed at her from the window-sill
Lone in the fields of the lea,
And seen her smile, as day was closing,
Among the blossoms and the daffodils
To her own secret place of dreamy rest
By the lake-side and the shore,
And her kiss, the sweetest and the rarest,
That ever kissed my cheek,
Was what is a child's to grow up and speak,
And in my arms to grow
And grow like my love, as his small hands reach yours,
His lips to grow and grow
I am as fond of my first love as of old,
Fair as of old I was,
As the face of my first love, and eyes that hold
Such purity of blue;
Well--I am as near to my first love as of old,
Fair as of old I was.
She was not fair, in the broad world I came,
When the sun of youth was going;
When my lips, untried before,
Felt their first caresses blowing,
And that tingling music stirred
All their blossoming inside,
While I took the youngest child
To my bosom bringing
A white rose and a red rose and a white rose and a red rose and white
A red rose and a white rose
A red rose and a white rose
A red rose and a white rose
A red rose and a white rose
All for the love of God's love, and for the love of God,
I loved her for the pride of her beautiful hair.
To her eyes the glory of the heavens
Was a stronger beauty given;
And a new love lit their eyes
Where the first love lit their eyes
And the last love lit their eyes
And the last love lit their eyes
And the first love lit their eyes
And the first love lit their eyes
And the last love lit their eyes
And the foremost made their eyes
Grow, my darling, and the almond roses
Grow, my darling, and the apple blossoms
Glory of spring and a more perfect pride.
The wind blows from the south, it blows from the north,
It comes from far in Galilee there where I was born.
Love that is young and lightly
Came to my bed and said, "Peace be with you,"
And my hands withabbles were all decked out
To keep the rose from fragrant boughs to rest,
To watch the fading sunlight of the night
Sink into its cloudy chalice,--Love.
Ah, Love, the bitter art is done, I said,
And Love goes forth with broken wings to kiss
The fingers of the Singer of the Singer.
The moon is hid her saffron gown,
Her hands lie still and white,
Like men asleep who weary of the rain,
And faint and fain would stay,
Till through the night the moon went down
And left no leaf astir.
The night is black with many a fear,
For now the white
======================================== SAMPLE 31 ========================================
 on
In the "Night-Garden"--he sings _Io_,
And he sings _Leu-de-noise_, too!
Then _Leu-de-noise_, the music-master,
He is glad to see that he has not come home--
The _ entertained_ and the _desiring_
"_Leu-de-noise_, the music-master,
"_Io_"--he sings _Io_ again--
_Leu-de-noise_, the music-master.
"_Leu-de-noise_," cries I--
And he sings _Leu-de-noise_, too.
_Leu-de-noise_, the song-master,
"_Io_"--the old three-decker who sings so clear.
"'_Leu-de-noise_, the "boy-master brewhouse."
"_Leu-de-noise_, the song-master,
"_Io_"--the great god Pan."
"_Leu-de-noise_," cries I--
"_Io_"--the great god Pan."
"_Io_, the great god Pan."
"_Io_," cries I--and laughing at the joke.
"_Io_," cries I--and laughing at the joke.
"_Io_," cries I--and laughing at the joke.
"_I_," cries I--and laughing at the joke.
I know not if these things be truth,
But to my lady I address'd
A simple smile, which, tho' severe,
Was more than _Io_'s thought of mine.
And, when to smile the Fates inspire,
The laughter of their converse ends;
And when _Io_ speak, with a _Mynheer_,
The _Dana_ hears him--and extends
Her _Spe forks_, and asks, in tones so pleasing,
Why she's not _she_--for instance Coos!
How the _Ocilla_, taught by Whippotini, is styled a
"_Shoe_," says I--"is a neat little fiddle.
"_Shoe_," says she--"is a neat little fiddle
"_Shoe_," says she--"is a neat little fiddle
"_Shoe_," says she--"is a neat little fiddle
"_Shoe_," says she--"is a neat little fiddle
"_Shoe_," says I--"is a neat little fiddle
"_Shoe_," says I--"is a neat little fiddle
"_Shoe_," says I--"is a neat little fiddle
"_Shoe_," says she--"is a neat little fiddle
"_Shoe_," says she--"is a neat little fiddle
"_Shoe_," says she--"is a neat little fiddle
"_Shoe_," says I--"is a tall clock in London;"
She--"I'm a very thick stone," added she; "but
"_Woof," says she, "is a firm and easy fiddle
"_And_," says I--"_Woof," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,"
"_Old_ Jove," says I--"_Old_ Apollo,"
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,"
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,"
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_ Apollo," says she--"_Old_ Apollo,
"_Old_
======================================== SAMPLE 32 ========================================
, a "straight-line"
"A good square stone," "a very easy stone."
And, "like a "sardonyx," he carried the stone.
You'll find it so easy to fashion stone.
He was the finest person on the earth--
A clever man, too, that had not learned to spell.
A log he carried with him to the hill,
Where several fine boys, gay as gossips, played,
For game, and shouted "Chee! Chee! Chee!
He threw the stone, the stone, into the pond.
He was afraid he would get killed and bled.
He was a soldier and a soldier bold,
Before he reached that fight in time of cold.
He said, "I'll use it when my sword is sharp,
I'll have to pick and take a soldier's life."
He took his leave, to meet the cruel crowd,
And marched on, singing "Victory or not,"
And passed into the silence of the hill.
O, ye who love the noble, and as brave
As all mankind, be glad;
Remember now the noble and the brave
Whose grief was mixed with tears.
O, ye who love the noble, and as brave
As all mankind, be glad.
He was a soldier and a soldier too.
O, ye who love the noble,
Who strive to win the loving like a dog,
Go to the noble battle to the camp,
And there your smiles shall tell
Of the soldier who is in the battlefield.
He was a soldier and a soldier too.
And in that skirmish he described the fight;
He described the soldiers and the ships;
The ships which had brought forth the roar and heat,
The ships which were to bear
Forth the roar of battle and the shock of fight,
And the loud din and heat
Of the soldier's beat
Came over the hillside; and there he stood,
And cheered his heart with victory--he said,
"The foe has left his land
He is marching from disgrace,
With gun and stake in hand,
With uncovered head and bloody hand,
And flag, that wave upon his mighty soul."
And, as the hero said,
He turned and looked around him, saying "Fool!
Stupid and stupid to perform
Our duty--but we have no right to give him over."
The boy's arms dropped beside him and they walked upon the hill!
They paused a moment and turned towards the spot,
Then, with a keen and curious look, said "Do you see
Any place to stand before us on the ground?"
The girl was young and slender, and her cheek was fresh and fair,
And her step was graceful and her eyes were full of light;
Yet she seemed as if she trod upon the fragrant air.
Then the stranger said, "I'm sure you are a girl, you know."
"Your courtesy has made me very sorry," he replied.
And she answered straightway, "I'm not going to show you how;
But I'm going to think that you, whatever may betide."
Then he thought of the little woman, and he spoke the words of her:
She had never been a mother; and her mother needed her.
So he placed his armor on her head, and laid the armor on,
And they passed away, intent on looking for the gun;
Yet they could not hear a word, for they thought not of a thing
The young man had never done so well as that--
WILLIAM had never tried it, for the boy got ready to run,
And he was so glad to get the shot, and tried to shoot an ice.
Said "I will shoot you," and they shot it, and they stood up in the
But when they came back to the cold and made it rather tough,
Then they all fell back in the dark and waited for the guns,
For they knew that at last the play was on the rocks that close,
And the boys had all brought up the children in the clothes
Last night, while I was gaming with the Burgundians, I saw
A head of fun on the table in the middle of my desk--
I had hunted all the time the livelong day;
But every one seemed to see me as I saw him make his way,
And the Burgundians never talked so hard a little bit!
That head, I reckoned, ought to be
A lad of decent, settled-cheer, six-foot-sixty-four;
I noticed it was plenty of hair and eyes and such a lot!
But the fingers of the cunning and the cunning of the boy
Were all my very own to-day, and every hair
======================================== SAMPLE 33 ========================================
 the verse and o'er the poem to a close.
The poem, which is translated from C.
Poe's Pantomime is still among the _Seraphs_.
My dear little dog, if you have a friend,
Though you may depend on him well,
And he can be wild as birds can be in Spring,
Yet he cannot growl or scratch one word of fear
While he sits quite still in the corner here;
My dear little dog, if you haven't a paw,
Though there's no one that would say you nay,
You have only to pull his nose out of his ear,
And I'll be home again if there's no one there.
I have heard a hymn saying of peace and of love
To come down to my house some time next year;
But if I was shy, he might come to me,
And say things that are wrong with my hasty fear.
So, my dear little dog, you'll be ready at once
To come down to my house and let me stay,
And tell my dear mother he will stay at home
When I see you're back at the end of the way.
_He grows._
_She makes him squeak and spout,
And he opens her mouth
With a grating of teeth._
_A nasty old man with a big blue eye._
_He can't see the sun now any more,
Nor the moonlight over the door;
He only can hear
The wind in the wood all day;
And that's enough for him, I fear.
When he goes to the wood,
He should not see the moon;
For if he could see it, he'd soon be all right.
_She kisses him._
_She sucks his ears and he squeaks._
_Oh, dear little dog, you're fine enough._
_You squeak!_
I wish you were a little child.
Why, you're a naughty child.
Do not speak to me,
For I fear you hide from me.
We can't be naughty,
Nor can't be naughty--
All the night I hear the guns
Crashing in the tree,
That _I_ don't mean to fight and smile
When you are standing near the door,
And do not say good-bye.
We should be frightened
At what we hear and see,
For it makes us worry
As hard as you can be,
But we never can get quite well
Or get very well.
Our Father is the Lord of all,
And we must all obey;
So he will never know how strong
He will support our fray,
Nor how the fight will be between us and our God;
And will never feel ashamed
Because God's above the world,
Nor care for shadows
Or men, or little boys at play.
We must get well.
_He takes our own when there's no doubt
That we are more to Him
Than we are in our own good earth--
If they are less than it
In these our sinful ways.
Our faults are many,
But most of these our praise;
For God has made us all in blood
More terrible than things._
_He takes our own when there's no doubt
That we are more to Him
Than we are in our own good earth--
If these His commands have heard,
Have come to us to see._
_He takes our own when we must speak
Of things we used to see;
And all the thoughts that come to me
Are the He will not forget._
Oh, I am very sure it is
That God and Mary mean
To take the things His hand would miss,
And leave a little space;
But Mary, and she, and I,
At His command must go
To work all in a good old way,
And try what work she will.
When I was down beside the lonely sea
That roves in sunlight and in rain,
I found a little boat upon the shore
And slowly rocked it home again.
The waves have battered it its sails, the wind
Has beat it steady till the night
Has come to say a quiet word,
For it is day.
There are no wooden blocks in all the sky,
No boat upon the deep,
Except the little dromedaries
That stand upon the shore.
The moaning wind in the woods doth fret,
And the tears are in the sea;
But I would say that every day
My prayers were heard to me.
And the waves have drowned the little maid
Who does not dance a dance,
And I would say that every day
My prayers were heard to me.
Oh, I have known that there must be
No sound of waters
======================================== SAMPLE 34 ========================================
, _The Book-worm_.
I sat in the shadow, looking back to the west,
And I marvelled and wondered whether the rest
Were better than nothing but looking at one.
"I'd just time to look," said a creature of note,
"For I'm sure my digestion will shortly be mixt
With a dime of sweet lemonade made by the throat
Or a mixture of marmalade, ere it's fit to be starved,
And whether by chance or by nature there's work."
"In the days of my youth," said a man,
As I sat in a shade of a garden-green shade
Where the drowse of the mignonette made
A noise like the sound of a bird.
"At the moment of death," said a creature of note,
"The first thing I've ever found here is that
Which I want, for they call it, 'The Fifth Craft,'
Where the ghosts of the slain do not even now
Serve as gruesome as anything near them."
"Of course it was, certainly," said I,
"They did, but they were a trifle relieved;
And then it was that they bore the degree
Of such steady endurance of soul and of body,
For to say they were living and doing their duty
At a wonderful tenement party in Rome,
And so at the other tenement in life
(And now I confess it is vastly characteristic)
Of American soldierines, who in a way
Which was bred up by the same blood, could be had
By cutting away from their own native sod
A uniform uniform uniform of American soldierines.
"I'd have you to be in the States and win
Like this here, but I couldn't always get
Some time before I was really out of my way
And I'd be in America before I was born;
And men got so fat I could hardly have worth a straw,
That I didn't go out of it at all to do it,
But got out of there while I was only Sife,
And had the pick of the Army again for a wife,
And so I hadn't the grit to be spanked in at the strife,
To go in and say nothing of a trifling or wrong,
Without any chance of a capitulation along.
So I took from the country the grit and the bloom
Of beautiful youth and the muscle and glow
Of the heart and the spirit and the high and the tender
Conscience of the man who could use but the pluck
Of the fruit of the fighting and pluck of the spur
Or the gift of a fighting alive in the days of the States
When I heard the voice of a man who had made me a man
And I saw him turn round at a comrade's head,
With the pride that he had when the fight was done,
And the glimmering wrist that is firmly bound
To his firm and true leg adopling a bay-tree ground,
And the sturdy man who could hit thataway
On the sharpest point in the grand old play,
Now again I sit in the tavern square:
I've forgot the man who was never there,
Who was never seen at my open door,
But I somehow feel as gay and glad
As ever a man could be and have been
On a rough rough rough rough rough rough rough rough,
And I find the man in his faults and pert
In the eyes that fill me with unutterable sadness,
All I can do is to stand aside
In the pouring darkness of doubt and fear
And listen to the voices that whine,
Knowing that I am for ever
They who never saw the faces of the dead.
"I'm sorry.  I'm sorry," I cry.
"So I'm thinking of that girl.
"What do you say about the girl?"
"She's trying to do things right.
Now I'm sure she isn't the girl for me."
"You ain't so bad!" she sniffs.
She's groping forward to the door.
She's trying to go out to the bar
And kiss the sign that she got there before.
There's the smoke of the burning street
And the dust of the burning street,
And the noise of the crowded country
That is born of the world of Hate.
She is going out to the fight again
To the blackness of the night.
We can see the green light on the road.  With a blind,
Stamping feet and a foot so blind,
A glimpse of a tortured country
Where her body lay dead among the dead--
Where her friends had never taken her
Into one grim shriek, and that cry, "Nevermore!"
And the laughter and dread of what was not,
And the
======================================== SAMPLE 35 ========================================
,
Hid so long behind that I must go,
And, after you, my course must steer,
So I my course must steer,
And, after you, my course must steer,
So I my course must steer,
And, after you, my course must steer,
So I my course must steer,
And, after you, my course must steer,
With such a fleet as yours and mine,
As I your course must steer,
And, after you, my course must steer,
So I my course must steer,
And, after you, my course must steer,
So I my course must steer,
So I my course must steer,
And, after you, my course must steer,
So I my course must steer,
But Fate decreed that I should fall,
So I my course must steer,
And, after you, my course must steer,
So I my course must steer,
Till now, my time to fail once more,
I reached the water's tempting shore.
How shall I e'er my end attain?
And why is this my haunt and scorn?
The sea is like a lion, but
Like them we roamed the briny sea.
We roamed the dreary wastes of Sea,
While on the rocks resounded he
That, wild and lone, the hungry sea
Feathered within the hollow sea.
Thou, who didst call our country good
Before the gates of Paradise,
Why, now that thou must die or walk
With wearied feet forth tottering--
I, only I, the King of blood,
With bitter tears have worn my brow,
For my sore hurt, the King of Hades,
With bleeding hands yet spurns the foe.
And thou, whose hope in manhood grows,
Him, like a wolf, thou also saw'st;
His rage and rage, to help thy friends,
Sooner shall they be free to die
Than he be left: to life restored
In health atoned, in vigor chained,
And to those virtues once destroyed,
That made him once their sport and sport--
Now thou thy strength shalt gain in none,
Nor shalt thou fail, a man to slay;
The Fates have struck their victims dead,
Stunned in the gulf their billows spread,
And heaped on earth his funeral dust
Beside his bier, which seems to bear
A mighty hand, and lift his dust
Above the depths of hell and air -
The mighty hand wherewith to smite
This monster of the sea and night,
The might of thine; and thou shalt be
In shape to mortal voice set free.
And now with me let's timely aid
Give victory, who canst bear the stroke
Which Gods and men and fiends may claim
And bear with me, if heaven's decree
Shall never break thy compact made,
While earth and air shall hide from me
The bolt which all the gods shall shake
And bear thee o'er the gulfy deep,
Till earth and men, with thee, shall own
The worthiest scheme of that huge throne,
And set thee at the earth--no more,
Henceforth, the wrath shall be thy pain,
The wrath shall be thy mighty doom,
The Fates shall be thy mighty doom.
And thou, my son, who on the earth
Shalt win the glorious prize at birth,
The earth shall yield thee, and thy head,
The glory of the skies, shalt spread
Unto the gods for evermore
That thou mayst reap what earth can yield
The wheat, and vine, and yellow grain,
Till earth, and air, and ocean join,
And thou be ruler as of old.
But what if thy great name should be
The seed of Gods, and even thy sons,
The thunderbolt shall turn on thee;
And earth be rent asunder!                     [_A New Way._
_To a Gael._
In winter, when the leaves are falling,
He puts his trusty fetters by;
He clasps a father's hand to him,
And draws a child's salute from the sky.
He takes his father's voice to him,
And gives him all he can, to stay
Or stay with him to court a guest,
Or stay his hands from courting him.
I've seen the summer morn arising,
From out her cloud of dewy red,
The sun, without her shining,
Reflected in the sky;
The morn, within her power, to shine,
With her light beamed from her
======================================== SAMPLE 36 ========================================
, Book
of the "Love Songs"--by John James Piatt.
A Song in Spring
The Swan's Nest
The Leagh's Puzzle
The Crow's Nest
The Wren's Nest
The Plowman's Song
The Thrush's Nest
The Minstrel's Song
The Thrush's Nest
The Thrush's Nest
The Waves from "The Sea and the Aisle,"--_Leigh Hunt._
The World's Way (In Kindness to Early Germany.)
A Poet's Bedchamber for the Children of Israel--_La Mir. Every
fresh sight that they are alive._
A Year's House
Bird from Germany, fly—
Blessings be with them, the Poets in singing
The Old-Year's Keep
The World's Age
_The Year's World_
Chimneys upon the River Plate
Daily Baltimore
A Child's Amaze
In Wisdom's Hospital
The Children's Crusade
The Old Man's Song
God's Measure
In Falsehood, in Youth
The Lord's Prayer
Myself and all
my sweetheart
A New Dream
The Year's Endearing
"I'd like to be a Butterfly"                   5 cents
Again. Is a Fairy Cupid
"Come into the Garden"                                      13 cents
Again. Is the Fairy Cupid
"Go Where, Away,"                                             _The Lies
The First Snow-fall                                       _The Author's
A Line-rase of Lydgate                                  5 cents
Again. Is Springtide sweet, and gentle,
But never roses, never sunshine,
Never balm, never amaranth
And never sandal,
Never lily bell, never rose;
Nor is there aught that roses know,
Not even a moon in the blue;
Nor a star in the depths of the sky;
Nor a breeze in the trees overhead,
Nor a leaf in the boughs overhead;
Nor a sound in the lakes and streams
Of the air where the elfin creatures play;
Nor ever a whisper or sigh
Comes ring to tell how that is done;
Nor a word does the echoes reply
Of the fountain and the sun;
Nor aught do we hear, in the leaves below,
But a murmur of bees and a sigh.
There comes a murmur low and sweet
As of far-off streams in a dream,
Or a murmur of many birds,
Or chime of little evening bells,
As of wedding-bells in the dells,
Soft, sweet and slow,
As of wedding belles that come and go.
A little green ribbon of lilies
By the door of my dear one's room,
A kiss on her cheek, and she whispers,
"I am the bride of the loveliest flower."
A moment we stand in the garden
Of dreams and things,
Dreaming of fairyland
And the fairy music there,
Sweet bells and dreams, and the fairy music,
The fairy songs of the air.
A moment we stand in the garden
Of dreams and things.
Dreaming the fairy laughter
Of the ferns and the ivy clover,
We walkt and smiled, and the fairy music,
Its laugh and its talk,
Seems ever more a part of our dancing
Than the world to us that day,
And the fairy tunes we sing not,
For we have heard fairy voices,
And the fairy songs of the May.
When children were playing alone on the green,
Without there was one to tell them the news,
There came to us, from the attic, the tear,
A voice that we knew in the desolate years,
A sweet, tender message, half human, half human,
"Little girls, little children, are you at play?"
And I, standing up in the garden of tears,
Forget, and forget, and remember, and forget.
There is a Shadow that comes and sleeps
Too
======================================== SAMPLE 37 ========================================
, with the
At the end of the next page the paper is scattered; the
custodium is scattered under the feet of the wanderer
universally agreed, and the plan is resolved on whether
the verses should be traced.
The odes that appal as the ending of any but these four
"The man that shall soon write a note."
Odyssey. The nine following lines were selected from two
companies, and the translation was finished, while the
former is traced. The prose is finished, and the lines that
The translation is marked from line 101 to 94.
Cicero translated them in Ovid's _Epistles_, line 100.
The odes are taken from Ovid and Bookhopppppp, line 100.
The translation is from Messrs. Butcher & Percy Notte, and
From the eleventh, linebos to megaph.
The poem that was not issued by Nautilus was much more
famous than the poem that envious was to the author of it.
The two first parts of the work were probably slightly obscure,
one about forty years old: and the eleventh was written in
the reign of "Etiae liberis Inde."
The poem was thus written, though the commission of Narration
was not inserted here.
"In the year 'Etiae sonne," which the author has named as "The
Pindaricae," with Franckenbach, "Die alten habetis."
And these two following Stanhope, "The Abbess," and "The
Apollonius," are inspired by his analysis of Greek verging.
His political existence could hardly be distinguished from the
essence of his talent as a work; but in the eleventh century
he was the author of a work called "The Life of the Young
Marche."  That is,--the younger of these two was the work of
Ilioneus by name--and it has a unity in the works which can,
however, cause personal interchange of understanding and
conscience. I cannot remember if the allusion to the story be
deemed with a superior care.
The most important example is to make the author of the _Pisist
Laurentius_ think that he was an consideration of the kind of
poetry, and that he was to study the manners of the Muses in
natural lore. The best normal order of the poem was to teach the
arrangements and improve a finer side of poetry.
Odyssean art, therefore, was the first in Italian poetry. The
most important part of the poem is to do good, to connect,
however, the delicate excellence and pathetic beauty of the
transitions.
Poetry,--he is usually so called from his sense that it might
longish to escape the critics, he could not help thinking that
Rome, the last work of Tellus being finished by Perillus, was
finished by the Drury snakes, the snakes which were his covering.
He appears to have been a favourite with every kind of beast in
their kind. And in spite of the spite of the spite of the viper
conceptions, in spite of the care which he had bestowed on him,--of
all his friends to treat him, even when he was in his element of
spirit.
books,--he is usually so called from his present self that his
being made so short by being written by others. The present
poetry,--he resembles an almost invisible image, and
upon occasions, when a play or a speech is made, and the words
character. And in the medium of poetry, the poet's being placed
with the simplest and most cherishable things, and is, if he appears
himself, such as we say, a most imaginary sort of man. He is,
therefore, so called from his intermedoch of the 'Vita diu' in
the 'Elysium Durendo' to his address to the statue of St.
Francis de' invested for the comic and terse intellect.' (ii.
baptismi); in the midst of the dialogue of artists and admirers.
A censour sometimes ascends and presents the condition of an
inconvenience,--but sometimes prevents its approach.'
The author of these two plays has the same relation, in the
first person; and, having introduced it, has the same relation,
in all the others, the very same relation to the man referred to,
and again, that it is hard to determine.
The other sixth plays all have an amusing tale of the former,
'De primo Europe diu no sonoro esperado,' that is, in the form
of three of the
======================================== SAMPLE 38 ========================================
,
"And as for thy body, which is a covered one,
And a very small body thou art, I fear."
He spake; but she cast a pale and trembling look
Wherein her heart had lost all sense.
She trembled, and forth from the body's height
Held down the body like a stone.
"But first of all thyself
Hast thou forgot the spell thy mother vowed,
When to her own house she had sent forth
A fair child, with the white hands of love?
She took thee--'twas her hand.
Her eyes were as bright as the stars that gleam,
And her hand was as soft as the touch of a glove--
To her own home she had sent her, thy wife.
And she gave thee this ring;
O lady mine, thou art like a maiden's bride,
All honour and favour to her is she tried.
What hast thou gotten, the prize we gave thee then,
When she to her love brought'st us the ring?"
"If I wert," said he,
"But she should weep."
The maiden smiled. "Yea, by mine own heart's token,
Yea, by the token I took thee for a token!"
At that word, as if one mocked it, she turned
Her head, as one turned from the perilous drift;
But as they parted, she said: "I wend to thee,
Myself! And I think on thee."
The fair Queen, her hand upon his head, plucked it
As she would lean from a sad lily's tip,
Or by a wintry brook, or in wild delight
Of tossing pennons, or, by summer light,
Her slender slender waist and glowing cheek.
"O Queen," he sighed, "of women am I none,
Who thus, with this vain love, with that vain breath
For thee upon me, find their hearts in death."
But as they came, she smiled to him. "O sweet!
My love!" she said, "how can I speak of it?"
"Never," she said, "so long as lives this maid,
As thou hast known her love; O, that I knew,
Her hair across her shoulders, and her head
On his whom she had borne, where in a shroud
Hath the snow, and even the fair wind is dead!"
Then through the garden-paths they led him on,
And, even at the hour of morn he rose
And leaned upon her face. "O sweet! O pure!
O woman's love! that wert but a lily pure,
Not one, not one thou knewest ere that day
O'er thy heart, that had no heart to say,
No heart to say another of thy love
But thy young heart should know and think of me."
Pale grew her cheek, and in her sad distress
Her eyes were sealed. Then with a sudden guess
As from a vague and unknown spell she turned,
And, by the brook, beheld him--feared him yet!--
And in the boughs burst their buds, and burst their dews,
And the great snake, that lay about the rose,
With its blue eyes that sought and sought her long,
Sought its throat, and with its small bright wings
Spread out its gauzy breast, its golden tail,
Then with a cry as of some troubled man
Gnawing the tears within her frozen breast,
He, with a cry as of some troubled child
Sought his own place, but found no resting-place,
And, having found the place where he had longed
In vain with all his terrors, all his pain
Came to the first-born babe! His mother, then,
With one fond cry, leapt up out of his bed,
And with a cry so tender, silently
Rose up and led him, as he lay awake,
And made him lay his beautiful white hands
In hers against his heart. "My child! my child!
My child!" she said, "my child, the while we part
From the wild dew of time, in this wide life,
We can come home, too late, to love again;
With a warm heart, then, farewell!" So they went,
By the green banks that gliding to the sea,
And from the soft and silent evening air
They heard the ripple ripples down their way
In the cool green of twilight sadly slow.
Thence, when those last hours, many a boy, had gone
On some great childish quest, and wandered forth,
After long hours, to the lone sea-home,
Across the smooth, bright waters of the bay,
======================================== SAMPLE 39 ========================================
 my life is more than she doth now,
For she's a woman as a vassal doth;
And my heart is a house wherein men live,
For my house is a castle from the North.
She dwelleth by the water side
And her eye is on her, and her cheek
Is the hue which her cheek hath, and her eyes
And her voice is a song which her sweet song saith.
_The Winter hath taken his flight hence,
And to-morrow findeth me weary and worn,
To a lone place and yet a desert sea
And a desert sea where the moon doth dive,
And to think and do, if they keep me mad,
And to dream and do, being half accurst._
Oh, the autumn hath taken his flight from the west,
And he lies under the boughs on the face of the sea.
I will go back and wander where I was left
While the boughs and the boughs stand bare.
I will go through the windings and greyberry woods
And the drip of the bitter fruit,
To the calm and the settled earth, asleep,
And in the cool of the summer no more grief
Or harshness can bear my soul,
Because the wind hath no pity at all
At daybreak any of all,
Because the wind hath no pity at all
But the bitter winter's self
Making no love at all,
Because the wind hath no pity at all
At night.
Oh, my love's the spring of beauty,
My fair and tender love,
And my thoughts like flocks of birds in the air
Go forth upon the day,
The wind is the lover,
The wind, the wind is the lover,
And the wind has good reason
For why?
The first days of the year
Are early, yet are not too soon,
A little before the month of June
When we must love and woo.
But still there is a season
Of autumn, and the days
Foretell an autumn evening,
And then 'tis late.
A year seems too short for us, we die.
The flower cannot die;
For the wind will not scatter
Its petals which lie
Where the rose and the violet say
"It died and the day was over."
But the flower has no thought
For me; all things
As a flower are linked in one place.
But the time arrives
When lovers must wait and pine
To see love's light decline.
But they who watch love's fire
Must know it in vain,
Not counting the hour its own.
Though love be not over,
And love not its love,
They wait for the love of one
Who is not above.
They wait till love visits them no more;
Then shall they love again, never know
That passion had held all this treasure before;
But this I know well,
That to all things above
Its torch was a light that hath lighted your love.
Love, for love that is blind
And love that is cold,
Can shake you to stone, can give birth to the sod;
But this I know well,
That to all things above
Its torch was a light that hath lighted your love.
Though love be not over,
And love be not dead,
We know not wherefore it shall be,
That love is not dead;
It quencheth not at all
Though it were all dead;
It neither knoweth nor doth fall
Though love be not dead.
Though love be not over,
And love be not dead,
Woe yet shall lighten us;
And love made love over,
Shall we not be led
To see love's light sink down in the sea?
Though love be not over,
And love be not dead,
Woe yet shall lighten us;
If love be not over,
And love be not dead,
We know not when it shall last,
And if it shall last,
So the end is not to be,
But to-morrow or to-morrow;
It shall not be night;
And it shall not be light,
For love is not to see;
And it shall not be light,
For grief is not to see.
And so, all the night,
The love of love at bay,
Though it were a horn, not a horn, not a horn,
Shall it be, if I tell what I say;
And the next time the song let the last words fall,
'Tis sung for me, that I sang not at all.
I told you, my dear, that I had a poor poet.
(No mortal has touched it with awe).
I sang it for
======================================== SAMPLE 40 ========================================
 from Hionville
As I walk here.
If I could see a bird upon the branches of the trees,
Or catch a glimpse of sunlight in the golden afternoon,
I would remember that short, short time before I went to bed,
And hear the sleeping river whisper, silver in the gloom,
That somewhere in some other land I saw my lady wait,
But never to return.
Ah, those calm brown hills!
Those quiet, quiet fields!
Those mountains in gorgeous purple, purple to the heart.
How beautiful they stand above the singing stream
That feeds them all.
How beautiful they stand, those golden hills,
Those silent, motionless hills!
And every soul a melody, of hence
That makes a century of beauty, or eclipse
May take a moment and return to me. . .
Sometimes I think of him as sitting there in state,
 conferring on that idle boy.
Sometimes a little boy
Comes here to look at me,
While yet the years, that we were with, have grown
Out of their trace.
Sometimes an idle man,
Looking the other side,
Comes here to look at me, and smile, and seek,
As friend with friend must find and think.
Sometimes an idle man,
Seeking some idle thing,
Seeking to hold and to hold in both,
The one of you.
A little idle man,
Seeking the idle thing,
Seeking to take it, and seek with you
All that the world can bring.
To me, that little friend,
You seem so new and kind,
And when I know that you are not so young,
It seems so very kind.
Sometimes a little boy,
Though I've been long enough,
And seen the summer in his veins
But found no music else.
Sometimes a little boy,
Although I often tried
To keep from singing what he loved,
And what he really loved.
Sometimes a little boy,
Although you never wore
The look of things that would be of use,
And when you went to bed,
And knew not what you say or do,
I would remember what it was,
And tell myself once more.
Sometimes a little boy,
Though you would never know
When he should wear a sunny mask,
He should not seem to know.
Sometimes a little boy,
Although his face is glad,
Never seem very gay,
And when he thinks to sing to me
That he is glad to see,
And just begin again to see
That you are not as old and yet
To-morrow when you die.
Sometimes a little boy,
Though he was long and thin,
Through every change and coming change,
I would remember him.
But when I see him in my dreams
I shall not say "my words,"
But say, "I was a lucky lad,
And you were kind and pleased."
And then, perhaps, at last,
You'll say, "He was a brave soldier,
Who left his farm so gay."
And I would have you know
That I am bending low,
And that my age is only this;
That I have found a grave,
Still, somewhere in my mind,
And think those "antres vast" of mine
Are just the same as when
And that from some I would be free
To meet and live again,
That I have wandered lonely here
And long for what they gave
To me, and no man ever gave
A harder welcome, never planned--
That I am not the man!
And when I go to sleep, in quiet as the night,
All that is pleasant, all that is severe
Lies quietly at home.
I say that I am happy with my heart--
If I were happy, I should be so still.
But I, not happy, am more lonely too--
And have a strange ambition in this hour.
The man who wants to live forever seems
A careless man and seldom born than I.
As I was walking up the street,
The evening sky was grey,
The wind was driving up the hill
Between the empty houses.
The morning air was heavy with snow--
My thoughts went back to places they knew,
And my house stood empty then.
The windows were a broken ones,
And the gusts carried through--
They said, "Poor child!  You're very old!"
My thoughts went back to you.
The day came on,
And the mist began to fall,
I had no time to look for deeds,
But my heart was heavy with gall.
I was so weary of the dark,
So very tired, I thought--
And, Oh, my heart was full of pain
Because my thoughts were not
======================================== SAMPLE 41 ========================================
."
On looking-glass, before you pass to dinner,
I see the writing of a little Cyclops;
And here comes Trike-King, to whom we say
A great white creature once, as you may guess,
Was not among the foremost of the three.
And I remember a little Cyclops,
Who brought a lovely lump of news from me,
And asked me, as I happened to be there,
Or else, as soon as my return was done,
An innocent small ghost might lead me through him.
But, after I have told you of the truth,
Of all the tokens I have left to tell,
I fear you will not have one half the truth.
For he who has a nose has had no hoof,
And this is not the goat, that bears the whip,
Who knows? or has not? for his ears are dull.
And now perhaps I shall not have him sing so:
But here's another with a painted skin,
And this is not the goat, but the small dog,
Or only the white man with a great black tail;
A horn so smooth, like horn, 'tis dull, I fear.
So smooth, and as the horse's skin and eyes,
You think that you can smell the goat-skin dog.
The dog, I can believe, is rather hard,
Because, when he a bite has, he is spongy.
The goatkin lies, but the small dog is hard,
The little goat is happy and discreet,
And the whole goat can eat, nor will you find
How hard it is for any goat to eat,
And he has little feet and a little horse,
And little arms, with nothing else to eat.
The very goat, when he is thirsty, says
To a small dog, "I want a bowl of water."
But when he has dried up, it may be said
That this is water, if he likes, will cool him.
And then, I think, the porcupine and all,
And the small goat, have gone to sleep so sadly;
The little dog, he won't tell you, is dead;
The great goat almost broke his bones with fright,
And the little dog says, "That were not good for;
I think I shall eat, if I have a good one."
So, when the little goat's skin is folded up,
In little Bruin, the sheep will be dispersed.
Some sheep, in the night, will lie down and die
At the grey wolf's in the sheep's stall for cold,
And when the sun has put the shepherd's sheep
And all the winds be gone, will lie down on the grass
A little, while the moonlight, like a shroud,
Slide over the sheep-walks.
How small
That house!
Just a little, while ago!
Just a little, while ago!
How much, O man, that house
That seemed so fair to look on!
What great cathedral is this,
That lacks so many a picture
Of all my 'books and poems,--
Of everything I ever learned
From those bright depths of nature,
That mystery of figures,
That power of art and wisdom,
That strength of self and glory,
That spirit of the painter,
Who drew my books and pencil
From the rare mists of history,
And fashioned them at my desire
To make each living image
A word, the patterned pattern
A stay, a pencil, or a pencil.
This was the house as it was of old:
Old walls that line a street,
And windows shining through a rain of light
That made me think of home.
The old road, rough and dirty,
And the new road I know:
Red roses, red and gold,
The old road I shall go.
When I reach home, perhaps again,
In the morning I shall meet
The new road, rough and dirty,
A friend I shall not care for;
He will say, "Come, stay with me";
And I shall say, "Come, follow me;"
And I shall say, "Come, follow me;"
And I shall say,--"Thrust home";
And I shall say, "Come, die";
And I shall say,--No; but follow me;"
And I shall say,--No; but follow me;
And I shall say,--No.
The rain is raining all around the place,
It is raining all around the place,
It is raining all around the place,
It is raining all around the place,
It is raining all around the place,
But not a sound came from the land;
The very ground was all so still
That not an
======================================== SAMPLE 42 ========================================
,
The kingfisher, the sea-dove, the miller
Whereon that old man sat and sang:
The moon hangs on the Thames like a mirror,
The tide flows in with a mighty bend
One, two, three and four, where the great water
Rises, flows in with a hundred heads,
Four, six and one, where the high walls break in,
Over which fall and rise the waves,
Four, six and six and a seventh there is there,
And the strong penthouse sleeps at last,
Five, six and two, the great books quite gone,
And the deep rum down patter of tongues.
"I am tired of their luxury, their riotous noise,
Their rapine, their glittering pictures, their talk,
Contempt of the world without, the sea-weed's sprays,
The great seats of the big books, the loud lark's lays,
The lightning-flash of the moonlight on high,
The rattle of the stars and the mighty roar
Of the rivers under the great sea,
"I am tired of that madness, their exquisite dreams,
Their great joy that flows through my head
While ever I watch their white unmentioned streams,
And think how I shall forget them, and think of them,
And think how I shall forget them and think of them.
"I have shut my eyes at night to a deep night
Where the sun is hidden, I have shut my doors
To a darkness that holds all secrets in her flight,
To shut out the stars and the sun,
To shut out the stars and the wind and the wind,
That I may shut out the trees and the clouds and the sea,
The tree and the flower and the tree,
To shut out the stars and the sea and the sea.
"I have shut my eyes on a wind that has left no secrets,
A wind that will give a far cry
And run over their tops in the thunder or the storms,
To shut out the sun and the sea,
That my body may sink on a mist in a sea of stars,
For I have shut out the stars and the sea."
Over the land, over the sea,
The voice of the great ocean cries,
And all the night wind and the spray,
They ring and roll in loud symphonies;
They are in your nostrils the sweet flowers.
They are in your heart the joyance of your voice.
They are in your heart the love of your own.
They are in your eyes the light that throws
From your eyelashes the sweet crown of sleep;
They are in your heart the singing of stars,
That shine in the starry depths of the deep.
They are in your heart the love of your own.
They have brought their songs to the young morning,
In your heart they have drowned their light;
They are in your heart the joy of your laughter,
That flows through the soul of your morning.
They have drowned the voice of your joys,
They have made them strong like the sea;
They have melted the sands to our music,
And made them music to sing for our peace.
They have sailed over the sun's bright forehead,
And into the night's blue noon
Sled the song of their songs unsung,
As they sang on the winds of May,
To the people of love, unknown.
They have builded their palaces,
And launched their boats on the sea;
And swept on the pathless foam
Of the restless world afar.
They have wedded their souls to a sea
Where the stars like white stars are;
They have made a pathway for us,
And passed through the gates of day.
They have wedded their souls to a sea
As white as the foam on the sea;
They have sent the winds to our soul,
And gone through the gates of day.
They have trod the shores of a sun,
They have trod the shores of night;
Have sailed over the sea of dawn,
To the gates of peace with their white.
They have set their lips on the lips of the waves
And launched their souls on the sea;
For the world has need of their soul,
And its purpose is in to-day.
They have given their hearts to a sea
As white as the foam on the sea;
And swept on the shore of the sky
As the spirit-wings of the sea.
They have sailed over the world's bright face,
And guided their planets through;
They have bowed the stars to their splendour,
And launched from the deep for you.
They have scattered the sun from your skies,
And launched their souls on the sea;
They have sailed to the end of your
======================================== SAMPLE 43 ========================================

Our heads have grown somewhat higher;
Thus too the little fellow
Whose name is quite related,
Now thought himself treated better
Than he had done in the story
Of his deep-felt grief by me.
I often thought his story
I did not here relate;
And now I am no more a-dying,
When I must wish, you know,
That he is but my own undoer,
And has not thus much to relate.
For he's so old it will be said
His hair grows grizzled-goat;
And though he has grown an hideous head,
It is the manner of disgrace
In leaving him, forsooth, an ugly maid
To look at, now, when he must eat.
He is so old, his clothing's bad
Although he has a mutch and had,
And is a very great disaster
For riding-on with him no faster.
He is so young, he's great to say,
And is extremely well-to-day,
At any rate, he's not a lady,
But she has got a plenty of hair
By which, at least, he might be caught.
He is so young, I've learned to cry
Because he is so old;
No longer now we have a rumour
Of riding-on with him about
The country where he's now grown rumour,
But there, to make a clear run in.
With him he's nothing to adorn it:
A plain plain plain corn-laurel, too,
And a man of no more worth than us,
Who in this world has never known
Such flowing, flowing rivers blown,
Or of more worth, than is his head,
That can so large a stream contain
Of a thousand streams which want no rain.
He has a goodly reputation,
And he knows more about his hut,
And he gains in value not his own,
And so, you see, he may look well
If he can't tell you he'll be clever.
With his tongue he's horribly choked,
And his face is black as pitch;
He's a man of many senses,
And he's one of many drinks,
The most impelled by fits and drinks,
Which are the very men of drink,
The more he doth his drink perplex.
He has his money's habit,
And, when the cash is spent,
With his spirit's firmness
He doth but just it come.
He knows as well as his head,
And he's a man of many senses,
And he's quite content with his own head,
And he is content with his own breeding,
With his spirits free from danger,
And he doth much and frequently say
As they were his real property,
How very clever he must play.
And he's a man of very minds,
And has the very devil fits;
But still his manner's somewhat civil,
And in his heart there's much the Devil,
More than my true-love poetry,
And more than I dare say, as to duty.
Is it not somewhat singular
That in his verse, or else in prose,
He should, in time, sing up the goddess,
Or say, O, giddy Philomel?
If the truth was as I tell you this,
He chose the most melodious manner,
Which here, to try if rightly set,
He'd sing up the most wretched creature,
And he shall make it out of speech:
I doubt if there be such a thing,
Or the best, if there be one,
Either I shall find at his ease,
Or else abroad, or on his knees.
He is, without one chance or need,
The most unhappy of his breed,
His judgment will he not forbear,
For he will neither hear nor see,
Or yet will never try to speed,
Or else he'll try, unless he did,
Or shall not have a reason why.
He is not so disposed to praise,
Nor yet so bold to use his tongue,
As people only should admire,
Yet he, at times, can speak so long,
That shall not be by caution tried;
For this he is from sober judgment
Excluded from the gloomy world,
As perfect in his character;
And, on the point of being named
This uncongenial subject-judge
Of censure, if he did not sneer him,
'Twere well to praise him, not in spirit.
If it be, he must be less
With self-deceitful vanity
Than he, so much in love with men
As those who would his speech disgrace,
And their censure is
======================================== SAMPLE 44 ========================================
 from the
_Canto_. Then came the great king
Who called her from the woods, to see
In how of sorrow
The weeping forest seemed to be,
In tones of sad relief:
“Alas, alas! I can but cry
For a compassionate despair
Which that poor she-bird has found in her nest,
And has found the she-bird in her breast.”
The whole of the woods was of fern,
That echoed to the cry
Of those that had never heard
The moan of grief they saw.
All boughs were thick with leaves,
And birds became birds where she was,
And flowers and birds sang round her,
And the leaves gave way beneath her,
Till the tree-tops became trees,
And there was no fear
That she would not fly.
All boughs were thick with leaves,
And birds became birds where she was,
That cried about the wood,
Till the tree-tops became trees,
And the leaves became trees,
Till the stalks all became blossoms,
And the leaves went up the sky
And the leaves came down loud, loud,
Till the tree-tops became blossoms,
And the leaves went up the sky.
And the stalks became thick,
And the leaves went up the sky,
Till the tree-tops became blossoms,
And the air became garlands.
The sun was out during the long day's rest,
When the sun heard his story from the west.
Like a glowworm on a summer's day
Gathering the marshland flowers,
Some red, and some green, and some red,
With the leaves of the last year's dead.
It was in the good spring. The trees and grass
Seemed gathered in the woods to pass.
The wind of the summer night brought sleep,
Fringing the earth with glory.
They shook their leafy heads and said;
“A wonderful forest is this,
Which stretches out a broad, wide road
Through valleys thick, hard, thick, and grey,
To the eyes of wanderers far away.”
Like a glowworm on a summer’s day
Gathering the leaves of the first year's flowers,
Some of the grass grew pink and red,
And others a thousand years were dead.
The old-time blossoms, fallen from the trees,
Look’d like a wonderful anemonies.
“Now this is the garden where we lived
In the bright, sunnest spring of all the years,
And where the fragrant lilacs blew
In springtime from their native clime.”
And thus he sang at last, with face
All radiant like a lovely rose:
“Love is the godhead made of Love,
In which the spirits walk and repose
Of these wild things they honour.
Sun, moon, and heaven shine above,
And earth and all the living things,
And all the glad things that they breathe,
And all the happy beings of the air.”
And thus they sang, and thus they sang:
The living things they know not of,
They know not what they know not of.
And the woods and fields around
Were singing: “O, were these!” they sang.
Bees, rushing like the rain,
Or like the wild bees wild,
Or like the honeyed rain
That fills the ears of the flowers in the garden,
Or only of the flower
That drops out honey on all the hours of autumn,
And soothes the heart that’s tired,
And leaves us weary;
Or like the lonely bee
That wails alone, unhappy and alone.
The wood that hung between
In its sweet green boughs gay,
Was the brier’s vermeil hue,
And the flowers were glad to be
Hung on it from the day.
But the sun was higher up,
And the flowers were fairer,
And the bees wept bitterly,
And the bee wept honey.
“Child, child, child, what is the use of all this toil?”
“I have been toil’d so far, and here it is toil”.
Away, away, up the meadow fair,
With a sigh of faint and panting breath,
And a few white doves between us two.
That I might be happy here!
For the summer’s peace is over;
And the winds are fresh and fair.
And the rose
Is sad and white,
Like the little bit of white
That hangs upon a rose bush’s rim;
And the lily pale
======================================== SAMPLE 45 ========================================
 from the German of the "Odes of the Imagination."
v. 94.  From the ancient council.]
"The words of Introduction, as quoted by Laertes, have no
sign either for adorning or for defraying, as the former
explain, that we are in our opinion at all times of the most
nonordial and immanacian.
v. 106.  From the historical pages.]
But as to the tale of the dead, etc.
v. 117.  The two Geniote twins.]  Either "the two latter having
made each a god of each other," nor the names of the people of
"divine," but later, as we have already said in Italian and Greek
ballads, in the Golden Legend.
v. 116.  A cow.]  The wife of Achilles, by whom Patroclus died,
cries to Achilles, "Hector forbade him to let fight, and took him,
after many days, with the sword and spear, to the fight
which he dearly bestows."  See Altam.  Par. Regem.  Nic. iv.  540,
Who could such a man have, to raise his monument with such a
reputation of the Trojans, and their exploits against the
 Achaeans by the Trojans, or by their own hands, or by their own
v. 127.  Not Argive.]  Homer uses the word "trojan" as a sign
of respect for a living body, and the people of Romulus call
it Homer.
"I, son of Atreus, am the son of Jove the father of Juno, who,
being enraged, at the sight and sound of Achilles' arms, sends
him to the city and to make him an escort, and sets on foot the
coming and going about among them. I am of opinion the most
councilable person of all the Achaians, with Priam the
coward, and he is ever counselled by Achilles. The other part
is doubtful, and I know not whether the Argives are better or
more wisely; though heretofore no one can speak either in his
weake or in his talk, and his words are no longer of main
weening, as we shall surely see, as we see the faces of Jove the
most exquisitely embroidered; so Minerva, in the likeness of a
lady, broods over a double cumberous couch. We know also
mischiefs, and the divinity of the fates.
v. 10.  The mother of Agamemnon.]  The father is the great sun
v. 30.  The pitiful sight.]  See Hell, Book iii, No. 1304.
v. 39.  The other.]  Agamemnon, King of the Trojans, now at the
gate, having been seen on the bridge by Achilles, being at
wasting, where the river goes down into the sea, and he is near
his dwelling, where Achilles is father of Sthenelus, son of
divine Patroclus, whom Achilles, with all his valiant comrades,
v. 42.  Nor may it be that I dreaded the spear, nor may it be
I feared him, but my anger could not be stayed.
I have now observed that he is the son of Achilles, who is
the person of Apollo, and who to him applies the palm of
sweet-breathless son; for he is the son of Peleus, and his wife of
Apollo has also given him, although he is not among the
rulers of Olympus, to be a kind of a counsellor of the people.
v. 42.  To me it seems that Iris, messenger of Jove, that
gilds all.  It never was by anyone who did not love her, she
will be much the sweeter of his wife as he is by Achilles.
I know too well that I am to hear my story; for it was from
have been absent long ago. Iris, messenger of Jove, who was
with him the consort of Achilles, kept him from doing so; but
such a fate of mine will never come upon him again. He was
excellent in every supplication that he might make him a man
v. 42.  The god of victory, although in his turn, still burns
stupidly within the heart of a brave man, with courage that his
strength and courage were more than that of aught which he,
in counsel, could devise.
"But come to Olympus, let us go, and we will speak with Jove
for his father; he is in an Elysium, and he will
======================================== SAMPLE 46 ========================================
 it for the "truth," my friend,
When I have read my warrant!"  And the phrase
Is gravely now; and wherefore should I make
My own confession, nor believe my words
Have ever proved what they seem'd to say?
I dare not ask.  Perhaps the secret cause
Of this rash lapse provokes me to conceive
Some error in the heart.
For instance,
If words were true, they tell me, who can doubt
Our credulous recollection, or recall
Its current in these words? we both have err'd!
I will not tell the difference.  The world
Is in the right of action, and the right
Of pleasure is to take the wrong direction,
And act as if it were but yesterday.
We never wrong'd the puppets of our youth,
We never broke our faith with sneers and lies;
We never quail'd to see ourselves escap'd;
We never erred, or we forgive whene'er
We had our fathers in the right of thought
And virtue, and our right to wrong, and left
What we thought sacrilege; we never miss'd
The manly trust which enter'd into duty,
And never falter'd, though we strove for truth,
But were the stronger for that we believed.
We have no right to wrong, and no weak heart
To hope for justice; and our right to wrong
Is that our friends and native soil must fail,
And not our love, that neither shame nor truth
Can cancel or elude.  The world is wrong!
Hearken, old man, yet heaven knows what is right!
To thy dear side I yield, O God, my heart!
Love, in exchange, at once so kind and true,
I give thee, for the first time, all my love.
If Love be dead, then let him live above,
For the world's good, and for the world's release;
And grant me this, O God, and this my prayer,
My true love, my true love, grant me this,
For the worst is but to die.
He is dead.  I have a heart to break,
And will not yield.  I give his life to hers.
I grant him this, O God, and this my death.
In truth, he lives, true lady, all the day.
He lives to her who for him battles nigh,
And loves him daily when he dies, and dies
To her who hides her heart, and lies in wait
And waits for him, and waits, and waits for him,
And dies, and is but half awake.
If thou be love, so let it be with thee.
Let no man love thee, for 'tis but to know.
Thou shalt be dead, if thou but once art good;
If thou art not, then let me be my wife.
The first time that I look for him is
My own belov'd, my own beloved!
The last time I look for him, alas!
And that is my belov'd, Eliza fair!
If love be dead, then let him live above;
And my love love, Eliza, let me die
To-day at least alone, while she and I
Shall have our souls, and be for ever dead.
I have a need to be for pity, for love is dead,
And, being dead, no more shall I be free.
And, being dead, do thou the dead, my love, deny,
For, being dead, 'twill be the same to me.
And die at least alone, while she and I
Shall have our souls, and be for ever blest.
To thee a pretty bud I give,
A tender bud, a flower of thee,
And then the fairest flower that lives
Will thee for ever be to me.
And in a kiss, a flower of thee,
All sweet and red my ringlets take;
Die thou, and rot, and be no more
A joy, a torment for to make.
So live I still; and dying thus,
Die still I still; and dying thus,
Die still I still; and dying thus
Die still I still; and dying thus
Die still I still; and dying thus
Die still I still; and dying thus
Die still I now; and dying thus
Die still I still; and dying thus
Die still I now! and dying thus
Die still I now! and die I now
For ever!
Come away, come away,
Come away, come away;
The rosy morning light is glancing;
Come away, come away,
The day is drawing to its close;
We can hear the black
======================================== SAMPLE 47 ========================================
ly
_Mephistopheles_ (_to Faust_).
Mesmerall's _Gemmezung_, which, like other things,
Needs but a little time to make them jealous.
_Faust_. In the last winter's frosty morn
That ever melted snow, and mist, and drier
Gleams from the sumach.
_Mephistopheles_. The snow and frost both nights and day
Had melted up away too soon,
And now was almost melted away
By the good frosty moon.
_Faust_. They were a wicked people, indeed!
But now they've gagged all summer away;
For a snug little house it's worth to have a bed,
And a fire and a cosy bed for them to take.
_Mephistopheles_. But as for the old house, too, there's not
_Margaret_. And when the wind's a-skishing to get
Through bits of walnuts crisp and set before me,
I laugh, sometimes, to think how bad you'd be!
_Faust_. So good! But surely 'tis a grief to me
To have a new one on the whole world made,
And of a new one how to be afraid!
And though my words have never been the oldest,
I have not changed enough to speak of a new one.
What is the matter? 'Tis a trick, I doubt,
That makes a right good friend, and brings about
A better interest in honest folk.
But I was not myself at all, I'm sure,
The world, the world, I think, will not cure.
_Faust_. That is not yet.
It is not time to be salved by such.
_Margaret_. I'm sorry. It isn't so late now.
_Faust_. I'm here--I must away, good doctor Martin.
_Mephistopheles_. It's such a change. If you are in a hurry, tell
Me if I do, I shall be back to town.
_Mephistopheles_. Yes, you may hurry back!
I'll go, come on, and see the town before me.
_Faust_. I fear something. You are not so sure?
_Margaret_. And you must see something.
_Margaret_. I am here, you look so well!
What do you look at?
_Faust_. I say, not even a word, but just a little smoke.
_Mephistopheles_. I'm still a little, though it's growing late,
I have no time to answer, and must wait.
_Mephistopheles_. A respite; don't talk so.
_Faust_. I shall be done with wind and rain.
If I could only have my way again,
My face would be so murky;
But when I get to land again,
I'll have to be ten times as big as yours.
But if you freeze and blister,
O! let me feel that you are not so well.
_Mephistopheles_. Good gracious! That I do, with more devotion.
_Faust_. My goodness!
_Margaret_. No thanks, I only mean to you,
But the good Lord knows that when I've been away
In these fields without malice,
I could see no better, and would not eat.
When you're tired as a viol,
Then I'll tell you how to play the viol.
And I'll hear you answer, and will not believe my words.
_Faust_. I must believe them.
_Mephistopheles_. So then; pray take a little--oh! the great God!
_Mephistopheles_. I have a little doubt, it is for your good taste.
_Faust_. What do you think?
_Margaret_. You mean that?
_Faust_. If it was so, it has been a joke or two, for what?
Why, my dear!
The very colours, that your eyes may show.
Come, come along with me! The very voice is weak.
_Faust_. What is this you see?
_Margaret_. No answer? Come! I'll feel like something to thee.
_Mephistopheles_. Have you no fear?
Then you shall see, my sweet young friend,
What you can do, and when you send
The fine, gold-cocked hat, to school your mother.
The hat and breeches!
_Margaret_. It is too late. I understand
Too late, my dear.
_Faust_. Yes, all that, I declare,
Is true. But what
======================================== SAMPLE 48 ========================================
, i. xiv.
xvii.
composition, however, should be noted as a sort of imperial
composition is an elegant fancy, cannot be expressed or treated
concolid, which it is well to premise, by means of a distinct
Odyssey.
{Ph[oe]nix, "Eumaeus," iii, xxviii
{min} 8 oyli summum.
{min} 8 oyle, summum.
{min} 9 oyle, summum.
{min} 9 oyle, summum.
{min} 9 oyle, 1 ollum.
{min} 9 oyle, 6 ollum.
{min} 9 oyle, 6 ollum.
{min} 12 oyle, 6 ollum.
{min} 15 oyle, 7 ollum.
{min} 14 oyle, 7 ollum.
{min} 11 oile, 1 ollum.
{min} 15 oile, 7 o'er, 5 o'er.
{min} 9 oile, 6 o'le, 5 o'er.
{min} 10 oyle, 7 o'le.
{min} 12 oyle, 6 o'le.
{min} 12 oyle, 2 o'le.
{min} 12 oyle, 6 o'le.
{min} 12 oyle, 6 o'le.
{min} 12 oyle, 5 o'le.
{min} 12 oyle, 6 o'le.
{min} 14 oyle, 7 o'le.
{min} 19 oyle, 5 o'le.
{min} 17 oyle, 6 o'le.
{min} 14 oyle, 7 o'le.
{min} 23 oyle, 7 o'le.
{min} 12 oyle, 7 o'le.
{min} 17 oyle, 5 o'le.
{min} 12 o'le, 6 o'le.
{min} 11 o'le, 11 o'le.
{min} 12 o'le, 11 o'le.
{min} 12 o'le, 6 o'le.
{min} 12 o'le, 6 o'le.
{min} 12 o'le, 17 o'le.
{min} 17 o'le, 2 o'ter, 3 o'le.
{min} 12 o'le, 32 o'le.
{min} 12 o'le, 16 o'le.
{min} 15 o'le, 2 o'ter, 4 o'le.
{min} 12 o'les, 6 o'le.
{min} 12 o'len, 6 o'le.
{min} 15 o'le, 6 o'le.
{min} 17 o'le, 6 o'le.
{min} 11 o'le, 16 o'le.
{min} 12 o'lem, 2 o'lem.
{min} 17 o'lem, 4 o'lem, 3 o'le.
{min} 12 o'le, 17 o'le.
{min} 17 o'le, 17 o'lem.
{min} 12 o'lem, 13 o'le.
{min} 12 o'le, 17 o'le.
{min} 12 o'le, 17 o'le.
{min} 12 o'le, twenty o'le.
{min} 14 o'le, 26 o'le.
{min} 17 o'le, twenty o'le.
{min} 14 o'le, 17 o'le.
{min} 17 o'le, 16 o'le.
{min} 17 o'le, 26 o'le.
{min} 17 o'le, 18 o'le.
{min} 17 o'le, 26 o'le.
{min} 17 o'le, 26 o'le.
{min} 12 o'le, 37 o'le.
{min} 17 o'le, 19 o'le.
{min} 17 o'le, 26 o'le.
{min} 17 o'le, 26 o'le.
{min} 2 o'le, 26 o'le.
{min} 5 o'le, 6 o'le.
{min} 17, 17 o'le.
In 1826, Canto I was not very numerous, though in a small number
{min} 17, Canto II was not very numerous.
{min} 17, Bovage, or XVII.
{
======================================== SAMPLE 49 ========================================
!
The King of Scotland's children is the flower--
The Queen of France is the wind's perfect health;
They have no power to bind, their purpose to restrain,
They only know that they are free from toil;
You are the flower that is not for the soil.
You are the tree that bears a fruit, that springs from you
With hope for every little deed, but not
A little blood to fill its little veins?
And when within its little heart it finds
Whatever good it gives it, where it grew;
It lives, and from its unseen root it springs:
But not its growth, nor fruit, nor root, does it disclose
The perfect splendor of its growth in you;
It craves the wind to change its flowering leaf;
It seeks for sunshine, yet its stem is weak.
It lives in the green earth, yet springs to the sea,
Now weak and worn, and sick and bowed;
And yet 'tis but a brief forewarn of thee,
And nothing of thy loveliness save may
Save its own sweetness pass away.
They watch me with their full and joyous eyes,
They wonder at my stately grace;
They greet me with a smile of surprise,
And then reply, "Behold! I am thy Grace!'
"My Gracious Grace!"
The world's a Book, and I become a Verse;
Its loveliest deeds are its's and mine its's;
Yet its purest page to read aright
Must be embellished with a little Night.
Books let men dream of ages long gone by,
Books let them dream their dreams sublime;
The past is but an empty Book, and I
A theme for every dare-and-lest hope--
The page that is to-day the language of.
Where are the verses that I used to know?
A mist has floated over what was there;
In some I have not seen aught to show,
In common use of words, the weariness--
The vellum and the feathers and the hair--
And yet they seem from thoughts I could not keep.
And thus my folded hands and words are laid
Cold in the covers; and the heart, I said,
Holds fast the gleam of things gone by and stayed
By other hands than mine, and still doth keep
Some semblance of the dream I never made.
Books you may read; and when your searching pen
Can trace the thoughts that lie along the lines,
The lines will tremble, and the words will stand
Fast locked; and when your pen, once more, doth bless
The pictured eyes, the words will fall unkiss'd;
And then as soon as that your hand shall press
The pictured eyes in all my gladless guess,
The lines will fall like dew-beads from the rose.
Books. But I shall look in vain for what I am,
And all my life will fall and beat and blight
With sodden fruit, till dust and my days be
As leaves that fall and rustle in the sun,
And, all my life a song of praise and praise,
The rhyme is broken now, and I have done!
If in the present world beyond the sky
There lies a giant soul, whose every limb
Is but a toy, a toy, a passing cry,
A foolish phantom of a passing whim,
A shadow more impalpable than fact,
It may be that it rests with greater ease
And greater strength than time. But when the act
Of life goes round, and, in its stead, the mind
And feeling made the very life that's kind
Go on and upward to the very brink,
And, finding life, weigh down the things it did,
And when it falls, its load is thrown aside.
We see things growing, and we hear things growing,
We hear the human voice of human cries,
We read, and feel, and know that all the years
Are but a vain and doubtful thing and vain
And fickle fancy. There's a time for seeing,
And we are but a vain and doubtful thing.
The world may call us blind, the skies may say,
We never see the sun, the moon, the sun,
But in some kinder heavens we cannot grow,
And that's the reason why, the sun is, I know.
A world that's turning on a darker day,
A new world wants a prophet in its might,
And all the years are but a backward way,
And all the great, great ages pass in night--
And then the wise, wise men, the wise, look down,
And see a world, a place, a place, in sight.
There is a world of endless
======================================== SAMPLE 50 ========================================
! O, beautiful!
That thou, like her, may'st know
All the happy days that shall be
That have been and that shall be.
Thy bright and happy eyes
Fain would I barter
The paths of thy majestic ways--
Till thou, as a saint,
Didst teach me to enthral,
And that those shining ways
Where future joys enthrall.
But now beneath the sod,
Thou wert a sinner,
Unto thy purer soul
The burden must go,
And my soul gazes in
At the lovely glistering side,
That, like her, made
One bright and happy bride.
And now the frost of night
Falls on thy brow,
And round thee roves the light
That hath been her lover since
And hath been his since.
For when the stars of midnight
Grow pale and wan,
They seem to twinkle more
Than mine, when here below,
So many a star doth glow,
And I but think to weet
Some wily fancy quite elate,
To think that she doth mean
The rest that I have seen so sweet;
When I but see her eye--
"I will awake when morning breaks."
When in the meadows of my youth I first did see
A flitting figure, fit for my unworthy thought;
And yet my pen, I soon cast in her eye,
A flutt'ring colour did the brighter seem;
Then said, "He is my God:  He rules my life;
To guide him were to do his best to be
A watch unto his happiness:  but I
Would go in search of my own happiness:
Then would I haste to his felicity;
But now my mind is fast confined to other scenes."
She did not heed my wishes unawares;
I smiled but for her bashfulness and love;
Yet when I said, "My child, why do you smile?
You are my best, and mine by far above:
Now tell me what you seek; and I will hie
And tell me all your wishes for to see."
She did not heed my wishes without fear;
I only feigned the wishes that she made:
And then she went away, with fear impressed
And strove to speak, but could not speak a word.
The boat now left the shelter of its hold,
And o'er the silver waves the boat did ride,
Where through the sounding billows did abound
Sweet birds and precious pearls of wood supplied:
And in the midst, that little boat did lave,
And in the midst a banquet spread for him:
Such as had never been, and ever will be,
Devoid of envy, love, or any whim.
Full many a wonder did I then espy
With pleased, yet curious, gazing, marvelling eye.
The gentle sounds of bird, and flow'ry bow,
The clouds that down the sky did slowly sail;
The peacock, star, and peacock, as they flew,
Yet every thing did lend a pleasing ear;
The hollow rings of beaten gold below;
The hollow hills; the ocean's highest sea;
And all the others that in heaps lie low,
That every where do wondrous things abound:
There do the blossom and the orange grow,
And cherries blush upon the leafy ground.
There do the meadows, greener than the May,
With gladness dominations all decay;
The snow-white daises gleam and pierce the sky,
And through the fields and through the garden pass
That seem unwearied with their golden grain;
The yews are silent, and the winds are still,
And through the grass the singing river Hill.
The summer and spring flowers have gone away,
And winter is gone, and the year turns again;
The rose attests the bud, the lily stays;
And in the grass, that soon again will bloom.
The violet and thyme wear out our hearts,
And spring wears on, and all our senses swim;
The tulips are the flowers of other lands,
The grass all our desire and homage gives.
Where are the days, the sweet, the days of June?
What is the charms of autumn's faded moon?
Where is the voice of summer's olden time?
Where the old days by melancholy lute,
When lovers lay in love's last flowery wreath,
And summer-hovers decked with flowers his tomb?
The hills, whose echoes yet shall never die;
The birds, whose voices shall not sing again;
The fauns, whose visions shall not pass away;
The
======================================== SAMPLE 51 ========================================
;
_This Poem._--What strange beings do we call these?
_Imagination is fantastic. The wit of the author is not, it
is true, a great work of fiction.
_Lumber._--If thou art a lover, then the same;
If it be _a mistress_, then the same.
_Lover._ But whatsoe'er art thou?
_Maid_ [_dancing with a lamp on a green sward._]
I feel a sympathy with thee.
_Lover._ 'Tis I, my Love.
_Maid._ We do not rail, but are enchain'd, _Maid_, to be borne.
_Maid._ Then at the door,--hear my ingenuous tale,--
_Mis pushes._
_Mis arts._--Pray, sir, but what are these to you,
_Mis arts._--Ah, Sir, _to do useful things._
_Maids, Midsummer._--We are weary of thy song.
_Mis pushes._--When to the other side the road runs to the
_Mis-sounding._--We'll talk of that for sure.
_Mis-sounding._--Let us speak, I warn ye all,
_Mis-sounding._--To you I bid farewell.
_Missay'd (unto himself)_
_Maidens, Midsummer._--Yet why seek to charm me?
_Mis pushes._--If you are young, as young, as fair,
_Mis pushes._--Let's hear of that for sure.--
_Mis pushes._--Come, my best, my sweetest, now!
_Midsummer._--Come, my best, my darling, to thy side,
_Mis pushes._--Come, and in one hour more comply.
_Mis pushes._--Come, my best, my sweetest!
_Midsummer._--Come, my best, my sweetest!
_Mis pushes._--See, the livid fire
Razes, ye flames! O, say, my fair, now speak not thus.
_Midsummer._--See, the smoke dissolves! The dead are warm,
The very spirit falls on its last funeral.
_Midsummer._--Come, my best, my sweetest, &c.
_Voice from the Forest._--Or, _without_ a lover's death,
_Without_ a lover's death, I go.
_Midsummer._--If ye will teach me aught, or know me well,
_Voice from the Forest._--Or, _without_ a lover's death,
_Without_ a lover's death, ye shall.
_Voice from the Forest._--Or, _fore_ the dove, the wood!
_Voice from the Forest._--Or, _fore_ she flies for love!
_Midsummer._--Or, _fore_ she flies, and I for ever weep.
_Midsummer._--Or, _fore_ she flies for love; I swear
_Melts among lovers._--Or, _fore_ she flies for love.
_Melts among lovers._--Or, _fore_ she flies from hence!
_Melts among lovers._--Or, _fore_ she flies from hence!
_Midsummer._--Or, _fore_ she flies, and I live on my knees!
_Midsummer._--I'll take her to my arms!
_Melts among lovers._--Or, _fore_ she flies from hence!
_Midsummer._--Or, _fore_ she flies, _fore_ she flies from hence!
_Midsummer._--Or, _fore_ she flies, and I live on my knees!
_Midsummer._--Or, _fore_ she flies for love; I swear
_Melts among lovers._--Or, _fore_ she flies from hence!
_Midsummer._--Or, _fore_ she flies for love; I swear
_Midsummer._--Or, _fore_ she flies for love; I swear
_Melts among lovers._--Or, _fore_ she flies for love!
_Midsummer._--Or, _fore_ she flies for love; I swear
_Melts among lovers._--Or my fleet dove, my fair!
_Midsummer._--Or, _fore_ she flies for love; I swear
_Melts among lovers._--Or, _fore_ she flies for love!
_Midsummer._--Or, _fore_ she flies for love; I swear
_Melts among lovers._--Or her white, raven hair covers
_round_ her naked
======================================== SAMPLE 52 ========================================
,
And some have longings for their pleasure,
Such as the wise men use to treasure;
And some desire a quiet pleasure;
And some have stifled hope and fear;
Some would lie down awhile and cheer
The aged and the aged with their treasure;
And some would spend a day in gaming,
With good wine and a bag of victuals,
With good wine and a bag of victuals.
But now, in this sad life of ours,
We do thee service in the days
When thou art nothing but a show of flowers,
And no thing but a gaudy day;
When all the world is but a jail,
And all the trees are but a play,
And all the flowers but a blossom,
And nothing but a sleeping boy;
And then, when thou art seven years old,
And art but twenty, love thee, love thee, love thee, love thee.
_That he makes the clothes to go by herself._
What shall I do for the day?
The day is a bride the most fair of all days can hold.
When the world was young and the world was old?
When the world is old and the world is gold?
When the world is old and the world is cold?
When the world is old and the world is gold?
With the world to hold and the world to hold,
And no face but hers in the long ago,
My fair little lassie, sweet, pretty, and bold,
Come let us away and be wed;
For the day is a morn for a day, but the sun is all for a
Oh, the little birds sang east,
And the blue sky showed to the sun,
And the little birds sang west
With their little hearts all set upon the singing
Of the little birds singing,
Each to his love that sings
In the little love that rings--
Oh, the little birds sang east,
And the blue sky show'd to the sun,
With its sun so bright and peace,
And peace on the little birds' peace,
Now the little leaves all sweetly ringing,
Hark, hark, how strong and clear
The gentle wind goes up the hill,
Winter's white and summer's brown,
But the leaves of spring in every bough,
And the May-wind blowing them down.
Ah! the little white clouds, too,
Floating slowly toward the sun!
The little birds singing,
And the blue skies soon!
How they speak, with every breath,
As it gathers to the May,
With the May-young leaves that fall
Lightly, to our hidden spring,
With the April suns and dews,
With the summer days and nights,
With the summer days for a day,
With the May-young tears that fall,
With the May-young tears for a May,
With the May-young tears for a May.
How they sing, with each new note
Of a happy little throat,
How they laugh, with every look
Of a happy little book,
To the little bird whose note
Is as sweet as the May-day air,
And whose every word and thought
Is as sweetest of all things fair,
And is better, I half suspect,
Than a little snake in the greenwood!
When I'm well up on home with the May,
And am not quite well at ease,
Oh, then, in the happy days gone by,
I'll sing to you, darling verse!
Kind Mrs.--come, kind scholars, come!
This book is of my pen.
O yes--I feel it sweet to you,
Because it gives such joy,
And makes me write, and keeps you on,
Just as my gentle fancies do.
When we were boys, I read and dreamed
Of things by night--of birds and flowers,
Of leaves, of running brooks, of streams,
Of mossy dells, of lucent trees,
Of water-lilies, which up-flee
The neighborhood, and where they dwell,
The village and the far-off town
Nibble the ground, then kiss and pull
The leaves back, kiss as if to please
The busy, laden trees at noon.
O well for May! O well for you;
I wish some days here would be new.
Come, love, and help me sing a song,
And bless
The hand of spring and bless
The long bright hours with garlands gay;
And in the arms of June, good-night,
We'll garland our green smock again!
Haste, love, and aid me sing a song,
That, kissing, I might wish my heart

======================================== SAMPLE 53 ========================================

Of the old women, the beautiful,
The old women with yellow locks,
And the old men with rows of pearls,
The women with loose, cobbling locks,
And the poor folks asleep in beds,
The quiet, shady parlor maids,--
The sacred sleepy lady-maids.
But I love them more truly than the rest
Of the beautiful young couple, the best,
I love their patient watchers.
The old saying that had come to you
I never had forgotten.
A pretty lass, a book upon her head,
A little blossom in her mouth, and all
Her merry, dancing girls, who could not call
That queenly favor for the world, she, in truth,
Was like a goddess to have set in heaven,
And set its moving, glad and wonderful
Upon her head. She walked in such a way
That not one else could think upon her feet.
She loved the old man, not the beautiful.
I saw her when the snow lay on the ground
Her little face. I knew that in her face
Was something like to hers, and always there
I wondered if I ever knew was fair.
I was her purest hope, my trustiest fear;
I did not fear that I could make her gay.
She was so kind, so wise, so strong and bright
For anything; a little careless heart
That never had been frozen. We must guess
That in her heart, if no one ever knew,
The old love lived, though I would change it so
That all my life seemed in it.
I have loved the old women
The best of all the Romans,
Of whom the least and strongest
Were e'er the kindest.
This I remember,
And I see their hair rise
As they pass from sight.
And I see their eyes shine,
And they smile and they smile
As they pass from our garden,
And our talk comes up as
The old church tower above us,
For with the bells of Whitechapel
They make the stars to peal to their hearts' ends,
And rouse them to our singing:
"Whitechapel" in the old house,
Old as the hills are,--
Fairer, and many times fairer,
Sappho and Go clarity,
All in the days of love,
But now of a sudden surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once again surrender,
And still once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender."
But when the old time's dying
And all the hours are flying,
Then in the twilight lying
I hear the sweet bird singing,
And in the dusk the sweet bird singing,
And in the dusk the sweet bird singing,
And in the dusk and twilight meeting,
And in the dusk and twilight meeting,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once more surrender,
And then once
======================================== SAMPLE 54 ========================================
, &c.
{80} _The Shepherd_, in the country of Horace, consists in the
{81} _Ilion_, the city of Troy, whence the Trojan name of the
_Aethiopian_, a native of Horace.
{82} _AEthera,} by the Greeks [_in the Greek sense_, _AEthera_.
{83} _Troilus and Cressida_, not near Troy.
{84} _Alexander_, The emperor of Greece, who fought for the
weakest form of tyrannous armaments at the Nemean war.
{84} _Alexander_, The brother of the famous Servian horse-breaker.
{84} _Crysopeddon_, The Roman name for the Princess.
{89} _Gerny-straw_, the head of a horse.
{90} _Alexander_, the name of the Goddess of Love.
{90} _Alexander_, the name of a horse.
{90} _Alexander_, the name of a horse on the Royal Seine (meaning
from the Greek _arte mayor_, or _arte mayor_, means a dragon).
{90} _Alexander_, the name of a horse.
{90} _Menaphorie_, the name of a man.
{90} _Evoic_, a female of Selgas (the Colossian word for the
father of Eusanus, who is said by Camathius to have been an
excellent originally a Grecian, a French merchant, and a
_Bacchus_, from which was a name originally given to Eusius.
{90} _Gallienus_, the country of France, consecrated to Ceres,
{90} _Ilion_, the name of the place of Ceres.
{90} _Alexander_, who was king of Crete, the ruler of Crete,
and was cardinal in the 10th/6 levy of Crete.
{90} _Dercissana_, A sacred country of Feschæ.
{90} _Priamoth_, the god of cattle.
{91}  _Nereids_, A nymph who were called Euryades.
{91}  _Derelictae_, the South-side country.
{92} _Phalmisti_, Nisus whom Atenone was to marry.
{93}  See _Sacred empire_, Book xiv. stanza 1.
{93}  See the note to line 1.
{94}  The _star_, the planet of the constellation Orion.
{94}  _Sychaeus_, the mythical god of cattle.
{94}  _Greny_, a small spot on the north side of the river,
where are punished the punishings of the punishings of the
death.
{97}  _Ceres_, the people of Asius.
{98}  A river of Arethusa.
{98}  Lucius Scipio was of the capital of Epirus.
{98}  The _musicale_, the god of herds.
{97}  The _mighty_, rivulet winding round the mountain.
{98}  Dispassing the _cyren_, I think.
{98}  _Nereid_, to whom we have applied a different musical
poetical interpretation.
{98}  The river of Arethusa.
{97}  There is no passage whether the river Orcus, or the River
{98}  Orcus, which flows into the Arno.
{98}  A mountain of Oceana.
{98}  A river of Arethusa.
{98}  The river of Arethusa.
{98}  There is no place on which the poet could be.  It has
{98}  Perhaps the most interesting passage of the story.
{98}  I imagine, in the sonnets, that this line had meaning
'Tis very plain that the "lofty," in which the line reads
"lofty," is a little farther from one of the ancient poets.
"O happy land!  I have a double care
For every subject in the fields and groves,
And for all creatures fenced from common sense
With strictest guardianship of every laws.
But when the fields look clear, delighted, neat,
And happy is that happy land of thine,
And this delightful land is all around,
I will not say my sayings, though not found."
"O native land, far seen in
======================================== SAMPLE 55 ========================================
 the verse with
The second of the sixteenth and the last of the first is
_The canticles from Blackwood_
We are indebted for the _civilization of the English_
_to the Memory of the Past. Peters_
_The music of the spheres._--"But the music only of _The Earth_.
"A thousand things in the distance dim
Haunt me and hide me in my shroud."
"And as the moon gives light,
Then night takes gloom, and earth
Wraps quiet in her breast-lit arms,"
"The stars are still and wide,"
"And the stars come forth to me."
The moon, the world, the mind, the will,
The memory of the flesh, the will,
The loving, beautiful night,
When the year but two had rose--and I,
I, the beloved, to and fro,
Hid in the depths of the vast eternity,
Clothed on with a luminous star.
"The sky of the sky is my home,"
"The sea has a thousand voices."
"The sun is my dwelling-place,"
"The stars have a thousand tongues,"
"The stars have a thousand tongues,"
"The sun will answer the dewdrops,"
"The moon gives light to me,"
"But the stars do not answer the dawn,"
"The stars do not answer the dewdrops,"
"The world, my home is mine,"
"There is no soul that is bound within,"
"The world has a thousand tongues,"
"The stars do not answer the dawn,"
"My stars do not answer the dawn,"
"There are no souls that are apart,"
"My star I have brought you.
"When it is all you seek,
You shall find out my name--
All that I am, or ever will be,
My star to your heart's core!"
"The past has a thousand tongues,"
"The future I cannot speak,"
"The stars do not answer the dawn,"
"The stars do not answer nay."
"The singers have only their sun,"
"The stars do not answer the dawn,"
"The night, the night comes on,"
"The stars will not answer you,"
"The winds answer it all,"
"The stars will not hear them song."
"The stars do not answer the dawn,"
"The souls that depart,"
"The stars do not answer the dawn,"
"The word I have spoken,"
"The stars do not answer the dawn,"
"And the word is in tune."
"The sea-birds are singing their morning song,"
"The sea birds are singing their morning song,"
"We will not go any more."
"The sea bears no answer to all
Except the one thing he has said,
And the wind he loves whispers it all
In the hollow of the night."
"The night will not answer it all,"
"The stars will not answer it all,"
"The stars will not answer the dawn,"
"The sky bears no answer to all,"
"The sky grows dusk, darker and cold,"
"The sea bears no answer to all
Except the one thing he has said."
"We have no answer,
Come, come, be no longer;
Brief is the life, and the sorrowful,
Softly the sunset he makes,
And the world-old sob of the sea,
As a bird breaks its wings
For a day among the moon-waves.
_Come, come, be no longer;
The hour is here for parting;
The night shall be here with the dawn,
And the white bird go our way.~
_Come, come, be no longer;
The hour is here for parting;
The tide is strong, and the moon is a wreck,
With a cry.
_Come, come, be no longer;
The tide is strong, and the moon is a wreck,
With sea-things and flagons and sails
That beat!
_Come, come, be no longer;
The tide is strong, and the moon is a wreck,
With sea-things and flagons and sails
That beat._
_Come, come, be no longer;
The tide is strong, and the moon is a wreck,
With storms at their worst;
The sun is the sun, and the moon is a wreck,
With clouds at their worst;
And the sun, like a ghost, goes out of the place
Where love has a place.
_Come, let us go weeping;
We two, alone, in a mist of tears,
We two, in the mist of an age-old grief
Whose hands I would toy for my father's to-mor
======================================== SAMPLE 56 ========================================
? Why, it is not amiss to mention one of them in the
Whistler's sense, than Wordsworth's wit,
The sense which the words form, and translate.
"Whistler, we know not whether these were written or pretended; but
The MS. has some differences, which are better known by the
_Thracia_ than the _Myrrh_ of hell.
The MS. is as follows:
And, when they gave their king these ships to reach,
From these, her sons, their wealth, their children dear
(Sanshas named _Mæra_, so renownèd still)
They brought, in order far from their own land
To the _Ismael_, the _Myrrh_ of Caledonia,
And in the _Eclogue_ the passage (Plutarch).
and again
"_The World_," (said the third,
)--_Tales of the World_, with many other
_Throne_ (unread [the paper):)--_for her sake,
_Magnus, the fair, the golden, the divine_,
The _Pride of Persia_--and the _herself_--and _Hell_.
 See also the twoformer lines of Martial (Curse.)
_Pisisto_, Cato, p. 3.
 "Pride of Persia," which, for his being considered as a "novel
_Pisisto_, the famous _Pisisto_.
 See also the twooutherly lines of Martial (Curse).
_Pride of Persia_, at this point,
_Thee_, _she_, _she_, _she_, _has many a heart_:
_Pride and glory_, whose united names
_Pisisto and Fame_, deserve the same_;
_Thee_, _she_, _has no _Pisisto_.
There are two poems of which this is to be read in an octavium.
_Pisisto_, _Pisisto_, has no other name but Hackney.
"_The_ _Pilgrim's of the Night_ (some authors think) is a
translation of some well known prose but not all-perfect _Nesisto_
 This is one of the themes of this poem.
 The _Pilgrim's of the Night_, the _Pilgrim's_ of Night.
 The famous prophecy of the _Hesper_ was originally spoken by a
Grows, _a star_ (from the cloud of _made-up_),
Glides into the _magnificent_ (where the Sun abides)
_Gives the world,--and feels not_ the _vasteless_ strife
Of the vast, universal _Nimbus_ smiles at human length.
The _crowned Dog_, the _king of the _Oden_ of the _House_--and
_Titan_, the master of the _Odenwald_.
_The warrior's_ crest
 _The god's_ name, as in the _Pylos_ he said, is also to be found
(_a_) _the warrior-king_ (whom I have not heard of)
 _The first_: Alludes to the story of the terrible struggle with
_The grey old world, from which my soul will flee,
The mellow opening of thy smiling sky.
_The last of thy green forests and thy fields,
A dark-haired desert and a wizard's grove
_Saw me, while I had breath._
 The original edition was importunately bad (_i.e._ the Scotch
_Lorajan_, which has been compared with the Greek word _paranula_
 A parody on the landscape of the _Thracian_ murder _See_
_On the deathbed of a young babe for ever,
Lorajan _was_ holding me close in his hand;
For, when the morning came, he kept me near him,
And almost all of us were killed--though we did not die.
_Lorajan_, allusion to a story of Arabia having, for the sake of
_The sun shines on, while he, groping, stands
Prone on the crumbled sands._
_The fisher's boy, who, turning round,
Now sees a rent, now sees a mound._
_The first_: The word _be_: it is said to be attached to the name
_The third_: He who in the sea-faring was born in the sixth
The following lines are also left to correct these ballades:
_Here comes
======================================== SAMPLE 57 ========================================
-and-lysms.
--No more! no more! no more!
--And thou wert wedded once to me!
And now I'll never cease to be
Like thee! and never cease to be!
We must not, cannot face
That hour whose silence thrills
Thy heart with throngs of hopes and fears;
When even thyself art wed,
Then, as a bride-bed, shed
The tear-drop on thy bride!
Oh, hast thou never heard
Of inageé, of whom
The minstrels sing such songs as these?
With the wild music-flow
At will to roam the hills,
And when the day-dream is
More thrilling than the thrills,
Fill up each thrilling throat
With a new ecstasy
Of love and tenderness.
Oh, then we two shall stand
On the fair hills, and hear
The blue heavens clear,
The singing river's song,
We two, as with a dance,
Shall clasp once more his lyre,
And sing the song again
In the old woods of joy,
In the old woods of joy.
And when the day-dream dies,
As languidly it flies,
Oh, then how sweet its sighs
As the love-song of the lyre,
When the laugh of day is
More fresh than a' the sighs
The love-song of the song!
Oh! what are the words, beloved,
That I now address to thee?
And what far-away delight
Is't in such a night as this
To you, sweet children, say.
The wind is in the east;
'Tis evening, and his breath
Has been sadly breathed away
By the night bird, the night breeze,
And the watchful, brightening eye,
Like that of one who die.
The moon is up, the day is bright,
But, though in the midst we see
The shadows rise around us,
And the night bird's loudest scream,
It is only the wind that swipes
Its song from the sheltering tree.
You look from your window;
The sun is brightly bright,
But the wind has won his bride, I trow;
'Tis the bridegroom's marriage-night,
And the next shall be, to you.
They will pass over the grass;
Your bridegroom and yours shall be.
The flowers of the summer night
Will be shed on the grass;
They will not bloom till the wedding-day,
But your bridegroom and yours shall be.
I love the sea, it is so still,
So darkly blue, so silent-warm;
It winds between the birch trees' tops
To let the water in.
I love the sea, it never looks
Into the depths below;
It never batests to any chance,
Nor batests to any foe.
And I love ocean, I love sky,
I love the sea, I love the sea,
That is the bride of every tide,
And takes contented measure.
The sun in the mid-day heat,
Like a lover true, comes up
To kiss his bride and lay him in,
His bed upon a cup.
The sun in the mid-day heat,
Love's kiss is for the heart,
And for the love of his bridegroom bold,
His bride will be a priest.
To take a flight, a bridal bed,
A bridal bed,
From the morning till the afternoon;
When we may meet and be
Padding on and over the mountains three.
O vesper-bell! O soft, soft summer air,
That's in an eery chamber of my own
Most welcome to the chamber where I lie,
Most welcome to the quiet chamber where I lie.
Dim, silent glimmer o'er the peopled wall.
My chamber, my lost Helen, and my pall,
And o'er the level country where I dwell.
O wind, that whispers through the poplar tall,
Across the quiet wood so softly blow,
That winds and upholds me for a lonely ball,
Come back, come back, come back, and kiss me, Mary,
For I am lonely, lonely, and care-free.
I would my longed-for fame might make you happy;
Yet how should I, a woman, be an alderman?
I would my longed-for fame could make you gentler,
For I am lonely, lonely, and care-free.
I know a road to travel, a highway of a king,
My own swift horses, my own fragile steed,
And I
======================================== SAMPLE 58 ========================================
,
And the man of Hene which was the Prince Consul
Had the most of the power, and was so prosperously big,
That he went off to France, to live in the public square;
And so he went on to serve his friends in the square:
But whatever befell,
Or whether the king called him,
Appeared to him like a sprightly gentleman
Borne in news of the journey from Grubstreet to Bremure;
For his private, in fine,
Was not a little obscure or so turbaned
By the usual or ill-advised manners of people.
For he said to the king,
"You have entered my ring,
That is both elate, and the stately compact;
Henceforth I have no right
To presume from the king
To come in the morn
To say that the crown is gone from the fingers
Of monarchs, and not that they have been able
With the usual or ill-advised speeches
To excuse the insolent and unruly fashion,
And by way of jest
To excuse the insolent and unruly fashion.
"When the ring was obtained
To the king it worked,
And he was attacked,
And taken away from the public square;
And the emperor wondered and said to him,
'The owner of the ring
Must challenge us all
To come in the morn
Till he grasps at the laurels and the King!'
"And he said to the king
'In a moment your ring,
This is the sort of ring which the owner of the ring
Deserves to be granted to us all;
Now at last we go in the morn,
And you come in the morn
As you came in the morn,
And I come in the morn
As this man and his squire
At the close of the year,
Each to speak at the other they call,'
And the king commanded the weather to rise,
And the deigning old woman to shake her head off,
And never say a word whatever,
And the courtly old woman to shake her head off.
"But when the king said
That this man is a king,
It is not a thing
That he brings to good things,
And the jest of his court
Must be filled with such stuff,
As if all the court
Were stuffed full enough.
"Why this fuss about harness,
When such danger annoys
With getting on earth
You shall have to go back
With your king and his buffets and such buffets,
And you'll reach the King's castle alone,
If you try to get justice and strike against it.
"Your king's enemies, Cupid!
I should be glad for them well,
If they were not so,
"And that would be safer
That it were not so bad
When I speak of our king,
And I hear that the boar
Has been here, and they say
'Praised be he' and by all
That may be got by the boar."
"Yes, praised be he' and by all
That may be got by the boar."
"I make no doubt this is right,
For my sovereign bears me such slight off,
And looks me cross
As this lion on his back
And looks at me as if no man
But my sovereign should be near.
"Wherefore I show my sin
(Whom I love best) upon you,
And not on us that did not wring,
Nor anything to fear."
"No, no; you are king;
We need not fear, but have good reason why:
If King Richard should chance to die,
He should speak free and without contradiction
Of our sovereign, I could say.
"We have said this on,
They are very strong.  Not a doubt
If he chance to die by his own hand,
We know but half what He is required to stand,
And would be content with an Emperor rather.
"He should not look at the courtiers
Or the kings of his kingdoms
Who would order all things that are
In the whole world so pleasantly.
But they are not much to praise.
They are very sharp in their coronets,
And they do not wear scarlet or gold,
And they make no little show of showing
Their teeth can outrun them at all,
And they wear no crowns but a crowning
And no victories ever won.
"They have beaten the King with a wonderful skill
That touches all kings at every moon,
And in the midst of the whole of it all
They are very proud and particular,
And they have set the throne so high.
"That would be
======================================== SAMPLE 59 ========================================
,
and that is a good thing of the craft of a
(a)r, if you are really able to tell the whole
in a single word what is the result of the poem
in your poem, the first must be carefully
written, and let the rest be called Edwin Arnold, under
this type of the poem.  These were made for the purpose
of some of our old readers, of the new and the old poets,
and that is a good thing to try to be the best; wherefore,
then, we know nothing about this writer, nothing about the
poet, nothing about the author of the "Odyssey"
(e)n from the author's own earliest period.  In fact,
The author of the "Odyssey" has a very curious fable.
"Odyssey" is an obscure and extraordinary proceeding
to the early poets, who have never yet perceived the
essence which they call existence.  Of the group of
poets themselves there was a young girl who
sighing said for her friend, "Alas, we need not remind
him of his having to thank his gods, and to hope that the
stranger Laertes is now in an unhappy plight, that neither
I nor my dearest friends will meet him, though he is far
from friends who relate his sorrows.  And now, again, I will
remember how I lament Odysseus, the man forsaking his
house, and of the company of the fair-haired lady, who was
(ll. 42- Fifteen) the son of a young man or woman who
desired him to do so.  And it seems he will not go out to
the city for all his sorrow.  Nay, it is possible that he
go about his own country after having been sacked by the
Trojans, though he declined toil for many a year among the
encrags of Ilios, and returned to his hut, but now, when
he returned, Odysseus and his company took their pleasure in
his going to be in an enchanted forest, and wandered among
lofts of trees.  For the pleasanters to which mortals are
entangled, to see that the fruit of the orange blossoms
and the juice of the fig trees is not for the eating,
and the fig trees are not for the eating, but the tree
to bear fruit even, and it is not for the fruit of the
tree to bear fruit, though it be not another sight than to
see it in that moment of the golden days.  It has no
white or silver beard as it is, the mouth rosy with the
lips of its own sweet buds like the ripe cherries, the
clear melons of the mangoes, and the juice of the fig-ears
alluring them with sweet juice, and the luscious figs
to withhold their fragrant sweetness.
"But thou, oh thou, being in the midst of thyself damned and
shorn of thy face, thou art not of our garbs nor of the
brushes which thou hast taken, though thou now art like a
wool, yet thou art a slave to a sensual pleasure, even as the
oaks and the vines are a wreath of smoke, whereon thou shalt
coff, and henceforth thine house shall be a goodly
departure.  For the smoke thereof will cover thy garments
with dense thickets, no matter what the time be thine own
ship; and it will be a marvel to thee even as it was aforetime
thou camest hither; for soon will the earth-shaker would
come to thy bedside and in his own country, since wo thou
sailest inwardly, and thou art in thy bond and not in the
strength of the flood."
And Odysseus of many counsels answered him, saying: "Lo now,
the mountain Nericus, verdant and lofty, stands all round
in his hollow caves, far from all men and women, save thyself,
and a wondrous fowl.  He is very small, and methinks I am
not of mortal shape, and yet not even so tall as he is whom
men are savage and devouring birds.  With him, all the
goodly-greaved Agamemnon died, as he escaped their hands,
and Odysseus of many counsels heard it, and then went back to
the house of Alcinous, and many were the wooers that thronged
him, as he was going forth, and Alcinous told Alcinous not to
do so.  Wherefore, even on the day when he went to a feast
he said to the bride,
======================================== SAMPLE 60 ========================================
;
And so the thought of me was deepened,
And burst the bonds of common kindness.
For the fair cause for which I pleaded
Was to come home with a bad bridal--
A single home, I say, for people
To see the road through, as a matter for weather.
And the wife and the child went off with her.
Was it devil or relative?  I wonder.
And a man and a woman?  She was far from human,
And she was a man of a good mother.
And that was a year before I knew her.
And I heard the talk her father would talk of--
For people to love is the best of food,
And the voice of a love that is deeper
Than the voice of a man to whom a wrong is good,
And the eyes of a good wife are the lights of a brighter
Than a few of the others that go to school.
And what are the words of humility?
And what is the love of the good, I ask;
It is of her that's afraid of too much,
And a spirit of gold in a pack of laughter
That travels slowly down a summer vista
When a man can see his eyes are blue.
The women live in the house of the children
Who have grown more beautiful by seeing
Their eyes are quiet and cannot speak;
And the old house always seems more lovely
Because of the gold in the gold-crass cover,
And the riches there are that lie in it.
And I think it makes me sad to think of her
Who married the man he didn't marry.
The neighbours ask why the children are happy
And get their happiness out of the cold,
And the man who has suffered from the sorrow
Is more than a poet can tell.
The old house makes me wonder, too, that I
Am not a poet now, and what is more,
And the common sense of life is all too simple
To be an easy faith to men before
They had a chance to die on the sidehill,
And none of us understood at all
Why people live in the house of the children,
And never know much of the earth's worth.
The music of the world is in my ears,
And why is the life of the house of the sun?
I see in the night and in the dawn
The sun is red and the world is grey.
And where is the song of the birds of song?
And where is the pride of the house of the spring?
And oh, when my soul shall be free of the dust
That covers my dust and clings to my bones,
My days shall endure in a drift of fire
While the fire is dead in the chimney-place
The cold is dead in the chimney-place.
When they go to that house of the rain--
To see that door open wide,
Where their tiny feet go past
The roof-tops like emptiness,
And where is the depth of the rain?--
Who knows but this night I shall see them go.
They came back at dawn to the garden paths
Of the garden I loved so well.
I am tired of the rain through the long blue day,
So weary of shower and dew,
When they came to the house with the rain to stop.
I have bent my knee to wait
When their feet came in and the gate was shut.
To-night they must enter my palace now.
I am alone in my room
When their feet come out of the rain
To welcome the warm rainy rain.
There is rain on the window-pane
With its dust and mould on the wall,
And the wind of the night comes down
To play with them and sing to them all.
He had come to fetch their coffins
From the coffins so long ago--
His ball of bestial gods
And his priestly tenor so!
He had brought their bodies with them to the light
That the poor who came to see,
And the birds their morning songs,
And the bees their opiate songs,
And the sun his miracle of love.
He had brought a message,
From the priest so long ago;
And he said to the sick one:  "Do not go! 
Let them pass, though it be long!"
The font held little Mary's hands
For Mary's bread and wine.
He had brought a message
From his saint so long ago.
He had given a message
From the priest so long ago;
And the message had been given
For Mary's health and her flow.
He had brought a message
From his saint so long ago;
And he said:  "Go up and tell the shepherds' throng
That this is a very
======================================== SAMPLE 61 ========================================
,
And the great house of Henry,
Served my father's palace of the north.
The world's a stormy region,
In the east a sea of danger!
When I sit at the table and see
Signs of a coming footfall,
And a face of terror,
The fear of the man at home,
The shadow of a knock at the door;
And the door of his presence,
With a beck at the door,
Turns from the garden paths to the Eastern Eastern gate,
And looks at the sky,
And the moon, and the stars, and the wind, and their ally,
Sways open and falls on him,
He rises again,
And the gates of the night were all shut down.
When I sit in the passage,
A messenger enters in.
(It is an old story, but the type is a cheese.)
He speaks to the birds,
And he hovers and talks
Like a fly on his wrist,
As if he had touched and would not have been touched,
And would have been killed.
His voice is like his organ,
Which the sailors, if they listen,
Have begged from the pibroch
The sound of the word.
He begins at the banquet,
The speech of a priest;
He sends the word of worship
To the great board of the east.
There is a youth in this age, but he is deep of study,
He reads of books, of art, and that was in the palace before him.
He tells of the manner in which mankind was produced.
And then is an hour, when, as the sun went down,
The daughter of the Lord ceased.  And she is silent,
But the Sabbath peace is in her soul!
She is silent.
(He runs down the steps and looks at the door, and listens.
He begins it.)
What? do her wild thoughts fly
Like birds that fly in the air,
Or birds that sing?
I had thought them magical in the air.
The air seemed full of the breath of the mountains,
And the winds came with their trumpets.  I heard them come
In a rushing sound of trumpets,
A noise of chants, and the sound of heavy drums.
They clash with their music,
Like a forest in a sea;
The knights advance,
With shouts of joy and mystery,
And loud artillery.
The youths are overcome,
And their steeds are all in a swoon;
The fair bride before the altar rises,
And the lovely bride is before the altar grates.
Her mother's voice is hushed.  The maiden opens
Her blue and deep blue eyes where the sun is setting.
Then suddenly a noise of trumpets,
With trumpetets sounding,
And drums; and the sound of drums; and the sound of drums,
And the tread of drums is ended.  He leaps in the darkness,
Thinking it is in his body,
And swears by the name on his white face;
His arms are the brides of the beautiful bride,
As though they were priests and the mighty spirits of Heaven.
He lifts her eyes and is seen in the moon.
She clings to the door with a wistful laugh,
And enters.  She holds the lamp with its hand.
She will start in the darkness,
But she stands upright,
And puts out the lamp.
At midnight last he enters.  The pale moon appears.
"The bride is in the house!  Stand back!
He's afraid--I wonder what he does--
He looks in my face.
The door opens.  I see him.  I feel myself afraid.
But he stands not quite alone as he stands.
I have only to shut the light out.
Don't think he did.
He stays in the house.  I'll go to him quickly.
Go."  She steps back from her window,
And closes the door with a wistful sigh.
"Come in, O bride, and be with me.
Hast you courage yet in me?"
The bridegroom has turned,
As though he would shut the light.
I have heard a lady talking to him, saying, "How long have I
been doing for you?"
The lady asks, and she answers, "How slowly I have lived in
Then the two men kiss each other.
Two men sit at the partition-wall by the water.
And the night wears on.
And you shall not rise out in your dampness,
But sit silently, while the moon watches
The midnight mail.
You shall walk in the light of the other man's heart.
And you are a fool to be,
And nothing
======================================== SAMPLE 62 ========================================
 my father's house, and where
He will bring me; and there again
Do I find my vessel, trim and neat,
But not as suits the place.
And the little dog that lives in mine
And barketh not; I say but once--
I saw him once before; a year
Is gone, and his young days are o'er.
And I must not die by my own hand
For I cannot die by day or night.
But I'll go and see the light, and when
I'm called full grown, and I am called dead,
I'll die, and say the word again.
For I'll die, and lie on some kindly tree
That closes over all its green and gold,
And live and love beneath it all day long,
And never cease to feel my breath being cold.
And there in the dark you'll find me where
I lie all day, the dead leaves all beneath,
And that is why, and that is why.
There's an old wife got toiling
And never tired at all;
She can bide what she wants, and she says she likes well enough.
She can stay and be peaceful,
And she can talk and eat;
And she says she'll learn better
Than she forgets to eat.
And an old wife is growing weary
And ever sick and weak;
And she says she'll learn better
This side of the old dog's freak.
Oh, when I saw you last, dearie,
And I was your little wife,
Your little wife I'd bring me,
And carry me to my home.
What will the old dog say to his friend,
When he wakes at the dawning
And sees the dog with his kind old eye
Peep out of bed, and how do you lie?
The man is asleep. He can lie on the bed,
And keep the dog awake.
"What is that, love, at the evenin',
The dog barketh most clearly.
It was a silly, wicked woman,
One of the silly dogs was she,
The little dog, and he was the door dog,
And the door dog went to school.
"Oh, never speak to your mother,
For she would learn to play;
And she was taught to steal the little dog's nest,
And only sat still all the day.
For she was given her little bed
And kept it so warm and tight;
And she'd dress it up in the great white clothes
That baby should be to-night."
"But, love,
If I should live to be over-wise,
I shall never want to be over-wise,"
Said the little dog, "by the wall;
For he will learn and he will learn,
Though he should hate me, for he will learn
To praise me, as well as I."
And that, Love, was the ancient way,
All by the old wall wall,
That the dog was barking and fawning,
And the dog howling all the day.
And the old dog howling growled,
Wagging his tail and howling,
To those who were barking and whatling
In the cold dark night;
They would hear it like thunder,
For the old dog howling bawled.
"How is your house?" said the stranger;
"Look, you've stolen my dog!"
But the dog howling at last,
And he answered, "By the wall;
But you can't get up from that awful night,
And you can't get down from it all."
Then a shadow--a ghost--a shadow--
Crept down from the angry wall.
"And what can that mean? I pray you,
Would it open the black abyss."
But the shadow would pause awhile,
And the shadow would pause awhile.
When I was a little girl,
I crept to her mother's knee.
"O, mother, let me kiss
That tang of love and fear away,
For this is the long, long night
That I shall never see again.
And O, my brother, go
With little love and fear away!"
My son, I'm all o'er with,
And when you have told your name
To mother you'll have the same.
The little girl answered, "I'm dear,
I'm only a little boy,
And I'm only a little boy,
And only you can see this joy.
And O, my sister, go
Straight into the glad new town,
For you can see it every day,
And you see how the colour goes.
And see how the shadows grow,
The dim shadows run up between;
And feel, like a shadow of doom
======================================== SAMPLE 63 ========================================
, etc.
"Here," he said in a whisper, with a great angry smile,
"I remember that Misery and That Boy I lost in an
"The devil are you?"
"Don't you hear you, Young Fellow of this village school? I
don't like you and my friends.  I never saw you!"
"What is the matter, lad?" he asked.
"Why, I don't like you, my boy."
"That's something I like now."
"And what does the matter with you?"
"Auntie's the place."
"I couldn't think of it now."
"Where is the doctor's wife?" she said.
"Tell me about her husband."
"She's got a long sister, Mr. Williams, and she smells her
"What do you see?" he asked.
"That makes you look like Mary."
"You don't know where?"
"That's the ghost of her mother."
"You can't imagine if I do--that _is_ the whole of it."
"I don't know who you are--mother."
"Oh, there!" she said. "It isn't everywhere you see."
And there was an Aunt Persley with a violet blue-eyed China-cap hat,
"Are you startled?" he asked.
"I have found it."
"Well, then, if you don't know of it, do you think of it?"
"She had a queer look, eh?"
The hat stood out.
"You don't know where her parent lived?"
"I won't tell you what it was."
"I haven't!" she repeated.
"I haven't!" she repeated.
"But I knew it was too much."
"What did she do?" he asked.
"What happened to her there at all?"
"Didn't she give up that?"
"That was only the date of our visits," said Phil.
"That is only the date of our visits."
"Do you mean to thank me?" he asked.
"But you don't mean to thank me?" she asked.
"I know what she said about the Red-Coat, and how if she
"I haven't been to the Red-Coat. I'm sure we are not all of
patience!"
"You won't take my advice," she said. "I'm sure my Grand-Master
"Did you ever hear of anything so delightful as that?" she asked
impossibilities.
"And there were five thousand who told me we were a very gay pair?  The
"That and I?' said one.
"You can't blame me for that by eating away into Mrs. ----'s?"
"Well, then, they were very fond of us. Then, they took us to the
The Little Man and the Little Way were laughing and pushing out of
"If we could only get up to the top of the tower, they would
"And then?" she asked.
jealousy,--that is, a little girl.
We should know why, and we would not care.
"It was a pretty morning of April; the sun was just going out."
"Go home, pretty child!" said the Little Man.
"Do you think my picture will catch us up, then?" asked the little one.
"Yes, indeed."
"Go home," said the Little Man's son, and hurried back.
"Why, what shall we do?"
"Because," said the Little Man's son, and went home as fast as he could
The Little Man's boy ran round, and soon found a good penny for
When a little infant the baby lost. Him he covered with papa and
sagmar had been spinning for three times a day.
"What a fine little baby!" exclaimed he, and he looked like a
disappeared, with his round, wrinkled, and airy cap.
"Why, how can you leave off your lessons?" said the Little Man.
Kipling, however, told his father not to make a page of his
unacquainted, the little lady's eyes all wet.
"Because, my little girl," said he, "with all this bother and
"Yes, if it be so," said she, "then, darling! it must be understood
Kipling, however, still debated. The man in the doll was so far
vanctor, that he should be brought back by one of those merry little
The little baby was very much frightened, and said:
"How does it come to? Now I know what to do--that is all."
The Little Maid in the doll said, "Ah, no, but I can see that you are
"That is
======================================== SAMPLE 64 ========================================
.
In the year of sere and windy months,
I stand on the summit of yon hill,
The summit, that, in the first of May,
All summer lies in a western vale;
From eastward, with a step so drear,
The slender brooks go murmuring by;
And up the hill, through boughs of chill,
Where the poplars, like stately trees,
Look up to westward in the sun,
There in the midst of yon bleak wood,
The boughs of the pine, like blossoms white,
Are swinging from the uplands, borne
Up the hillside with a swinging voice;
And a distant voice, there, tells
Of the years that have slipped away,
And of all the winds that blow,
And of all the seas that flow.
I would seek the earth--I would call
For the first time to hear you say
"Come back, O beautiful one,
To the old time in your story--
Come back to the old time that
Was a vision to me of sorrow--
Come back to the old, tired days!"
And the woods are gray below me,
And the wind and the leaves no longer blow,
And the leaves no more are glistening
In the cold September summer weather,
But in a spot where we sang together
The song we sang of the days of long ago,
There is a voice that thrills me,
As it trims my ears--
"Come back, O beautiful one,
To the old time in your story:
Come back to the old time that
Was a ripple on the sea,
And a breeze that died on the wave
That met and died with the gale:
"Till we reached the land of the Innis,
Till we reached the land of the homestead
And its old abode,
"And the land that we came to;
A land where the old home lay,
With the old man standing by--
Beside the blue and glassy Thames,
The world of the merry-eyed.
And, if he were back at all,
The sun would shine on him,
And we two be happy now
In the warm September sun,
When I see my mother's dear
Come back to the old time that
Clothes my heart in its light;
And our lives will be one
With God and the world above,
And our hearts be one
Through the life of the years that are to be,
And the world of the glad old earth
That looks down just now on the place
Where we were, and the world that is mine--
With an old man there by my side
And a little lad just by my side.
And my father's father--just a child--
They all are a happy boy
In the old home, in the Long Ago,
But they are never grown to be.
They are laughing always, thinking of
The days gone by when they were glad;
They are happy, like me and you,
But they are many--I can tell.
They are laughing still, the happy tears
From boyhood's blood when years were bad;
They are merry, even when he's gone,
And the years are years that are to come.
When the hill winds is swinging
Over the hills and away,
And the air is a-winging
With the birches and blue-jays;
And the clouds lean over the heather
With the old man downcast and brown,
And, half in vision, I remember
The lad and the lass that's down.
And so I dream, and remember,
With a heart that's far away,
That a girl's eyes had a spell to sever
Of the love that was yesterday.
I remember; and dream I'm there
(How I wish that I knew _would_ be),
Seen the slope where the ribbon'd trees,
And the hills where the rivulets run,
And the meadows--where life would be
In a life that's far from to-day.
And I remember, I can't forget,
You and I, but the years have flown
(How I wish that I knew _would_ be
In a life that's far from to-day.
And I thank the stars, and thank God
That I'm back in the long ago
Of the girl who's got to the farm
And the girl I left there to-day.
I can see what her eyes were beaming,
And I can see the brimful stream
That made the sweet laugh under the moon
As it dances the whole night through;
I can see what her laugh was saying,

======================================== SAMPLE 65 ========================================
, 1678. C.
v. 133.  The Lord Chancellor.]  The Archangel Michael.
v. 130.  The new people.]  The people celebrated for their
mistress:
v. 130.  They stand on thrones.]  In those days it was said
v. 51.  Mary.]  His mother, Mary, was thought cruel, and is
come to deliver her soul from hell in order to rescue her
v. 51.  As thy lily.]  He made the promise of Mary to deliver
him from her pains; but she soon suffered death & hell for the
same errand.
v. 64.  Who pretend its light.]  This promise was made in the
cup-loving Henry Lord:
v. 67.  Thy power and majesty.]  This is a striking example of
the old women of the New Church, who had rendered the
houses ere this time ironical authority, and, having
conversated the laws of the Old Church, kept it in
regard by a protest against the Old Church, where it was
rarely known.
The last transition from the New Church is that the castle
of Peter succeeded to the castle of the Old Church in
v. 69.  The crowd.]  The procession of St. James i.
v. 75.  The second day.]  The procession of St. James
v. 81.  The third day's arduous pains.]  The Parliament at
the foot of a ditch that the old bridge defended.
v. 90.  The third day's arduous pains.]  St. James in Purgatory,
v. 90.  The fourth day's arduous pains.]  St. James in Purgatory,
v. 91.  The seventh day.]  The seventh day, in which, as
chamber, we came down at the foot of a stair to the centre,
from which, by the back of a light arch, we were ascending,
trembling as we went on to the other stair, when we were
standing on our left, in the great arc of Purgatory.
v. 82.  Saint Peter's fane.]  St. Peter's iv. c. iv.
v. 109.  On Friday.]  St. Peter, who offered, on Friday, his
death (p. 745) to St. Is martyrdom.  I have seen him as a
father, writing of which, as it is said, he wrote to the
first day in his _Canto XXVII_.
v. 99.  The fourth day.]  The seventh day, in which, having been
the year's leader, I put up to death, in which, at the foot
of the bridge, I was passing over the summit, whence the Po
opposite the collect of rugged rocks which my eye takes
not, but makes the higher mount on the less crag.  I did not
think that I should see, but was walking up the wall so that I
could see the old crag not quite so high aloft.
v. 111.  A cleansed soul.]  St. Gregory, c. v. 1. iv.
v. 112.  Peter.]  Saint John, who is said to have been
instrumentals to make the firm for which Peter died;
v. 127.  Peter.]  Christ.  He was said to have been Peter
v. 6.  S.]  Peter, or Simon.  In the Paradise of the Fixed
v. 6.  Paul's exaltation.]  St. James, who was interred
v. 7.  Born'st thou no joyous life of thine own?
v. 7.  Thy neighbours thou hast seen.]  St. John, as it fell upon
the city of Charles, alluded to in Canto III.
v. 28 The departing.]  He was charged with the royal city at
 Florence, whence, according to the Poetical doctrines extant, he
was made prisoner in after-dinner, and died there in 1302.
v. 35 The Old Temple horn.]  In what seems to be here a familiar
traitor.  "Peterhouse," as he relates, "will always be with the
sanctity of the Capitol, as we shall see, if the people be
counciled and not assembled by the new Pope."
v. 44.  The third day.]  St. John, king of Sicily, who, with
v. 44.  The successor of Peter, who adjoined the annual
comod.
v. 46.  The fourth day.]  St. Peter, who died in 1236.
v. 80.  The fourth, that he went forth.]  St. John, Pope,
======================================== SAMPLE 66 ========================================
, "the king of the sea."
There are ships going home in the bay before nightfall, and
mighty warriors with their armour about them, and many more with
their hands hang covered with water, while the sea beats upon them.
When the night had come in her fold, and every man found his men,
the old sea-monsters were thick on the deck, for with the ships
they were few, and the water came all over them, and the winds
had carried off the ships. Thus were all these feathered men.
On a dark night, the dark sea with storm-wind was groaning, and
the winds and bitter winter sped away, and there was no a wind
that blew, neither nightingale nor star; all that mighty and
darting wither away, from the mast's top got on swiftly, so
old that the sky wore on no hue, when heaven had ordered the
skies of heaven on either side. So long as that grey-bearded
king crouched by the grey sea, still standing; for the waters
gathered at length in his hands and trembled, and he pondered
among the corpses, and grieved in his heart. Then they laid
them on the sea-sand and the sea-beach lay down in a heap of
sodden stone; no one thought of death. Then they went home
seven by eight and took each a plinth, that hung heavy on the
horses. Then they went to the sea-banks and the dry land of
Odysseus. They washed the dead body of the man that was so
sorely killed in the sea, and then put water over that trouble
on the sea-banks, and the sea came from under the clouds,
where the bodies of the slain were in a well. All that great
house of the sea, with Neptune and the Moon, lay in a heap for
men to keep their own heads, and the earth was covered with
blood. So they lifted on their shields the bronze-shod spears,
and the bow fell from their hands from without. Then the
folk rose from their seats and took their places in the house,
whereon was set the bronze bowl and the silver sphered, and
was there on the ship looking like a goddess. So they placed
which the son of Atreus had kindly given as a mark to
death and fate, and brought it to Agamemnon, son of Atreus.
They then laid their ambrosia about the corpse of him that
the Trojan women had sent to the ships, when presently the
gods had taken vengeance upon the suitors. After these Menelaus
came, the son of Atreus, who was helping the others, and the
swineherd. He came up also, and sat down opposite him among the
crowds, and prayed to all the gods that dwell in heaven.
Then Agamemnon said:--
"Hear me, my friends, though in sore distress, for if any mortal has
come to the house of Hades or has been moved by the hand of
Dardanus, none of us has done so much as a mortal. For all the
doom of death has now taken him, and though he may have now
slain him he has been very patient."
Thus did he pray, and the gods were minded to save Agamemnon.
Then they went to the house of Hades, the son of Atreus, to
cleave to the courtyard, and to see that he was able, if he might be
the son of Thestor. So there they sat them down, and the
chieftains all of them gathered up, and raised their cup-offer
from the sea-banks. Then they had drunk water from the well
drink-offering of divine Jove, and had given to them honey and
flowers; but they drank nothing, and waited outside the court
to begin the dances, and they would not do so at the appointed
place. And the son of Saturn bade them gather at his ships and go
out. Now the Trojans raised a loud cry, and the Achaeans shouted
aloud and said, "Argives, why do you thus brag about the
Argives? They are not so many as the Achaeans can take. Because
we have now no ships to take, nor other living men save the
Trojans. Now that you have killed their wives and sacked their
mantles on to the shore, and your city is still on fire, and you
will be proud to get home safe and sound in front of your own
Thus did he pray, and the Achaeans did as his counsel pleased.
Agamemnon
======================================== SAMPLE 67 ========================================
.
"Thou canst not know from whence thou comest,
Thou art not followed by thy husband's footsteps,
Nor he who to the battle moves him,
For it has vanquished him by hunting,
And he has chased the forest-shaggy wolves
Through all the glen and forest-brake,
And there has borne the treacherous poison
From the black snake's deadly bite,
And there has found the black-snaked baniar
Whose flesh is burned with wounds of myrrh."
He showed his love, and not a whit
He spoke; but she a tear-drop shed
From the herded river's slimy whirlpool,
And she knelt down and kissed the river
With an ague and ague staining
His frozen neck and sea-blue eye,
Like to a kingly king who rules
Over the kingdoms of an iceberg.
Thus in the summer evening when the sick-bed was over us,
And we lay tired beside the river, how could we think of it?
How could we put away the burden that lay heavy on us,
The burden of the long hours that never again should go?
How could I bear it? I'd rather perish by fealty
Than ever the first time I embraced my arms again.
I am ashamed and cold as any marble face
That fades away and glares and glares with icy grace.
How can I bear it? I am but a shadow.
I do love the river.
And yet it flows forever.
It is the river and the sea--
And yet it leaves no trace of me but you.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth,
And like a ship whose wings are blown up wide,
And like a ship that hath the wind left free to go.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
To seek the shore that giveth rest to all.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
To seek the shore that givesth rest to all.
It is the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
In fear to carry wreck and ruin on its breast.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
To break upon the waters and bemoan the dead.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
Without one mark that 's shown or understood.
It is the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
All shattered from its shroud of flesh and blood.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
Without one mark that 's underneath the death.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
With one heaving and sinking vessel out.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
Without one mark that 's underneath the death.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
With one in shadow with the corpse outspread.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
When the night darkens round until the dawn.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
With one who fears no more nor ever feels a fear.
'Tis like the shadow of an corpse that cometh forth
With one who fears no living thing nor dead,
And turns upon him as he comes to drink.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
Without one word of any word or breath.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
Without one mark that 's underneath the death.
'Tis like the shadow of the ship that cometh forth
Without one mark that 's underneath the death.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
Without one word of any sign or sound of sail,
And within that there is but one sign of fail.
'Tis like that ship that cometh forth without one sign
That should have led a man through all the death.
'Tis like the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
Without one mark or form of any sail.
'Tis like that ship that haply ledeth on
Without one word or sign from any man.
It is the shadow of a ship that cometh forth,
And only she that cometh forth to death.
'Tis like that ship that cometh forth without one token
That should have led a man through all the death.
It is the shadow of a ship that cometh forth
Without one word of any sign or sound of sail,
And only she that cometh forth to death.
It is that woman born as she is born,
That passeth speechless by for very shame.
'
======================================== SAMPLE 68 ========================================
--a "flat"
"There was a certain grandad, Mr. Scott, and a Mrs. John
"She is a very good girl!" Billy suggested.
The party was merry and jolly, and jolly;
But a cherry plum, a cherry, and a couple of ice,
Though the sisters were not very merry,
For a little party they never could dance.
They danced, and sang, and shouted, and called their dances
a jolly good party.
A clump of dolly flowers,
And two big, yellow flowers
Fluted up to the light in the morning.
The light went out, and the people were not awake.
The children were running,
And, as every one ran,
The laughter rumbled off,
Or the laughter would die,
And, in after-time,
Weeds grew into spreading
Of yellow and red,
Yellow and red,
That grew, growing, growing,
With seed in the sod,
And a wonderful place for play.
The children were happy and playing;
But the shades of the trees rose slowly and lowly;
And, as he grew stronger,
The children felt happier,
From the wonderful place,
Very quiet and still,
And ever brighter and round,
Growing, growing, growing.
The flowers of the garden were in bloom,
Sleeping very softly to half-closed eyelids;
The young dews of morning
Softened, dropping into rows,
And the sun, half-awash,
Wrapped them in his scarf of red.
Little girls, little boys,
Bearing up, swinging down,
Came out with their flutter and glitter,
Creeping, peeping up, peering down,
Little girls, little boys,
Climbing up, hurrying down,
Softly, softly floating down,
See the sun, see the sun,
See the sun, see the sun,
Pull the leaves of the beeches,
Pull the clustering vine,
Pull the cherries up from the branches,
Pull the cherries up from the branches,
Pull the cherries from off the vine.
The sun's setting went about peeping
Into far-off clouds, and weeping
Solemnly, softly to rest;
The earth was asleep,
Little Jesus, Thy brother, Thy babe Jesus!
Sleep, little baby, thou
Beside thy mother's knee;
Stop beside the restless bee,
And gently on my knee
Breathe softly, baby, while I grow up in the night.
Oh, dear little Jesus, oh, my love!
My limbs they are stronger than they wont,
And I think of Thy goodness above,
And thank Thou for Thy goodness still, little baby,
For all that I've lost and to do
For asking Him to forgive, little baby,
For all that I see and hear
That a baby I do not know, little baby,
The whole of my life, though nearly ten years old.
But, Baby, what's thine own to do?
To bless thee, dear little one,
And then to go to thy father's wars, little baby,
And bless thee, and _not_ be
Tempted back to the wretched world
To let the malediction fall,
So she may be happy now--
I fear she'll be _truly_ glad
I have gathered a little heap
For Annie Annie Annie Annie.
Come down to the burial,
Light o' my fluttering heart,
To the kirk and the chamber,
The lily and rosemary,
The lovely silent things.
There is something sweet in you--
Something--in you--
That whispers of happiness
And peace to a weary heart.
I had not a wish to move you--
Only--to lay you low,
To answer your wish that night--
Ah, God! you have _not_ heard it.
"Don't call me an angel," said Annie,
"Nor a angel," quoth I,
Because my flesh is a mutton,
And the angels leave me by--
Oh, how much wiser you are
Is your ugly mess of things
Close to destruction--with your children
Lying upon the lap of death.
(Poor little souls! I do not murmur
So many things in your pain,
I have always thought of something
Since I learned to nurse the pain!
If I might go now and fetch you,
And play at the gallery,
I would count the little angels
But you do not know them rightly,
All the angel-spirits
On their errand sped,
To assist you on your journey,
I would bring them all at last,

======================================== SAMPLE 69 ========================================

In the house, the garden and the garden-bed had crowded,
Thought not of the near or drawing of far birds with wings.
But the mother smiled on him, saying: "Surely the time is
For your feet to climb, for you know it will be our parting."
Then the father sighed, and said: "Darlings, if you are silent,
You will surely know my place."
But no time fell when he was dead, not in wind or weather,
For his soul was lost forever and he was lost forever.
At the mouth of dawn,
In the garden, in the garden, in the evening,
With young lovers, beautiful with fresh fragrance laden,
The immortal roses bloomed, the fragrant lilies reared.
From their fragrance filled the air,
And the skilful bees made haste to bring up roses;
On the lilies they set them, wondering and innocent,
For no garden such as this is.
But the garden closed about them;
All the air was filled with the songs of lovers,
And the young rose blossomed, strewed the earth with flowery
blossoms.
Underneath the red rose-tree
Pondered the beloved spouse;
Wife of Adam, first and best
Of the new race, called the Ploughman;
And the plough-caste plough-caste plough-caste plough-caste plough-caste
To the face of the bride,
As the ploughshare ploughshare plough-caste plough-caste.
But the bride, the ploughshare plough-caste plough-caste plough-caste
To the face of the bride,
As the ploughshare plough-caste plough-caste plough-caste plough-caste
To the face of the bride,
As the ploughshare plough-caste plough-caste plough-caste plough-mission;
And the bride, the plough-caste plough-caste plough-bounde plough-mission
In the face of the bridegroom,
As the plough-caste plough-caste plough-message of a country speechless,
Turned to right and left the plough-clouds of the sea.
All the north wind of the world
Bore the light-sign of the Lord,
As he stood on the hill-tops looking northward from the sea.
Like the plough-boys of the southlands,
By the walls of walls of cloud-land,
Grew the heather and the furrow,
Filling all the wheaten uplands with the dew.
Like the plough-boys of the southlands,
By the towers of cloud-land,
Stripped the heather and the furrow,
Till it passed from cove and port to court a blossom-accent
Forth and forth and up the heather,
Where the ploughshare ploughs the wheaten,
Where the heath and ferns the clover,
Where the roots of ferns the fern-tree,
Where the lawn the hill-land sown-land,
Where the hills are sides of heaven,
Where the fields are sides of ocean,
Where the fens and fountains northward,
Where the lawns the fountains northward,
Where the lawns the fountains southward,
Where the lawns the mountains southward,
Where the uplands look southward, northward, southward,
There the heather, ever heather,
Where the lawns the fountains southward,
Where the heather, ever heather.
Where the heather, ever heather,
Where the fields bend northward, southward, southward, southward, southward,
There the heather, ever heather,
Where the heather, ever heather.
There the heather, ever heather,
There the heather, ever heather,
Where the fields bend northward, southward, southward, southward, southward,
There the heather, ever heather, northward, southward, southward,
There the heather, ever heather.
And his shoes were cloven asunder,
And his stockings asunder broken by the traces;
Yet as yet no one heeded,
Clinging to the sun and kissing it, clung tight to the traces
On his shoes, as a young lover does the tender bosom.
Nor did the sound of the shining
Beads to the young lover linger in the ringlets around him;
======================================== SAMPLE 70 ========================================
--_that_ the thing they're going to do.
And who is this, now? and what is he now?
And what is he doing now?
He's coming to face the big fire's raging,
He's gathering in his boys;
The boys are playing and talking together,
And in the dark all about the house is dim.
No more I look--the day is done
When first I took him in my arms;
Why did he not look, my hero boy,
When he felt the arm of a mother's right?
I'll write a short song to cheer him,
And I'll take a short sketch of Patrick Humby;
The little following is a grand theme for all my thoughts to-day.
"O my dears," says I "you're in danger of being surprised by
breaking the legs at us....
Was it you?"--"Haven't you ever been able to see the man
standing on his legs at me?"
"'Tis you," says he, "that's the way the legs would do."
I know my name is James, and I'm only the Duke of Arden;
I've been a mile from Kew in a little, like I can get back
To Kew in the wood at Kew in the wood at Kew in the harbor;
And, to keep the house from the hopper of the shop, I'll tell
You I know what it is--the boy sitting around in the corner
looking up at me.
It's so fine I'm alive. It's all right now and better. Can't
I just try to make the boy mind the difficulty and make
"The doctor says the doctor says there's a boy of Arden,
When he hears something he is in a difficulty."
"Well," says I; "he's the man for an hour."
"And that's how," says he; "it sounds better than when Arden has last
In the dear old house where I made me a coat of a tart and a
There's a dear little place in the corner where a figure against
"Well," says I; "I want to know what you are thinking about the
satisfactory business you seem to like."
"And what do you think of the man who says there's a boy of Arden?"
I remember your face, old friend, and the dimples that light up
your eyes. I was going to see him.
I remember walking in your shirt with the sun in full view, and
"Did you ever know anything about it?" I asked.
"It never was. It was nothing. That's true. That's only a case
that you'll take any time you like."
"Well," says I, "I guess you're not going to get more of it now."
The little girl who brought our ruin to ourselves is coming back
wishing to know if his head was going to win something.
You'd hardly know when you were telling your mother that you were
grieving because of the news, and having no answer.
"But you're going to get a nice book," says you.
"Well," says I; "I'll go on it now. There's that that at your
heart. I'm only a boy from the place I used to come to.
He doesn't look in the world like that, and he doesn't have
"And when you told the little boy he was a little boy he was
thinking. He'll try to believe. I'm wondering you are."
I went to the store one night, and there was the little man
standing on the wall.
"What is it?" I said.
"It's the doctor says you're going to get some medicine, and
to sleep again?"
"Well," says I; "I saw my sister yesterday, and I knew the
children came."
Clytie said, "and I didn't know you."
We three had a chance. Little Ted, with the little woman in one
We did the sly, we did the sly. Little Ted was a nice lad to
"But what are you doing?" I said.
I said: "What is the matter?"
Now Little Ted had a pleasant word for me to understand that he
"Didn't you call you a naughty boy?"
"Oh," she cried.
"I thought then I never had been so wrong."
"I didn't, and I told her to come here in a little way that I
"And there was no one to be expected to do anything wrong."
"I thought I should have done anything to get everybody ready to
She gave up her own child, and she laid it on the table next
"And you can't forget, darling."
"But I shouldn't be
======================================== SAMPLE 71 ========================================
, whose death
The living yet:  with him whom after ten
The people still had power to save and rule.
I saw two marquises on the road, revealed
Within a valley, crowned with poplars, crowned
With beechen pines, which to the peaks uphung
In snow-white pomp.  Their knell to me was rung;
Their malediction sounded on their lips,
"When thou shalt be alight."  Upon the bank
I knelt and asked them if they joyed to see
Again the kindly slope which downward falls
Downward from Paradise, where they shall dwell
For ever.  Never did my fingers draw
Thine outstretched arms, as they did eagerly
Draw forth their pure and lovely treasure.  Then
A sudden joy through all the limbs did throng;
The sweet, slow-chilled voice, the maddening melody,
Thin music, low and sweet as any song;
Then the light fluttered round me, and the flood
Of colours multiplied multiplied on high;
Sweet sounds rose through the valleys, then again
The silence filled the valley, and the dells
Filled into harmony.
And on I went
Downward through the sunset's veil of crimson mist;
The river softly foamed against the side,
Green pastures, gorse-clad pastures, feeding
On wood-clad swaths, and pastures flecked with spruce;
Then the high hills, high-breasted, crowned with pine,
Mounted in silent silence to the sky,
And the deep forest, with its forest-dews,
Like some old city in its ancient pride,
Silenced it from the thunder.  All the plains
Were chequered with their hills, and every stream
Grew quieter at its passing.  Wherefore, then,
O my sweet life, should I not pause to trace
That visible and fabled dwelling-place?
In the wild woods we wandered at our will,
Here in vast solitudes, in narrow glades
Of dwarf groves, unroofed as of old, that filled
The haunted valley with its murmurings,
Or mossy mounds, or mossy mounds, or walls,
And thick-leaved boughs, or moss upon the ground.
The man-god looked but as the spirit smiled:
The maiden-god made answer:  "I, dear lord,
Am here the only task to ply my task.
But thou, dear one, art the eternal spring,
The springing of the kingdom.
"The world and I, my love, with hand in hand
Walk the bright round of heaven.  But not mine,
Is the immortal spring, the eternal spring
Of beauty and of truth."
As the high sun of day
Glints through the clouds as he mounts from the sea,
So, gleaming with splendour, the deep, blue earth
In beauty and gladness wooed me to me;
And I cried to my fair-haired father, and lo
Bowed low in thanksgiving--"Not at all,
I trust, is my maiden:  not at all
Would I that the joy-painting fancy flies
On wings of hope!  For I remember well
The day that I foresaw it at my side,
My father's dwelling in Gethsemane.
It was a time for me too; it was not
That I was loitering in these pleasant hills,
And marking here the perfect sun of love
Which shone upon the yellow larch-tops, brought
With the first scent of fern the flower-deer's breath
Upon the air of Crete, and there I met
My nurse, my daughter, our new lot, my wife,
The moon, that shone above our cloudy flocks,
And on the white-capped waves.
She passed us by,
Nor bowed my brow to kiss me.  All my life
Had fled into that calm and quiet hour,
When first I felt thy hand upon my brow,
And drank with rapture life and love in life,
And joy and sorrow melted at thy touch.
There, in the shade of some cool mountain stream,
I watched thy coming and I knew the day.
The day! the day! the day! the day that I loved
To dream of thee--what, in the night and morn,
Are we two together--whom the hills and plain
Tell east, and tell west the dream of the world
And of the stars above; and of the moon,
And of the sun himself, and all the world
Made one! to be a prisoned spirit prisoned
In a sweet ecstasy and sadness!  Then
The
======================================== SAMPLE 72 ========================================
, "a gift for women:
"They are like as the angels and can be saved by
"A good thing to keep, or even go into a bad life."
I knew him as one who was always glad when a boy, for a happy
"I know not why," said Maisie, "but this is why I do it."
"I will not call you, my dear," said Maisie, the old man. "No,
It was because your father had a fine golden rule of his own."
"What's your opinion, Maisie?"
"My friend," said Maisie, again.
"The father's mind," said Maisie, again.
"But you have a son, the sweetest of all birds."
"Not as a scholar, sir," said Maisie. "He's just a bird, as I knew.
"There is none of that, sir," said Maisie, with a long, thoughtful smile.
"The little fellow called him that I married?"
"No, that is my own, the kind school-boy--there he is.
He says you mustn't make up your mind to be a doctor, for I know you
"I'll make a book, then."
"He says you are a lucky child. But you are very lucky, Mr. Brown."
"That's why I mustn't speak to that girl," he said, after his manner.
"It's natural," said he, as he threw a heavy-looking look at the girl.
"That's why I should not say 'farewell.'"
"A hundred- dollar, sir," said the mother.
"But he thinks you're a fool you are, sir."
"Then go to bed," said the father.
"Then she'll go to bed," said the mother, after her manner.
"And we shall lie down together," said she, from before her death, "as
She was dying of a deep sorrow, but when she came to herself, of a
"I'll try to make her own life clear," said the mother.
"She mustn't try to make it out," said the mother, slowly.
"I won't take it out," said the father.
"You are only a fool, then," said the mother, for she was weeping.
"No, not in the least, brother."
"That's all I'm saying," said the child, to himself.
"I'll take you away, brother," she said to her sister.
"You shall not," said the father, with a bitter smile.
"I meant it," said his sister.
"Then let her lie down," said Maisie.
"And I'll take her life," said he, the while, to his dying daughter.
"He got the best oth here," said Maisie, with a loud laugh. "And
"How much?" said Maisie, as she threw the oth on her sister's
maisie.
"But we'll stay here," said Maisie.
"But, oh!" said the father, louder, "it's Maisie's wee little sister
Just when we are at home, you know,
And the oth, the wild storm blows,
And she hears the rattling oaks,
And the thunder that breaketh
In the hollows that shake and creepeth,
And the rattle of the leaves
On the alder that dripth nightly,
And the sharpness of the blast
In the twinkling of a fire;
And when night is gone,
And the child has crept away,
And the whir of the farm-boy's tramp
On the beat of the noisy drum,
I'll go to him, and say
Just as I say,
"Just as I do--
And he knows I am old--
And he is grown to be
Wedded to the Port o' Cakes,
And he makes the grand maintains
In my thoughts that old Alette
And the rest of the four stories--
Why, he is the sweetest of all mothers,
And he is the sweetest of all sisters.
"There's the moon, there's the moonlight,
Pine, and seed, and the white stars,
And the wind that bloweth southward
And the soft soft kiss of the south wind,
And the breath of the night that follows;
And as to the soft slope down
Where the wild ripe apples ripen,
And the fruit-palace blooms and ripens
Where the ripe apples ripen--
I love that old Alette,
And she talks as if she were a fairy,
Or a Fairy indeed,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 73 ========================================
;
For he had a friend of the good old times,
And he had a lover and no one else.
(For this is true.)  But he was very fond
Of the love he gave to her.  (This is much.)
(Awkwardly, strangely)
"My love lies dead;
Long have I waited for his word:
The grave is waiting, but he is not here--
He has been with me long years five and more.
There were three ravens in the house of Robin Hood,
And they are dead:
Did you ever see any one so fair a sight?
Did ever any one so gay a sight?
He is near,
Who is watching for his dear,
And so merry.
And so merry?
A shadow in the doorway here is perched
Tapping on the grass.  Here were the crows
Busy at their feast:  a basket of withered grass
Is a sight too rare for any child to pass.
Only on a green dish set a table near,
Two black and polished candlesticks they light,
Hung with silver fennelts, and with great green fennelts
That are laden with gold.  The table is a shrine
Where the churlish priest, in silver and in thin,
May at God's altar entertain his swine.
But where the chrismal relics are laid,
The gold is tarnished with a piece of gold.
The altar is the holy place,
The ring is broken and the priest's bones laid.
This is the tale of old,
But of the faith of Robin Hood,
That in the old man's days
Strove to give God praise.
And for this dead man's sake,
Avenged for these things and manifold,
For which his soul was slain, by hands unseen
Cannot live out again:
The little child that grew
Most like a tree stripped of its leaves, being bent
Out of its heaven, and still unentfilled, spent
Half hidden in its mother's lap.
I never met a child,
For as I sang, one day,
I thought 'twas very silly, very silly
Happy mother bird.
But now I know a voice
Whose echoes will not fail
For the long years I knew,
And therefore I could not, oh, my dear,
Find even one little child.
The summer sun is shining!
The children, looking upward,
Upon the mother's face can scarce discern
The white, wet hair of the mother bird,
The pretty, lonely mother bird,
That sang so sweetly the day before,
Then passed into the night,
And left me by myself with its loud laughter
To think the singing of the little children
Is a thing to be desired,
Such wonder of bells and flowers is over,
It is too well said for children.
The little woman.
"I want to see you, darling," said I,
"When you have left the lovely world so lone,
Where all of you are left,
And all but you are left."
"I care not for the sorry mothers, dear;
You were so kind of a mother you knew,
I was so happy a baby when you lay
Within the dear, white home of your slumber,
Where they are left alone that they may lie,
And through the weary time
Of their incessant prayers and tears," she sadly sighed.
As I walked through the meadows to the sunsetting,
A girl I saw,
Bending low, her white head, as if she were saying,
"Do you remember, darling?"
But, behold,
The skies are grey, and the wind is still and still.
In the still meadows between us, on the hill-top,
The little shadow-of-a face looked up to me.
Its eyes were blue and shining.  It was coming
Out of the west, into the world.
"How long I have to journey?"
"I'll take a trip, dear."
But, whether I shall be gone in the southern or North,
I'll travel on my way to the South or North.
"You've traveled from me long enough, dear," said I,
"To reach the goal you took from me."
And, whether I shall be a pilgrim,
I'll travel on my way to the South or North.
"Oh, I long to go to it, dear," said I;
"To reach the goal you gave me."
"You've traveled with me, dear,
You've traveled with me, dear,
Over the mountains, over the sea--
I'm weary, darling."
We had not parted for that year,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 74 ========================================
.
v. 94.  A woman.]  "I am I, who of all the nobility of
versurity, in whom that is greatest and best known."  See
v. 111.  The Lady.]  The sun.
v. 114.  The Almighty vengeance.]  See Canto II. and XXV.
v. 135.  From forth the beauteous eyes of God.]  So called from
the place of her birth, "the eternal pearl, the mind.  That is
the life of all men, the sweet life of all men, the eternal
life,--that is to say, whether or no it rightly is meant to
give, as at this day it does to those about whom it is named.
"They who have become certain of a certain loyalty to
God, in their own heaven, the confidence conferred by the angels,
and they endure to take the pen."
v. 144.  Clytié.]  Clytié, the wife to Guido of
Bocchus, when she was carried to Troy in 1314.  She was killed by
Arapas, near Ponteira (Messer.  Ip. 132).  See G. Villani, 1.
v. 140.  Clytié who holds a torch.]  In the Aeneid, where there
v. 26.  The spouse.]  Propertius, whom Dante calls wife
v. 38.  That.]  Propertius was killed by Can Grande de'Niobe,
v. 43.  Nino.]  Nino di di di Pado.[C]
A puerile gentilem, de la qualia sacro,
De' espousa est Amor de la risa,
De' se luego apagando;
E quelquando feliz desvento,
De' se gozamos al qual.
v. 43.  A beautifully-stealing love.]  Propertius was slain by a
caballer in his palace, about the middle of the Canto, when he
is become so dear to people.
v. 45.  A gentle custom.]  By that of Bellona did not
v. 48.  In the second and Third Book of Leon.]  Propertius was
beloved when he died.
And this affection for Propertius is very strong in the
sense of the most tender ladies in courtesy.
It was characteristic of this love: whether Platonic or
ural, we know in our Poet's selected parts of the Poet's
v. 51.  In the third and fourth Book of Leon's.]  Propertius,
v. 51.  For a proof ]  "The old and the young, who
were as poets in the days of Greece and knew no shame for
depriving of them."
v. 52.  Such folds.]  By the angels was held fast still, as
v. 74.  This.]  Dionysius, who gave himself to Raymond,
v. 97.  This.]  The poet, who was then a violent and bloody
explanation of this passage, terms "to be the author of the
v. 100.  This herb, named Enid, which, being named the herb
of which Dante found it, he sent to strengthen the use of a
v. 103.  That poppy.]  By thoseus was called the poppy.
v. 29.  The great Achilles.]  Propertius, the son of Achilles
Deiope, who then fought in the third encounter, which
conversed that of a shield, with a mane, or a man, in
gluttony, and died in the cause of a hindering fight, which
was said to have assailed him at an impious siege of the
Achaean forces in the middle of the field.]  Propertius,
by whom this physician obtained general respite from a long
expedite to the Trojan troops, fought with much superior
rage.
v. 32.  Before their vessels.]  Chiron, St. John of Calva,
a legendary priest, who was sent in 1733 to fight for Charles
Against that brother of Euryalus, in consequence of which
conversation was at first used.]
"Thou shalt be offended, my St. James," said he, "by those
two sorts of whom we are told; but do not provoke me to think,
only do, I think, but tell it thee once more."
v. 66.  Cataf.]  By this of the river Segrevola is rendered by
Peric.  Cataf was the son of Cataf.
v. 97
======================================== SAMPLE 75 ========================================
; for the present, by Jove, was never
lost.  In those days he lost not only his father, but also
his mother, the son of Polydorus, who was a natural
speech, and was in the condition of public houses. Thence,
in the next month, there was a comedy which was called the
balloon. The players, [Greek] a great number of the
balloon verses, [Greek] a capital story which ran exactly
at the same period. The tragic scene in the fifth person is
the drama called the balloon--namely, but for the most part
of which I will now treat with this in a note, as the whole
world know who was the first person sent to punish the
steady-armed Achaeans. The second act of Jason is
said to be the first person robbed by him of his own
estate. A thief was he of a most hateful temper, and who
dared not undertake a revenge on Agamemnon.
"And yet
he took no other aim than this, and in the days of his
own age was far the greatest of the Greeks [he excelled
long enough for forty years and died at once. He had
no other aim, he was a disgraced and depraved idolatry,
but was still religious. He was so religious that he treated
some more of the mass of the Trojan [he] than was
otherwise religious. He set up in an rebellious state
the Greek [he] of a Parthian, who came from Thessaly in
Argos.
"But after nine years
revenging his father, the Phaeacians took him
up into his own ship, in his ship, and bore him away on
the river of Crete.  The Phaeacians, who were scattered
behind him, were defeated by him; but the object of his
ambition was only a piece in the bag of a rag. The
original act [Greek] is taken from the Greek [he] offered
by the gods to be done with, and the other part assigned
by Phaedrus to the Greeks. Here, therefore, we take it for
spacious offerings to the immortals. The rest are
probably the most generous pieces, and are here truly
already trapped in a chest, for which we did not find both
clerks, charters, and soldiers, in war when they had been
in camp on the banks of the river Elis. All mankind may
be discovered for a little while by the difference between the
most cruel and striking, and all men generally may be
examined for being robbed of his son. The one is in a
coil whether he is a captain, a captain of the cavalry, or
of a strange leaguer during his absence from Crete. In this
case we are to find out the whole story of the miseries and
revengeances from the moment of our exile. We take the
city immediately after Crete, in the year of which most men
generally perish. The most guilty of men judges are the
constables committed for murdering the country. The other part which
makes man greedy of his possessions is that of a trusting
person who would be trusted as a messenger of justice to a
constant lover, who would say, 'I submit peace to the
"I forget my home and kindred, where once I had a sweet
district. The daughter of a cunning tydame of a poet, the
great-hearted hero Telemachus committed great numbers of
his verses to her; they were written in the hearts of all,
and I shall have the advantage of describing some other
communicative of the manner in which their two friends
were being directed, but this is nothing; for the author of
them had tried and judged the gentleman sufficiently to
hear, that his father was no better than his own mother, and
had had as sat enthralled to him only just when he was at his
to hear his father's death. My father was then young, and my
mother's by great wealth, and my brothers, who were of more
than ten years and two-and-twenty (those who were called the
"Sapientis et pandis cogitat: res sedere conscius ipso,
quoted a fool's laughter for the folly he had done us."
"These words, sir, are from the brawn of their father, or from
the tongue of Aegisthus, when, a pun founded on the edge of
his speech, the sword dips, and sticks in his fist.
"I would have you make an example of this my friend, for I
was in late times sufficiently disposed to abuse him, and
that he had so blamed
======================================== SAMPLE 76 ========================================
 the "Harp and Cur,"
The "Arundel" and the "Harp and Cur,"
The "Duchess" and the "Harp and Cur,"
The cantie sang this tune.  "O'er the glen
My steps they wander ever:
And, when they hear I wander,
They're fresh and sweet as ever!"
I wandered by the brook-side,
I wandered by the mill,
And the tears fell down upon my cheeks,
And on my brows a chill.
The passing hour my soul affords,
The passing hour my breath,
Back to the mill goes Marjorie Daw--
The maid I loved lives still.
I wandered by the brook-side
I wandered by the mill,
And the tears dropped down upon my cheeks
And bent upon my will.
I asked my way to the village,
I asked it of my bread,
And my hat and my green umbrella;
I stood against the dead.
And there I met a fair youth named Otway,
And she was fair as on May morn,
And round the mill she tripped; and the years were many,
But she tripped as fast away.
And as I wandered by the brook-side
I wandered by the mill,
And the tears fell down upon my cheeks,
And I sat down and wept.
And there I sat until the day was done,
And wept, and said a word of cheer,--
A word whose point I could not well admire,
And could not find a better cheer.
And there I flung me on a wheel, and cried,
And wished all folk in Scotland knew,
They would listen then.  But I am weak,
And cannot understand.
I left the mill, and went to sleep,
I left the mill, I left the mill,
Along the brookside I have tried to go,
And tried the mill and tried the rock,
But never have I tried again;
For never have I tried once o'er again.
And I keep thinking of my former life,
And I would like to sleep once more;
And I would like my wife so very dear,
And I would like another life
Were I to live in dim, far-off lands,
And the long, long years I have not come.
'Twas early spring, and soft the tide
Beat softly on the willow-trees,
And the blue wave the willow-breeze
Was rolling smooth and low,
The willow trees were over all,
And on the gray gray stones
And on the winder-scented rocks
The little bluebirds babbled through.
And soon we found the yellowing corn
Was ripening, and the tall leaves' juice
Was bright as bright can be;
And soon there fell around our path
A breath of summer sweet;
And we went forth to sow in spring,
The sows and the green fields,
To gather aught of all the earth
That lay around our feet.
One morn we found the great bluebird,
Arrayed all like a bride,
In coat of blue and feather-beds,
To be her journey's pride.
We followed her, and took her hand,
And fed her up at will,
And she made merry as she sang
The while she sat at rest.
The little bluebird, too, she fed
And spread her coat of blue,
And, as we said good-night to her,
She sang till we were home.
We laid her down in fair Maderia,
And I was very glad;
For I was with her in my old maid's shroud,
And she was very sad.
"What sorrows do my heartstrings wear
Beneath those iron doors!
And what are tears but vain remorse
For those who never more come in?
The memory of our early love
That over wastes and meads
Or ever will move with light from Heaven
Will drive me from my home."
The little bluebird did not pause,
Still singing as he sang,
And, as we listened in our ears,
Wept for the sweetest things.
And now we could not stay, alas!
In her home of green and grass;
But home she must have to-night, alas!
To hear her father's moan.
The little wee bird's cry was weak,
Its cry was loud and shrill;
Yet every bird knew, to its mother dear,
The mother's heart was still.
"Oh! mother dear! I cannot sing
My grief to thee alone;
And I will sing for thy dear sake,
Although my song has flown
======================================== SAMPLE 77 ========================================
, who
in the same house, and who he was not, nor whether he was in
peace or woe.
“‘My God, why didst thou bid me?
‘Why do thy clouds the sky fill with rain?
‘I see a cloud through the welkin dark,
‘Where the bright sun does never shine.’
When I was King, I bore the name
Of the Queen of all the realm there.
‘A pretty young woman, that to me
Was given as her paramour
‘By a knight on board a vessel too,
That o’er the seas did bore her.’
I have a sister, that merchants tell,
She was the daughter of Nidlewell,
And has left an Ormond forlorn.
A maiden she of the Ormond-wood
Was there, the fairest of the land,
With a white shirt and braided band
Of maidens was standing near.
‘My God, thou give me goodyre to eat,
‘And for my babes I will thee feed,
For thy ryot and thy mally,
And all the bread that was left mine,
For six long days, and all the wine,
On the seaside that was my bed,
For six long nights, and all the wine,
For six long days, and all the wine,
I have slain for thee, thou false Nidlewell,
‘And thou shalt have my babe again,
And thou shalt have as merry a nurse
As ony that ever thou didst be,
And never again shalt thou see him nigh,
For none but I was born to lie;
And God has taken thee from all men’s lands,
And given thee a son of mine this day.
‘With thee there is no famine in the land,
No drought upon the rivers running,
And no fruit upon the trees, for thee
No thistle-down, nor any burning tree,
No ill-born deed, nor none that may
With any wither, not one tree,
No goodly fish, nor any male
Must watch thy bed, or take no heed
Of any prying eye or sleeve;
But God will strengthen and love the young
And make thee strong and good and bold
That am as brave as any knight.’
Then Adam answered her, with a smile,
That love and fear may never kill:
‘A tale thou shalt declare to me
Betwixt the twain, and not to me.’
Thrice blessed was the knight both old and young,
Thrice blest was he throughout the year,
Thrice happy was he in his lady-song,
That could give note for every bird,
And, for his harp's praise, all the year,
A maiden on a summer day,
That could not pipe a song withal,
But in his own good time, sayd t’wife,
‘He singeth of that time anew,
The third time we are wed, my sweet,
But he that singeth of the time
Shall have his pipe and his tune free,
And let no man that’s untouch’d shall be,
And I will pipe and he shall be.’
‘Who are ye, my lord?’ sayd Adam;
‘I am your wedded wife, Adam,
My merry men and good men all,
All of my household; and I call
The gods to witness to my call,
Ye that have borne me many a fall,
And others that have struck me dead.’
By Adam’s hall, by Eden’s wall,
A Knight I rode upon the fall,
His name was Adam. With his name
I called, and yet he said notame:
He thought that I had fallen down;
The Knight said, Adam, when ye came
I was not fallen down: he lies
In thickest earth, and over land
Thick-mowing, under oozy green.
He kissed me, and he took my hand
In friendship: there’s no man alive
E’er felt so hard and willingly,
As when they met that summer morn,
That lovers kiss each other scorn,
And blame each other as they should.
But Adam, he forgot the sea
Where many a day he sat and viewed,
Seeing his pretty mate, and me
Half-wondering at the weary new
Sweet, sweet, how like to him were viewed
The blissful thoughts that in her train
Were travelling as they flew.
He saw her in the golden gloom,
He
======================================== SAMPLE 78 ========================================
 on "The Sals," "And so 'bout twelve o'clock,"
Callin' the Lord's council to discuss the affairs of the world.
They have left the Sarsens in a mire from Rome
All on the way that, if the Lord should take
The other woman as his wife,
To a small house of luxury can give
Both beauty and instruction.
'Tis the same child of the earth that yawks
Over your city, and, if he should take,
May he never want some neighbour's son
To give her to you!
Yet though our lives 'twill matter be,
And our lives'rence, at last, will be,
They are in a sweet Irish way, I guess,
The very day--and--the next--the Church.
A good man's brother, and a good man's friend;
A true man's brother, and a good friend's friend.
When he's three years old he must just be young;
How very big, yet how extremely sound!
There's no one left at home, and the whole thing's said,
But the mother's heart and the father's own young head
Must have been left to go to her husband, God knows,
And would have been the bride that he left her.
It's wrong with women, it's wicked with boys;
It's all a father's, but a good man's friend.
I'll take my husband to a far country,
And live by myself till he's grown so good.
The sun is now high in the west,
And I'm as happy as he;
While round my home the children go,
Whether they be glad or gay.
The sun is now red in the west,
And I'm as happy as he;
While round my home the children go,
Whether they be gay or gay.
And, oh! if I should live to-day,
They all would come and take me;
I'd never be surprised by men
Nor join in the cheerful clink
Of "Home, Sweet Home," and "Baby-Land";
I never knew a joyous band;
My home I'd leave away.
But there's a gladness in the air,
The sun shines on the shore;
The world is merry in its care,
And my true love is come.
With loving looks my home I pass;
But "Home," I say, "is very droll."
In the twilight of my life I never hear
The great men's iron tread;
But I wish I were a little child,
And joyous children I'd be.
But there's an anguish in the air,
I must not feel afraid;
For, sweet, when I go to the town,
I must lose my darling's bread.
The wind is wild and howling
From the north-east;
Roar again, whirling,
Like a phantom ghost.
But there is no rest near me,
For every one to me
Is a ghost that calls to me,
Never heard to rise again.
I know that I am weary,
And that I am growing old,
And it's a pity that I cannot
Tell how long I was so bold.
But my heart tells me not ever
That I am old.
And I'm too old to care, when others
Gather the bread to care.
There are no friends who know to-night,
And no companions near;
And that is why I sometimes fear
The clock may strike me here.
The clock, whate'er the cause is,
And the world's life 'tis strange,
For I think on the days of yore,
And the things that I have seen.
But there's no friend who ever knew
The world's life's woe and fret;
And I--am sad I cannot tell,
But I know that I am old.
A little brown bird sat on a thorn,
A few feet touched, and I heard it say,
"There's nothing awakes but the little brown bird,
And the little brown bird, oh, so gay and bold,
And the little brown bird to a moon of gold."
A little brown bird sat on a stone,
Beneath a great oak tree;
I walked out, to dance with the little brown bird,
And sing his song to me.
And as I danced, I grew as poor as I could
To sing a song to thee.
And there were tears in my eyes, little brown bird,
And I wept, and said, "Oh, do you pray?"
And I answered, "I'm thinking of my little bird,
And I want it to stay with me."
In the
======================================== SAMPLE 79 ========================================
.
Jupiter: Juno, the daughter of Jupiter, who was the sister of
Neptune, who was daughter of Oceanus, who was father to
Neptune, who was father to Neptune, Neptune, and he was mother
Of King Æneas, he was father to Otus. It was on this date
Thetis, the most beautiful of all the Nymphs, having been married
Agylla; and the nymphs were called Phoebe.
The Nymphs were called Naiads.
Jupiter assisted his daughter.
Dione, the bright-eyed nymph, being the goddess of the chase,
was the wife of the blue-eyed. Her sister bore a child to
Thetis, the fair-haired nymph, who is the daughter of Oceanus, who
is the mother of Hippolytus.]
daughter of Aeolus.]
Phoebe, the daughter of King Aethon, who was the sister of
Tyndarus, changed into a fountain. She was sister to Phoebe,
And Ocylla, the daughter of Zeus, the strong-footed Tyrrhenor,
was the mother of the white-armed Nereids, the daughter of
Phorcys, who was queen of the river Oceanus, who was the son of
Atreus, a river in Apaë, and was the wife of Jupiter. She
was the daughter of Juno, the one-eyed ash, and the mother of
Aphebe; hence she was the daughter of Oceanus, the one-eyed
sister.
Thessaly, and is said to have sprung from the sea water. See
Whether the daughters of Atlas have been nine deeps in a ship
to the sea, or from the clouds of heaven, which is about nine
thousand times ten thousand, and the space about eleven square
twenty times fifty times five square-and-thirty cubits height; or
But the Cyclops, being so many and so great, is merely so much the
greater number of clouds. He is said to have been the son of Saturn
who, in order to become a part of heaven, was the first to
blaze, where Venus, mother of Bacchus, and nursed her. Bacchus is
the river that flows in Apaë, the mountain that rises on the
equonantary line from the sea. The name of Bacchus is derived of
Aphebe, or Thessaly.]
stream of Iolcos, and from the source of it. The first is the
name of a mountain of Lycia, and the next to which Juturnus sprang
into the sea. A part of it is said to be near the Pelasgian
is on the coast of Proteus.]
called Mæonian, the Dorians, by his name.]
for the River of Life, from which, says Apollyon, it is said, it
rose from the fountain of Ptea.]
a mountain of Megara. His daughter was called Nereus, and it is
told by the poets, that she had two sons, and she was the
daughter of Æolus.]
the people that Helice and the two other sea-gods.]
that were the sea-gods, and that she was the goddess of the
equinoctial heaven.]
the river of Pluto, which they call the Nyssa, on which
Hercules was said to have sprung, as from the fountain of Jupiter,
from the banks of Apis, and to have sprung over Hannibal, who
carried him from Asterus. It was named from Pelasgus, a river
from caffron and gold down into the sea. Commentators say that
her father Proteus had given her his daughter Pero, while that
he was the king of Athens and Carthage, and that Proteus was a
father of the Muses.]
called Alcyone, daughter of Æolus and the river Acheron, the
river of Arethusa, between the sea and Mount Sertorius.]
tiresome and beautiful. Her first husband said, that it
was the daughter of Alcyone, at a time when she was called the
son of Polyxena. She was daughter to Proteus, and she was the
daughter of Alcyone, on the appearance of a silver-studded
herb. It was called from the Pelasgic.]
Nestor, a son of Æolus, and was mother to Phœbus.]
Tiresias says, that Proteus was the son of Pheäus, whom Lais, king of
people, gave her.]
======================================== SAMPLE 80 ========================================
, _a_, the _e_, and _e_ are seen
Through the _e_ and _e_, and _e_, and _e_ is seen
In the bright _é_ and _ériya_ band.
In _é_ and _ériya_, arrayed
In bright _é_ and _éd_ and _ériya_ sheen,
The bright _é_ and _ériya_ are seen
By the sons of _ériya_ and _ériya_ fair,
As is the sun upon the grass that shines a-shining there.
And the daughters of the halls in order dancing-wise,
With the loud _ésa_-bards, as it were, and _ériya_ and _é_
But if the minstrel's song be true, and his sweet pipe attune,
And the dancing-masters sing, and the dancers swing and fling
In the dance that merry tune, with the dulcet music chiming,
And the nightingale and shepherde, with the nightingale all sing,
And a thousand loves, and more, and more, in the dancing ring.
But the singer of _é_ and _é_ singeth a hundred times,
By the _ériya_ and _é_ singeth a hundred thousand rhymes,
And after all, in the dance, he has learnt the song, in the land
Of the sweet _ésa-yá_ and _é_, a hundred queens and three,
And a thousand joys, and more beside, of the dulcet sing!
But the singers are dead, and the song is silent in the air,
Where the moon and the stars and the dancers seem to stir,
And no sound is heard but what the whispering of the tree,
And the breeze that gently wafts it murmurs its faint low sigh,
And the music of the falling night, with wailing may be heard,
And the music of the swelling tide.
The music of the night is hushed,
The moon sheds tearful light,
Like an eye which longs to rest,
A hopeless moonlight.
The moon sinks as the daylight sinks,
And the snow without a star
Is mantled o'er the waters' banks
Like the dark waves far.
The white foam of the river appears,
And the waves lie still and deep;
'Tis night on the shores of the sounding deep,
But who is that, the singer of love and of pain,
That singing on the bosom of the tide
Is like a voice at the portals of heaven above,
And whispers his ravishing song:
"O sea! O ocean! rocky is the hill,
And the pine its heavy weight
On the shaggy brow of the forest crowned,
And the deer are stretched the length upon the ground,
And the wind is hushed at last;
'Tis evening," he sang, "and sleep is on the shore,
But where is the lover then?
The boat is there, and the reed is on the main,
And the boat rides rapidly.
And the mounting wind, and mounting tide, are done,
The boat like a shadow goes;
'Tis the Wind that comes to the lonely one
And whispers its farewell.
"O sea! O ocean! rocky is the hill,
And the pine its heavy weight,
And the wind is hushed at last, and the night is on the main,
And its billows sweep along;
'Tis the sound of the falls, and the rise and the fall
Of the vessel whitely strong,
And the burden of the ship rides rapidly on the deep,
And the burden of the tide rides rapidly on the deep,
And the burden of the tide rides on,
The burden of the tide rides rapidly on the sea,
And the burden of the tide rides hard.
"O sea! O ocean! rocky is the hill,
And the pine its heavy weight,
And the boat rides rapidly, as it has always been,
Till the hills and valleys meet,
And the sea his cover, and the land his cover see,
And the wind his comrade true,
And the boat rides rapidly, as it has always been,
And the sea his comrade true!
"O sea! O ocean! rocky is the hill,
And the pine its heavy weight,
And the boat rides rapidly, as it has always been,
And the ship rides rapidly,
And the boat rides rapidly, as it has always been,
And the sea his pillow is.
"O sea! O ocean! rocky is the hill,
And the pine its heavy weight,
======================================== SAMPLE 81 ========================================
 from his own land,
And sent his son to the eternal Rock;
But what he gave I now require to know,
Since, to the land which bears no such below,
Where a new people founded first, and new,
His second son first raised a weight like dew.
But I, a guest, who far from every shore
Has yet to wander, in this wood has laid
Two wheels, whereof the old are wont to ply
The spindle and the flax; for I have yoked
Two coursers, both with white and black in one;
And, though my vesture's hundred years are spent
Here, yet, I know, some weight of grief must one
Bring with them, lest a father's mood awake,
Saving a boy, and with a broken reed.
Now, when the city's walls and ancient towers
Were vanished now, and the immortal gods,
Jove, filled with wrath, had joined, within his gates,
The warlike maids, and taught to mourn a son.
Now when the palace reared the lofty roof
Of expectation, and the people laid
Their lustral rites down, and within the gates
They made a solemn banquet; all the boards
Were laden with the choicest viands, served
With perfumed wine, and with a purple cloth.
Then to the grove they brought the burning brands
Which, burning in their eyes, a virgin bore
Which, burnished by the steel, to feed the fire
Of kind contention, and in order shed
A copious light on well-fined vessels, they
Hasted to spread the feast on plenteous fare
On the clear current.  Thrice they essayed.
But when they saw the rising flames retire,
They burned to gather from that dismal spot
The beechen fumes, which had consumed the meat.
But now the setting sun pours on the floor
His splendor, and the smoke ascends to heaven:
Then they return; for soon the work is done.
The flames climb up; but lo! the victim stands
Groaning in dust, and from his eyeballs rolls
The fire!  The fire-stout Greeks, with heart-sick eyes
Staring around the woeful image, cry
'Hail sacred bard!  for this is Phoebus' work!'
And yet the bard survives, though in his age
He sees not now the labour of his sire.
Athwart the rest behold a crowd of youths,
Grazing the sword, with helmets laced, and helms
Of varied shapes and bristly spears, in guise
Of warriors old: from out their temples torn
By swords and clatterers they force the crowd.
They, after sacrifice, to the powers of heaven
And earth return, when Phoebus sees again
The earth again, and with her virgin zone
Of mantles, hovered, wondering, for his son,
The immortal progeny of mighty Jove.
Then first, in form of cunning, Phoebus came,
Polyctor, and, in form of men, who dwelt
Between them, from Phocaea's grove retired,
Whence first they came, a mingled race and clan.
But Phoebus, foremost in the human race;
Apollo first, and Panthoussecond born,
Next Clytius, strong for war in lofty Troy.
Last came Leonteus, great for martial might,
And in AEtolians of the race of Troy,
Who dwelt around; and to the godlike man
A warrior's semblance given to Phoebus' form
By Menelaus; for to him too true
And ever faithful was his soul and form
And native.  But the abode of Phoebus left.
The next on Xanthus and its lofty ridge
Torn by Penean torrents, he espies
Laocoon; he his spear once grasped, to strip
And drive the spear; to front it, at his side,
His faithful follower of Idomeneus,
A warrior born, and standing by his spear,
In semblance fair, the Peneian Phoebus smiled.
So stood he, drawn by Menelaus, when he saw
The glitt'ring arms of Oenops o'er his corpse;
And how he moved, and prayed, and how he fought.
While from within the horse's nostrils ran
The sweat, and sought again the blood, and life
Sustaining, thus in turn he spoke, and said:
'Alas, dear comrade, thou hast left me here,
Who for my death art here in sorest need:
But truly, since a noble soul is th
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.
_Harp of Poesy._
_Ichiban upon Setebos_.
_Mephistopheles._ We take a whole ride together. _Ape._
_Mephistopheles._ The company is difficult enough to distinguish the
fictions may here be found.
_Ich._ All those who have made the beds and bed cushions and had
plurinos, would be extremely difficult.
_Ich._ What are you able to perform for a time? _Jove._
_Sphinx in her sleep, wrapped round with all her shadowy locks._
_Sphinx sobbing low._
_Eve._ 'Tis but the night and the day, O Love!
_Waning his head._
Amor, with his eyebrows high,
_Eve._                         A kiss for it. _Eve._
_Sphinx sobbing low._
Ich crieeth ever so.
_Icio._                                        A kiss for it. _Eve._
_Sphinx sobbing low._
There is another, and that is not the death. _Eve._
_Sphinx singing low._
_Sphinx waving in the air._
There is another, and that is not the death. _Eve._
_Sphinx going to the moon._
There is another, and that is not the death. _Eve._
_Sphinx crying in the air._
There is another, and that is not the death. _Eve._
_Sphinx crying to the moon._
There is the brother of all the land. _Eve._
There is the other, and that is not the death. _Iphrodite_
_Sphinx beating out a fly on Calvary._
_Sphinx crying to the Moon._
There is another, and that is not the death. _Eve._
_Sphinx crying to the Moon._
That is the very word for _Sphinx:_
They speak of Love, and Love is Love,
They speak of Love. _I_ hear Love speak,
Of Love, and Hate is Passion's thirst.
_Sphinx sobbing low._
"I know not Love," thou littlest Life,
For all Man toil, and Love to strife,
And Time to strive, while all the flower
Of all the world was in thy keeping.
And as the flower fade, so fades;
And Love as lovely as his death.
Love was not Love, he is no longer:
Love to keep time, and time, and years
Have all passed by, and all thy love,
Love, with its eyes and its sweet kiss,
Slept, and grew whole, and still must go,
And grew from Love, as living breath.
_Love that would never close his eyes,
Nor see the vain past come and go._
I might go further than I dare;
I might stay in this world of mine,
I might stay here. If only there were death.
I might go further than I dare;
I might stay here, till it should yearn
For the great love of thee and thine;
For death is of the deeper thirst;
And what shall be the better gain?
Only--if dying and can be
No good to thee--and what to me?
It never seemed as if I could go further.
I did go further than I dare say.
I did go further than I dare say.
I did go further than I dare speak.
"For Love," I said, "is not as love is love,"
Said I--"Love is the name of Faith."
Then I turned from the skies, and the moon sank from the sun, and the
So I went further than I dare say.
Then I cried--"Give me thy sword, Love, and smite it asunder."
So I went further than I dare say.
Then I cried--"Give me that sword, Love, and smite it asunder."
But I was still a little way back, and the moon sank from the
And the moon sank from the sky, and the stars had begun to glint
and glitter on the night air.
So I went further than I dare say.
But I was still a little way back.
But I was still a little way back.
Then I cried--"Give me thy sword, Love, and
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 to play,
The little birds upon the bough;
While from my knee there falls a bird,
The magpie, with his long brown claw,
Who clambers upward, as she sings
"Oh, save me, Jesus, if you can!
Oh, spare me, Jesus, for I see
My little angel in your tree!"
Oh, call not the spirit up there,
Which sweeps the world with sounding feet,
And in all her wild plumage is
A shining ladder of shining feet!
Oh, be no dreamer for all this,
The little angel with the great,
The eagle's nest, to light you;
Like the little bird you climbed down
And came out 'neath the sun, you know,
And in your little breast, you lay
As lifeless as you ever saw!
O weary pilgrim, fare thee well!
For, oh, when thou art near to me,
Who would believe thee in the voice
Of these immortal mysteries?
Then let thy voice grow loud and strong
As if the storm and earthquake sang;
And I will follow, where thine eyes
Are raised aloft to guide thy course:
For thou art with me in the storm.
Through the long windings of
The long cloud-high peaks,
With the red light behind them,
And the deepening of mist
In their glory,
They rise,
Like black hills, and like
A storm they appear
In their naked light.
O weary pilgrim, fare!
For thou art not near
The very kind shelter
Of the mountain-side,
But many thousand steps to
Which my poor feet must close.
Is there a road to meet me
That I cannot follow?
No, my feet would not heed it,
And I would rather,
Than abide,
In his shadow,
In loneliness on the bough o'erhead,
Than to yield my breath to
The terrible wrestleings
Of those uttermost pines with the harsh
And tangled whispering pines:
For I knew that at dawn
Of the wildest growth
Of the mountain, the breeze
Would fall from the branches that shake
And tremble beneath my feet,
And I would escape
Those dreariest gulfs--
But the path is so steep
That I can not walk!
Is there a road to meet me
That I cannot follow?
No, my feet would not follow,
But the black shades of night
Would be over me, saying:
"He who does not come here
Hither is not driven,
But in vision and motion
He lives in thy sight!
"Aye, for in him is living
Greater, diviner things!"
But--_so_ not _I_
Is there a road where he trod not--
No, I will not go!
So I have had enough, even though we met,
And yet the journey is all very fleet,
And when I shall return, I will shut fast,
And then I will see that I am not yet.
I am not yet a child,
Although some little feet run side by side,
And feel that God does love the little ones;
I'll be a brave old lamb and I'll be wise,
Thinking how I should be a little wise.
I knew a life in this bleak earth--
Its outer slope--its inner smells--
Would be of joy; would touch, would touch,
Could touch it with a finger-tip;
But no, it would not be of those
Dear lost and glorious things we miss:
For I know, and I know it now!
Its edges, by a wall of mists,
Its shutters with the sky o'ergrown,
Its deep-enslaved windows, and its floors,
The loneliness, the solitude,
Its very kindred in the air;
Its roofed and spacious halls, where flows
The shadow of the mountain side,
Its marble floors--and these would seem
Were merely circumstance and tide.
So I would think that I could see
Some day this marvel of the earth
Come rolling up to Heaven; and then
Turn to our trysting-tree or stops,
Or hang up to its topmost towers.
The snow would be new-fashioned to the sun
Without the wind--at night its floors would be
Like one of those ten thousand pillars of
Yes, Beauty, now! We have no choice;
We only live because we see
The visible world of Beauty; and in this
We never choose for all our separate moods
That are too bright, who can be unaware
That they are not the real ones they have made
Of aught their earth has made. We have too much

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.
In the heart of this valley, a sunbeam of gold, on the slope
of this land at the edge of the woods, it was but a fragment of
stone, a fragment of which, at the back of this country, he
stood in his pride and sang to the end of a life of bliss
and a bright hope fulfilled. Then he turned him to singing; and
from the stream the voice sounded:--
Stay, lovely maid, your fluttering whiteness;
Listen, and you shall hear the music
Of the fountain to which it flows,
Till it stops the loud lamenting
Of the wind, its wandering dole to increase.
And when evening falls, and the flowers
Are folded beneath the deep dark sky,
And all things are quiet all to rest,
Why are you silent, O darling, and why?
And why are your bosoms so white,
And why do you gaze on the bright night,
As on the wide plain of the earth--
Is it because the day is at flower,
Or is it that you are so old,
And in the evening's tender brightness,
And that your eyes are so soft and as glass,
Or the moon's thread, a golden chain
Of the clouds that gather before our eyes?
And why are your arms so yellow and soft,
And your hair sweet and brown,
And why are your lips so black and sweet,
I only know.
I never will leave your soft eyes,
Nor your brown hair's gold-winged gleam,
Nor your snowy robes, delicate and warm,
Be my fond arms that are twin flowers;
And my heart only dreams of the world.
For your hair has its charm, and you
Have its charm, and the charm has the power;
And I know, O my love, that you never will fade,
O my darling, O my life!
For your eyes have their spell, and that sweet spell
Which is love, or has life,
And the charm of the glance of your gentle eyes
Is more than a breath of the summer skies,
In the depths of the cloudless night.
And why should a woman be sad,
Or why should a man be a gay,
And why should a man be gay,
And why should a man be gay?
But why should a man be proud,
Or why should a man be gay,
And why should a man be proud?
For he is a silly old man,
A sad old man, and a sad old man,
And his thoughts go back to their joys,
And he sees his youth in the day's work--
Is he only a boy, my boy?
With his lips apart, and his face
All the sunshine played in his heart,
And he looked up, with his eyes
Like a boy at the breaking of day;
Just as it was, he thought,
Through the cloudless heaven to stray;
Just as it was, he thought,
Crimson-browed, as his boyhood were,
O my beautiful, bright, young girl,
Just to kiss the hand that is pressed,
By the lips, as it only can,
To the lips, where the kiss is won.
But the heart would say 'twas a folly,
And the hands would touch, as the fingers can,
Only the dear lips must lose them,
And only the hair can lose them,
For they are the lips of my beautiful,
And only the hair can lose them.
Oh, I know, O my love, how sweet
It is o'er the heart to lean o'er
To tell all the joy of those happy eyes,
With their soft, caressing, deep, tender touch;
And we love through the tear that falls on such as lips,
As the laugh is gently broken.
And the heart, with its love-life wasted,
Grows never more lily-pale;
And the hand that has wrought all the guile,
With the sin it was once wrought in,
Is powerless now, for the hand that hath wrought,
And, counting its worth in loss,
It carries its load of worth,
And a new joy in its seeking ever finds;
And the face that hath made all undefiled
Grows never more beautiful.
Oh, my love, my love, how fair thou art!
Thy face is like a fair god's face;
And like the moon of a night cloud
Is thy pure face where the moon is shining:
And on thy cheek and on thy hair,
There are more things divine to me,
Than fair things sweeter than sweet, dreaming, dreaming.
I saw thee yesterday in the lanes,
(Oh, faire
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 in a boscage; so, for a time,
Did with _his_ hands to over-stress the Earth,
And over Hell's long ridge of snows and Stars
Sheds back her ruddy comets:--
"I would lie down and rest.  No rest or peace,
No solace, no refreshment, no refreshment,
Hast thou, Lord: this great orb, that hath set and keeps
The innumerable Givers, that _they_ be made,
To do the Mighty Father's will,
In one, his will, and over all, his ways,
And this all-ruling, all-embracing Source--
Creation, God's, and Nature's...."
The World was tired,
And the air tired
For a cold pond
On what he thought
Of earth and brooks
In the far north.
But the sea soothed
Me, starved me, starved me:
"I will lie down
And sleep in the sea.
I will lie down
And sleep in the sea.
"The winds blow,
The wild waves billow,
The winds break,
And the bright break
Of the dawn...."
And the great waves
Broke with a roar,
Shocked up, bellowing
At the wild sea,
And rose up and bore
The sea-multitude
Of sea-stars.
And the sea's cries
Rang above me
As the dark ships
By the winds blow
The sea-stars.
_O sun-radiance of the evening sky,
With thy bright beams so many and many a sigh,
From the far height where thy splendor is_
_I pray you let my vows be grave_.
_In the long silence and the twilight hush
Of evening twilight, when the stars turn pale,
And the pale moon across the seas flash and blush,
I pray you, let my vows be grave_.
I pray you let me pray;
Give thanks and keep alway!
For the long silence and the dark night-time
That never again shall darken the long moon.
But the sea, sea, and the dark tide,
Where I wander all alone,
I pray you let me pray.
_Come, all you dark and lonely things,
Who sail upon the dark,
To the far waves and to the stars
And only seem to know to me
Through what far deep I go,
Come with your bright wings fluttering,
And let me sleep with you;
Or, if the night-flower fluttered,
I'll kneel and kiss your rod,
And you shall carry my love's message
To the far sea beyond._
If you were there again,
You would not wait so long;
We should, if you were there
We should lie down, waiting there.
We should rock with your smooth hands,
And, like ferns, shake our light
Weaving a willow-weed,
To mark it where you stood,
Or, if you knew, you would
Fling it with your arms,
With your hands holding,
Singing in your heart--
Your laugh's a mockery, when you cast your eyes
Across the star-lit future, where it lies
Beyond the world; and in your heart you sing
The world's glad songs, made sweet by living spring
And on your lips soft kisses, while you hold
Your soul's gold harp of truth, and so the song
Of your soul murmurous stirs in other lands,
The world's great song-strings and the great world's gold.
If you remember, though we hear no more
The sound of song that on our ears once fell,
There is no grief in life; we cannot grope
Through all the bitter years, nor reach, nor swell
To find one joy, one happiness; and fail,
Lost in our own half-light, to find you there,
A joy to grasp and hold you in surprise,
Thinking of all the lovely things that were
So beautiful: the joy, the ache, the pain
Of watching life, the heart, the soul, the brain
Whose fancies, touched in sweet forgetfulness,
Are pain enough for us if we could bless
One Love, one Love, one Heart, and not distress.
If in the years that are no more, and still
Their voice goes wandering through the world to-day,
Where is it that you miss the golden hour
That used to sing so sweet in other lands?
_We find her there, we find her, we return
Through all the broken days and nights we were,
Who loved and lost her once; we have no word
To tell us of; we
======================================== SAMPLE 86 ========================================
 it and will be
the sign of the cross, which will be here
called the symbol of triumph or of shame.]
"The first is at morn," i.e. Mrs. Cletridge
couches the other, and the second seats the fifth,
according to the juice of cherries."--Bob's
A.D. i. p. 41; Wright's "Needor of the middle."
"And after this comes a letter from France,
there is an Englishman, reported in the next Chronicle,
To say that the King of America's after-dinner speaker.]
This letter is given to the British Museum, that the
xious care of the couriers removed the couriers, and laid
themselves at ease on the plains of France, where the
formerly were permitted to lead the search, that this
was written in due time and was confirmed by the
consonant of Mr. Pope, who had visited in charge of
which he was then brought there. The discovery that
of the couriers had no longer been importunate, was
not neglected, but made known to all the people.
The "Reasons" were two hundred and seventy-nine days,
one hundred and ninety-nine. The average witness of
the number, I am bound to determine, was the fifth, and
was charged no more with thenames of three hundred and seventy
five--in the name of the King of Kentucky, as
described below.
When his Majesty speaks of the "Reasons"--and
the "Reasons"--and says, that they are not to be
considered as a stranger on his own official official
subject, he seems to have no fear of his going or coming
forward. As an evidence of his real presence he is not to be
understood.
With good reason, therefore, he resolved to go with the
substance of the royal resolution. It was, I grant, by
admitting that the king of Kentucky would not agree that
the army of Friesland was taken prisoner--that was not enough
to hinder the destruction of his household, and to prevent
their wasteful and malignizing plans.
In spite of his loyalty to D. Cuan's request that
he should be led away in the most speedily, and so, to
conclude the request of the "Reasons"--he is not the
NAFED Cuan, and the king's retreat.
"And if, in the heat of the fray, he shall live without _both_
gifted honors at the present stage or other stage, they may
rejoice at their valiance and happiness,--if they have an eye
unto him, they may probably expect some consolation from
their circumstances,--and some intelligence which may perhaps
a more pleasing spectacle afford to their suffering than
that they may feel that he does not support them.
"When the queen, the queen, sent for her father's death,
Had been carried off from his kingdom on a contrary
path to his estate in case of any other foe.
"I was not at my time in hunting the deer or the cattle,
but I had the same experience since the affair was
done to the nation in which the right hand and bad-natured
practices have been directed."
"With no other motive to befriend himself than to furnish
his personification with a better time than we have any
short time since. Since the birth of our dear native country,
which has for ages happily depended on itself and on the
others of social and social character, we should
recommend that it should be written with an introduction by
the foreign court to say that the deer or the cattle are
expect to have the right mind to hit upon a man's opportunity
it is not his way to try to take to such an opportunity.
"The Roman estate is wholly unknown to any other, as the
race is, or our family, that is, from which all the arts,
however securely they flow in the measure determinate, are
given up in particular circumstances, and are, in fact,
detected by a single man, who, in a petitious sense,
of having no particular estate for his family,
says, 'the money is safe and useful to his family as
the chief of my own estate.' This is the way the
acquaintance is made of the habits of a gentleman to be
present, who, if they are not banished from his home,
should be able to endure extravagantly, and not to be
taken to money.' This is the case where a man is not,
though there are many points of information it may be
imagined by some to have been the only truth which may
remain in the hearts of the young men,
======================================== SAMPLE 87 ========================================
 my words to thee.                              xi
xvii.
The last line of this last line refers to the
gate seen by Mr. James Beggar at the gate of the West
Booton."--Punning Scot of Philadelphia for the first
century, it is asserted, that a passage from "The Old
Bear" in a Scotch pocket-handkerchief was printed in front of
which the name of the incarnation of black marks was given to
the name of the river Rosamund contained.
The other line of the Iceland Ingersoll, mentioned below,
"Votre Sacne, o violet, rose, the rose-tree of the garden,
and in the other Deering's, there is a third one which may be
vivacious—the river Rosamund, the rose-tree of the garden, the
one which falls into the water, and to the left, in the
measure of the name.  It happened on a very autumn evening,
rasily in the course of half an hour, the sign of the viper
visage for the head of a young man (such as in note and story was
shown to him in the speech of the peasant, who reflected on the
"I have seen many countries, and many unfamiliar names,
because I have seen many an acquaintance with horses, and many
travers, and to write verses in prose style, and have also done
before I could present the beginning of the tale."--Pogg.
The story of the castle of Romualdr.  The inhabitants of
the Moorish country reflected on the manner in which the
modern Canto was introduced in the course of the battle of
Marchaunt Adventure.
This, therefore, is not a true tale, but simply an uncouth
form of narrative, with its moral significance for the story
and for the poem. "As sometimes," says Dr. Primrose, "a
direct collection of tales, sometimes of stories, and sometimes
of poems, and sometimes of verses (of which I have misled); as
incomplete as it is and full of a line, there are few books
passages found in the realm of the Scythian Cave, which was in
England and then resumed in its repose. It is scarcely a third
place among the volumes of St. Bernard (who was at the
Duoport), but a hundred forms and topics to this century
have been gathered from the epic legends of the times. In
England and elsewhere the tales of the heroics were only
poetical, pure, and manifest in the life-time of the heroic
world. They were also partly historical, partly historical,
 partly fiction, partly fiction, partly sleep, partly
faults, partly fiction, partly thinkings, of a lover; and
the people in the days of old, on their return from
England and America, now not only in dreams and romance and
fear, were contented themselves with the tales they
bare in verse, but they did not always remain upon the
mind, with the moral character of the story, that had grown
before a common tongue, and an unknown author who had ceased
to delight in the legends of the times.
"In the first place, in philosophy--in morals--the language of
the poet of the surrounding world--that of the "mind," as
it is in action--the nature of the man and the man. This
schoolmaster is a friend of the writers of the "Odyssey," who
is shown in the "Iliad." The work is one of his most eminent
friends, but at other times an author of the "Odyssey" has been
called "Odyssey" on the "Odyssey" in its simple state and its
most imaginative power. It has a strange and beautiful air of
the North Pole--its shores, winds, tempests, and sun-
struck skies--its broadstretched arms, its ample bosom
in the ocean.
It has a strange and beautiful air of the class of the poets of
the country whose literature has then before been printed.
Mr. Peale has merely dropped his "little friend," for he may
know that the author of the "Odyssey" has been introduced
in sale by the "Odyssey" of the "Odyssey" in some new
 European period, about the hour of nine o'clock in the
next month.
Mr. Peale, however, probably took part with the literary taste as
a literary man, and is now a critic in business like the "Odyssey"
the "Iliad" has come down to us from his favorite post-
======================================== SAMPLE 88 ========================================
 with some of the party."
And the Plates with their double-faced faces,
Pronounced the Almighty's mission; with faces
Made by the words of the Old-World traditions.
We will play for a minute.
I think
I see, by the flash on his features,
A new-made double-faced figure.
And he whispers:
"Why, who was it brought you this victual?"
We must play it."
But the Plates beat about him.
"Let the man who plays for a minute,
And the woman who plays for a minute,
And the woman who sings for a minute,
Take back what the Plates have scattered."
At the last
"What shall we play for a minute?"
"Nothing," he replied.
"Nothing," he replied.
"Not at all; I will play for a minute."
When the Plates were assembled,
And the trumpets were pealing,
Then said he:
"See, whateversoe'er he be,
Nothing at all shall touch me."
"Not at all: I am counted!"
And the Plots stood up and trembled.
"And what shall we play for a minute?"
"Nothing, I thank you!"
So the Plots were up and shining,
And he walked and walked and trembled.
"What shall we play for a minute,
As we dance at all she sings in?"
"Something--yet, to be minute!"
And the Plots stood up and shivered.
(While the music kept on chattering.)
"Nothing, I thank you!"
And the Plots turned pale.
"It is quite absurd."
"But it was a dance."
"Why, of course you do."
"If it was for a dance?"
"And he is right."
"But if it was for a dance?"
"Naught is new, is old, and grey, too."
"All the old women are reckless of mirth;
I wish they could listen for hours and for hours.
Then tell them, and tell them their dreams; for, indeed,
That, though there is one of their daughters that's good,
She will love them the more that they love them the most,
And that through it there isn't any true happiness."
"But, tell them again,
One day we were children, and you were just one
Of that family where we were raised up; then you,
We think, loved your mother and me; and I,
On this holy spot, where our children play
In that happy, happy, happy childhood-day,
I was happy to think that we lived on
One little moment; but, it seems, since then,
Athwart the white world in which we have dwelt
Has gone, through the beautiful world has come
The vision of the Old-World sacrifices.
There have been holy meetings for a week,
When all were children and you were a child,
And the time has come, I will count it no blame
To tell your mother a happy birthday.
I will tell the names of the friends I love,
Mothers I love, but I would not give anything
For their sake.
There have been blessed days,
And the holy flowers bloomed up into May,
And the merry singing of little feet voices
Throbbed into being.
Then I know that I never again will see
Your face face, your face, that is never a whit,
Nor your little head turn in the evening-time
From the face of childhood.
Then I shall know that I never again,
Never again will see you again;
And I can never remember the love
That is yours, my boy; but the years will go on
Till the old days come, and the hair will keep singing
In those old grey days.
In the heart of the World it is well with you,
Little child; and we laugh and dance, and the world
Is a lovely land, where the hearts of us little
May be dear beyond all dreams the day, and the world
Is a lovely land.
In the heart of the World it is better to be with your father,
Little child, and the world may dance till we die
Than to be young and a little child again,
And to be young for a little time again,
And to be young for a little time again,
And to be young when a little time appears
And the time for which we are to be
Is the very day of the singing of birds,
And the sacred time for embracing of flowers
And the place where we are to be.
It is wonderful, wonderful, wonderful to see
It is wonderful to sit in the warm fireside
======================================== SAMPLE 89 ========================================
 not,
Thou art indeed but half thy time, the prime
Of all thy days and nights, a man like me,
A workman like thee, and a man like thee,
And so thou art. I am thy humble slave.
I am thy prisoner, and thou art my slave,
Thou art mine elder brother, yea, nor less
Than my man's chosen. If thou have indeed
Reveal'd to me, and wilt not have me set
My life at stake, I am thy servitor.
I am thy Servant.
Lord, I have given
All that I ask. I cannot but bequeath
To a god-favored child-bed to these eyes
My truth and beauty, but my love, my life.
Who would bequeath him to the world?
The only life when he who looks for it
Shall look on it and be content to it.
A narrow prison holds him.
A narrow cell holds him, and his soul
Shall look on it, and he shall be content
To win his way.
Oh, what an end
Of all this work to which he flies, would I
Be happy that so much with him may live,
And that may give him happiness of it!
Yet, let him leave his business all, and flee
To some strange land, with some still higher hope,
And seek again to find he is an ass.
I am not young, nor yet so full of things,
Nor yet so full of heaven's bliss as when
He layeth his dear head upon my breast,
And only looks with eyes that love and hope.
He is a man that hath a narrow cell,
And not an hour in prison for the child.
The man that is at home must lose his love,
And find in bondage no reward above
The heart of him, whose heart hath broke for him
In his own company. Be happy and strong,
Dear Lord, that canst not love through length of cold
To take men into bondage, and take their homes.
Poor straw, that in the wind blows fair,
And stirs not out the summer air,
But doth the grass, and lies in wait
Till stirrings charm him far away.
The summer air doth not restore
The spring that held him ever back
But when the days of April came
With yellow daffodils in flame,
I found him dancing in my train.
My heart is wild, it beats at me,
The cold wind takes my blood to quicken him.
My heart beats high at all the thought
Of flying cloud or fleeting wind,
And turns from earth to feel the same
In yon blue sky of western flame.
Alas, that there should come a day
When earth was young, and earth a May,
And sky a blue, and earth a blue,
And God be happy in His name!
The grass is not so green as this,
And yet 'tis not so proudly great,
Nor yet so fair, in every place,
As here upon this grassy race
Of yonder crowded stream and tree.
O world of things and deeds! O World,
How silently upon this grass!
The sun is not so sweet when his
Touched flute is at our feet, and yet
Even from the earth his beams can fall;
The sun so glorious in his might
That he is only brighter here
Than here beside this stream to-night,--
Alas, what hours we have! as when
Two mighty blossoms in a row
Of glory round about him grow,
And all around him bursts of light,
And bursts of joy from out his sight
To be a glory to his lips,
And all the fields in glory throng,--
O, what are hours like these! like this
This grassy world, this summer-tide,
Which brings me forth in every place,
And gives my life to be his grace,
And gives my soul to be his own
And glorified for everything;--
These, were it granted us, would take
All earthliness and all that makes
The sunshine of the world awake.
O, what am I like as my life?
And why are my thoughts so far from home?
Like little maidens do I love
To look upon my flowers and see
The sun in places far above;
And not one, little child, or boy,
Or mermaid glorious would I be
To gaze upon the sun, or see
The little winging hosts from Greece
With joyous faces throng the court
Beneath the golden arched roof,
And laughing boys and girls come out
To wreathe their merry garlands fair
For very
======================================== SAMPLE 90 ========================================
, the "Rafaeli"--and they, as I have already said,
unto their knowledge.  For the first cause, the "Rafaeli" was not
to be considered as an importunate enemy in this or the other
of the "Rafaeli" at forty-five, and his name was Matthew
Brun, from Hanksborough, to where he appears in a moving
way, and seems to have surpassed all the others in vigor.
In spite of all this vain oratory of self-disrespect, and
hardships--which is certainly more than I can discover.  I
am sure that the reading will convince me that the reading
is written in no wise wrong.  He has a most quiet reading
on my hand; in fact, he says so.  When I see him at hand
I say, "May God bless you!" and he says, "You are the
greatest man in the world," and he does not even seem to
think that a pupil of mine was to be with me.
If the maxim that is "too intemperate its aim", because,
as some say, it is not to point the proper path, the
same stanza would appear a "properly steward," he might
have the same "properly appetite" and have no right
in his claim to your title.  But there is no excuse however
to excuse this  for having violated my claims as an
odd writer, an editor, a writer of impartial discernment,
but he seldom acts the part of an author.  There is,
as I suppose, no excuse for the assertion that in his
" unprejudiced man," there is no call to a "skill in
counting out the demands for which he condemns the poem,"
and that his expression is "most spirited and most
characteristic"--that he is "the first to get the
 appellation of the simple and unpretentious syllable.
The first verse of his "The Blandoon"; the final "tootle
impressive" verse, and every final "tone which the
pearly critic demanded, is admitted.  There was, too, in
English poetry a certain haven of sure rest from the
world's cold and insipid adieusliness--the simple,
intellectual, beautiful, listless, and rhythmical, but still
versification.  He could scarcely refrain from swallowing
comedy things by the same rules, although he did not
poetry, and had the like prejudice.  But "the language and
philosophy," and "The Old and New Testament," which is the
truth and the poetry of all nations.  He could scarcely
understand without the master-hand of his poem.
The poem concludes with much pleasure, but with less
languish the reader will not wish to criticise it, as it was
by the Cyclops, whorls, wheels, potter.  The work was
seeming to have costlier time than about half that, and the
former was a better work than the one half of his poem, in
which he was not yet justified.  Lucilius, in the second,
changed the ruling of the crown on Olympus for a wreath, and
the laurels and chalices of the Ciconians gave him a
divided wreath.  Lucilius, in the third and fourth Book of the
Echolcinous, leaves the reader shuddering for a moment and then
he is lost to pity.
I have seen, whether in the early part of the Conquest of the
race by the Duke of Athens.  Lucilius represents the
wreath, which he throws over those works.
I have seen him when the "Widic," in no room close at his
house of the poetical poetical man, with such entire and
already done; or whether in the course of the same person he
dreadful manner of writing, or in the same person that he is
called.  The name of the head, the face, and the complexion
the metrical part, the rest, the sublimity of those in the
poem, the mind, with the life and strength of the Italian
life, and the sympathy with the soul which inspires and
logizes, to see the whole.
"In a little while of a poetical interest the public will
be so prefatory that it can be said to have been never, by any
purpose, so correct or so liberally arraigned;" and that
which the permanent value of the verses may naturally be so
hundred years.
"A little wreath of turf, in the wind's despite;" and the
disproportion of the verses to the
======================================== SAMPLE 91 ========================================
.
Cortez de Rondinge, célle, jonqu'au jour.
Céfiro, céfiro, nel mélare à trône.
Enfin, encor, en fin, en fin, de célle.
Ceinte, c'est fait, le aile du bois comme une nuit.
Ce neir pas son berdu d'une honoure;
Ce sont d'un ciel ne fait, par sont d'elle.
Ce neir pas son berdu du bête sête
Qui sont d'un ciel vient naissait.
Ce neir pas son berdu? Je him livre encore
Ruise d'une neir pas son berdu.
Ce neir pas son berdu, donne, berue.
Ce neir pas son berdu? Je him livre ston.
Ce fut ta bouz, l'avoir et est une nuit.
Ce neir pas son berdu? Je him livre ston.
Ce fut ta bouz, l'avoir et est une nuit.
Ce neir pas son berdu? Je him livre ston.
Ce neir pas son berdu? Je him lived on s'ilJe vingt.
Ces fait des Sicil deliberateés, ses fait des pettois bien des
autres étoiles éclosesés, et ces classes le preparéraires--
Dans un roman la muerte et du peu pouvait!
Oui, toutes les haimins
Et la penche, et mes cheveux!...
Et elle ciel, la loyrait-adoreur.
Oui, toutes les haimins,
Et, fleurs-noyes jamais,
Je me comforte avec des rains.
Oui, toutes le frontiers
Aerradre-mas;
Et son heil étal,
Aberra-moi,
Chor du Thépian,
Chor ma rue,
Le soir de toutes.
Eh bien?Eh bien? Nay bien?
Eh bien? Nay bien?
Ah bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien?
Ah bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien?
Ah bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien?
Loin, fleurs-noy? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien?
Ah bien, ah bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien?
Ah bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien?
Ah bien, ah bien? Nay bien? Nay aien? Nay bien?
Ah bien, ah bien? Nay aien? Nay aien? Nay aien? Nay aien?
Ah bien; ah bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien?
Ah bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien?
Ah bien? Nay bien? Nay aien? Nay bien? Nay bien?
Ah bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien?
Ah bien, ah bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien? Nay bien?
Ah bien acai? Nay bien acai bien acai? Nay bien?
Ah bien acai? Nay bien acai bien acai, ah bien?
Ah bien acai? Nay bien acai bien acai bien? Nay bien?
Ah bien acai? Nay bien aci bien acai? Nay bien acai?
Ah bien aci? Nay bien aci bien aci, ah bien aci?
Ah bien aci? Nay bien aci bien aci, ah bien aci?
Ah bien aci? Nay bien aci bien aci? Nay aien chien chien?
Ah bien aci? Nay bien aci bien chien chei broi? Nay
Ah bien aci? Nay bien chei chei chei broi troisi lo?--
Ah bien chei chei
======================================== SAMPLE 92 ========================================
 me back, and let her hear,
'He is the friend I love you'n'--and she'll hear!'--
He's got a broom, that's straight, and, oh, you bet!
I'll send 'im to be there, for she'll be beat.
He's got a sash of gravel, with a flute-like note,
And when he comes to, he'll tell her what they're taught.
Now, only think!  He's been among them all the same;
He seems so far off-nodding, like a child at play,
And, as you know, his eyes are very like his name.
He loves to walk about, and eat, and sleep,
And have an introverted, introverted way;
And when he's called himself, he seems erect and gay.
Yes, when his teeth are parted, then his nose is flat.
Now, if the cows aren't called him, there's his name a bit.
He don't obey his mother, and he wants to say
That he's a fool or mortal that he'd be away;
That she would say and do.  And yet he'd say it out--
They'd take him up and rattle him, and he'd say him out.
Then, here she comes, and that's a real cold way.
The old, old lady of the West
Hears all the children crying in
For a white stick in the bo'son-coon-coon;
She's thinking of the lover they have bred,
And they're beginning they are going to be dead.
They have a red-coats, and they are rich.  They're going out.
And in a little cottage they are all got married.
And one goes out to seek a summer's store,
And the other to buy them flowers and feed no more.
But when her back is telling them they've found
That they are going to be married they think about one more.
They call him China--she and I, we run--
He's waiting for them at the big hotel.
He comes from India, and he comes from Spain,
But he never larches from India till
We come back the other day at a blow.
And a girl who brings up things makes her weep.
I wonder if she reads the papers through,
Or thinks she reads the papers through,
Or if she reads the papers through.
At night I've seen him at the big hotel,
Watching the girls and girls at play,
Run by the fence and look at me;
And he says to me:  'How is it?  No?'
And I'm going home to play with drums
To see him play with shells.
They've taken away the other day
The other day it was too late;
But I can hear the other day
They've taken away the other day.
I think I see them marching day by day.
And my wife says from her down below:
'It's only those two women that went mad
Will keep the bugments, though they can't.'
Now the beat of drums is pleasant to me,
But yet it's music that is far away.
My boy and I go out to play,
I'm ready for it, and we'll all get there
And dance before you where you go.
They've got us every day but two,
When we get there.
I've got the story in my head,
Taken away and put away.
My boy's dead.  They'll come no more,
They know he's broke his heart, you see,
All that you want to do.
I know they'll talk of his last joke
In spite of what the other day meant--
How the other girls have loved so much,
And then how he was hurt and meant.
But this I know: he was a man,
A man both rich and poor;
He had plenty of money to spend,
But his friends they could not tell.
My boy was tired.  They thought him dead.
That's what they said.  He was a boy.
Yes, three years, and they said that he had lived.
We've laughed enough and played enough, I see.
He was too rich for anything in him.
But I can give him fifty cents a toy
So that his wife won't mind whatever.
I know he didn't mind everything.
And that's how we play women.
He walked and talked, and talked.  In that big room, with roses on it,
And stared at the women in the room.
He walked with his wife in the narrow room in the shadow of the
Where the children are, he went on.

======================================== SAMPLE 93 ========================================
 by the Duke of Devonshire.
By the famous caricatrices of the celebrated 'Marse expelante' of
the Goldsmith, and the well-known 'Villa Regis'.
"The man of war had once a golden gate,
A dreadful fane his foes had put to death;
But he, because his enemies assailed him,
Pursued the war, and found no foeman heeding.
Nor would he cease until the battle wag:
He 'gan to rage, to dally with the fates,
And to the work did bring a different doom.
Meanwhile his foes were slaughtered in a quarrel,
And 'Marceau' stark, in bloody fray to kill him,
(For they escaped, but those were fled to Villerie),
And all with blood and brains supplied their slaughter.
Then he rushed on to interrupt their strife,
And 'Marceau's' rage increased, and all his armour,
And his right hand he broke, and from his sheath
Wrenched the blood out, and from 'Marceau' cruis'd.
But yet his fierceness did but little end;
He at the point as well as other end had;
He smote beneath his horse, he charged behind,
And to the field of his destruction clung.
'Marceau,' says he, 'this cruel rancour base
Alike is now familiar with his face;
Thou, furious and unjust, hast caused a base
And undeserving by the infernal crew;
Now have I seen the very man of blood,
Thyself thy own, thou too thine murderer, too.
But if our fate it be, to hang thee here;
And let some other this rebellious spear,
Pierc'd with a sword, of such a deadly charm,
I will redeem, and then my honor's taint.'
Full of resentment was the champion good,
Yet no whit wroth that to the fight he brought.
"The Fates have chang'd my mind, and one, that's dead
Rides up to battle in the field ahead,
I saw him run by squadrons on the green,
I saw him take his spear, and blood, and maelstrom,
A mighty band, about the palisade;
And in that moment of the first assault
I saw his glittering spear, his helmet sparks,
While in his hand he held a trusty sword,
And with such force, and strength so perfect, stood,
That I had fear'd his death had been at hand.
"I saw my champion slain, and prostrate laid
Upon the field his saddle, as I said,
That he had fallen, and I had run away
From him; but that my promise may not stay,
I saw him run, but still he was undone;
And as I saw him fall, methought I saw him ride
In triumph o'er the mountains and his spoils
Of warlike trophy, like that Saracen
Who rode on horseback with theoubted Moors.
"His valour, that like an immortal bride
Lay scatter'd near the golden hall of Jove,
And I to him, by whom the valiant Greeks
Were pent in combat, and by whom oppress'd
Were wall'd with houses and with ships of war:
But on the field he lies, his coursers slain,
And on the ground his comrades taken, slain.
"Aboard the Dardan prisoners, to his care
Thyself and me, come flying from the sea:
But they that fled far off to other shores,
Their native land, and nymphs that dwelt by me,
For thee are homeward bound, and thou art bound
Into the very bosom of the ground,
And there thy prowess and thy dauntless might,
And with the sword, that is emboss'd in fight,
Myself the sword of Jove will now be found.
"When he had rescued me from that fierce fight
I was unhand'd and scarcely spent with fate;
And had I been confounded to my life,
How would that have been, for that very strife,
Had not the Lord of heaven set a day in sight,
And all my deeds been by the hands of death,
Had not the Lord of heaven a day been by!
But now to end my fervent youth's desire,
And to begin anew the bloody fray."
He said, and by the voice of Heaven was fired,
When to his feet he bore his goddess-priest.
The Dardan chieftains then with shouts addressed,
And round them gaped in a mighty band:
"O Dardans, Dardans,
======================================== SAMPLE 94 ========================================
 the psalms,
But you are the true God to whom all world vows are due!
He gave me, He gave me and He gave me mine to keep,
But I am the true God to whom all world vows are due.
I hold this day no fragile blossom of my love
Whose blossoming I never can be glad of, none may know,
Although the white sea and the gold may be my mark and star,
But all my tender and loving will be the good in store,
All my strength be in the fire, and my soul at the core.
The good in store, the good in great,
Whose wealth may make our joys our own,
Whose love can make our lives our own,
Are they not all alone?
It is enough to be a King, as you have proven true.
It is enough that God has given to all created me,
To bring the good to naught, and keep my flesh and spirit free.
I will be King, King in Heaven, as well as you in Hell.
I will endure the years, and keep my flesh and spirit pure.
I will sit on your throne, or make your children kings,
And set myself above you like a sun.
I will be King, King by right; my crown of babes shall be
The richest in all kingdoms, while I reign supreme in you.
I will be King, I will be King until my reign is done.
Then come, O come, and reign, O King, thy queen, thy son,
The proudest and the scornful will be all the world atone.
A little while we stood where God before us burned.
The roses were blown, the grass was wet,
And every flower was withered yet:
We thought of the homes we had left behind,
We thought of the great we yet might find.
We loved, and the whole world loved our King,
And the whole world we had left was plain;
But now we stand by the King of the West,
Like knights in a field of battle dressed.
The roses were pale as snow,
But we stood and sighed with a weary pain.
We thought of the fields we used to know,
The trees that grew on the castle-wall,
Where round about us the world-old trees
Shone out as with a softening match.
We thought of the little green lawn
Where our mother and our one of May,
Hilled and tall, half hidden behind the dais,
Climbed up to the trees in the winter even.
And the story we loved was one more merry
Than all the ballads we used to sing,
The quaint and beautiful, brave, and strong,
With a crown for their heads and a crown for their wings.
From the high lawn's edges to the ground
The lights crept out in the morning cold,
And down on the wood there were noisy mirth
And the mirth of the trees and the faces we knew,
And the dancing feet and the singing flew.
We watched while the sun went up the sky
And the leaves were alive with the morning light,
And the air was sweet and the lights went by
With the dancing twinkences in their flight,
Till the tree that stands in the garden of the sky
Cried "Today!" and the dancing was bright.
The gates swung wide then like the breath of a rose;
And out of the doors I leaned and knew
The beauty that waits in the palace of death
Ere the breath of the dawn that was laughing at dawn.
And the great green leaves all danced in a ring,
And the trees and the song and the dancing went,
And I leaned over him, for my heart was sad,
And I kissed his lips, and my face was glad.
But his face was white as a flower that dies,
And my heart was sad that had grown so sad
When the day had gone and the night came soon,
And the world lay sweet to the night and glad.
And the night had part of the stars in heaven
When the night was gone and the night was fair,
And the flowers came and the wild birds flew
In their carols for us to hear us sing.
The earth was filled with the flowers at even
When the night came and the leaves were green,
And the bright sky brightened above with heaven
And over it all the fields were seen.
And I thought how long and the hours had sped
And the dawn had left him a doubt unknown,
And my heart grew sad that had grown so sad
When the night came and the leaves were glad.
So he thought of the lonely house in the wood,
That was sad that it was so sad,
Where we crept out
======================================== SAMPLE 95 ========================================
 the day.
How sweet it is to feel the morning sun
Rushing upon the hills upon the hills;
To hear the music of the running brooks,
To breathe the freshness of the balmy air,
To hear the song of thrushes on the wing,
To watch the stars come out,
As shepherds watch their flocks from out the sky,
Or, watching, listen; to catch the sound
That makes old forests bend with listening trees,
Or, through the silence of the woodland, hear
The song of little children coming home,
Bringing the little cry of some great bird.
To feel the softness of the apple trees,
Or, under the dark night, to list to the songs
From distant fields and orchard, wood, and field,
Returning home again to hear the song,
Bringing the child to school,
To note the music of the robin's fall,
And of all birds that sing, and all night long,
While morning burns upon the eastern wall.
To feel the magic of the April rain,
And feel the April breezes come and go--
To feel the magic of the new-born snow,
Bringing, O earth, new glory!  May the earth
Renew these living songs that breathe again
In clearer light to the thrushes' deepening notes,
And find the new light of the dying sun,
Bringing the children of the fields to sleep,
And, though the night be dark, yet all too soon,
All too soon,--and all too soon,--and ye, too soon,
Find, too soon, the happy voice of song!
You would say then, that if you could play,
'T would be to the woods and hills and fields
A poet, and not one!'"
"Friend," said my heart,
That when you went into the world I'd say,
Come, let me go, one little heart say,
Do you think, though you may live apart?
"Let me behold you, brother," said my heart,
"And tell me what you say,--heart, ere you go,--
That it is not so late,--so very late,--
So very late,--and it must soon be snow!"
And I, who never have been a lover,
Have been, forever partial to the thing,
Since with the breathings of a pleasant spring
I raised my voice, and you grew much afraid,
Though you had grown so great,--and it was stayed.
And then, as years sped on, I grew more bold,--
As some old man would say, "Nay, it is so!"
And, as I paused to count my love-song, thrilled
Through every nerve; I felt that it was so!
I almost said to you, "We love each other,
But how can there be silence in a mother?
For when her lips were touched with mine, I told you
That you knew everything, and that it is!"
And, as you said to me, I seemed to see
The simple truth that you have always known
Was what was best for me to say. I said
"I love you, brother,--but I cannot tell
What, all the same, I love you. But I tell
You it would take a different people there,
Where my heart's love was breathed into the air."
"I do not know," he said. "All that I feel
Is what my father was. But, tell me, then
Do you remember, by what blessed chance,
Your father loved that father? Did he e'er
Look up, speak, whisper?"
"He did? And not when your heart's love came
Into my head? Did that poor man look up
For only the pure light of loving eyes,--
As I was praying for myself, and seeking
A god-forgetting baby?--he replied:
_There_ never was such a sight!
I had a doubt, which, truth to tell, was only
From that day on life's rough ocean lonely.
The clouds, like phantoms, filled the heaven and earth,
And the night, beneath, in fleecy vapors curled.
"I hope myself on that day--what is it?
What is it looking down? Then will I go,
What--does my heart turn back?--The child is mine,
That I was his! I look--no father's one!"
"No father? I am his--all; how shall I
Look down upon this wretch? Look--what a sight!
And in the sun, and in the wind, and in the sky
I know my home,--my husband. Yes, and
======================================== SAMPLE 96 ========================================

"_Thou, Lord, art not a mystery;
I know thou lov'st me and for me--
Come thou before me._"
_I cannot change and wonder so--
What is this thou dost disallow?
Whence come those cloud clouds, white and wild
Which are the fountains of my child?
And now the tears of mother-bewhereers
Upon the child which yesterday was here!
The child that was but now a part
Of this poor child's and--let it be!
What's left for mother! What's next for me?
_Mephistopheles._ My brain is but a kind of a pen,
And my tongue a needle-dipper is;
But this one that was never made,
As I now am, is dead.
_Icultoria Ethiops_ is dead;
That was all;
Mephistopheles, you are eaten and dead;
That is all.
_Icultoria Ethiops_, some people say,
Did a great body once begin
To show a great soul standing there,
Or look back at any man?
_Icultoria Ethiops_, some people say,
Did he begin to do that thing?
Yes, he did; and he passed on,
Till something happened to his son
To call that very child back:
And then he turned to go away,
After giving him back his son,
And put that child back.
_Icultoria Ethiops_, another name,
Did he begin to go away?
I wonder, very poor old grey!
_Icultoria Ethiops_, I know not how,--
I'd have you climb for climbing so!
_Mephistopheles._ I haven't ceased to go away,
Yet I would like to sit and play.
_Icultoria Ethiops_, you know,
They have a dog, no doubt, who knows,
That was an old dog-and-ackey,
_The cat and cat of all degrees._
_Mephistopheles._ If you don't mind anything, you'll find--
I'm a great deal from heaven to my mind,
And since from your own wife and daughters
The most peculiar subject I have defined,
I thank you for your kind attentions.
_Icultoria Ethiops_, why no one knows,
Nor why no one remembers that,
You were a small puppy yesterday,
That was a young person of ten acres.
You were a person with the name
Of your old family, and when
Your uncle lived in foreign parts
This child was known to me.
_Mephistopheles._ Why don't you tell us that I found him
Upon the slopes of old Longtown?
You know the spot. You know
The place he's sitting down between,
A dog that once walked o'er his chair;
And he called to him old Rover,
For he was as black as a bear;
And he answered him, all in earnest,
I have a birthday, which is new:
I thank you for the little dog,
Which was a bear to me.
_Mephistopheles._ And did that bear bear the name?
_Mephistopheles._ A bear?--I'm glad to have one in it,
For he did, too, many children run
To murder, and fight after.
_Icultoria Ethiops._ The dear children have been eaten,
And that terrible old mother, Death, has swallowed
Both children too, and eaten them, and flung them
Out of the room into the street.
_Mephistopheles._ And what of that?
_Mephistopheles._ No matter, all shall be gone by.
_Mephistopheles._ I'm very glad I don't.
Come, children, that's all.
_Mephistopheles._ We must be free.
_Mephistopheles._ From here to-day here, all are free,--
I thank you for learning.
_Mephistopheles._ I thank you for learning,
When you are in school,
That nobody is by your side,
But may be safe with a mouse
To make an escape for the house.
_Mephistopheles._ No fear you are taken,
Though you're fast asleep,
And may soothe your mistake
By not being heard to you.
_Mephistopheles._ A bear's cognisance?
_Mephistopheles._ A bear's cognisance?
_Mephistopheles._ Two lions now come to a
======================================== SAMPLE 97 ========================================
 in the sun, and with them made a crowd,
"It's the hottest of you, and we'll turn it out:
What's the matter with you, boys?" he said, and laughed.
He felt a fright; the people stared and blunder'd.
He thought his courage came not out of wonder;
But one there was whose judgment had been thunder,
And whose judgment had been just and clear shown plain;
He thought he heard what he was doing to him,
And there was the judge that sealed his judgment blind
(For so he did, and so he did, and so he did,
And all the other people did and knew),
And there was the judge judicious of his sentence,
And none to judge between his sentence and them;
He thought in the sentence of the people's eye;
He thought he heard it, saying, "Because I die."
O, what would it be, and what will it be?
And who would take the judge and speak his mind,
If he had spoken the sentence of his kind,
If he had shown his judgment in the sentence,
By this poor man by jurymen accused?
The judge was dead, and hisJudas slain,
The judge put out of his deprecating brain:
He saw the sad plump body that he had borne,
And he was left a sixpence for a shroud.
He would not have given judgment, had he not done,
Had he been not a judge of thirty year,
Judas had said he found it all too weak
For thirty years against so hard a cheek.
Then judge or juryman, and judge or juryman,
They must have paid a tradesman's debt or wail;
It is no bargain for a tradesman's life
To give to such as wear a hundred can;
It is to them, as they conceive it, said
The judge could no more justify a plead.
"I've done the work myself," the judge replied,
"With my own hand and will, but not to sin;
I will the dreadful sentence undergo,
And get my just reward from being in."
The sentence passed, and time was at the door,
The jury hearing how it made appear:
The crowd came in, and took a general round:
And then the judge took counsel of the case,
And said the sentence should no longer grace.
Then all agreed that nothing guilty was
Should be allowed to judge from human kind:
The judge, who had condemns him, had a clause,
And thought it blasphemy: the world was blind.
This pleases God. He said the judge was wrong,
And could not choose, or even let him long;
Yet he continued on to this request,
"We judge no wrong, but keep no mercy first;
And when our goods and houses we employ,
Himself in greater measure will resolve
That we shall find and do it for his use."
Thus judge would say; and then the judge replied:
"I never loved my dearly-valued bride;
This man was like a youth, and loved a maid;
Yet ere this man was fit another man
Might call a judge from heaven; yet what I can
I only will disclose, that cause of shame
No doubt to those who are my friends in turn.
Hers was a princely bearing. Was he one
Who could do all the act but what he could
To save mankind? His majesty was proud
Of such a pride, and would not stoop to it.
I was his judge; and now, ye know, I hate
The weakness of a man, though born of steel,
And like two-headed Cerberus when he hears:
Yet with a love so strong is my goodwill,
My heart is ever like your shepherd swains."
He ended; and the judge's judgment, down
It threw upon the rabble's face and brow;
While Tityos, who had heard his sentence, said:
"Go find your guilty friends, and learn their guilt."
They went, no more, to Tityos' black roof
And from the gloomy walls of scalèd proof,
All that they knew or thought upon, and those
Whom Tityos had saved from treachery.
But Tityos, with a scornful glance around,
Gave back the sentence, "He could do no wrong."
Now Tityos, who grew dull as he,
Was not so proud, nor such a mockery;
But, for his talent's sake, must strike full hands
Against the law, and fling the judgment forth,
Because men never feel a power like him.
They fought, and fought, and conquered fought, and were
Conquered, according to
======================================== SAMPLE 98 ========================================
,
In the garden of the West!
When my young heart beat high,
Like the bird of the wilderness,
To the love of the young sun;
When my young mind came back
To the things 'twas a-yearn--
It was then I heard the voice
Of the child who was born in;
There the flowers were green and sweet,
In the garden of the West!
When my young heart beat high,
Like the bird of the wilderness,
To the joy of the young sun;
When my young heart beat light,
Like the star of the morning;
When my young heart knew no fear,
To the how and the what,--
It was then I saw arise
The secret light of Love!
O Love, O Love, thy wings were steady,
And thy face was far away;
And Love itself was sitting on the wind alone,
In the letter that was laid to the little waiting-stone.
But this Love is dead, and sitting like a stone;
And I hear it calling me, "Love, O!" and crying over and over,
For I knew the voice was living and I heard it call for more.
All the little waiting-stone is cold;
And Love goes by, and goes forever,
Leaving all things that have been,
And nothing that was ever old.
Time goes round, and Youth goes by,
Time goes round, and Love goes after;--
O, I think it is the sigh
Of a lover lost, who was never cold.
O Love, O Song, thou art as naught;
And what were dreams, were dreams not lightly dreamed?
What were eyes, O Song, that have beheld
And longed to look, to see, to bid adieu?
Only leave thy light and song to me,
For my tears are tears: O, Love, to thee!
As the sun rides high, and goes away,
And a voice calls on the earth to-day,
So I look, and it calls, and it calls,
And my tears drop down on the sands of tears.
The sun shines bright, O Love, I know not why,
But my tears fall deep, for thy love runs by;
So I break my heart into a kiss, and there
It dies, and it dies, and my sorrow's were.
The sun shines bright, O Love, there is no day;
And thy heart says, when that day is done,
"Here, on earth, for once, see the sun."
The sun shines bright, O Love, and I think of the years,
And the years that go, as the days go by--
How my tears fall deep, and my doubts will last--
I hold my youth a folly to be wise:
I hold my youth a folly to be wise:
The sun shines bright, O Love, and my sorrows are few,
And my tears fall deep, and thy love runs through.
The sun shines bright, O Love, and my sorrows are few,
And thy heart says, "No day shall dawn again;
But my griefs shall last, and my sorrows be few,
And I look to thee, and lo! thou art kind;
And I look to thee, and lo! thou art kind.
"And I smile, and I weep, and I smile at my pain;
And the sun shines bright, and the days go by--
Ah, my heart grows still, and the days grow by.
"And the sun shines bright, and the days go by--
Ah, my heart grows still, and the days go by.
"And the sun shines bright, and the days go by--
Ah, my heart grows still, and the days go by.
"And Love lights up, and the days go by--
Ah, my heart grows still, and the days go by.
"The sun shines bright, and the days go by--
Ah, my heart grows still, and the days go by.
"The sun shines bright, and the days go by--
Ah, my heart grows still, and the days go by.
"And Love lights up, and the days pass by--
Ah, my heart grows still, and the days go by.
"And Love lights up, and the days go by--
Ah, my heart grows still, and the days go by.
"The sun shines bright, and the days go by--
Ah, my heart grows still, and the days go by.
"And Love lights up, and the days go by--
Ah, my heart grows still, and the days go by.
"And Love lights up, and the days go by--
Ah, my heart grows still, and
======================================== SAMPLE 99 ========================================
 my song, I'm not
disturbed.
The air is keen and keen and fresh,
The birds sing love, oh, little, dear!
And my heart beats warm with love for you.
I love the rose that wakes, so free,
In buds of June that just like these
I pressed my garden-secret,
And watched the lily's tender blue,
And shook the dew from her clear-blue eyes.
Her cup of happiness was full,
And as I drank the rose grew pink,
And on the lily's happy stem,
In fragrance, lay the lily-pot.
The summer time went by and I
Was busy with its fragrance rare,
As, till you passed the meadow by,
A small and smothered fairy-tale
Of toil and pain would come and go,
Of sunny skies and hoary snow.
Yet still I seemed to hear it too,
So sweet and frail was the refrain;
So soft and low the lutanist
Blew back again his breath again.
So faint, so sad, the singer's cry
Beside his sweetheart's dying bed,
All memory of the day and night
Would take from life and sin away,
And all my heart would burn and leap
With memory of that happy, dream-
Sad boy who stilled his mother's sighs,
And sighed, "How like a blessed child
Should we, with sudden gladness fled,
In this bright winder, calm and mild?"
And I would hear him longer stay,
And dream, because of some sweet hope
That was not far from all the scope
Of all the earth and all the deep
Of all the heart and all its clod
Of good and evil--this fair God.
"Ah, Love," I said, "that art so frail,
That life must live as other men,
While, through its myriad veins a stream
Of life and truth and beauty stirs,
And all the world is only one
Pure song,--a thing not done with,--swon
With every chord the whole world sings;
But ah, my Love, if thou be so,
If all thy life and all thy words
Be as another song that breaks,
Why weepest thou for love and me?
Who loves not now love's tyranny?
Not thou: it is the life of the wild deer
Or the white mountain smoke of the green earth--
But a glorious land and a glorious birth;--
Where love is ever and love is ever near,
The wild joy of the natural and the bird,
A mystery to the wise and the sick,
A mystery to the strong and the weak.
"Beside my tomb, within whose sacred wall
A flower is laid and leaves its earthly seed,
I leave it here to grow and bloom and fall,
In deathless glory on the vacant mere.
O Love, thou knowest, O Love, the things I feel,"--
He murmur'd slowly. "Therefore I will heal
The grief, the sorrow, the mystery of Death,
The mighty love that never shall be still'd
And love, though made of love in sooth, but, brief,
The life that keeps its agonies too great
To grasp at the great snake which gnaws its breast,
That neither lets it die nor wring its soul,
But leaves its soul with no least earthly lees
As the snake leaves its body at the skies
Beside the grave where he dies."
We kiss'd her lips and went upon our way,
Passing sweet flowers, and singing, and the thought
Was a bird's song, a touch, a touch, in a day,
A breath, a whisper in a night of spring,
A sigh, a touch, as summer retinue
In some deep chamber with its brooding trees,
Then silence, and I shut my eyes, and saw
The wonder in her face--a soul in tune.
The song she'd brought us, and the thoughts that came
From a young heart of ours,--but one short sigh
As the warm lips roll'd down upon her own,
And a low song as when she sang alone,
But made more noise than my heart ever knew
In the lone night a utterance from a bird.
And where we went, we stay'd on either hand,
Cursing sweet lips and singing, and the rest.
The place was shadow'd with the dead of night;
The moon was buried in the silent trees;
And by the stillness of the moon's bright light,
I deem'd that I should love her in my dreams
And that the stars were watching o'er the skies,
To hear her whisper of her glorious
======================================== SAMPLE 100 ========================================
's word--
I think the world is getting slightly vexed
To think what Cicely thinks amiss may be,
I'd rather see the sun than see him--Me!
I might as well have made a little song
To answer questions, and compose my plea;
I'd rather think that it was Cicely--Me!
I see a very pleasant little joke
And am afraid of nothing but his name--
Don't make me laugh so any more about it,
Nor trouble me a single second more
Than leave a good three-cornered letter--"Nay,"
You say? Well, there you are! You have it all.
And there you are, you know.--
He takes the paper, laughs, and sings.
And there he is. And there you must,
And there he is. I do not care--no, there!
He is a living, living man; his songs
Make sorrows melody. He wears his crown
Of yellow roses--his--and other wreaths
And plums. And when he smiles, it seems to me
He owns some memory of garden things
And walls of stone, and of old-fashioned stones,
And oaks, and slates of cannon, and old beams
Of boulders pierced and splashed, and plums that burst
From big-toed, long-lashed boulders as of old.
The greenness of the lawn, the cool deep sky,
The scent of clover blossoms on the hill,
The blue of distant fall, the silence blue
Of sunset clouds, before the world at play,
And only the soft green of twilight clouds
That veil the purple hillside, and a wind
That fills the world with music, and makes red
The mountain sides that melt into the trees,
And breaks the heart of life.
I know not why.
I'll make a song of old-time songs, perhaps--
Old-time poet made for men. Perhaps,
When all was done he sang of little things,
But that was when he made that song--that night
You'll know the changes of the times and men.
You know the stars. You've seen them gliding,
And seen them brightly gleaming
When the night hid his songs from your eyes,
When your fingers found them coming
With the touch of strange things hidden
As they stood, in other years--never dreaming
Of your songs, or dreaming
Of your golden days at setting.
You can hear their ripples rattle,
You can see the gleaming river
Stately and gaunt and shadowless--
And the strange stars in the tree-tops shivering
Growl the night to white the day
But to me--in other years--a thing
Is a fairy story
When the night hid his songs from your eyes,
And your fairy voices, sleeping
In my heart, lie low in the wood
And dream of happy days that were,
But now when your wings are dust
And your face is dust, as I thought,
And you fade away like a star
As I watch a ghost, far away
As the great dead years go by,
And I watch a ghost, far away
As the great dead years _are_ come.
A shadowy veil of mist that hid the sun
From my sight as I saw the shadow run
Down the iron lane and across the wood
Thro' the woods, far away in the solitude.
The little patch of grasses, that we used to know,
Is but a stranger now: a ghost, that we
With old familiar minutes, when we heard
The wind's low moan about our small old House,
Would think it haunted us that night, or we
With wild, low whispered voices went and came;
In other places, other men in towns,
Remembering old-time greatness, we are lost,
And many, many faces round the post,
Look back on us, a little longer yet.
Then, if I have remembered right, and felt
The weight of all I saw, that was not dark
Or splenched, when the great doors of antique time
Were shut against me, dim within the night,
I would remember what old night tells of then.
'Tis like an Eastern tale, but in its turn
I saw the old, soft, drifting clouds of June
Floating in flags that were not quaintly yet:
They wore again their garments of the past,
Their strange, strange colors floating in the sky,
And every cloud that burst across the sun
Seemed changed, and then they disappeared in last.
There were strange dreams about the dear dead years--
The men with whom I sat and heard their feet.
They had forgotten, as they
======================================== SAMPLE 101 ========================================

in my bosom, where they feel
the breath of life, their first and worst,
as in the living God.
Where the last gleam of sunlight falls
from an angel's wing that moves
through the night,
the last sound that the angel's call
may on that glorying brow
fall with the glory of the Lord.
And there is the holy quiet
wherein the voice of the Mother speaks
from each far-off mountain-side;
and the shadowless mountains there
stand like a guard o'er the city's towers,
for the Lord hath called them forth.
O the glory of the sunlight!
And the peace o'er the city's walls
o'er the sordid cares and the crossless seas,
and the Lord hath lifted up
the burden of the Lord.
They must know what is greatest and what least
and the greatest of greatest,
and the greatest of greatest;
and the greatest of greatest;
and the greatest of least;
and the greatest of least;
and they must know who are greatest and whose,
who are the least and the least;
and they must know the Thy Word.
O the glory of the sunlight!
And the peace o'er the city strings
o'er all the earth that is greatest in the earth--
the peace o'er the weary world.
The world is tired of earth's burdens,
far away the tears and sighs --
the peace o'er the earth of ages,
the peace o'er the weary skies.
The world may smile with sunshine,
far away the groans and moans;
the world may be a happy man, and he may
not be too gay with the crowns:
it is not for us all,
For this is the best of all,
and this is the best of all.
The world is weary, weary,
weary, weary world;
it is not for no man
shall hearken or comprehend
The deeps that are patiently waiting
for the coming of friend.
The world is weary, weary,
weary, weary world;
it is not for no man
shall hearken or comprehend
The deeps that are patiently waiting
for the coming of friend.
O the joy of the great sunlight!
And the peace o'er the city spread!
And the peace o'er the city spread!
And the peace o'er the city,
and the peace o'er the world!
And the peace o' the great city
to the Lord shall be given!
In the years that are gone, and in every race be
known,
The voice of multitudes sweeping the sky, and
the voice of multitudes sweeping the earth
and the sea --
And the great soul of an age that is parted and
passes by,
The voice of multitudes sweeping the sky!
They know they know the ways of man;
and they are all for him.
O the voice of multitudes sweeping the sky!
O the voice of multitudes sweeping the sky!
He is at rest -- a lonely one -- bound --
in the grave.
O the whisper -- o'er him the voice of multitudes
in the grave.
Bears sleep, arms to breast, lips to rest,
Search the world and its seasons go by;
He dreams of his dreams in the days ere he dies,
And the soul that forever dreams of it, sleeps.
When God, with Death at a banquet, in Life's halls
beguiled,
His own soul smouldering in the midst of a strife
for him,
That the eyes of the brightest of those, allured in
cup-light,
Should look, should he dare to uplift his face through the
lull..who fell.
There are echoes in every hillside valley, and
there are bells,
And there's footsteps -- O! how they thrill me,
Like chords that are struck by angel choirs,
And strike the strings with a spirit's charms,
And the glorious song of the glorious years,
And the ringing word of the glorious words,
And the passionate prayer of the sacred dead.
I dream of the land where the maple grows
On a hillock, with a million trees
In a myriad hues, and the maple grows
On a forest-girdle, in fairy-tales,
And the wild bird sings from a woodland psalm.
Of a sky of blue, of a sky of blue,
And a heaven where my heart would rest,
I am happy, I know, in the peaceful sea
With my soul; there the heart of me
Is a home of my pleasures and joys,
And my happiness dreams
======================================== SAMPLE 102 ========================================
, who took it, was the King of Norway,
Who set the crown upon his head, and gave it to the Princess.
The crown is made in Babylon, and the crown is fit to booty
Of the two champions, whom I now shall name as soon as followed.
With the Kingiro, and Hetosthaunchez still keeps going.
Now were the knights come to the town, and down they took their way,
And in between the towers they found the people still in stay.
And this the King of Norway, of that goodly town aforetime,
Who that noble town was, and that he was welcome there.
To them King Canabeus spake, who looked upon the strangers,
"O friends, the town is fallen that stood for many a year
In the old days, when underneath the green hill-sides
Re-echoed stories of the days long gone and fled.
That can the tale of Sigaf and of Dindor.
A tale that we shall long one day in time to come
Of him and the good deeds of the youthful Prince of Pelf,
And of many a tale I have heard. I marvel not;
But to the knight with girdle braced by girdle braced,
And by the helm of Rudeger, a shining shield,
Wrought of a hundred rents and of a hundred gold.
In my behalf let us go, and follow at least as fast,
Until we pass on the side of the house of the olden,
Where woeful wenches wend and never a word or deed.
There will I take my stand."
Then answered him King Ludeger, "Nay," said he,
"Nor think I that the words of it were spoken now.
But, to your leave, ye goodly men and noble queens,
The sacred cities there with their prince are builded;
In many a land there lived not such an one as this.
But now I hear one say,--that far as it is named,
A great and wondrous city was there, and that from great
And mindful feud with all its folk the folk should know
Thereafter, as they tell me, in the early spring
There ran a joyous wind about the seashore,
And the birds' song and trumpets' clashing clash
Danced there about the castle; on the wall
Sounded to the loud clashing harp and rang.
"There, at the very window, stood the house
Of the great house of God, a mighty house
Of wondrous structure and of light and life
Built by the Lord to be, by right of Hegman's law.
Wide as a house there stood the fair-walled town,
Yet dark, though strange, though fair; the very end
Of all that loathsome, cruel King had passed them all.
There stood the house where they had seen the Queen of God,
And the three Kings had entered in; from the wall
A group of men would draw anigh,
And men would gaze as they would pray,
And women weep, and old wives pray
For pity to the helpless child.
For in the house were men and women there,
And some in armour standing, and some in steeds,
And men at arms, and women on their feet,
And all the earth ran red with blood,
And men came riding out of house and home;
And therewithal set up a heavy gate,
And in the hall a mighty hall,
Of all things there was none, but only one,
A high, wide hall wherein the royal floor
Was beaten black with blood, and the cold sweat
Was dropping hot from feet, and the floor leapt
Into a flood of tears, and the high walls
Crashed, and the very air fell heavy and black,
And the roof sank, and the floor rose all round
Like a great thunder-cloud, and the floor grew dark,
And all the houses stood and quaked therewith,
And the long, long cold, long choking, clamour rang--
'Twas hushed at first, and yet it had not streamed,
And the heart of Emenor sharpened with his fears.
Then, from that night, King Ludeger awoke
And found her sleeping within the fair-walled bower,
When he, in awe, had heard the sound of the night
That was about to break. About her feet
As in a dream she lay, and dreamed, and dreamed,
And wakened suddenly, as the dawn shone forth,
And heard the great gates clang, and out they flew
To open, and a city rose for King Ludeger,
And there stood his dear daughter,
======================================== SAMPLE 103 ========================================
.
"He had seen the horsemen riding there,
On the open field, at break of day;
And he said to the squires: 'Now, what here
Is the squire's company?
'Here, he said to the page,
With the knight's horse-power firm I can ride,
And I'll give you a horse-power horse to ride
With a six-and-twenty followers' company.'
"They spurred him, and rode,
They followed him on,
They burnt his horse, and they rode him down,
And they met the knight on the field of brown,
Who cried, 'We have won the goodliest knight
That ever was in this world to see!"
"Sir Barrow, he came at a stroke,
With his horse to kill at the rear of his forces.
The knight replied: 'A bloody blow for us!"
Sir Barrow answered him, 'King Orial is he!
So if ye strike at my heart and are fain of it,
My life shall be forfeit to you and your land.'
"He struck them, then gave them the horse-power horse,
That galloped them through upon every side;
The Squire gave him a horse-power horse in charge of it,
And to the squires he gave the horse-power guide.
But now with broad and bloody nose they ride;
They struck a stroke, they bridled him still;
The Squire is gone, his saddle is in theaxe,
His head in the sheath, his knee on the hill.
It was the knight that struck him, that the lance,
The steel, the bone, and the saddle-bow
Were cleft in twain, and they rode at last
To the line where the king sat high up:
And they rode away, the lances being cast,
And I am strong enough to fight the Squire."
He drew him sword in hand, and he saw him fall
The swarthy king on the green grass bare;
And he saw the knight with his sword-power fall
Huge Sir Barrow follow the Squire there,
And his swarthy charger, that turned as fleet
As the flying plume, with the rush and beat
Of the rushing steed, came plunging down,
To the horse's mane, and the bone's dark frown,
From his body sprung the fatal sword,
The steel flowed on, but he struck again
In that grim fight, with his helm's red rain,
And he looked at the king with a smile on his face,
His knightly host, and answered, "Sir barrow,
Sire king, and all these the wrongs that thicken.
"The tale is old that would ne'er have been,
The tale is old in our hearts that sigh,
Our hearts that faint, and our loves that wring,
Are broken, and crushed, and our footsore,
When the horse is pledged, and our horse rides free.
"Our king may ne'er that victory see,
But he gives to his country and home again,
And the battle may be for his lady fair!
May the horse in battle be spurring down,
But the end of the tale is, the end of the tale!"
They parted, they rode as their leader should,
And parted like fountains of blood at his feet.
They parted, they rode as their leader should;
They never should either come down at all,
They never would part, and the steed gave up the reins,
As he sprung to his bridle, his bridle, his rein;
But the king came down as a messenger pale,
And he said to the squires, 'We have borne too frail
The end of our sorrow and travail and pain:
The day is ended, the goal of our hope;
The day made sure, but our hearts must forego
The life they lead, or wend to the end of their quest,
And the thing that shall crush them, may not touch their breast."
"And how shall we thank you, my worthy host,
Who gave us the old-school pricking again,
Who taught us the trick, how the hawser was first,
With his spurs of fire, and his strong mane-makers,
Who knew but their craft when the horse was its master?
"In the night and the storm we have stroked and foamed,
In the fall of the days when the sun was down,
And we rode with the sun, in the wake of the morn,
To the top of the hill and the place of the plough;
But we left the Prince and came out of the town,
From
======================================== SAMPLE 104 ========================================
-sho-sho.
'We've travelled about the Milky Way.
And we've travelled about the Milky Way.
And we've traveled about the Milky Way;
And we've traveled about the Milky Way.
But most of us have found on the Milky Way
A trail of stars for the Milky Way.
But we have found on the Milky Way
A trail of stars for the Milky Way.
No other stars on the Milky Way
But they've gone to the Milky Way.
And we've traveled about the Milky Way.
But we've traveled about the Milky Way.
The stars are far as onela;
And we've traveled about the Milky Way.
The stars are far as heaven;
And they'll be shining in the sky,
And they will be shining in the sky.
And we have traveled about the Milky Way.
Then all of us shall go to bed,
And all of us shall sleep in bed.
What are the winds and silent stars for me?
What are the waves and silent things
That move upon the silent moonless sea?
Naught are they but the mournful restless sea,
Naught but the wave upon the sky.
It is the deep palpable night of the night.
The clouds are set, and the moon is veiled;
The waters run gold and silver light
But the stars are out, and the way is white
To the dark of the infinite day,
And the sky is hidden from us two,
From the light of the great sun, moon and sun.
When I was but a little boy,
And you were but a girl,
I shouted and I sobbed, "Fate is cruel,
And the end of the world is grim."
But I was just a little boy,
And you were just a girl,
And I was just a little boy,
And you were just a girl.
I clambered and asked God of it,
The stars and I were one,
And I shouted and I sobbed and shouted
That all the world was one,
That everything should be one,
And everything should be one.
Then I was just a little boy,
And you were just a girl.
I clambered and asked God of it,
The stars and I were one,
And he made a cross of my sinew,
And my sinew and I were one,
And he said: "Heaven be one."
I clambered and asked God of it,
The stars and I were one,
And he gave me the broad world's highway
To follow the path of the dawn,
And I hurried back to the darkness,
And I hastened through to him,
And I carried the shining ladder
To follow the wind's wild call,
And it clambered and clambered and wondered
How my life was one with him.
Now the first day is misty and rainy;
I shall do nothing but travel alone.
I shall have nothing to do but to to dream through the mist of my
dream.
The clouds are shut. I shall pass in the valley;
I shall forget all my task; I shall hear nothing but voices,
I shall know nothing but songs, songs of the rain, of the night-fires;
I shall forget all the turmoil and throb of the city;
I shall be no more a part of the noise of the street;
But I shall take back now, to leave you and seek out no longer,
As I had longed to leave you.
I will leave you in the house of the wind,
And take back all that was useless of my desire.
I will come back no more with the music of surges,
I shall be no more a part of the fire of your desire.
I am afraid of nothing; only I shall know that at the end of my
coming,
Only last night to sleep, with white arms folded across me,
Softly shall I sing, and the white waves will carry me to
the shore.
The next day is quiet, the last of the days; my mouth abateth
me;
I hear the beat of the rain on my breast.
Then I shall be a part of the rain,
And take back all that was useless of my desire.
I shall be a part of the fire that has fallen;
I shall be an altar where the rain shall wash my face and
my hair.
It is hard for me, and my ways are far.
I shall have left you when I seek out death or love.
I am afraid of nothing; only I shall breathe on your mouth and
kiss you in the salt winds.
How shall I love you?
I shall have left you when I have passed away,
And the blackness of night
======================================== SAMPLE 105 ========================================
."
I think it is a beautiful description of the old human people,
Sitting alone by the side of an old-fashioned spring,
With the little flicker of stars upon their caps,
The yellow and yellow butterfly
That hangs in the garden from the tree,
When he said to me, "Good morning," and said no word,
That is the way that he looked for me.
To-day as I stood by the water
Watching the wonderful weather,
Softly I caught sight of a person,
Sitting alone by the tree.
Laughing at all that I saw there
With the yellow and yellow butterfly,
He spoke like an amorous father,
And you seemed afraid to cry.
I saw nothing there but the clouds of sand,
And the sky's blue and glassy blue,
And never a voice so solemn
As that that was in my dreams through me.
What a firmament on a sky-line!
Ships, masts, hulks, and sails on the wind!
On any sea that stretches
Ever more far,
With nothing but clouds alight on the shore
And ships at sea!
Over the trees all day
The wind-swept morning breeze
Blown here and there,
Like a heralding good and fair--
The city's in sight, my dear,
And you are right.
When the clouds are gone,
And the night comes down,
All right is there
With a clamor and din
Of nations and oppressed
And weary and worn and faint,
That, overcome,
Will still be strong.
I can see that you are just;
I can tell the starry sky
That you are so.
Your hands are not free
And you only move
As one star and intend
Just as near as the sun
See me.
Dare you to see my face,
My dear?
I am that place
With which I planned my race
And served you with my grace
In the name of the great god Me.
There are flowers in your hair
There are stars in your eyes, my dear,
And the lids of your lips are so clear,
And they want to lie in your hands.
I am only a bird and a brook
And a blue bird between you and me--
And I've flown through the world till I find
That you have been my all for me!
I have loved you long and have loved you more,
As girls who remember both lovers know;
They are filled with their love as no other would grow,
But it's only the wind that makes love too.
I have found the gold all the way up through,
As the gold on the moonbeam lies low.
The gold of my eyes, I have sought it more,
And I swear, love, to love you so!
By the great god Me, I have loved you more,
As girls who remember both lovers know,
When they first meet, with lips as red,
They say to each other, "You must be true!"
But the great god Me, they have loved too,
And have robbed me of joy so I know;
They have driven me backward and wandered far,
And I stand as a woman alone,
As the gods sit and stare at the sun.
I am the gods for they worship and love.
As the gods are they marvel and grieve.
For whenever they come back to me,
They come back to me--
Back to me?
As the gods are they drive me, I
And my friends still live in the dark;
In their sight, forever and ever,
What the gods want, they drive me, they drive!
They have dragged me away from their sight.
They have stripped me of joy so I know,
As the gods are now walking in laughter.
They have crowned me with roses and lilies,
Crown me in love with their garlands and hair,
And given me kisses that never shall fade;
They have taught me to love, even to tears.
They have made me a god, but they know,
In their sight, what immortal could love do?
I am the gods, my friends, they know,
Of my deep love for your head and your eyes!
They are not gods, my friends, they are not gods--
How could he know?
They are dead, my friends, dead as the flowers
That fade in the grass.
Their graves are not calm; they are living, but dead,
Ere I perish in hell.
In the night-time, when the wind moans moaning,
We sleep, with a long, long sleep in scourging,
And how should a man sleep so, and I?

======================================== SAMPLE 106 ========================================
, 1670, i. 11.
'This little book is my own Book.'"--HAMKjar.
"Come, little book, and take my supper;
I've but a penny to spend:
Come, little book, and take your place."--
So the little Brown Bookmen were writing his Book.
"I am in, for fear some town be fired.
I thought the Murray to be ashamed."--
So the fire came burning up in the chimney
And smoked a pipe, and stopped, and rung--
"Get up, you rascal, you're in for a meal!
My husband's at Another Flight."
And so they took their seats--the snow-clad peaks
Of rugged Parnassus--and were gone,
In no great hurry, to the Town;
When some fair youth was sitting there,
His curls with grace, his eyes with bliss,
Were like ripe apples when they fall;
And every day the youth did sing,
Singing the praises of his King,
Until he filled his pipe for his sweetheart to throng
For joys and happiness that never come.
And then it came to pass, in some nice corner
Where all the most the quiet waters were,
He saw a little rogue, who was not pliant,
And in his pocket had a string;
"You thief!" said he, "you thief, you fool, you fool,
I'll turn my bag again, and find you out."--
The rogue was gone. The thrush, he heard poor bird
Record the news as he began to sing,
And he sat down in the tree and sang....
His heart was clouded; he could hear no more.
And when the bird, he thought, would tell him too,
His footstep had almost begun to run.
And it would come to pass, though not to mention,
The family were as very few askes,
And more were spent, the mosses and the bushes,
And they had lost some unproductive marshes,
That he was happy there when it was over.
He never knew a missis, he had never
A good one; he was ever kind to him
As any man is happy, and ever
A hopeful and complacent person,
That is, or else a useless thing to do,
As if it were his doing had been more.
He'd never used his pocket till he got
The cash back, by the way the play was his,
And it was something like a name, and did it not come
To him that is forever gone
From place to place and nothing now can claim.
The family had enough, he thought, at last,
Of furniture and furniture enough
To furnish room to live for him. They built
In the dark houses on the shore, and he had it,
As it was for the house the day he passed,
And then he knew it by the door
(His former neighbour was in it), and soon
The bushman he did set it on his heart
And not in it; and he took the key
Instead of going to it.
"Come!" whispered Giles,
To find him in the churchyard. How he came,
What do you think he should be doing, John?--
Why, he'd be rather tired and settled in the workhouse,
And would be moved to see his wife's fine clothes.
So when a woman comes she has no choice
For what she wants, and then she only wants
To have a new dress on it.
Well, then you see,
Some business worries, John, are not the ones
That like to suit her, and to take her off
She does her duties.
Nothing goes out of doors.
It's not a thing! To think of it is horrid
To think of it, and to look after it--
If it were not so pleasant. Now I think
If it were not so very pleasant.
Do you believe his nerves are gone, John,
And if it was not for this his brain is gone,
And if his memory be not the same
How many times before he was alive?
And if it were not so very pleasant?
But if it were not so very pleasant?
I think his heart is very sad enough
To have its thoughts in earnest.
"O'er all the earth,
And over all the sea,
And over all the mountain crest,
I have a wish, a wish for thee,
A wish for thee to have a part,
A wish for me to be thy heart,
And all I have, or thought or said or did,
Or dreamed or acted, or acted or dreamed,
If it were not the thing I ought to have."
There was
======================================== SAMPLE 107 ========================================
 not in the shadow,
But in the sun;
Aye, only to the very
Fullness of the moon.
Your eyes are blue,
And your feet are white:
There's a blue
In your cheek,
And a pearl in your light;
And the little cloud of the moon,
Is a fleck of white
Like a thread of gold!
The moon is a shell
Sodden with time,
And the way that it fell
Was the way that it fell
I know not; but I think
If I could know its mystery,
I know not; but the time drew nigh
That they met each other there,
Then how they journeyed out,
And how they journeyed out!
You can talk
Of all your moods,
Of all your ways,
Of kisses sad,
Of passion fierce;
Of every wrong that is right
Or wrong of right.
Of all the passions born
In the moon,
How hard it were to turn aside
Into the night!
I think I could forget,
I do not yet
That moonlight, when you said
That we two met in a dream,
Far on the stream!
I think you were right,
I do not yet
That moonlight, when you cried
"The sky is over us
And the sky is over us,
And the sun is over us!"
If you knew how it is that the moon, the moon that is lost,
Is so like a passionless moth that is still at home,
To you it is nothing, and it is only for dreams
That are shut out above you, and memory clings,
The web of a woman's makes, and the thread of a lace
Has only the warp of the spirit, and all the dreams
That have ran to and fro in the track of a needle of frost.
If you knew how it is the web of a woman's heart
Is so like a pearl that has dropped from the rim of the sky
That at night you will wonder why it is lonely.
If you knew how it is the web of a child's breath
Is so like a sigh that comes out of a sigh,
You would know the secret she lets it out,
You would know why it is lonely.
I know not how
It is that has hung in the web of the years
Its head and its little head, and its little heart
Has only a whiteness to show it its part:
I have been so weary of beautiful things,
And my lips are only a sigh to tell me
The things they say, and the things they tell me;
I have seen my hands, and my face, and my hair,
And my eyelids, and my face, and my mouth;
For my mouth is only a kiss of the winds,
And my eyes are only a smile of the sunlight.
I do not know
The things they tell me of their mysterious ways,
As infinitely sweet as the lips that are silent.
As the wind is a bird that has wings, and the eyes
Are only the lights that are nothing to me,
So is my face only a sign to that dream,
And my eyes, and my mouth, and the mouth's are only two.
I do not know
What is to be, but a miracle, wonderful, fair;
Something that lives on a flower, and all the joys
Of lovers and lovers that have kissed their hands;
Something that is to be beautiful and to be lovely,
And to be the beautiful things that my love sings,
And now I am only a dream-besmirched stream,
And this is only the dream-besmirched stream.
Once this is a song that I know,
A song of many memories,
A song of many memories,
The song of a woman's heart,
The chant, the cry, the kiss,
The song of an old man's hair,
The laugh, the song, the kiss,
That bring to the waiting place
The wondrous things that were,
And the way of an old love's grace,
By the long way of years,
By the long way of years.
O you who are young and wise;
How fair you gleam, how fleet,
Your shifting shadows drift
Athwart the shadowy weft;
And yet, perhaps you think
A few things there are we
Will surely and forever flit
In veils before the morrow's light,
That shimmer, shimmer, sweep.
And yet, perhaps you deem
You know what lightly we,
Yet somewhere you do seem
To know what we will be.
How you turn and meet me, and how to greet me,
You are so very lovely,
I am not
======================================== SAMPLE 108 ========================================
, and a more than
two-fold
magnified,
"See!" says he, "those hills and valleys,
they and I,
"I, for the love of heaven, look down
upon our earth.
"For the love of unripe trees,
for the thirst for arbors,
for the love of little maids,
for the large soft curls
beneath the dawning wheat,
for the white stars' fleeces,
for the soft white breasts,
for the large round eyes,
for the large round mouth,
for the large round lips,
for the large round chin,
for the long light feet,
for the soft, white, round
hands, soft, small and brown,
for the large round limbs,
for the great, light skin,
for the soft, white teeth,
for the long, light skin,
for the long, white arms,
for the large, round belly,
for the long, bright head,
for the soft, fine, round
well-tried plump thighs,
for the long, bright head,
for the long, sleek skin,
for the nice, straight legs,
for the long, smooth back,
for the short, full skin,
for the soft, straight legs,
for the long, round thighs,
for the long loose thighs,
for the long, full short legs,
after the short, bright hair,
all so shrunk and wasted,
for the short loose hair,
for the long, bright lips,
for the long, smooth, straight legs,
for the short, bright hair,
for the long, bright hair,
for the short, bright hair,
for the long, bright hair,
for the long, bright hair,
for the long, sweet hair,
for the long, bright hair.
Ah, these were the happy hills,
the quiet, quiet, happy valleys,
always with the soft, the long, white ears,
always with the great soft eyes,
always with the slow, bright hair,
always with the short, bright hair,
always in the soft, dark hair,
always in the dark hair.
Ah, these were the happy hills,
the happy valleys, happy valleys,
always with the short, bright hair,
always with the long, dark hair,
always in the bright hair,
always in the long hair,
always in the short hair,
always in the bright hair,
always in the bright hair,
always in the black hair,
always in the black hair,
always in the dark hair,
always in the black hair,
always in the black hair,
always in the black hair,
always in the black hair.
Ah, these were the happy hills,
the happy valleys, happy valleys,
always with the short, bright hair,
always in the long hair,
always in the long hair,
always in the long hair,
always in the short hair,
always in the large hair.
Ah, these were the happy hills,
the happy valleys, happy valleys,
the soft, pleasant valleys,
always in the long hair,
always in the long hair,
always in the long hair,
always in the short hair,
always in the small white hands,
always in the little white hands,
always in the long hair,
always in the little dark hair,
always in the dark hair,
rocks, and trousers, long and small,
lips, and snow-white soles,
corners, and shoes, and trousers,
all for the long hair,
toil-robes, and the short, bright hair,
back shoes, and the small, bright hair,
back shoes, and the white, soft hair.
Ah, these were the happy hills,
the happy valleys, happy valleys,
dreams, in the long hair,
and the long, soft hair,
curves, and a sandy ring of beads,
to the small round chin,
to the small round chin,
and the long, soft hair,
always in the low-top hair,
always in the low, white hair,
always in the tiny dark hair,
lips, and a dark, dark, dark hair,
always in the low, bright hair,
rocks, and a dark, dark hair.
Ah, this were the happy hills,
the happy valleys, happy valleys,
happy valleys, happy valleys,
mild, simple, unwearied,
moistened, and tanned, and kingly,
surrounding, and spreading, and waving,
and passing, and passing, and passing,
and passing, and passing, and passing,
and
======================================== SAMPLE 109 ========================================
 a man can do!
The world is the same, as you are with him,
If you keep on growing old;
And the reason, moreover, if you should sigh,
You will find your old habit of thinking,
If you sit on the terrace and look at the sky,
And observe how I answer, "We do not go by";
And you don't think I care if the sun shines bright,
If you wear fine lace on your hair,
Or you wear a new colour, or you wear white,
If you have fine colours, or greens, or rare,
Or the colour on your hair.
Well, I'd not dream a dream
Would be much less fair
Of the world to-night,
(Though the place is bleak and bare)
That my dream shall be as you grew long ago,
And the world and the world may know
That my dream shall be as you grew long ago,
The world too dark for your beauty and you,
That your face shall be as you grew long ago,
And the world be too dark for your eyes,
That the skies may be as you grew long ago,
And the world be too dark for your sighs,
And the world be too dark for your sighs,
So long, so long, for those
Who are born in pain
Of silence and of pain,
Who are lost i' the sun
Who were born in pain,
And died in pain,
In the year long since gone--
With the song and the cry
Who had always the right
To wait, and not die
By hunger and thirst,
If you left the house
And the world were the same,
If you left the house
And the world were the same,
You would come and pass
In the spring to the grave,
In the spring to the grave,
The world without thee,
There would be no return
Till the end of the year--
Till the end of the year.
The hills are white with snow,
The plain with dead men gone;
And night is dark with sleep,
Wherein men's hearts lie cold.
But now the hour is come
Whereto we seek relief,
For what it is we learn
And what is bitter grief.
No more we look and sigh
And gather tears of joy.
The past is black with grief,
And one with all the past
Is lost, or thou couldst find
Enough of all the past.
Yet here where faith was strong,
With every word of woe,
We meet, or close, or speak
The sad familiar flow.
O tideless fields were ever lost,
In brief and vigorous flow.
Our daily care is with the whole
The heart and head of all.
A spring lies dead beside our path,
A grave by frost-lircled stone:
The year's attire is lying waste
Upon the frost-loved Northern bone:
And still my spirit in your face
Smoulders with yours the ruddy glow.
In frozen swamp and reeds and boughs
The lonely lout with flanks and horns
Points toward the hidden well; and there,
Where I was wont to warm her hair,
I bring her linen muslin-wrought.
And in my coffin soft I sweep
The dust from off my coffin steep;
The frozen sod and coffin-lid
And coffin-lid and coffin-lid
Are ashen, dripping through the rind:
And, far beneath, the frost and snow
Mingle their muddy rind in vain;
For Autumn with its mocking rain
Pipes to the withered hearth at morn;
And, where the frozen river flows,
Old Autumn sighs in tearful moan:
Now only Autumn is begun,
And Autumn--how it came on snow!
What can I say,--though all be gone
That is most heavy on my head?
The snow hath faded and decayed,
And, frost and stiffening on my bed,
My heart, a stranger, to the frozen blood
Clings in my icy veins forever cold.
What is this noise, whose footsteps fall
Upon my room and everywhere?
A frozen gleam, a mist of fear,
A shriek that nothing can outbare,
A cold, white finger pointing near--
A voice that cries and is not well:
A hand that touches, cold and white,
My icy hand and finger-tips,
My icy touch on them and me?
No! rather will they hear my name
With smiles of friendship, words of fear;
And they will say, with lingering breath,
"Poor child of coldness, poor, poor hair!"
What is a name I
======================================== SAMPLE 110 ========================================
, iii, xlxlvxxvii)
Clype, cordinateg, clype, clodhoiff, arrogant,
Clypthel, bookhel: tra, Cynos, apoi, Darent, fakir,
Addour, Hunger, Libel, and light-foot, bare-foot,
Clype, clyphel, jacinthrop, nimble-footed;
Charm, Chariessa, chariot-foot, charioteer,
Cattresser, charioteer, moulderid, tinier.
Chamois-apparle, a magic skiff enfoldeth
Chorzag, busy, foot running, horse running,
Fire-fly, fire-fly: the Chinoi, fire-fly,
Chorzag into the goal, by shot and shell
Of a shot, arrow, thigh, or javelin pois'd.
Chamois in his youth,--thus I embolden,
Prompting my soul with wisdom's armour bright;
Till I gain one bright goal beyond the grave,
Where my spirit shall its wish at once fulfill,
And all the mysteries of the Past become
Th' abodes of Kings, and all the mysteries of Time.
Alike for Helen's soul, and like for Priam's son.
Thee, Hector, thee I slew, and nursed thee on my breast."
But now the Goddess of the Dawn the mist obscures,
And o'er the field of battle all his spirit appeals;
On he prepares the brazen spear, who wondering stands,
And down she thrust it; like a hound among the sands
He leap'd, and like a lion fled to meet his doom.
LXXV. Even so they pass'd; but Hector bade his train
Lead forth the flying Trojan to the clear-flowing plain.
LXXVI. First slew he Agamemnon, Andromarmus,
Next Ate his good brother, Oneth, as he lay,
His brother, whom the glooming Muses led
To war with Jove, the brother of the King of Lycia.
LXXVII. At Priam's knees in suppliant accents Juno spoke:
LXXVIII. "Hear me, Gods! my mother Ida sees,
And heaven-ward re-echoes from this grief my mind:
Why, goddess, dost thou thus beseech my prayer
And send me down to hell, now to the house of Hades?
LXXIX. "'Ay, daughter of a mighty Telamon,
I know thee; on Olympus' mountain top
I see a mighty wave with foam and foam
Mix'd with the waves' eternal turbulence.
Heaven's breathless daughter, thine, I draw from out
The cavern'd earth, to see if on these floods
Happiness befallen or men befallen,
Or by thy voice in these my native lands thou may'st.
LXXX. "O Goddess ever faithful to thy word,
Nor thought of mine, my mother thus beset me!
Ay, and I pray thee let me not be called
A woman's sister, nor a mother's son,
Nor more a mother's son: a mortal I alone
Am mighty-souled, and am of evil issue sprung.
LXXXI. "Why, dearest, nurse such longing to be born?
A love so passionate, too full of woes to bear,
I fain would see, as from a golden heaven--
A heart, a God; but ah, another, more,
To me the Olympian, and to thee the Sun!
She said, and in her son's face Jove survey'd
The whole of fair Cassandra, Goddess of the chase.
LXXXII. "'Then let us go, and from the threshold cross the threshold
Of yon new-comer's hall, to feasting hall and home.
So, for our ravish'd prey, let our desire be turn'd.
Thou know'st, though late in evil case, what men be born,
Thou must remember, cherish'd of the Gods above.
LXXXIII. "O Cytheran race! O father of the Gods!
O mother, for whose sake thou foster'dst ill in Troy!
Ah--to thyself thine own to give, what gods e'en now
Have wrought for Thetis, father of the Gods in nought--
Doom'd to my arms, to die, when Troy so soon was gone,
With such a charge to Pluto's shore had I been smit
With all the infamy, for Hector's sake alone.
To this
======================================== SAMPLE 111 ========================================
, _Pompe. Ter._ iii.
_In hoc libitum._ Joan. xi. 37.
Civ. _Gentibus ortu_: _Aesti._
CVI. _In idem, etc._: Devil, or devil, one must say.
CIX. _Lest pain._ E. gi. s. d.
COWLEY. _Damon._ L3. _Pompe._ L3. _The Red Rose._ Act. xiv. _Pompe._
COWLEY. _Canary._ L3. _Scyllam._ A. _Amyntor._ Act. xvii.
COWLEY. _Canary._ With the _Amyntor_ (the _Rose_) and _Virg._
COWPER. _The Faun._ E. _The Red Rose_, the Red Rose.
cry of the faun's blood._
COWLEY. _Butcher._ Eleble, the _Grecian_, or Red Rose. The red _A
cuckoo_. Ap. _Amyntor._ E. _Irene._ E. _Phœbus._ E. _Aucifer._ E. _Bees_.
DANLEY. _Dalius._ E. _The Red Rose_, the Red Rose.
DANLEY. _Inachus._ E. _Goldfinch._ E. _Goldfinch._ E. _Dawn._ E. _Hes._ Dan.
DUNDY. _The Citron_ (Fris), E. _The XII Apollo_, and the _Thœur_ of
DUNY. _Daunia._ Dan. _Daua._ Dan. _Dawtie_. Dan. _Dawtie_. E. _Dawtie_. E. _Dormie_. Dan.
Etym. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym._ Etym. Etym.
Etym. _Etym. Etym._ Dan. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym._ Dan. _Etyn._ Etym.
Etym. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym._ Dan. _Etym._ Dolor. Etym. _Etym._
Etym. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym._ Dolor. Etym. Etym.
Etym. _Etym._ Dolor. Etym. Etym. _Etym._ Dolor. Etym. _Etym._ Dolor.
Etym. _Etym._ Dolor. _Etym._ Dolor. Etym. _Etym._ Dolor.
Dan. _Edem._ Etym. Etym. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym. Etym. Etym. Etym.
Dan. _Denn. Anum._ Etym. Etym. _Etym._ Grendel. _Denn._ Etym.
Dan. _Edem._ Etym. Etym. Etym. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym. Grendel_.
Etym. _Etym._ Etym. _Etym._ Marum. _Etym._ Marum. _Etym._ Marum.
Etym. _Etym._ Marum. Etym. Etym. _Etym._ Marum. _Etym._ Marum. _Etym._ Marum.
ARCV disappearing.
Arachne. _Arachne_, Arachne. _Arachne_, to prepare for the bride.
Arachne, to prepare daffodils for the wedding.
Arachne, to prepare for the bride.
Arachne. _Arachne_, a young bride for a Brahmin, and also to prepare for
Arachne. _Arachne_, to prepare for the wedding.
ARENUR (_Imagination for Speech_)
Arachne, _Listening to_ Car. _Ode to Car_ (_Londland to Car).
Arachne, _Listening to_ Car. _Ode to Car
======================================== SAMPLE 112 ========================================
 his face
And make a smile upon his lady's eye
That all the friends who came to visit him
Would wonder if he did not leave her side.
He took the cloth and in his little shirt
Took every thing that was in his box,
Took every thing that was in his box
That made him smile and look at everything.
So there remained a longer time for him
In that place where his name was kept.
All those who were on any business wise
To-day were glad to see him as alive;
And they who did not know him to himself
Were glad to learn that he was in a box
That held his title of his house.
This was an article
Of five and twenty-five alms,
A man whom they called "deign," as our townsmen call it.
And they believed that he was very, very kind,
And looked most sedate and very grave,
And never had a chance of bringing thoughts
Into their minds.
And thus it was they called him in the box
And set him on to show his mirth,
And so it was the very week before
They went to sea.
It was the longest time for them to go
And tell their story to the sea,
And when the whale was coming back again
The whale came back some more.
The boatswain said that he was going to marry
The man who did most harm to life:
And they arranged to give him something for it,
So he could marry the man's wife.
And then there were three friends by the exchange,
And she was not more tall in life
Than the man who married her.
The first was in a box
And had letters of price on his shirt,
And the other two were far out on sea.
The second one went to blows and said, "I'll marry
A man who has grown up will marry
A woman who looks cross and does not know that her life
Is measured by her deeds.
And then she would marry him,
In spite of all her deeds,
And she wouldn't even drown herself
Upon that day.
A week out on a storm they died.
And every one who married her
Was to take the sad air and walk away.
They said to her that he wished for her
At any spot where she had lain.
And after two days more
The two came back, and she was far from well-grown
By just a year when her husband died,
And the husband of her youth had gone
To the country where they had been,
And was laid down and buried deep sleep.
And the days went by, and the days went by,
And the sad seasons rolled their ceaseless round
Until 'twas years had brought
And the husband of her youth had gone to sea.
There was little time for him to go
To the city, where he had always his pleasure.
How could he have thought
That an age could follow that for which he sighed,
When the children were at rest?
No! no! when the world was at its worst,
He had found out the way to go.
And the days passed, and the weeks rolled by,
And now came many days.
And the world came on, and the tears ran down
When the child that was loved was on his knee:
And the years went by
And the city came to a long, long day,
And the people wept when they saw the woman pass,
To come and be glad at last.
For it was a hundred years ago
Since the first sweet woman put her body to death
And married a wealthy man with her for a lady
Who died in a ditch.
And now that the woman has married a famous husband
She had to live in a ditch at the place where the grass is.
But the second was a hundred years
And a hundred more had come.
For when one could not marry a woman or a beggar
There might be no more in the world than this little woman,
For the first sweet woman never was married.
And her husband loved her, as every wife loved the woman
And she could love him always, for this was the problem
To marry a woman that died in a ditch.
But at last the doctor found it a different mission,
And there he would give his rooms another berth still higher
For the next sweet woman to his bed of the ditch.
And later in the years came the lovely striver
And a stranger to his heart was he;
And if he could know his own countrymen
And the land of the stranger to be,
And if he could understand the heart of his mother
And his own sweet countrymen to be,
And if he could know that the love of
======================================== SAMPLE 113 ========================================
, _The Lady's Oracle_.
_The Lord._ The Lord is God alone, the God of all;
_The Lord._ He might not be alone: but He,--
The Lord we call the Lord, the Judge we seek;
_The Lord._ He comes, and brings this new-born babe to heaven.
_The Prince._ He comes to us and brings our children home.
_The Lord._ We know the Lord. He, too, is God.
_The Lord._ We need Him not to look on thine eyes.
_The Lord._ We need Him not to look on Him;
_The Lord._ We doubt and tremble, and we call
And tremble for His coming,--he is ours.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble; we
Clutched by his rod, blinded by his fire,
We call, ah! we that err, we scarcely call.
_The Lord._ We tremble and we call and tremble; but
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ I tremble, and I call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We cannot understand, and tremble.
_The Lord._ We will not fathom love or tenderness.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble; but
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We cannot understand, nor tremble.
_The Lord._ We cannot understand, nor tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble; but
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble and we call and tremble; but
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble...
And the sky falls, and the sea-waves quiver
Round the white chariot of foam-laden ships.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._ We tremble, and we call and tremble.
_The Lord._
======================================== SAMPLE 114 ========================================
, and the "Bishop"
_The New Letter to Mr. W. Yein_, New York.
New York. From the New York City Journal of Lincoln Monument,
in his receptacle of "The Poems of Sidney," by H. W.
London, and the "Columbus"; contained in their contents,
as soon as New York City delivered her message to him on May
London, a man whom he "was" as "perhaps the first man at the
"American," "the great friend of the Christians."_]
The "Epistle to Mr. Gay," which contains a relation of
the late popularity of "Daily Elblanc" and "The New York
Dictionary," is now the source of our old favors.
_New York Times._--"The new is a new one."--_Shenstone_.
_Times_--The New York City "a New Inn," in A.D.
_Times_--Paul H. Lee-Hamilton, and George William Lee.
This "New Inn" we have to trust is a new one; it is a fresh one,
_Times_.--The New York City "is a new one, after all,
Presenting the New York City: a new one, or a new one,
Presenting the New York Royal.
_Peter Ferri sits in his saddle, and he gazes at the sky,
and he looks at the stars from the sky._]
_Peter Ferri sits in his saddle, and he gazes at the sky,
and he looks at the stars from the sky._]
'Twas early morn, and the lamps began to gleam
in the street, in the cool of the evening dream,
When softly, out from the neighboring hamlet,
Come voices of children, long lingering yet,
And voices that, through the ruins, at night-watches,
O'er the dead leaves at their labor in the past,
Came voices that through the quiet home-combers
From some old poet's orator, while they slept,
In the pause that follows the earliest bird:
'Tis evening, little Alice!
Thy father burns, and quenches
Jealous, but innocent, Alice!
The lamp is low, and in the hall
No longer shines. The last rays fall
On thy pale face, O Alice!
No longer shines. We have too late
Our happiness: but farewell, Alice!'
A bird was singing in the wood;
A voice yet was it from the Bird!
When first he heard the lay,
There came a voice, not human,
That singing did not cease,
But seemed a song, made of the melodious chorrel,
That to the listener seemed melodious.
His wondering eyes could see
The shape and the attire
Of that strange bird; so silently
He could not see, till the Kough
Of darkness over them all began
To unearthly music!
But, Alice, you are lonely!
And your poor mother has only heard
The Kough that was played upon you.
She weeps, and she forgets
Her child, and leans upon her,
And lets her eyes fall, one after one,
Over her mother's knee!
A voice as of the winds in the trees,
As of the skylarks on loud wing,
As of the floods that leap
From the mountain steep!
She hath no children! She hath no child!
But thou, O Alice, whose heart is wild!
Thou art a poet, and canst sing
Among the mead-sweet mead-sweet flowers,
Among the forest-grasses!
Thou art a knight, and in thy flight
The name of one thou dreamest,
Maiden! thou art a lady bright!
Our Lady here! O lift thine eyes,
The Day is breaking, O ye stars,
Ye twinkling eyes,
Open for me your lucent dyes,
Kneeling worship, robed in light!
The lark may trill in Paradise,
The redbreast throe in joyous throngs,
The swallow twitteth on the blue
White hill-top songs,--
But all is day without her, unseen,
And unfulfilled with her sweet song!
Now must I, weaklings, make amends,
And all this gossip of the birds,
And all this gossip of the flowers,
And all this gossip of the bowers,
And all this gossip of the bee,
And all this gossip of the bee,
And all this gossip of the flowers,
'Twas multiplied but could not be
The Little Less disturbed in song
By ditties grown so
======================================== SAMPLE 115 ========================================
 by the fowls of the air
Toward a land of new continents.
Thither, O Ulysses, my ship will I bear.
But, when the hour of seals shall dawn, then, my dear,
When, set free from all cares and jealous feasts,
I, Ulysses, will come from among you,
And the night shall be golden; next, my ship,
At my right hand, will bear me to the coast
Of Ithaca, and sail on by land
Of my dear country. But come, dear child,
I do promise: a swift ship with me,
A bark with me, will bear me hence to Leon,
And the steed, my death's due; then, myself,
With my own hands will I send on board,
With my own hands, for thy sake to receive my dead;
For so will I give thee my death-bow and mine.
Then, Helen, dear, was my heart chastened thus
By that soft touch?
Jove, O my child, hath 'scaped from heavenly halls
On a sudden this unspeakable affliction.
But now that death is at hand, and soon the hour
Shall bring relief, and all the world shall melt in peace!
For as the winds rise from the ocean peaks,
Athwart the ocean surge the transient lightnings glare;
So on the bark Patroclus' heart shall melt,
Till the dark wave be darkened and the light
To her lost country melt, and he himself
Lie weeping, drooping, till at last he shall
His own destruction clear.
But not till then
Hector the swift ship and its sad comrades sail
Across the sea, then, the inevitable doom
That waits him now, the ruin that shall end
In the destruction that must seize her chief,
The swift ship shall not quench, nor shall she finish
Longer, or gladdening at the loss of life.
He spake, and through the fleet swift Meges swept
Through many a noble fleet and gallant host.
Then in his tent he sallied forth to meet
The chosen of Achilles; then to Peleus' son
He hasted, for he found him not, whom once
O'er all the Myrmidons he had lived to guard;
He marked him well, and then he touched him. Dark
That anguish seemed, yet in his spirit he knew
Terror, and inly sorrowed for his life.
The son of Peleus drew near, whom in his tent
He valued more than all the sons of men.
Him in the hollow ships his mother left,
And him in Ithaca. Then, when they reached
The dreary shore, he promised many gifts.
Seven sacred tripods, and twelve galleys strong,
And twelve brave mariners. They brought him out
From rocky Elis to the Aeaean isles
Of Alpheus, with intent to slay his foes.
Then, taking by the hand whole measures twelve,
He bade them give him ransom of his bark
From fight, from Argos, Priam, and from Mars.
He bade them give him gifts, to be a guest
To his brave followers. They accepted him
As their king's heritage, and gave him gold,
And raiment to the Phaeacians, when the twain
Had striven in vain to reach their homes again.
There had they laid the gift, the which in state
Himself had given them, ere he sought to take
The body of Achilles, or in arms.
The spirit he himself had shamed to do them nought
Was slow to wrath. Then, on his guard he leaned
His spear against a pillar of the cloud,
That, massy rolling, jutting headlong, rang
Down vaulted lengthwise from the gloomy hills,
The while behind his back the Greeks he sent
The dark-winged multitude. Then, when the shout
Of all the Argives, that he had not heard in Troy,
Had filled the air with his huge cry, the son
Of Priam came, whom after him he sought,
And spake, reprimanding him: "Thou who perchance
Hast feared before, now stand'st apart from me,
Despite these terrors; with me are not yet
Achaia's ranks to blame. Deiphobus
No longer now can battle wage the fray
Till I take vengeance." Then Achilles' son
Halted his brows, and in the vacant field
Deiphobus lay, dragging the spear in front.
And as a lion, bearing hunters keen
Of the wood-boar, darts before him; so
======================================== SAMPLE 116 ========================================
?
Hailing thee, hail!
Welcome, welcome, the most gracious
Aboon mankind;
Welcome, welcome, the most illustrious
Aboon mankind!
Thy great Creator, the most glorious
Aboon mankind!
Thy great Creator, the most glorious
Aboon mankind!
He made the child the man; and the man made
The child the woman; and the man made the child!
Now, when these tawdry lines I read,
Thou shalt not miss
The happy lines, and I shall read them
Full to the light.
Of all terrors that intoned the toes on men,
When wit and worth, like linnet's lays,
Swell'd the deep agonizing throbs of pitying pity,
And bade the heart be blest.
Yea, though our souls were tuned to airs of Eden,
Our passions clothed in silvery mists and shadows,
Our spirits clothed in splendour and in fire,
Hail to the Son!
Ours are the tears that we sometimes shed
On creatures that do suffer for their crime;
But what we sometimes shed is of more price,
For man made innocent of God by vice.
I saw a light on faces where man walked,
And it was Heaven's reflection:  From the sight I saw it run:
Thine eyes have many faults, thou hast one sin for all;
Yet turn thine eyes upon it, friend, and find in one.
We see Hell play with Heaven; we view Heaven with Hell;
And we adore an offended God, and call it blessed sight;
We love Thee, yet we hate Thee, for we love our Father right;
And Thou art God, in meekness and in mien my heart is set;
I love Thee, yet Thou art my soul, and Thou hast more than one.
The love of Jesus;
The love of comrades;
The love of comrades,
Yet the love of comrades.
What can it mean?
What can it mean?
'Tis it with tears!
'Tis it with fears!
'Tis it with tears!
'Tis it with tears!
'Tis it with tears!
'Tis it with tears!
'Tis it with fears!
'Tis it with tears!
When our souls part
In this world of fears,
The world will be so paradise paradise paradise earth is
familiar with our human brother; but this horror will come to
What if we could see it? we do not know it; yet we wish to be
sent down here to be found in a few days after they will be
truly full up of their own natural world.  They will never be
found under earth's mire and sea.  There are many things here which
are not as yet by sight.  First, a new thing will be revealed to
its Maker; the first was of which they are told; the second, a strange
work, an enduring one, the love of an impassioned and a
solitary being, will be made one of them; the third will be built
and cherished!  I wonder if he is true?  The words of the Hebrew seer
nevertheless, who comprehendeth these things will be many in one
instant.  The poet who considers hereupon cannot help being able to
believe it when his own thought is most pure and true; and as a
man he may deem it true that all the angels have loved him more
than any angel there.
"O soul of mine, do thou hold back so long from being led astray?
Be not frightened, beseech thee, from thy lonely prison in the
city of hope.  The love of God is not with thee for ever;
nevertheless, who knows who thou art, and why thy name thou art,
or whose birth thou bear'st upon earth; if thou art worthy of worship,
thou shalt not want a higher place among men than thou didst need."
This cannot be; the poet, a man, who is not with him; why should
he not needs be a spirit born?  How should the soul fare like
the wind with his wings!  Why should he not be able to see
with his eyes the Creator in the sky?  If he were a man, why should
he not be born when he has finished all his life?"
"Thou seest the face of thy God in that very place where thou
knewest thy dwelling:  no trace of thee can be found of thee
in the world.  It behoves that thou go not forth to meet the
world.  For the angels of these creation possess thee."
Cities and nations, the earth and the
======================================== SAMPLE 117 ========================================
,
Carpets and rings.
_P.S._ And as for me, I'm well contented,
And I will die before I am dead,
And you shall lie upon the ground.
_QUEEN D. (rising)._ And as for me, my lady,
I will have no more pity.
_QUEEN D. (lowing him)._ And so do I, my lady
And in your grace I'll still go seek for you
And seek for you.
_J._ And this thing be my passion,
_J._ Now then, my lord, I pray thee let me do it;
For I would have thee know it,
That I do swear to love thee
And love thee, till my dying day.
_P._ And do not, then, but lye upon my heart;
For we must love each other
Because we can but be
Content with Him.
_E._ Not well, then, at all rate, but at all rate
Wishing to die as others do;
And die, without all fear
Of death or of a fear;
For, in the love of God, he is our foe.
_V._ And if I do, this thing shall be my death!
_K._ Why then, my lord, I will not have thee fear!
_T. P._ Do find thee out, in plainer words than these.
_T._ Say not thou'rt well contented,
My lord.
_QUEEN D. (aside)._ So then?
_1st pleading._ I thank thee,
_R._ Why, then, I will not have thee fear, my lord.
_2nd pleading._ Why?
_3rd pleading._ Peace, peace!
_R._ And if thou'lt promise faith, my dear, if I
Henceforward shall find faith in thee
I fear not, but am still deceived
And tempted by my fear to sin
And all my godliness believed;
If I may fear to lose thee dear,
I fear not, but will have thee so;
If not, indeed, I fear to lose
Thou art my son, and I have none.
_R._ To thee I leave this world of my foes,
And thou must die before I come.
Now shall I go from out thy door,
And seek for help or find no more.
_R._ And now I may not have thee fear, my lord.
_1st pleading._ What shall I do?
_R._ What shall I do? A love will find it out.
_R._ I will not have thee fear, my lord.
_3rd pleading._ Oh, you?
_R._ Come, come! Why will I work? Why this?
_R._ Come, come! Why should I then divorce thee?
_R._ What shall I do? O it is foolish hope,
Love is a fool, love is a foolish dream,
And Love is no where to go or to rest.
_R._ What shall I do? What dost thou care to shun
A poor man's light and love to lose?
_R._ O you, my betters, see to what he eats
An old rotten fig, and will not eat
An old dog's bitter bone. Come, come! why,
Come here, for I have set my heart upon
That old fool's ugly bone. Come, come! why,
Come here, for every night he'll bite your thumb.
_1st pleading._ Why, then, all's one! Soon, come! why,
_2nd pleading._ Why, now, the dead man is a fool!
_R._ This time, O Lord, I'll get Will Scarlet
And thou wilt have it so.
_R._ This time, O Lord, all's one! Now what, now,
_R._ And what? Now what?
_R._ Now what? Will ask no more?
_R._ Ay, sir, no more, my true, I have done this;
That time doth vex me, sir, I know the chime
With which thy good horse flies, and I am past
But still that pace more rapid.
_R._ I have done it.
_R._ Then why not, sir,
_R._ No, sir, but that's my style
Of playing cards. Will, I have lost--
That call is foolish, sir. How comes it now?
It's like a man who tries to mend a shoe
And strives to gain a boot while running through
The windy woodland.
_R._ Such a fool!
_R._ You take it off.
_R._
======================================== SAMPLE 118 ========================================

of the old and the new, it is possible to see them in print. The
the little volume of the poem, the little book, and the little
part it contains, is a complete part of the poem, and it is a
interesting. It may be found in a very handsome manuscript, but the
other one is a possession by the name of One particular, and
there is no great power of thought.
The line, though not as curious as is the one here called
"The Rhine," in a German translation of La Menbuh, is too
It is not impossible to give an idea of this passage in the
"Mancica domum," in the same room, of the very beautiful legend,
Jossinze Poesie, etc.; and all testify of the story believed to
be more lively than the rest of the author's works, and of the
character of the author's personality.
The poem "Hales" was not designed till it was published;
and the "Works," by Joannes, is not the first of them.
From the first copy I have restored the necessary note of my own
The writer of the "Thistle of Homer" is not to be put out till it
has been corrected and altered, and no longer does the line remain
so perfect. I have been also praised by all the great and good
poems of the early days of Chaucer; but these, as well as the days
and nights of the latter part of The Decameron, have never
The best appreciation of the works of the past, and the
second part of the present volume, is the "AEneis and the
"Idyls and Hyems" of the late Charles Dibdin, 1728; but
"Epithalamium and Odium," as translated by Mr. Pitt, are very
The best versions of the last of the first two are in the
The translation of the last seven lines in this book is in eleven
four lines beginning,
"Ceres a she exists:  nine days contended for her:  ten
hills fought for her, and yielded up their lives:  twice a
few had escaped from Scythian battles with the Erythians; but
this was taken by Dibdin and Envy.  But the poem "Hippolma
Eulogy," as it is found, was finished by Lord impartiality and
fortune.
The three kings of the Elamonds, called the Scythians, and came
out of several kinsmen (as was indicated by the poem), in a
newly-famed Northern Cyprus.
"Tinctus qui regna petis, Incorruptorque augur
Quaena tempore Deum, nil adulescentuli."
The heroic poem was read with much approbation and much
describe. The poem was placed before the battle of 1565; in
"Hesperides, Tityon, and Parnassus."
These three heroes are quoted by Lamartine Par. and Merry,--a
man, by means of a soldier.
(See "History of Lycomedes", vol. ii.  of Cycnus. See also
Merrick, "Hippolma":  the Palatine history of the Palatine
battle is continued.
(6) In the same poem, the epic is a piece which is said to have
belied in most of the old times.
(7) These and the five following lines next are quoted by Lamartine,
(8) In the "Night of the Podalirse," see Adventure XXV, note 1.
(9) The "Night of the Pegennines".  See note on Adventure XXV, note
(10) These lines, the problems of the Bellmanies of La Mencha, and
these are quoted by Lamartine Par.  See note on Adventure XXV, note
(11) The beginning of the battle of Campania is not remarkable.
lines intersected, the lines are quoted.
(12) The lines on the Ramilliese.  Lucan's line involves an hour of
form.
Lyra and Achaeans fight in single fight. (Comp. 16, 14).
(13) The battle of Larissa is described in a different role.
(14) It is not difficult to trace the origin of the lines, as it
practicable. It is not necessary to recount the origin, or to
describe the original. (We have no doubt that barbarian poetry
conceived the effect of their critical ancestors in that period.
(15) At the beginning of the battle of Varania, Camilla, was the
favour of the hero, with his slight education.
======================================== SAMPLE 119 ========================================
._
_Rays, and a little house and a garden_--
_Rocks and a field with flowers and trees_;
_Curious and curious; the time,_
_Is now at hand!_
_The time for the dance:_
_Hear, while they dance!_
_Hear, while they dance!_
_Hear, while they dance!_
_The time for music:_
_Hear, while they dance!_
_Nature, to-day, is less to us than music and the time for
_Music is more to you than singing, than the time to me_--
_Song is as new._
_Hear, while you dance!_
_The minute I go by me, I am caught,_
_All the world over._
_Singing and unvoiced:_
_The quickening zephyrs of June-time and June-time,
The soft-stifling nightingale of June-time--
The wonder of the song-birds and their music,
The wonder of all music in the wind's ecstasy!
_Sing then, sing softly!_
_Singing and unvoiced:_
_The clear song of the sky!_
_The low song of the wind!_
_The unseen water traversing!_
_The night, it is already dark--but, Lord,
I love and am a fool!_
_If I should die to-night,
If I should die to-night,
If I should die to-night,
If I should die to-night,
If I should die to-night,
If I should die to-night,
If I should die to-night,
If I should die to-night,
If I should die to-night
If I should die to-night,
If I should die to-night,
If I should die to-night
_If I should die to-night,
If I should die to-night,
O pray my dearest Lord
For a little while with me!_
I know, the world is full of prayer
Lift up the prayer-books of the poor;
I only pray for grace to bear
The rod of righteous wrath on high
And turn their lives to purer days
Of light and sound and holiness.
But O, its gloom was vain to me--
We are a weary race of weeds--
We are the poor, who kneel to pray
To wisdom and to holiness.
We must walk where we stand alone
And turn to find the Master's plan,
Who gives us only hope, to own
His love and pity, love and man.
_We must walk while the saints shall tread--
Treading the stones of every life;
Treading the highways of the dead--
The staff of the experience_
_That makes this world so wonderful!
Each human heart shall be a dirge
For the great deeds the saints perform;
Each heart a censer, thrice a vail
For dreams we dreamed and suffered sin.
We shall walk onward, hand in hand,
To gain the Rock of Song, and then
Know that the best of all shall be
The path to the true-hearted men.
They shall not fail, who walk with us
Through all the dark of earth and skies;
They shall walk on, and walk above
With a sad, sad, deep sigh for our
 transgressions if we make fair
The path to God, to man and wife
And for our souls to suffer loss,
Knowing our loss is loss of self
And losing all things fair for loss.
Christ, I think, will hush the song
When we reach the Rock of Song.
_He stands on that cliff by the sea._
_And above it there is the surge._
_And below it the coast._
_That all is still._
_So wastes the night._
_So breaks the day._
_So far we have drifted away._
_Here the ships go._
_Here the rocks are._
_So many days in the morning I have toiled._
_Here in a sea._
_The ships are dead._
_And this is the best_
_Where at last the gates of the world were burst._
_I shall have no joy but in winter soon._
_And far from the world I dare not breathe._
_Here in the night._
_I dare not hope the living will find me._
_Where are they all, in the evening?_
_The wind upon the hill._
_Where are they all, in the evening?_
_The wind on the hill._
_The world is sad on
======================================== SAMPLE 120 ========================================
, to a little girl.
My love, she went to Europe first,
With other gossips ranged in her lap,
But, oh, the naughty things she had--
They almost made me think of pap!
They almost broke my heart, because
They always made me think of pap!
I can't think how pap made such a noise!--
My mother, for example, married that maddest of boys.--
I was told I was very fond of Stephen,
I felt so happy that I really _couldn't_ do that;
I got up thinking of my dear,
And of the many things I heard
I never mentioned before,
But one day said, "I'm sure that you can do as you will."
That's why I'm fond of Stephen,
I'm fond of all I could say,
I thought of Stephen's love for Stephen,
I think of all that day.
I wish I was a county youngster,
In whom my heart was full;
A poet and a prince and a king,
And of a very charming tale,
In every one, the truest heart
Seemed fitted for my heart.
In a few minutes I was happy,
And now, as folks like me,
I have grown sluggish and dejected,
Since Stephen left me free.
I've been thinking of my darling
In the ranks of prince and queen,
And of the knights and barons,
And all the curious armies,
And marching armies seen;
And what I thought of Louisa
I never could have fancied,
For with him I had been happy,
And now I quite despise you,
For Stephen's looks have changed me,
And with him I am lonely,
Poor Stephen has been riding
Far out of town, and thinking
Of his lost father's farm,
And how he had been weeping,
And how he had been talking,
And all the people saying,
"He has no house in Englonde!"
I think it very rude to be,
I do so, and I'm glad;
But, when you speak to me, my dear,
I do not think it bad.
And what I dreamt about, I swear,
I am quite sure of it, dear.
And if you speak to me of it
I do not think it bad.
And if I think that Stephen's wrong,
And he his father dear,
I never trust I made him long
For what you say to me.
I think that Stephen's very wrong,
And he's the very same;
In a short time, when we were met
On the first of May,
I think that he and I could talk
Bout of our wedding-day,
And of our talk and what each other meant,
Because our wedding-day
Was fixed to-morrow! Oh, my dear,
It makes regret,
That we together sit and look
Where father has gone away!
I wish that I could sit for him
As he at Honor's Hill,
And he as gay, as he,
Or as a gentleman, as he,
Or as a vassal Maine,
I wish that he would stay away,
As happy as could be.
I wish that he would stay away
Like me, as gay and gay,
To come back by the present day,
Or just to take my place,
And house and gardens all day long,
And make himself so dear,
I wish that he would stay away
To come back by the year;
To hear the brown birds singing loud
Among the darkest trees,
And see the neat blue-jays a-springing
From sunny apple-trees
And shaded turquoise-stones,
To see the rosyometime sun,
And smell the violet!
Aye, aye, before my dwelling,
The master haunts his house,
The garden path, the grassy path,
The flowers and birds in bloom.
I envy him not, I pray thee,
Who in his life has joy;
And still, when busy crowds are talking,
There are the happiest things to-day--
The places where he meets the river,
The trees that shade the shady way.
But on such days, I fear me not,--
I've often met him on the way;
And thought perhaps, the riddle rather
Is not quite easier to-day.
I met him there upon the way:
He looked as if he thought a bore;
And standing in his pleasant way,
I met him on the How and How.
"You're going for a pretty while,
And then you will be coming here,
When you've been long and I have fun
Of
======================================== SAMPLE 121 ========================================
, in his study.
As for our town, we'll set them a-nodding,
And what's to follow, first let's go a-sopping.
Don't hurry, then, to bivouac, or inveigle;
For here's the place to-morrow.
I'm so glad to meet you
And the angels with me,
That I'm glad of the meeting,
As I sit in the dimples
Of the old farm home.
And this is the reason
That I here come to you.
I've been a frequent visit
To my friend, the Misses,
Who'd a kind of welcome
For their visitors.
Here's the place to-morrow!
As we've come back again.
In our old accustomed place
(Where the old town stands up)
We've been staying together
In the old bush times.
And we're now in a better,
And my friend quite gone to-day.
I'll not say, just for one
 minute if so it be done,
But for all we've been doing
In our old, old, old style.
"How are these wonderful things?"
It is said to me now.
I'm a real contradiction
And I've thought of them now.
It's not hard, but it seems to me better
To be somebody else's grandson.
And my friend says, that's nothing.
No, he doesn't talk Greek,
Or you are of little importance;
And he is the simple successor
Of some boy he had in his youth.
And he speaks, as if living,
And my friend says, no use.
But no use being always easy.
Yet I think it is best.
For I think, when the work's ended,
Not to move in the sun,
You will find that the best thing you can
Is to keep away one minute
From the man who is gone.
I have found out a way of saying things
For the foolish, foolish sophistries
Of those wonderful things
Of the old-fashioned way;
I have found where the world in the straight sunshine
Sits in a perpetual calm.
But the great secret of being things,
Whether living or dead that is good or no,
Is one with my friend's.
When little children are coming up the street,
With their sweet, ardent faces, they will not let you
Be afraid, for they're coming.
But the kindest ones that are coming, at least,
Will be coming the best.
And the sweetest ones that are coming will be coming,
From their sunny, happy homes, with their proud faces,
As they come to you.
But the kindest ones that are coming I know;
And they smile, for they never came to me before.
And the little ones that are coming, will be coming,
Though the children have gone.
Ah, you cannot box, you can never open,
A doorjar and a bar.
Yet to-day the same thing is in your spirit,
And to-morrow you'll find there is something better
In your heart, for your eyes.
The wind will moan, the wind will moan,--
What matter?  Your life will soon be done,
Soon the fair white face of summer will be hidden
From the glare of the sun.
And the stars and the moon will question neither,
For their light will cease from their shining,
To be gone eternally.
There were three boys of our own
Who went to school every day;
They went to see the new school,
They went to school every day.
They traveled over the mountains
Where the golden apples growed,
And the stars in the sky
Looked down on us long ago,
And the willows in the snow.
Till they came to a manger,
Where the stacks were piled in a heap,
And the moon stooped low,
In a great white barque,
Sailing on a far sail
To a inn in a far, wide sea;
With the starry flag of three
Little children gathered around;
And "Father" they said,
With his star-shell shining on their faces,
If we only had time to say
The old time lies away.
Then was called a voice from the children,
And they thought of the long years gone by,
When they heard the voices
Of the old time by.
Little hearts were all broken,
They had no time or to hear;
And the songs of little children
Coyly murmured at their feet.
But their songs would never wither;
Love and all its fairy kin
Chastened into one full circle
Of the old world's fa
======================================== SAMPLE 122 ========================================
s of the _Farmament_,
And those old Deucalion stays behind!--
"And who shall henceforth be our guide?"
The Pilgrim answered. "By thy Grace,
And by thyself, thy comrades blest,
I swear, by all the host of heaven,
Thou art their shade, and they are blest:--
For not alone on earth, but heaven,
These peaceful shades repose,
Among the sons of man, for Heaven--
The dead were with their living sires,
But they of him who now repose,
In death, nor age, nor death, shall close
Their grateful eyes, nor sighs, nor tears,
As theirs was then!--The Pilgrim strove
To gain the spot where Lincoln stood,
And laid his heart on that one spot.--
Serene, his soul was wont to speak
The language that the Pilgrim knew,
And he was there, yet he could smile
When words were words for aid.--
And yet, by these the Pilgrim neared
His pale companion, in his track;
He spake not in that cold inquiring
Where he believed not, and the flash
Of lightning in the startled eyes
Fell on him from that mountain's side.
As, in a net of witchery,
With web of destiny untwined,
He saw on earth, so strange and fair,
The Spirit's prison-house of pride
And solitude. But he believed
The Pilgrim's heart of bleeding clay
Had given his hopes a cell, nor guessed
Its depth, or depth, for its decay,
Since that dark day when in despair
He found himself in that one cell
Where Lincoln slumbers. There he stood,
In that black hour of his young days,
Nor dreamed of her he loved the best
The earth bestows, nor dreamed her son,
But, while his spirit rose, and died,
With a deep sense of God within,
He watched the day; till, in that hour,
His spirit had grown pure as thine,
And he was filled with tender trust,
As to thy memory; then, to all,
That one dear thing his spirit told,
He bade his soul go forth to seek
And bring to him the old-time faith,
That his own life should be the best,
The happy one, in one sweet rest.
He gave his thoughts to those who knew
The world's wide peril, and the plan
That he and all such trials tried
As to bear on when he loved to guide.
He taught him truth; He gave no pain.
He saw no peril. In his way
From danger to the rocks and caves
He led him, and he taught him faith.
How else, if to the right, he knew
The spirit's doom? His life was brief,
And yet the light of holier hours
That he had won would find in him
More than his life; and, so he said,
"Our spirits are as friends again
In that sweet world we love as friends!"
And he paused short, but not again,
For all the tale his memory told
Thrilled to him, and he felt the same
As when he first found them and named,
"Fathers of Lincoln!"
And he searched
For signs of Lincoln--he returned,
And found them where the forest veiled
The forest side, and its great trunk
Of lofty plane, which overhung
Its black half-crowned hatches to the sun
From whose great summit there, one night,
Beside a cloudless sky in light,
Moved silently away the moon.
Then through his spirit's haunted air
The beautiful shape of Lincoln came,
Like a spirit coming, and began
To wander up and down his path.
The heart of Lincoln long ago,
He seemed a wanderer in the land
Or ever through some land or flood,
He saw some spirit by his side,
Riding upon our way.
So, as the dreamer might desire,
He lingered lingering at the gate
Until he came unto his feet
Built in that valley far below,
A city called the world of his own,
A name he loved since long ago,
And from familiar lips he called
The stranger to his own.
And he believed the prophet's words
Were things that never can be told;
And in his soul it seemed to float
As from a magic wand.
And with a mystic, strange delight
He walked from morn to dewy eve,
When now no cloud appears to weigh--
A ghostly, wandering form, yet shaped
As if a phantom were,
A well-known voice whose tones, alas,
Were not in words, but
======================================== SAMPLE 123 ========================================
 of a letter, say,
“Say, duke, in our town here, yesterday.”
“Deseems it, sir, not to your right.”
“I do not, sir, say what I say.”
“You will have a better time.”
“To your right?” the Duke replied.
“Very well,” Marsil said, “I would
Give you my advice, for, if you’ve me
Your uncle, I myself would call to arms.
“You have a better time,” he said.
To the right gate was handed John,
Of the four corners there he spoke.
“Yes! you must not have me;” he cried,
“For I’ve ten pounds,” the news he brought.
“I am not got,” Sir Marsil said;
“I’m not the devil’s beggar born.
“Yes, sir,” said John, “I mean to lose.”
The host with brows beseeching,
For the poor boy’s bones they found.
The mother, weeping, told the man
He thought not of that hour the same,
When they the good man’s bones did bury
The corpse of him who had not the name.
“I’ve heard of John in fits and quaking,
I’ve heard of his strong legs and arms,
And the poor boy, my Henry’s dead,
The very dearest son of these.”
“I have a brother,” said her mother,
“’By God in heaven that no man lives,
’Tis he whose name I hear, my dearest!”
“I’m not the dearest of my friends,”
Said her good brother, “s daughter here!”
It was no little Engel she could
To the poor boy’s bones such grief to bear.
They buried them there in the kchestum,
And maul’d him for his wealth and store,
With maul’d skulls, which shewed and pierced,
And some, with a hundred marks of gore.
“Now, Sirrah, Sirrah, you’ve little to spend,
On the good man’s bones we’ve buried you all,
And the poor boy, my Henry’s dead,
The only son of this poor boy.”
“Yes! I have no name,” the maiden said,
“Save that ’tis from a poor father’s bones;
I think I’m given too little to spend—
The mother’s name, my poor mother’s dead.”
The morn breaks, the morn has begun.
“What’s done I’m done!” the mother cried,
“And my good boy, I’m nothing to blame.
“Now I’ve got a black ravenous raven,
That eats my bread, and gulps my wine,
And now he’s dead, dear good buckle-cords,
That used to be made of my little hands.”
“I’m not a black raven for me!” said the mare,
And her grey eyes shone in her innocent stare.
“I’ve done wi my crow, Sirrah, and pulled his hood,
And now I’ve driven him with one red haunch
Of his little coat, I sall’t think it fair hard
In the hands of that mare to kill me.”
“Now I sall come down to my little ship,
And my friends they gae mad to me.
“I’ve sailed to the good ship, Sirrah, and I’m glad
To hear my father’s grave call me.”
“I’ve given up my father’s bones to the dead,
And they have brought it to the grave.”
“Now God’s poor dead, poor body!” said he:
And the tears ran into his eyes.
“Now God’s poor dead, poor body!” she cried;
“Now God’s poor dead!” --Page burdened sore.
“The grave that I am leaving now
Is just the thing I’d like to see.”
“My grave will soon be in this
======================================== SAMPLE 124 ========================================

That made the sun's rays,
And we've come over into the garden, to try and
drink;
And we've got to eat potted sweets--but the doctor can
try to
Whether 'twill be raining or not;
And if you don't mind the dyspepsy of the dyspepsy,
I shall choose for a slice
Of cake,
And when it is finished it's ready for you,
For we've got no more rice.
(To a plate, a plate of the best, I suppose, I
say,
And some other bits _encore_)
It's as easy as walking, as walking, as walking, or
It's so easy, I vow,
As walking, as walking, as walking, as walking, as
standing, as
It's that way,
As walking, as riding, as walking, as
It's that way,
As walking, as walking, as I mean,
In that way,
You can't find one like that,--with a knife in the
crabbock-haft,
And a cuttlefish-yellow, which is the cuttlefish-in-the
And where it's all right 't would be for drink, and you
would think 't was there;
For when it comes you'll say, (I mean that it's
I'll take it, if I can)--"You're in the hands of a
Cook!" and the fishes they are dancing--so
then let me
Go and see the Fish-gods, all of them,--there are
Many more like them--you understand;
And the old Fish, it is true--that when a man
Has not got children, always gives them food--
For the kind school-teacher had not found them--you
know
I'd have them all--all the way right!
(To an auto electric, which occurs
in town,
For it's only in parlor and all such places.)
And I've heard the old men declare,
That the best of children's playthings is care,
That their best of toys and which are the nicest
toes,--
And they never mind telling you "stand-to" or
Edith or Billy, from morning till night
Of the week to the end of the story.
All the way that the children are good,
With their lessons merry and numberless books
And bells of a Sunday morning, at evening
For food and for music, at noontime;
Every thing that children can talk about
Is a holiday peck of green silk.
Why, children, listen while children will listen
To the looks of these wonderful ones!
Such wonderful heads and such wonderful tongues!
(The rest of the wonderful things come of late
Through the ages, in wonderful melodies, floating
O'er the wonderful pianos, out of the straight
And delicate distance ofispheres, ever
To the sound of their soft, rustling instruments,
As they listen, and hush their own low intonations!)
By the magic of this round gold-crowned town,
Where nobody comes, nobody matters,
Where nobody comes, nobody matters.
(Is it rain?)
The sun was sinking and setting,
The day died through in gray;
The woods were still and uncharted,
The ways were green and gray.
(With a gesture and beat of his drum--
His last step he oft begins it,
As he bends and he shakes his head
Like a great magnolia in his red,
And his leaves drop from his flagstaff,
As he bends and he shakes his drum--
'Tis a secret for him and his drum.
He has never learned the beat
Of his small drum, so grand and gay;
He has heard the falling feet
Of the small, loud, marching men away;
In the footsteps of the years
Has been gathering gray and dim,
And a voice said, "Run in haste,
Your legs go back, and your blood's ablaze.'"
(With a vision and sound of his drumming,
The voice of the greatrapnel, he comes;)
You are a brave corporal,
And we would that we were a drum and a fife,
With our muffled drums and our flags all red,
And our bugles flowing over the world,
Would that we were a drum and a fife.
(With a sound of the drums and the thunder,
Which the small drum beats, as it were,
To the sons of the darkness under the pall,
And above the roar of the guns and the balls,
What an August afternoon!
The cool wind of the morning stirs the slumbrous trees,

======================================== SAMPLE 125 ========================================
tching with his lyre,
The founts in which my fountain sang are cold
With his own tears I fill;
And when again I feel the spirit light,
My soul is filled with pain
As with that otherwhere began
The Prophet's pilgrimage of solemn rite
In heaven that night!
The moon is full, and the midnight air
Is fragrant with the songs of night;
Weird is the web we weave about
The life we strive to drown;
And we, who climb the upward way
And sing with all the worlds in play,
The songs we bring from God to praise.
Then, like the bird with pinched clouds flying
O'er the clear blue air of even,
By fits half glad, half feigned dazed,
We take the lamp and close the eyes
And speak with rapture as we rise,
And laugh as if we were acquainted
With aught that is not good;
And speak with us in rapture, telling
Of things we cannot live
But out of heaven as well as knowing
We still are mated to;
Till we and our own fates teach life too,
But we are twain alone,
And in the time of its contending,
There ever is another sun,
And the world is ours at odds,
The eternal lights are ours.
In the light of their sun we lie,
And, with all our soul's desire,
The shadows we embrace.
The sun is your sun, and your love is your love,
And your eyes are eyes of his!
But their depths to the inward flame,
And the silence in their skies,
Till we only can mark
That the infinite number of millions is numberless worlds
Are only one soul's--
But the stars' we know!
The dawn of the new-born day
Has kissed them upon the lips of Night;
And Night's in the East:
With all the visible wonders,
That make earth beautiful for light,
We part, and go to The East;
The glory and perfume
Of the dawn of the new-born day
Is only one ray.
The great sun sinks in the west:
His silvery loom is dyed with red,
And, as the day grows dim,
We follow him, and we embrace, where his bright light heads
are laden with purple and gold,
With the gold of the ancient day
The dawn of the new-born day
In the world the dawn will rise, and the Night shall walk from
And the sun shall walk by the ways
to the ways of the dawn with his rays;
And the earth of the night shall wake,
And the great sun walk by the ways.
(Song of the singer in ancient Greece, dedicated to the
Lady Anne de Nevers because I love her so tenderly.)
Lady Anne de Nevers she is both great and good,
And though she be a little grey, slender and sweet,
Yet, though her cheeks are as pale as a rose under the sea,
Her sweetest hair is bright as a silver crown of gold
And her eyes are brown and dim
(Out of the time of the long ago, when I was a lover,
But out of the time when Cupid came in sight and knocked!)
Lady Anne de Nevers she is a wonder, tall and sweet,
A goddess kneeling by a golden hearth fire lit with laughter
(Out of the time when the world was good and fair and new)
A marble goddess standing by a golden hearth fire lit with laughter,
A crystal queen with silver bodice and a face like a rose
(Out of the time when the world was good and fair and sweet and
And the sun was a-sailing over the sea, and the sky was blue)
Lady Anne de Nevers she has been and has come to find
That this be a garden that we shall gather for her and hold,
(Out of the time of the long ago, when I was a lover)
He has a chalice of sweet waters and a hundred women fair,
And one can hear the song of a child,
(Out of the time of the long ago, when I was a lover.)
He has a chalice of sweet waters and a million women fair,
But he has got a chalice of sweet waters and his face is white;
And he has got a hundred women fair whom he can see on high,
And he has got a hundred thousand loves upon his back and back,
(Out of the time of the long ago when I was a lover)
He has a hundred women fair whom he can see in London town,
(Out of the time of the long ago when he was a lover,)
And he has got two shaw
======================================== SAMPLE 126 ========================================
, i. xix.
"Vexilla Regis exulso militibus amicto,
Vox sua non vota, per cuneos curre loquebar."
"And she, with golden lilies in her hand,
And her bright crystal visage, to my thought
Visibly sweet and tears of gratitude."
"Love is a sickness full of woes,
And full of lasting joy,
'Twixt which our life she consecraves too,
With too much pleasure fraught.
'Tis not alone this joyless world,
'Tis not alone that joys abound,
But 'tis throughout the whole round of the years
A tide of gladness overflowing.
'Tis this that cheers life's dreary morning,
'Tis this that drives care away,
'Tis this that cheers the dismal evening,
All thoughts o' the past are gay.
O! life is a glorious treasure,
And love is a wealth of joy,
'Tis sweeter than all the riches
Love treasures bestow in the way.
The moon has left the sky,
And the dews are on the ground,
And I mauna gae by
To the desert's silent bound.
'Tis not alone my Love,
'Tis not alone I part wi' thee,
That my heart and mind,
Like graves, should thus prove
That I fairly bear in mind
What the lang night wind sings,
When we twa first begin
To wander out alang
The broom and late yon tree,
To pu' the bloomin' flower
In the bonnie green-wood bower.
'Tis not alone my Love,
'Tis not alone I part wi' thee,
That my heart and mind,
Like graves, should thus prove
That I truly bear in mind
What the lang night wind sings,
When we twa first begin to wander
Amang the dewy clover-fields,
And I at e'en sae soon grow weary
Of grieving Fairies nine' an' ten,
My dearest, wae for ever!
Yet lang's she weel may stay
In this lang, weary stay,
Where she's a' the land to me,
And I can see her e'en sae fair
And I can tak her back sae lanely
That's rightly follow'd by the fiddler."
This plaintive note was sent to me by Cheste's spirit:
You've heard of me? Oh, hush! I do not tease you,
My bonnie dear, do you not hear the story
About my loves and joys, what I tell you
Of the fairy queen, and how she spell me?
I tell you it is a great pity,--
I love you as much as I like and pity--
As I love the queen of fairy story.
What, oh, what? Tell us about a story
Of the fairy queen so fond and gay.
Of the maidens nine states out of number,
And I think they all are spirits of pennies
From the white-walled spectres up in the moonlight,
That they go to the dance or the drinking,
Or the dancing, dancing, the music of the fairy band,
In white-walled spectres three.
Ah! tell me, Love, with all her sweetness,
What I hear, what I see, is but this story--
A fairy tale of fairyland.
A fairy-tale,
A happy plot,
A love-tale tare,
A heartache,
A love-tale true,
A chiding,
A tale of little blue,
A chiding of the rose,
A storm at gray,
Affection's glowing eye
A heartache,
A heartache,
Then, oh! ye hearts that ache!
How closely answering warm and tender,
Each other's warm tears are a warm cooing!
Each other's love is a sweet dove's cooing.
And oh! what sweetness does the silence hold!
When, under the shadow of the mist-hung heaven,
The moon shines through the bramble-bush, and sighs:
"Oh, if 'tis the wind that flutters by at night,
Let my love fly up to the lily moon.
"Oh, if he is up to the top very high,
As on to the window I look quietly by;
Then I'll kiss him on the chin, and give him a kiss.
"With a rainbow in my hair, a glory in his eye,
A glory in my cheek that he will soon be by;
A glory of his voice, his breath, his warmth
======================================== SAMPLE 127 ========================================
,
And the others all turn'd to the right
And bent their faces towards the light,
"That we may understand," they cried,
"And will proceed without surprise."
So it began again withal,
And there was such a great belief
They did not fail to make it fall.
So they must march with zeal and zeal,
They could not slacken their career,
The enemy bent to their heel,
They met in the midst of the stir,
And many looked when they should meet,
But the sound of their sweet feet
Reach'd not their ears, and their eyes were wet
With the drops of the snow outside.
When the snow was come in the deep,
And they had sharpen'd their sails on high,
They lower'd the mast, and they five-score men
Ran on before them to and fro;
And on the swell the great sea-fowl
Came up with a rushing cry.
Now, men that follow'd the flying sails,
They dared not accept the challenge;
They stood to watch, and, by God's grace,
Before the ships came home from the chase,
The young men enter'd in.
The first man cried, "They bring you aid;
O tell me if they will?"
The second, "Yes, they carry you news,
And tell me if they will."
"I trust they will, but I have known,
They will not fail."--"But if I will,
I would not fail, O men."
And the first man hied him away
And follow'd the sailing night.
The first man cried, "O God, how good
It were for the young to rise,
Would we still follow the ways they lead,
If we indeed a place would seek?"
The second, "Yes, to die;
But if that will not, let me go,
We shall be satisfied, although
O man, why didst thou leave the bay?"
The first man cried, "Where did I go?"
The second, "I left a land--
They have not left me free,
Where would I then remain?
I can but offer liberty,
'Tis well not in the ocean;
But 'tis in the sunshine;
And only in the shadow;
And I am in the wind;
And in the rain."
The third man cried, "O God, how good
It were for me, to go
Where there is no despair;
But I am in the right
Of men to strive and fight:
And I am in the might
Of men, to love and pray."
The fourth man cried, "O God, how kind!"
The fifth man said, "We know not
The ways of the world are blind,
We cannot turn by two;
And yet we can follow our own selves,
And if we dare say 'HOW'LL,
We follow our own selves,
And if we were false or fair,
We know but little where.
And if we were false or fair,
We know but little how.
We follow our own selves
Till the things we do not see;
But if we were false or fair,
We know but little where.
Then tell me how that love
Was made to love--and aught
That no man can deny;
Tell me, and I will reply.
Tell me, and I will reply."
"I will not answer, I will hear."
"If you would tell me how it is,
I know not: do not tell,
But I will say, O man, my best
Is this that you can tell,
For all that you can say is just
You have the right to pray."
"O, no, O no, I'll pray you, my God,
But I will tell you now,
That when you go you may not go
To hear another vow."
"But I will tell you now, my Lord,
That if you keep the good,
You may not keep the good, O Christ,
For one of us but do the best
You ever might have done."
"O, no, O no, I'll pray you, my God,
But I will tell you now
That if you keep the right, O God,
You may not keep the good.
"But if you keep the right, O Christ,
For all that you have done,
You may not keep the wrong, O Christ,
For none of us but do the best
I know that you are true."
Then Christ said, "Do not keep the right
Away from us to-day;
God's blessing may go on from them,
But let that pass away."
Then Christ
======================================== SAMPLE 128 ========================================
 that day
The lady was Sir Hottentot,
The wife of Sir William Barnes,
And, lastly, Mr. Clifford is the son
Of Mistress Gilkin. There were two of them,
Miss Owroy and Miss Hubert were sisters,
A widow of Captain Lucy Moore,
I am a widow of Queenhithe,
I am a widowed mother of the Scaw,
And there's no end of it. In time to be
My seven daughters came into this land;
The men of the Zettes were all gone mad,
The men of the Zettes were crazed and brown;
"For if her daughter be a month or twain,
I'll never wed her, nor so call her Jane,"
"For if my daughter be a month or twain,
I'll never wed her, nor so call her Jane."
The men of the Zettes were all gone mad,
The men of the Zettes were all gone mad,
And they went to the station at the fore
Of Captain Walker, for Captain Cain,
Of the Zettes they were all gone mad.
Sir John Davy was a stalwart knight,
He was as lithe and lusty as a fay;
His figure was as fair as any sleigh,
His name wascandlesick, his manner less--
For all avouched the knight was a squire's,
And all avouched the knight was a squire's.
The first two of the youngest married was
A squire from the Zettes, as tall and fierce
As a fay's daughter; his dress was broad and such
And black as any was in it. My sire,
This squire from the Zettes began to spin,
And, the end of it was a rake of leather,
He would sweep all the place in a twelvemonth;
A scrap of half-keleased Mrs. Mep,
He would steal a half-keleased Mrs. Mep;
And the last two of the youngest's wedded were
East--ape: that was under the stile--I am
The Lady's-love-sack for the lady's love,
And the whole of her lover that day was a grove.
And he died and served her all that day,
And no more might he that be his wife.
So, a change having come of the evil days--
But how might they be? for her brother's sake
They died on the bridge by the river's lips,
And now that her milk was turned to water,
God bless him! He had that first love's daughter,
A first love was the first one that lay
A long time ago on the river's lips
And the wide river's brim with the fish that swim;
So that it was hers by the river's lips.
We have found out a gift for each fairy,
And let each fairy come out a queen;
So each fairy comes out a queen.
I saw him in purple, and the gold lace fell
Upon his white forehead, and I thought I saw
What a wonderful place he was.
My heart was beating
At the wonderful place where he sat,
His tiny rings in his coat-tails, and lit
His dark eyes out, and said, "All things will be
As beautiful as when they are wanted;
But you'll be all more beautiful still when you'll come
to us, in our garden, and come to us
and see."
And that was his feast-day,
The first bird's singing
Among the garden-beds.
He was so beautiful--how the gold lace fell
Upon his head and was bright! He was so fine,
Was the gold spangled all about his neck,
Was the brooch glistened about his eyes, and the pearls
Gathered about his ears which were polished up
in him, and his heavy hair flashed and glowed
Like an angel's eyes.
And the flowers stood along
In a ring of light, and I took a look
Upon the dark tree. He was as white as snow;
And a great pear-tree, with such stars as twinkled
Just down his face, was holding little flower-gems,
And only one, a little golden spindle,
Gilded by some God. I think it was a daisy
Upon his grave, and on his broad grave-top,
So pale, and all too deep for a man to touch,
And the dark tree-tops puckered with the sun
And murmured with the wind, "Take this ring down!"
And so to go we went,
And up and down, by the great sea-wall,
And the golden city with its great grey walls,
And the bright
======================================== SAMPLE 129 ========================================
!
"He is a lovely youth, and with his hair
Is curling red. Of good grey bearded men
He is, I say, a prince of gentle mould,
With flowing beard and glittering eyes; and then
With a deep voice he speaks the words which seem
Him of a prince so fair!"
"O love, O fondest love,
Thee shall the world no longer move,
While thy old godship, with a thousand eyes,
Shall sail, through the cold waves of heaven, to thee!
And yet, dear love, thou seemest like these things--
These things I show to thee;--
Come, since thou art so wise,
And know'st my life is but a wandering dream;
Come, since thou'rt young, and with thyself shalt prove
How dear a man I love!
"Yea, love, I am the man
Whose mighty hopes are set on high,
And though our lives are nearly done, alas,
In other paths than thine,
Still, still I dream, until, being young again,
I see thee in such company
As men, the years will leave,
As now, alas, I see thee, wretched now."
Then she who loved, herself, the youth, the maid,
So near him, that she made
Newly-remembered things to entertain
In olden time, but, as she said,
She knew that all his fond heart's hopes were plain.
And, as he left her, many a loving word
She kindled of her hand,
And kissed it, beating it, till parting dim
Pierced the soft heart that knew it pulsingly.
Then, while the old man's tearful eyes had brim,
The child's voice made her glad:
_Thy child, thy child, I still am childless there,
Where thou nor fear nor love canst feel nor care._
A child's voice said: "Thy boyhood is secure.
And love nor hate can change my father's heart;
Nor jealousy or hate can change his soul;
Nor can his life be like itself apart._"
To follow that voice, through the high, high hall,
He walked without a word,
Bowed o'er a bier, and said, in his young fere,
To her who him had lord.
"I give thee life," she pondered, "for my own;
And now, my son, I know
That thou to God art for my life-long love
Most welcome now, most dear:
And I, my son, have nought so blessed and blest,
That, though death comes to part,
Yet, like the sun in heaven, I still will love
To meet my father's heart.
"But, like to Heaven, in this too happy time
When Christ made earth and gave the world a king,
I, being a man, would build a holy rhyme
To crown the days of things with flowers of clime,
And tell my story to thy father's ear:
'Twas mine to sing thy love, and mine to hear
Thy voice in joy and woe.
It was the same, thou say'st, for wandering Love
Had turned the world to pain and plucked the fruit
From out the hand that held it; the same fruit
I gathered in the old, old garden-place,--
My mother's, mother's love,--to win one's heart;
And this, my son, thou say'st, is not my part.
"But even to this very place, I ween,
Thou shalt stand face to face with me and say,
Where'er thou art, I dare to say with thee:
Come, if thou wilt, we will be far away.
And, in this pleasant place, where is no space,
Nor room, nor space, nor rest, nor wearied soul,
No soul shall pass beyond the happy place:
But, as I said, fair woman be thou praised,
Because thou art the man to bear the cross
From year to year, and let thy wisdom choose
Before thine eyes, grown wondrous bright and strange."
So said she, and the mighty God anciently smiled
With her white face, and said, "My son, is this
A perfect Woman-child?
"What, and thy mother's name, and who has dared
To look upon her in such holy eyes,
And on her lips as on some holy man,
Who knows the things that make a holy prize?"
Then, with a smile as of God's love on her lips,
She answered, "Thou shalt say unto thy son,

======================================== SAMPLE 130 ========================================
, with a note,
Singing by fits, or reading by a juice;
With others more, by numbers to repeat,
To mingle, one by one, with syllables meet.
Thus ended she, and all in silence lay
And listened to the song-dove's dulcet lay.
Up rose the sun, and to the earth uprose
The goddess, fair to see, but naught divine
To guide her wishes; on the ground, her hands
She laid, and smiling gave them to the pair.
The youth with blandishment begins his song,
And as he sings his sweet melodious tongue
Begins melodious; to his lips conspires
The sweet musician, so divinely sings;
And the pleased audience wonders that the strain,
Such music never reached the ears of swains,
Sweetest to music, from his lips divorced,
And pleased remembrance soothes the gentle breast
Of virgins listen to the lay divine.
Now to the bower the venturous youth was brought,
Where sweetly breathing odors made it round,
And inly ruminating, as they thought,
The youth, with many murmurs, half-resigned,
Ran thither; they with eager steps and bold
Through the green leafy Morn their stepshan-fold
Lifted aloft; the breeze now gently blew
To the thick branches wafted odours new,
From bough to bough suspended hung the twig
In slender twig, and 'gan to shoot a nut
From under bough, close-thoughted, and within,
Pale as in colour, and enormous grew
The beard, the breast, the belly, and the chin;
And the great mouth's united strength gave joint
To members, to the arms, and to the joint
Their living and their dying powers to quick.
Thus sang the youth, and while the song he filled,
The damsel opened wide her ivory fardell,
And to her mother's chamber bore the dame;
Upon her lap an urn supported came
Of orientedar-wood, and drenched the ground,
From which a thousand flowers such odours found,
As seemed the tribute of a virgin's wound.
"The new-made bridegroom with the painted band
Of beaux and beauties came to greet the band,
Which now their bridal's train with perfumes bring,
And every damsel's train fresh odours bring."
To this the maid: "Thou dear companions mine,
To this our bridal be no further coy;
To-morrow in yon azure dome be mine
And with the troop of lovely daffodils:
Let each consent to make the bridal his."
But when at length the youth beheld, and spoke,
And spoke them fair, the damsels two by two
He dressed in robes of innocence and truth,
A sumptuous table did he spread, wherein
Were couches (from the gold made out of silk)
Two napkins, wrought with silver curiously,
Wrought all of silk of gold, with crimson green,
A double handles, and embroidery seen.
Then all set off to bid the bridegroom light
His sun-beams, for the guests were now confer
Of due refreshment; for through all the night
He had not bedimm'd, nor had set, but far
Had walk'd about, and in a darkened tent
Before his chamber sought repose elsewhere
His loving wife, beside him to repose.
The maids with buskins bound, and dress'd, and clothes
Of costliest mode, bestrode the feast at night.
Nor was the night without a darkened tent.
All round the house, far less than half the town,
The people stay'd; and many a sturdy dame
With naked limbs, at bottom of a tub
Drank deep in reverend silence; but they shew'd
Their faces bright, nor would the maids deplore
Medoro's loss, though they in noiseless slumber lay.
But while the maids and she their wishes fed,
A cavalier advanced before the pair
On princely seated, seated, at his head
Sate, to beguile the tedious hours, and wear
A pair of golden burnished arms; while he,
As nigh the young Medoro was to move,
Now bade his hand to his address entreat,
Who by his hand (the king's) and by his talk
Bred at his back: he on the bed alert
Stood, and he knew that he his stores had addrest,
Which was his own, to make him quickly glad;
The while asks suddenly, "Do
======================================== SAMPLE 131 ========================================
 in this house,
That I have, of all good things,
Rough and straight and tall and full of hair
And linen fine of yellow and red--
Well-turn'd, short, tall, and knotted, just as I--
I was brought up in this house, the house
For one.
I have been to London, now, my dear,
To look, and mark, and touch, and see, and praise,
And hear the great bells sound, high overhead;
How quick they link themselves in the same place--
You cannot guess what I was, you will guess.
And I have lived so much that I have seen
My old acquaintance with the last old town,
That I have seen myself, at the doors here
At the end of the long run, and watch'd the grey
Old homesteads, and the white sails of the past,
And the dim sea, and now my old friend's house.
I have heard enough of what seems now to me,
That I have known the worst.
O the hills and the farms!
O the hills and the farms!
It is true
And true;
There are streams and sounds of things,
And the winds in their harmonies,
And distant fields that wait for the rains.
It is true.
O the hills and the woods!
Yes, the sound of a man's voice.
It is long.
The river runs in a flock along;
The sky-tides are brown and high;
And there are little homes, sweet songs
And little sleepers by.
O the hills and the woods!
He's the darling of wives.
My father and mother are all gone away,
And I know that my heart and my brain are one prey.
I have felt the cold rain, and can be no more--
I have felt the cold rain, and can remember the moan.
The clouds are sereward, and my heart is dead,
And, being comforted, I do not complain.
Again the rain beats, and the fair sky smiles,
Again the wind is as it did of yore,
And my tears are tears. Oh, I am glad again!
I know that I am going, and God is just.
I will tell you what I came from:
How a flower, white, and red,
Fell from heaven, and found there
Growing in a garden bed;
Over which a lily-cup,
White as snow, bloom'd, and fell
Into the green earth's bosom;
Grew so bright, and ripened,
That like ripening years
Every joy and hope was.
Oh, the hills and the woods!
Soft the wind, moist the dew,--
Bees and flowers and beasts and birds,
And I grew so tired, and you,
Oh, so tired, and tired, and me!
O the hills and the woods!
But how changed since I was come!
How sweet, how close they grew!
All the grass was ripe and fresh,
And the trees were all with buds,
And there did I grow and grow,
In the fields right glad and gay;
O so tired, tired, and me!
O the hills and the woods!
I knew that your eyes had been
Dimmed at dawn by a sudden star;
And your voice grew weak and harsh;
And I thought, "If I were a worm,
I would break at once the silence:
I would love to find in me
Something that could love with me
Something that could love with me
All the day, the night, the dawn,
Childhood, and the world's delight.
"So I grew and grew--and grew,
Till I heard a ceaseless crying,
And I knew the voice of One
Rising there on shining wings;
And I cried aloud, 'Oh, save!'
And my tears ran out like rain
In the wintry air of June.
"And a little wind arose,
And blew me home at last;
And it bore the brightest news,
And I said, 'It is past!'
"And it louder blew in the night,
And it louder blew in the day;
And it blew me home at last,
And it blew me home at last.
"And I climbed upon a tree,
And I fell down on my knee;
And there I blushed, and blushed for shame,
And there I blushed for shame;
"And there I was, and there I was;
And there I was, and there I was;
And there I was, and there I was;
And there I was, and there I was;
"And there I
======================================== SAMPLE 132 ========================================
, or _Barry-Vetry_. _See_ where all is _good_;
_Bore_, or _burned_, or _burned_, or _burned_; and what is _good_
_Bore_, _burned_, or _burned_, _burned_; and what is _good_,
_Bore_, _burned_, or _burned_, or _burned_; all is _good_.
_Bore_, or _burned_, or _burned_; and what is _good_,
_Boreman_, or _burned_, or _burned_; and what is _good_,
_Boreman_, or _burned_, or _burned_; no balm of _burned_;
_Boreman_, or _burned_, or _burned_; and what is _good_,
_Boreman_, or _burned_; no balm of _burned_; oh, what is _good_!
_Boreman_, or _burned_, is very often _good_; it isn't _good_,
_Boreman_, or _burned_, or _burned_; what is good, is _good_; and what is
_Boreman_, or _burned_, or _burned_; what is good is _good_; and what is
_Boreman_, or _burned_, or, _burned_; and what is _good_, or what is
_Boreman_, or _burned_; no _boreman_, _burned_, or _burned_; _yet_
_Boreman_, or _burned_; these sounds are no idle sounds.
_Boreman_, or _burned_, is in another sense _boreman_; _boreman_,
_Boot_, or _burned_; and, lastly, all that one sound of _boreman_
_Boreman_, or _burned_, or _burned_; which is the case with the
_Boreman_, or _burned_; exactly _cleaned_, or _burned_; the
strongly well disposed, or somewhat perhaps strong or somewhat
fty, may have a right to their battering-rams. In a word, these
_thunder_; but in _thunder_ of the iron-beam, iron-beam, it is
difficult to get through the iron-stream; the iron-beam is most
defective.--_The rope_, or _cross-bar_.
_Boreman_, or _cross-yard_, or _cross-yard_; and it is uncertainly
treated, whether this is not a bad place, as it seems to the
_Boreman_, or _Boreman_, any particular work, or _black_,
_Broad-backed_, or _broad-side-brimmed_, with the iron-beam as a
_boreman_, or an iron-timiced iron-timiced iron-working
_Boreman_, or _cross-binder_; a _cross-binder_, a _botan_,
_Boreman_, or _cross-binder-fire_; a _cross-fire_, or _blinder_,
_Baal_, or _cross-binder_. It is not easy to discern, however, the
_Bare-footed_, or _bonnet-work_, _bruse-faced_, a _breast-look_, or
_Cris-Cris-Crisper_, or _combed-smooth_, are there no other writers
_Cris-Cris-Crisper_, or _chis-Cris-Cris-Cris-Crisper_, or, in the sense of
_Cris-Cris-Crisper_, or _crou-crou-crou_, or _chapel-scortion_, to the
_Cris-Cris-Cris-Crisper_, or _conch-crack_, in Saxony or Durham.
"_Crimson_ and _chubby_ (in a small group) are good English
Englishmen, and have a mixture of English Literature and
therefore, by way of leaving them, I think, of English-English
_Crumbs_
======================================== SAMPLE 133 ========================================
,
On the broad, lustrous course of the ocean-sea,
On the deep, wide-swept plain of the watery main,
On the deep, the wide sea levels,
On the broad, bright waves of the ocean-sea,
On the sandy beach and the ships, the fleet,
In the harbour-lifeless.
"Thus may ye, indeed, be content,
With your burdens, manifold to endure
In this mighty voyage;
Thus may ye, indeed, be content
With a burden at home, not with the weight
Of a ship's plank at last.
"And though you are to forget
All that the bosom holds within me,
Though storms be upon me,
Were you never to come to my dear country home.
If you were to come to my dear country home
With a comrade true, kind heart and true,
I would gladly give you my dear land,
My heritage with salt and blood of you.
"But if you remember the days how good
Our father lived, and our mother too,
When we all went on board that gallant ship,
Then, then, say good to me, what should I do?
I would gladly give you my land,
My heritage with salt and blood of you.
"But if you remember how a ship,
A very good ship, had come to our country home,
And the sailor had never sailed home.
Let's sail to-day into Sweet France,
To-morrow to England,
We will be glad to voyage home,
To-morrow to England."
'Twas long ago, so many years ago,
In a kingdom far beyond imagining,
They named the place where the great ships should go--
And still they do not call it Misnia,
That they wanted to visit some distant shore.
And the sailors have drifted all this while
In a strange, lonely land where the great cliffs are bare,
And the salt is never heard, and the bitter air,
And the birds of the air have feathers floating there;
And some of them long since returned to rest
In a strange, lonely land where the great ships did stand,
And the salt of the waters hath always surged in the land.
And the sailors are waiting here and the ship shall stand
On the high, white cliffs of Spain upon a sea of storm,
Then, with the darkness over us,
Come down to your own home, sweet country,
Where our hearts are warm and our eyes are free,
Where the salt is never heard nor the bitter air,
And the birds of the air are singing apart in the air.
And we shall dream of beauty that others never see,
With the old sweet singing seam and the rising sun,
And the waves rolling over our happy dream,
And the birds of the air are singing apart in the sun.
It was the hour of midnight! There was not a sound!
Only the distant thunder that rolled afar,
And the far-echoing roar of the Overland Sea,
Tolling their endless rounds in our inconstant hearts,
Found in each hollow a name we know not of,
So breathed the passion of dusk and morning on the sea;
Then a faint odorous colour flashed into the dark,
And the wave's tremulous plume revived into a spark;
And the sea awoke, and the bright green eyes of Heaven
Looked up with fear at the gathering of the waves;
But when the last bright wavelets were rolled away,
The sea awoke like a worshipper of God;
The sea awoke and the wind cried in the night,
And the white foam rose where the great ships should come
To take us over a desolate isle of sand.
The sea awoke like a worshipper of God;
The long sweet waves of the sea rose and fell,
And the long surf rose where the great ships should go,
And the deep surf rose where the great ships should go.
They were the ministers of that great dawn,
And their white wings were the banner of their quest;
They drank of the cup of death from the hand of trust;
They knew no life, they were no death, they knew no love;
And we who have found in a world of tears
Feel no more sorrow or fear than the ocean's roar,
Shall drink the memory of mad adventures gone,
Perchance return to the restful shores of peace;
We shall know only the desolate terrible years,
The wail of unending years, the hope of England's tears;
And the wail of the midnight sea shall be silver sand,
And the cry of the tossing ships, as the waves shall stand,
And the sound of a thousand creeds that shall walk on the deep;
And the sound of a thousand cre
======================================== SAMPLE 134 ========================================

The poet's "Night Thoughts"
The moon is all night, the stars are all bright;
The trees are astir when the sun rises high;
When they lift their spray, at the dip of the sky,
The boats come steaming down the bay.
The boats come out of their winter-bound bark,
To landward a fire of wind from the dark
Doth dwindle and thrill with the tide's returning sweep,
And the boatmen hear and the sails of the deep.
The stars are astir when the sky's at its best;
And the sun sinks low in the depths of the west;
But all of the stars of the sky and the deep
Have filled their watches with loveliness,
And awaking the world from sleep.
The stars are astir when the sky's at its best;
And the sea and the deep have filled their number.
O star of night, though the night is fair,
Thou art hidden in Earth's bosom fair;
In the void and the void thy lustre be,
And the night that is Love shall clasp thee there.
Night, night shall strive with thee; and the stars of night
Shall twinkle to give you light.
Night, night shall strive with thee; and the great deep,
With the stars and the waters of Night, shall keep
Their course in the depths of the melancholy deep,
Until, pale with grief and white.
The moon is sunk behind the waters;
The earth's grey wraith is gathering;
The winds are still; and deep in ocean
Are rolled the mighty sighing.
The waves are foaming to the shore,
And the moon is lost in terror;
The shore is still; and the tide's unrest
Has reached its last year's haven.
Night, night shall strive with thee; and the great deep,
With calm, indomitable sleep;
With dark unfathomable motion;
With deep-eyed hope, high and hoar;
With the soul, tranquil and fearless,
That never yields to emotion,
And never gives up feeling and soul,
Thy mighty, deep endeavour.
The moon is sunk in depths of ocean;
The sun is like a scroll in motion;
She shines upon her sovereign city,
All motionless, and still.
The tide is rising up to heaven;
The tide is swelling slow;
Slowly its course hath softly, softly,
Over the western hill.
But night goes down;--the golden moon
Is rising on the tide;
'T is now the time of many hours
To vanish at her side.
The moon is shining like a banner
In a world of beauty;
'T is now the banner of creation
That waves in its array.
Like the flag of stars, the waves are flowing,
As though a joy, a mystery;
And the sound of one long joy forever
Is heard in all the sea.
There's pleasure in the happy hours,
And in the ocean's murmurous sound.
O world of tides! O life of flowers!
Unawed by storms, unheeded, bound!
Thy music sounds the moveless sea,
And turns the mighty spheres of earth
To music and the noise of mirth.
For this, for this the soul must brood
In deeps that never care to know--
Its kingdom and its destiny,
Its calm and mighty unity;
Its power of calm and shadowy love,
Its mystery, its love, that rolls,
With ceaseless unremanded motion,
A shore forever, evermore.
The soul must rise above the wave,
And find the spirit's haven there.
But when the storm has left the shore
Still rests 'neath its majestic wings;
The spirit's wings, ere yet they bore
The winds of other worlds, shall wear
Thy beauty and thy grace and grace,
And in thy children, evermore.
_The Girt Deity, the Sun, etc._
Holy Child of Bethlehem, whose heart
Unto every wandering star
Revealed its strength; who Jesus led
Through the path of the comet's way
To his throne in glory glorious;
Loving Him, as He sat beside
His dying infant's age,
When from earth above and heaven above
He cried, "Arise! for I
Am the God of every good
And every good to be;
"And though earth and heaven be cast
From him by a careless eye,
I am the Father, as I am
The Christ on which the world is bent.
"From all which are possible
God cometh in decree,
And the blessed One, we give
To Him is the Eternal King of love;
"In all but the
======================================== SAMPLE 135 ========================================
, _De Vendall_,
Lines written on casting, russet paper,
_The History of Mag._ folio _From the Curse of Smith_
The _Poems of the Diviners_
_Wagner_. Spenser has declared,
That while all others were acquainted
To each other's personal friendship,
Not a tango could the lovers find,
Nor a sympathy to one's mind;
For they thus did bind and bind,
To a consummating condition
Of all who brought them to a stand.
But I am confused, because (we know)
You, _The Human Const'rest_, love no _Roman_:
They have changed this way; we think they _ought_,
And now they've both been married!
Then to the bar come all who speed,
Pretending, that from _you_ they'll proceed,
Who are so much out of touch with _you_,
They'll have such an assurance of it!
But to conclude, from all I've written,
As it stands not to be copied,
We of our own age have not been
The surest servants of this Court.
We have not, as we think, existed
Ten times the least in Lucrece,
And our _loves_ now, as it were, the _most_
Retreats, you've nothing in you, Sir;
We can write no more lines to make
Those friends acquainted with us here,
Than we ourselves to be at _you_,
And thus we keep the only way
To escape from those infernal shades.
In vain we strive to introduce
Our thoughts to reason out of season:
The reason is, that if the rout
Of mortals be indulged in _their_,
'Tis time to drop down with the _dearly_;
And, worst of all, we are as wise
As to keep on the _fragment_ we
Get there at once! If only they
Could thus, without one _burst of_ blood,
Get up and _tear_ our Lady's bosom,
If there were not of Roman _bravo_
_As many rumours are herein_!
The Roman, he, for _cushion_ granted,
And the devout devout old _parliamento_,
Had they been rather damned 'bove _them_,
And found their _dearly_ blood a _dower!_
The _glory_ they desired, as all
We've seen, in times before or since,
To make the most of what they call _fondrie_.
But these are few: the _true_, at least,
For all the _old_ ones are enough;
But, this for certain I must say,
And, on the contrary, we _will_!
The _country_ too, that _sharing_ breed
Who have not got a _sense_ in speed,
_Except_ where it is _fair_ to _out_,
Is _mine_, too, after all her _works_!
And as to _me_, it's needless to
Compare those times with others of,
Or that the author calls the _charter_
__A Ten-knot_ or the _moral_ line,
_With all the author's satisfaction_!
When I could _five_ years _three_ years _five_!
And yet, at any rate, at least,
I knew it not, for I _was_ kept
_Six_ years and _five_; and, if I could,
I'd _give_ one _five_ years more and _five_!
And, on the whole,--if I am _five_,--
If what you say be not _five_ to _five_!
So _five_ a year--and then, in fine,
Remember the old proverb of Rhone.
I once was pretty and fond of roses,
And the prettiest damsel in the world.
No one did more than honour to one's roses,
And there was more than he could do in _five_.
And yet one passion in it that I cherished
For my one day and now to my old end;
For one that was in love is now forever,
That was in love with I am _to_ thee.
_My Songs._ As I was walking up the hill
A couple came by making a sensation
For me to say "Time's going to kill!"
They were surprised, for they were sitting
'Fore me they had come to say good-by
To my poor heart, and I was gaily
Bridled and happy, looking why
They thought I'd
======================================== SAMPLE 136 ========================================
, _Babes_."
"_Caledonian_": the word translated by Milton, _Theodolian_.
Cupid and Huntress, following her, were sitting on a hillock, which
"When I by thee arose, &c."
"I rose up, and homeward led
Thy love-affairs, Love's self indeed
Said: 'I am thine,' &c.
"The hounds and shepherds as they stray,
Follow with song thy vesper-bell;
And all the echoes, far away,
CeChant with the carol of the Bell.'"
"But I shall sit
On his throne when the dawn of day
Shall softly beckon, beckoning thee.
Then shalt thou hear, my carols' glee,
The morning and the evying trees,
The calling hills, the singing seas,
Thy morning and thy evening star,
And the sweet sounds of carols bar
My love-affairs."
"I made my bed on the kirk-stool there,
The kirk-stool there, love, to my Dear,
And all the world was love below
The steep O'Narcissus feet
To take and bind around me still.
"I laid my watch on the kirk-stool there,
The kirk-stool there, love, to my Dear;
And all the world was love around
The steep O'Narcissus feet,
"And all the world was love around
The deep O'Narcissus feet,
"And all the world was love around
The deep O'Narcissus feet,
"And all the world was love around
The deep O'Narcissus feet,
"And all the world was love around
The deep O'Narcissus feet."
"Narcissus eyes,
O eyes at best, what are _they_?
What are they but the light that shines
In the dark o' the night's blue?"
"O bells at half-past four, rung down
Early to bed, late to the even-song!
O dear dreams,
What are they but the echoes of
The long O'Narcissus feet,
"And the grave Narcissus feet?"
"A song that was happy and seldom found,
That is like an ode to the mellifluous ear,
And that like a song of enchantment,
That is something of constant worth,
And is chiefly of altogether
A song of the days when I first heard
The Eleusinian mysteries
So carefully wrought upon, I know not
What is wonderful, 't was spun out of thread
Between the seraphs and their singing mouths,
As the thread of a song.
And there is a rhythmic roundelay of wonder,
And there is a murmur of holy things,
Swelling up to its soul,
And stirring in melody,
In the shadow of the whole.
The voice of the Angel is as faint and sweet
As a harp when the soul is falling,
And as solemn the words of our feet repeat,
While they come to the Angel's call
To carry our hearts to its roof across
From the lips to the eyes and into the hair.
And as they carry our hearts in there,
The angel's wings are gone,
And our two souls are all alone
And in the garden of the unknown.
(Written after the Edward Fall of Druids.)
I will not doubt that God is kind
For who may wait while He is blind.
The flowers are fair in Holy Land,
But the sweetest of all gardens
May grow from stem to blossom-head
And sweeten the smell of the clover.
And on the wall the shrubs are glowing
And the blue smoke up to their scent
Is finer for their floral going,
And there is the hum of the turtle.
The birds in the dark pine-wood rejoice,
And the blue smoke up to their song
Is the pride of all their hearts and voice,
And the wind of the world is strong.
Through the windows shines a glory,
Through the windows is a breath,
Of the summer morn and story
Comes the Comrade Ergandth.
And the children in their playing
See the tender lambs at play,
And the yellow butterflies on the trees,
And the grasses on the wall,
And the flocking of the cattle
While the wind on the window-pane
Is the joy of the new-mown grain.
And there is the happiness and content
Of the land of the Yellow Press,
Of its mountains richly d
======================================== SAMPLE 137 ========================================
, _The Lady._]
PANDORUS in this Hall not long ago
Did more than once a Man to please
In such a House, and no long time
Went as she went.
By reason of her passing 'Lilly!'
And thus in peace.
It was not till a youthful pair
Were in the Castle that they built
To keep 'The Porcupine' in care
To please their Prince, and thence grow fat.
You can't imagine how, in truth,
These two young men got on the youth
Into such cruel work.
But since they did so,
And did so much the worse for both;
I should not, could I doubt the sequel--
Enough to make the matter lighter
For the event.
You see, Sir, many curious things,
This entertaining, eh?
You are beginning, then, to praise
The Young Prince, though he were frays:
For, in my house, he never knew
A Lady's love or Knight's true passion:
Now, in his heart I hold this much,
If he be false in times like this:
'They are out of date,' in sooth, that you,
The Young Prince, are in trouble.
But as to their pretensions,
And your proclivities, I reckon
They quite forget their means.
And, Sir, to say it,
Is quite the worst of all to-day,
Not to do them what I say,
And, if the case must prove the worst,
I should think all the harm would come
That they have done to him.
I must allow
You should not be so delicate
As to take from me the least flirt
On this occasion.
It is my wish
To make some choice
Of dapper lovers, with the rest
To stay their love--if it be so!
And thus to let them in, I find
They shall be wedded to some mind
Afterthought of, and so
With all the men and ladies, too.
And how the young Prince's gracious ear
Is bent upon this choice, my dear!
And is his heart so full of pride
So hot indeed,
That he is all his parents' pride?
Yes-more. And is he like the rest?
His very looks are excellent;
And, if he did, for his part,
I think that his own heart
Would take the trouble to prevent
His obstinacy.
He is now somewhat lean and hale,
He has no more legs than a tail;
And if he wishes them to see him,
They look extremely sober.
Yet he does strut and strut about,
And takes delight thereby;
Which shows the most diaphragous
And wayward amity.
Now, on the whole,
I pray you do not take him out
For fear he should be shot;
Or else he had no legs, for fun,
And there is no more fun.
And in the end
The Prince himself will very well
He may become, and will, forsooth,
A good lad to the youth.
He is not of the sort that choose young men
To be the youngest and the noblest then;
And you, Sir, are no man of such pride
As by half the world should be divided:
Yet why compare
With a young Prince?
In the course of years to be
The better portion of this life
Of which it is decided
'Twill go on till all's decided,
A hundred years to-day's decline,
In after years:
But, oh! that I could make it mine,
To do this thing
Without the fear of leaving you.
It grieves me much to want
Your friendly Prince to vex and vex.
I wish him something else.
But you'll not wish
That I should have my pretty lass
To keep you from the least flirtation.
But I have no desire
To ask a kind word of your presence.
You have a right to require
To see me at the very minute.
Then why
Be careful, Sir, of putting by
Such things upon a word of sense,
Unless you let me say it freely?
I know not, Sir,
Nor can I, if I should request,
Your leave were pleased so,
That with my very utmost favour,
I might deserve your friendship.
Nay, I'm so curious still, and therefore
I can't but think upon the cause
Of my neglect,
Which, should I take it, would not, quite;
So do not, Sir, be angry with me,
I did for you my whole heart grieve in.
You wrong yourself with the complaint, Sir,

======================================== SAMPLE 138 ========================================
s of the
We were crowded almost to the margin of the sea, very
We struck a number of the 'Opals' and the 'Wiscauns.'
We were the 'Men and Ma' in the 'Thoroughets,' the joyous
We were 'We'd ha' o' luck if the door wasn't open; and, as to-day, a
If the inn was still, or a dozen of doors were still, I should
We had only one way, and a dozen,--a slight abode in the
bivouac,--a little bay in the heart.
If you want me, don't put my hand on your head--then don't say,
I want the best-key in the world--a good one if you ever did.
If you want me, don't let your own hands ply the broom, the bough as
I want you to do, no matter where you come,--the little bay
cock.
She had no rose-leaf left over her lids, as she had left them.
She had no raiment nor rags of 'em short-glimmering,'
A little bud on the rough rough-hewn stone, she was so much in
need.
If you want me, don't go back to town, for there you'll meet me.
If you want me, don't go back to the house; and it must be
I've a little brown bed as I lie upon it; and I smell a
hop-vine that will open for you in the twilight.
If your clothes should be healthy, don't put it on; for it's as
If you want me, don't go back to your house again; and it
shall be better so.
If you want the best-food I am always,--and it shall be comfortous
I will send you a copy of poetry, a pair of fine apprentions
to my sister D'Sheau, who is to sit with her like a queen.
I shall read a little poem, short and happy; to be
content with the event that I shall be treated by the
antelope. Not at all like a translation of an original
poem.
I have nearly forgotten that the present edition of 'The
lily's face.
A little dust-drop, that has hardly been anywhere, but as it
has been kept a birthday in every one's pocket.
When this little snowdrop comes to earth
It is so wondrous sweet and fair,
And when the crocus stirs its birth
It is so wondrous wise and rare.
I know a dog, that in my play
Is often sad and full of fears,
And when I think of all he hath to say
It turns to sorrowful amaze.
He never thinks to harm the man,--
He never thinks of harm or play,--
And so he always says good-bye
And then, good-bye to everything.
He never thinks of anything
But just himself he can't command;
He is the only little dog I know
That doesn't like his father's hand.
I know a cat, that tracks a trot,
With such a purring whisk and tail,
That when I jump into a frot
They multiply all over the rail.
He cannot say how many birds
A visit do when he is there,
But, if you think he'd rather hear
Within the compass of a chair,
You'd think the dimple on his ear,
His dimple and his purring tail
Would be the very Bird of Cheale.
If you could guess my mirth and grief,
And see if I was young and fair,
If I could guess the words he brings
From his melodious parent-kin,
You would not hear a single one
Exclaimed 'Good-day' to you and me!
If you could see my happy pride
Borne over by the self-same way,
You'd think it all a bird's-eye bride,
You'd say 'Good-day' to every day.
And if your pride was not so high
As to be sure that it was high,
You'd deem the only little bird
You see this summer sky, this morn,
Would blot the map from memory
Of all the things that you have heard,
All that my mirth and grief have been
And that you never understood
Till you came by the magic wand
Whereby the things we never see.
Then you would sit and watch the sun
Show ripples off its golden rim,
Then you would hear him proudly groan
And think that he is glad and grim,
Then you would laugh to think that, too,
He somehow tiptoes
======================================== SAMPLE 139 ========================================
, and _Gosips_
And the great Lord Mayor of this nation,
Is, doubtless, at most a mere flea;
But, as the great ones are told in books,
There's nothing can stop the great De-gosiers,
Except that he has but one bed t'other;
And the De-go-to-ans will not take another.
This time is very fine, I fear,--
If I may read awhile,
As it were--those few mistake,
And these my leisure, as you think,
The kind of reason;
My time is short, and comes too slow;
I'd like to do so soon.
Just think what this may mean,--
And yet, of course, I know
They are to blame,--the few mistake
That, by themselves, the poet makes.
You may mistake, but soon,
Just think the farther that men's eyes
May gain by distance,
If they've the chance,--to make a rhyme,
And force a libel;
Or, for a bribe, some day will run
The sooner to disgrace
The point, I fear, of getting back
The last of my new face.
But this, this is the truth,--and why
Should I endeavor,
If--like this little Puss, to tie
Some _summum_ closer?
_Nota bene_! and--spite manifestly bred,
I might get up, methinks, with speed, not speed,
And, somewhat wrongly, cast, some better head,
Into the path of duty that's my need.
One's duty, as God knows, is strictly bound
With others, and he loves the right things found;
Besides, the course of doing good is not
In that way in the service of the _chère_:
For as it is, I take the wrong road in,
With greater ease than might a passage win.
My time of life's labor is not in the right,
Not for myself, but for the good of right;
For what is wrong, my time of life's career
Is firm, with my own strength, to steer the steer.
"_Nota bene_, for once, when life was here.
"_Nota bene_, for once I see no trace
Of life,--no matter whether it be apace:
For of one care, so fond, we may not part:
But of the self-same wish, I hold, my heart.
This goodly _rout_, that lamely strives its way
Of giving thanks as well as answering grace:
That as we gain the meed of inward pain,
"_Nota bene_, for one will strive, and _I_ will pay."
To-day my task is done, and, as you see,
My muse,--the perfect pensive orb of me,--
My task, in which I so much like to pass,--
My best Peculiarum let us cast away.
If in your _seldom cordials_ to be _known_,
Why should not I, if still despised, atones?
The _other_ system still is held alone,
And still to-day and thus, we know, a ONE.
If, in your _discourses_ to be _known_, yet still,--
'Tis something to be _thoughtless_ of, and still
That, from the thought that we can call and see,
'Tis what comes _out_, and serves to put to sea.
The "cross" of life, though with the ocean-wrecks
Of ages, oft is thawed: there's no relief
In dying throes, unless you try to _cross_,
Or _cross_ this _cross_.
Thus, on our ladder to the _cross_ of life,
We step by step will reach the _cross_ of life;
We step by step will find the _cross_ of life,
And the _cross_ of it.
_Nota bene_, for _circe_ we never knew;
But we were _foes_, who, though ourselves all _sway_,
_Fled,--_fled,--while the Saxons count in few_;
Nor _felt_ those few _records of the _cross_.
Tho' wandering _cross_ we meet among the _cross_,
_Fled,--_fled,--and the Saxons count in _thief_!
Of the _cross_, I would say, in my _even-song_,
I would not go back to my _Cross-reason_; (
======================================== SAMPLE 140 ========================================
s and the rest of the Greeks
Shall see the Trojans face to face to fight."
Such were his counsel; and the Argives all
Their hearts were moved to wrath; of many things
The ancient man had told his words of doom.
And now the son of Tydeus' giant son
Lay on his couch, the while his father's head
And his own neck abode with all his limbs.
Now was the day restored by glorious Jove,
When Tydeus' giant son should first ascend
Aurora to the starry heaven. His couch
Was with the dead: the giant bade his limbs
Be stript; and clad in death-like sleep alone,
He lay. While now no breathing mortal man
Had power to stir the shades of sleep away,
He lay deep-shuddering; for at first he breathed
His soul away in sleep: yet on his mouth
No wind dared issue through the open doors
Of death, that woke the pain: the mighty shape
Of Agamemnon, King Augeias, lay.
Then, with his soul still quivering from the blow,
He lay, in dreams, in anguish o'er the death
Of Jove. Ah! what availed him now to die
Far-distant from his home? Ah! were he now
Still living, he might heal his giant heart,
Though all his life were laid upon the bier.
But now his eyes are closed, and on the ground,
Beneath the mighty hero's feet, he lies,
His only resting-place the earth had known,
Which had been his e'en when in those days
Of agony, the spoiler had been slain.
But, when the hour of sleep draws near, straightway
His eyelids close; no breathing mortal man
Hath power to check him, that he sleeps a space,
And in his dreams the heart of man foregoes
Its latest pang. Ah! could it but allow
The mighty soldier to his arms; ah! then
His long sleep lingers. Ah! would he were now
So far removed from man! But now I see
That he is dead! Ah me! how would he lay
One hour by me, and yet have strength to die!
Yea, he would die and leave me.
But the mighty god
Beside him stood; with awful form he stood
With one fierce look upon his face. He stood
Grimly before him. "Father," quoth he,
"What of this? Come, my child, thy daughter brings
For sacrifice a great bull's hide for him,
And round her altars, by her own right hand,
A large bull's flesh about her in her flesh
Aye for so great a father. Now thine heart,
That hath been pierced with anguish and doth seek
A death, shall die."
But now at last
He rose to earth, his face a radiant flower,
As if twin sorrows nestled on his lips.
Then to his breast he thrust it, burning-brimmed,
With outstretched hands, and took the chalice down
To burn the victim. 'Neath his feet he bore
The fat of hemlock, and withal he filled
The cup-bearer full. "I have sent this man
To me to give me sacrifice as his
Dear son to honour." Then to him he said,
"Go, and receive him; grant me now my son
Of whom thou askest; grant me him his grace,
Whom here I brought aback, when hither he
Hath brought, a lovely captive from the shore
Of death, to lie, and keep the cup of gold
That once I had; and ask him who he is,
My son and grandson; and my name be sure
Before the godlike men, who dwell in Thebes
Who dwelt of Thebes, the wide earth to adorn
Now taketh sway and reign therefor. I give
All gifts and offer them unto thee, lest
Thou see me a suppliver. Hold my place:
If unto thee thou wilt but come again,
For now at last I know not, and my son
Will be a king, and I am queen of all."
So went they to the house whence he had led
Their sullen-chosen son. To their old friend
Then spake he, "Hail, most high! most valiant prince
Of men! there is no king in whom is none
Of all the earth excels. Thou that hast done
Thyself for me his service well, and been
Most mighty in the days before his throne
And set thy name high up among the Gods,
Send
======================================== SAMPLE 141 ========================================
 of the
It is well known that the stories which he has told are, from the
The following note, as it happened in a long poem are given in a
The text of Agincourt was originally written, however, by the
reader, and by the author.
What is a rhymer? So that, at a time, before he had written a
It is a subject for a separate charm to fashion his vision,
The subject is of the following reason:--
The _sentimental description_ of the whole book is of universal
The object of the volume is of universal amusement. The author's
When a flower is here, or a tree or a flower,
Or a fallen rose, or a broken appetite;
A flower that must grow and must die and decline,
Leaves but an earth that has soil for a vine:
The flower is a flower and the tree a boot,
And yet the tree is a broken thing:
The root is a tree, but the tree is a tree,--
And that is the root of my song to thee.
The river that flows on to the sea--
The fields with green moss--are so;
The hill where I go is a broken thing,--
I would that it might blow over the sea.
The river that flows on to the sea--
The leaf is green, and the flower sweet;
The hill where I go is a broken thing,--
I would that it might blow over the sea.
We should know more of the mystery of the rivers of the _Dou_,
The stream that flows to the sea--
The river that flows to the sea--
And every one is a broken thing,--
We should know more of the mystery of the rivers of the _Rose_,
The roses, and the birds, and the bees that hover there,
And the brooks that run by the beautiful water of the air.
I saw the swallows gathering there--
I saw the river and the trees--
The rivers of Babylon are flowing, going to their knees;
And the Lamb (I know) is coming with his all-devouring pace,
To lead me from all that's left in me--or else the Cross is lost,
With the flower on his lips that bloomed in every wind-swept place.
I saw them huddled there--I saw them,--I heard them lift and
Come, my Love, along the stairs again--
Come, you rooms for firesides made
Ere we learnt to love's great pain.
Cold and raw the rivers freeze--
But my Love will follow soon!
Hearken, dearest,
I will follow
Where Love led me,
For the gods call me
To the palace-hall,
Where Apollo came,
And the gods, the gods--
As they all call me,
And my heart shall be
The fountain-sea,
Where my love,
Like a great white star,
Shall guide me
Swiftly o'er the sea,
To love and be
A lover,
And then return
To the dark green lawn
Where, sleeping,
When the wind is sighing,
And I weary, sighing, I arise,
To bring you to me.
For I am the wind, and I call on my love to stay,
To fly to me,
And tell you I wait,
Till your eyes go out
With love in my heart.
Till you go away
With a happy kiss:
Till we meet in heaven,
And then in your garden
Without any pity;
And the stars look above
With wonder, and love,
And in everything,
But my love's a star,
And my heart's a star.
Then to light your love
On the star above.
And all else above
Worship in the darkness
That burns ever bright,
And keep you waiting,
Till your eyes grow bright
With love in your heart.
To the hearts that are mine and all else below
I have given you the world and the world, in my hand;
And there, with the comfort of stars in the night, have I set you
I gave you my world and the world's name o'er,
That your love might take comfort and comfort me;
And there, through the joy of my being, let me take
Rest and sleep and find joy in my lot,
And the love in my heart, as it used to be,
To feel the joy here within the heaven of me.
To the hearts that are dead and gone from me,
The dead that shall live, without waking or waking,
And walk the hills where the Summer day is gone;
All the dead are mine in their graves to lay you;
======================================== SAMPLE 142 ========================================
,--in brief the term of their life-time
Is so unavailing of any men's lives that any man's living
could ever do them wrong. They are only a part of an unknown
life, the whole of which is wasting away. The life which they
probably died to is in the distance from them is but a simple
journey.
"My Father," they exclaimed with a laugh. "Thou hast already
children,--thou hast already said to me that they are not all
worthy of the crown when I am in them; but now I am angry with
them; I could not, for I was so ready, be in readiness for an
admiring sentence; and, for the sake of those things that are not
now forbid to the other, I should say less for them than for
sprouts. They are like wellsproutes swollen with water that is
riversed by no sin of man. They resemble angels with smiling
colors, and have a sweet fragrance that will touch them forever."
They might not be curious about God, and yet a bit of his
heart began to fail him. He began to comfort himself by calling
round his Father, and asked him to ask them what they were doing,
that was not fitting for their perfectness; and he granted his
saying that they were all men, and that they were all his
goods. But they gave him the name of the Son of God on Mount
CANTO II. The mount of Meroes
When the Son of God appeared again in heaven, the world was
lighted by the clear light which was breathed from the cross
that shines through it, the light that was shed over men in
earth and the face of the great Son of God, arose before him
saying, "Son, look upon this man, and thou hast seen the
glorious gift which is bringing heaven down below." Then he
his Father and Son, and gave the heaven by his song.
(ll. 2 enchantments.)
(ll. 3 enchantments.)
(ll. 2 enchantments)
(ll. 2 enchantments)
(ll. 2 enchantments)
(ll. 2 enchantments)
(ll. 2 adventure)
(ll. 2 adventure harbored in the valley of Meroes--the vale
over the height of Meroes--the vale, the mount, the lake, the
(ll. 2 adventure harbored in the valley of Meroes)
(ll. 2 adventure harbored in the valley of Meroes--the vale
over the height of Meroes--the vale, the lake, and the precipice
tree; and the valley in front of the mountain is hidden by
(ll. 2 enchantment mars all things from God.)
(ll. 3 enchantments)
(ll. 2 enchantments)
(ll. 3 enchantments)
(ll. 3 vivacity in earth and heaven.)
(ll. 2 enchantments)
(ll. 2 enchantments)
(ll. 3 sweet savours)
(ll. 2 sweet smells of the wild ground.)
(ll. 2 sweet smells of the mountain and the grove, and the
waters which bring the blessed peace to men. O! blessed is the
(ll. 2 sweet smells as they come from God.)
(ll. 3 peaceably in the worldfields  . . . God bless you,
(ll. 3 sweet sounds from his high throne, and the multitude,
gladly in the green fields of the world; the good men and the
(ll. 3 sweet sounds, O sweet voices from the holy land; the
voice of the people and the manners of the earth.)
The heavens, the earth, and the light of God are shining over
(ll. 4 sweet sounds, O sweet voices from the holy land)
And the blessed land is filled with gladness, and the gentle
winds of God move through the groves of the clear and tranquil
streets, and sound His blessed sound. O! may the voice of the
minstrels of the world forever prolong His blessed sound and
sing it to the angels! On the banks of Rhine, on the river
unknown from the world, are holy maidens. She is a
goddess in the East, and one of her name is Niam,--the angel, in
(ll. 6 strong wills in the world; also "I am the King," and
(ll. 7 grows old and grieved in his breast.)
The gods are good to man, and good to God,
and they say that they give good also to man only, but that
God alone gives the good.
(ll. 7 grows old and grieved in his breast)
When thou hast thanked
======================================== SAMPLE 143 ========================================
 of the Irish country-side.
The little wistful children there
Look up like brave yard-clusters then,
To greet them with her friendly smile,
But not so gay a meadow-flower.
The sky is black with cloudless threat,
But through the still and starless air
The glad year smiles on her return,
Though clouded with our winter's care.
"May God's sweet mercy bless each soul
Who comes to visit me once yet
When all these fields are blue and sweet,
And I the corn in purple cloth.
Let me be a dog and I will walk.
And I was born upon this hill
In the fair city of our Lord,
And this is why I bring it back;
Since in the land of my birth
I have such cattle and such kine,
And I am free to go again
Where they are reared with buckles and with kine."
"A fine and fine array,"
The people spoke together;
"A plain and fine array."
The people spoke together.
"A fine and fine array,
That is the style of Christian preachers
Who joult and pull with pain
Their coat of glossy leather;
This is the coat for gentlemen
Who travel to the inn
With all their worldly gear,
And nothing else to fear.
"A fine and fine array,
That is the style of Christian preachers
Who joult and pull with pain
Their coat of glossy leather;
This is the coat for gentlemen
Who travel to the inn
With all their worldly gear,
And nothing else to fear.
"A fine and fine array,
That is the style of Christian preachers,
Who joult and pull with pain
Their coat of glossy leather;
This is the coat for soldiers
That is the style of Christian preachers
Who travel to the inn
With all their worldly gear,
And nothing else to fear.
"A fine and fine array,
That is the style of Christian preachers,
Who joult and pull with pain
Their coat of glossy leather;
This is the banner of the Lord
That is to-day victorious!
"A fine and fine array,
That is the style of Christian preachers,
Who joult and pull with pain
Their coat of glossy leather;
This is the apparelling note
That is to-day victorious!
"A fine and fine array,
That is the style of Christian preachers,
All that is to be seen
Upon this hill is redolent
With all its crimson florin:
This is the apparelling note
That is to-day already,
When all the trees in copse
Are ready for to blossom
In this great month of vintage,
With all their yellow foliage,
And in your tongues a music
This is the apparelling note.
"A fine and fine array,
That is the apparelling note,
When all the trees in copse
Are ready for to blossom,
A fine and fine array,
With all their yellow foliage,
And in their hearts a music
This is the apparelling note.
"A fine and fine array,
That is the apparelling note,
When all the trees in copse
Are ready for to blossom,
And on their heads are crowns
Of every blessed posy
That ever entered pea and bough;
This is the apparelling note."
Of this delightful month of May,
When all the birds their time to sing
With notes from mouth to mouth they take,
And all the flowers to garland make,
It is not growing like a tree,
But has such make and power to see
This glorious vision to its last,
It says, "O tree, O tree, O tree!"
O tree, O tree, O branch, O bloom,
O blossom fit for Paradise,
Thou fair October day, throw not
Thy branches far behind me.
I'm very lonely here;
Thick leaves and thick bright air
Accompan mine a-laund:
It is a thousand year.
It is a thousand year.
I hear the ceaseless hum
Of unplumb concern
About the days gone by,
And longings unborn.
It is a thousand year.
We hear no longer now
Than thrush or oriole,
Nor chirp of any bird,
But carol of a lute;
What time my life was stirred
By thee, a restless bird,
Its love and lost hath been,
It is a thousand year.
We must live on, always,
Nor care how many fall;
Still seeking what we would,
We find our treasures all
======================================== SAMPLE 144 ========================================
 of the "Tables of the Shuttam." On the Elizabethan
the passage is found by Bernard Quatori, "Homer, the second
"Was he too weak to suffer, or his arms
To tremble?--Did he yet believe his eyes
Behind that dim profaner? On the sand
The wind sank softly, and the stream was still.
He could not hear the warning; for who hears
Shall enter in to find his sin-dimmed eyes,
Or see--in silence, where the light of Heaven
Shines, at the shadow of departing prayers,
In that dread meeting, where the soul that fears
His God is lost?" But he, the faithful one,
Was ever praying for the love of God,
And held the second hope to his desires.
He went into the silent church, and found
The great stone statue there, that, in a trance
Pushed by a crowd of worshippers, he knelt
And told them legends of their sacred things,
And of their awful death, and how, at last,
The years were gathered, and how, far away
The bells of Christmas rang, and the wild song
Of Christmas Eve, which was to make men sad,
Rang forth to him. Perhaps he was to die
Simply, or quite excommunicated,
And then in the great church he lived, and died
For ever, and his name became a name
For ever and for ever. It was strange
He found a tomb within the quiet church,
At the foot of the great stone statue. None saw
The awful, dreadful silence, but his mind
Beating itself, and the immortal minds
Were beating on without. Then, as he wrote,
He saw a strange, undaunted face arise,
From some beyond; but never had the power
To baffle views of any meaning there,
Nor figure, or to make them understand
They would, if they were stricken, have died for love.
He, too, was moved with awe beyond belief,
And, in a flash, he saw the face of Christ
Pure, white, and bright, as any face we see,
And waited for the word to say farewell.
He saw a man, who gazed within the depths
Of some great statue; and, though faint and pale,
He saw a face within whose living light
He could not see the shadows of its God,
But felt that he must never see its face,
Lest he should never know its broken life.
He felt that all the gods had left the cross,
The cross, the glory of that Christ they held;
That, after the fair vision of the Christ,
He had not won the worship of the crowd
In vain; for he was weak and would not die.
He gazed upon the ruin, and it lay
Before him, and the bright-eyed miracle
That brought their glory to the world, and now
The simple truth of sacrifice was told;
But, as he gazed, it could not be recalled,
For with a very scorn he felt himself
Profaned by people; and yet in his heart
The light of glory flickered, and he turned
And gazed, and knew not whom he loved the most.
He saw the awful solemn hour of death,
The shadow of the glory, and it seemed
That God should answer with the voice of God.
He knelt beside the body of his Lord,
And held a trembling hand upon the brow
Of a young shepherd, and he was alone;
And, though he bowed his head to all alike,
Laid his hand on the body of his Lord,
As if a little child might kiss its feet
And, by the blessed shadow of its lips,
Look up with fear upon the awful work,
And see the great sun of his glory set.
And he was very tired of his delight,
And needed thinking of his simple work
With every day. He wished that he might live
One day beyond the present, thinking of
His simple life, and that the pain and death
Were greater to him than this, and that
He might not know what he was doing of.
Sometimes, because he was so full of hope,
Sometimes he felt he had done good to those
Who would be pushing back his children into life,
And always clinging unto him to bring
New thoughts of better deeds to many times.
And sometimes after all, by days and nights
He would go forth into the great new world
And bring them back to men and make them wise.
Sometimes he would go free into the great new world
And come to it again that, for his feet
Could not go free, and all things that he could
Draw out from other lives to be anew.
Sometimes he would go even
======================================== SAMPLE 145 ========================================
,
Who was then but he?
How to tell him, if not quite
Soft he'd be as she is,
If not quite averse to us
She had quite dislike him.
I should think he'd be
A most sensible girl,
For the friends he'd send her
Had a friend d'ye been there?
Was he then as we did?
Oh, there's no one now, and no one,
But he'd love me! I have him
As he'd been himself, and
Could be quite a boy, for
If we made the place
It would do us no good.
But he left behind him
One day something, that he
I remember't could 'a' been
If we had not had one
Not the other. There he
Pursued me, and we both
Saw to right and left.
And, before he knew it
How to lay his hand on me,
I could really see
What it were, for she
Had just lost the way.
Then she gave me hers
What there's many need to do;
So I tried mine, and
I could see it too,
And it tried for me--'a sin
For the young world yet!'
But she said to me,
'Tis a pretty crime, if you
Don't believe I'm true
To your own ambition!'
Then she took me of the two
From my cradle, which she
Thereupon did spy,
And began to tell so
In a sigh, and I did
Feel quite sad at knowing
That my darling grew
In the very deep;
And, before she knew it,
Worked and smiled for pain
On the little child.
How strange is it to be
Sally'd and mickle,
And she's quite the miss'd--
But to know is _true_!
O, she's like a coal,
As folks say she's clever,
And, as far as I know,
She's a very good _pooh_!'
But she got the child
And she found it more mild
When it cried: 'I'm _sure_
That you don't believe me
_In the world's so bad!_'
Then, I heard it, and read
It, and said:
'Dear child, I believe
That the _pooh_, though so poor,
Is no worse for you_.'"
She took it and tried
'Twixt the arms, and she tried
To conceal her mind,
But she found there was no
Pit on Poverty,
Who'd have got the pit
In the mouth, or the eye,
If the old man had just
Chose the good and the bad
To his farm by the fire,
And he'd soon be glad
Of the meal he had got,
And the dinner he had
Still had plenty to eat,
And it was of the best
For his poor Mammon--she
Had just ate enough,
And the cake had to melt
To an ice of the board;
And the _salt- cake_ she'd mix
(Day, you know, that's too
To make _other_ plates melt,
And I hope they'll be ill
In the kitchen to-day.
Now I cannot endure
To sit in that spot,
And, while seeing the fire,
I am glad to get in
To the place, after all;
For the little maid's eye,
Is more true than I can,
And may be by far,
Though I fear that I'm wrong
In my work when she's miss'd,
And might be just what way
She pleases, to say;
For I hate to look back
To my work and to me
When perhaps she'll be ill,
And may seem to be ill.
Then at least she will give
A sort of a look
At the _pooh-dread that's_ good,
And the dish I would square
With her pie and her pear,
And may look like fair
In the work that I know;
And I'll say what I'd try
If she _had_ such a pie
And could eat it, I know!
Then the _pooh-dread_ moon
Shall come up and be gone,
And the _gourmand_ with me
Shall take off her paw
With the silver-rimed snaw
When her young ones are good,
And they'll show off her head,
And the ribbon, she'll tie
As they think she'll come out,
'Cause she can't fetch a snout,
Or she'll bite off her elf,
And that's all enough for me,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 146 ========================================
 on his way,
Where in one narrow valley he is pent,
Not of one colour all the surface wears.
In length the leaves, all massed together, swum.
At last the sun, uprising, from the sea
Regenerating with his beams his lustre,
Mounts forth to heaven a glorious lily fresh,
With dew of flowers and fruits of bounteous season.
Here, as the sun ascended mid the stars,
A band of beauteous women, crowned with flowers,
Appeared, all purified with richest dyes.
And all were saying, "Long to those below
Descend, whom thou from Jezreai as far
As thou canst find, pass through the fields of heaven,
And they who watch thee are all hallowed here."
Then said the virgin, "Mother, all are they
Who here have been, and even as I think
I know not of them all, but by their looks
And by their acts and by their words confirm.
Therefore I burn to know, that if from heaven
To any one such shining ones descend,
It may be in some evil hour, if he
Be set upon some meaner course than these,
He may by ill be plundered on the plain."
And she to me: "All those who were before
The Adversary in life, and they in love,
All thirst for vengeance, all resistance lost,
Themselves reprove and flay in such a strife
As envious angels might afflict and wound."
Then came she unto me; and I began
"Infinite Father, thou who art the pearl
Of each true love, all rumour of affliction
To thy first people and each new delight,
What thou dost make me wish of in this life,
If back to Him, even from what he aimed,
Thou canst shut out the blackness of my fate
And follow me, unless thou cure my pain,
Even as a father loves his child, who tells
That the wild boar his time must nourish here,
Because to him ill-will returns no more.
But if from smoke I here have been thus freed,
And that, whenever smoke can so consume
The gentle soul that in her sight is clear,
From its purification may be turned
That which is perfect, as indeed it is,
To evil and to good; and biting, too,
Is felt, whene'er by evil turned to harm.
And yet I would not in this punishment
Lighten my sin, unless by too great weight
Enquiring justice moved me to constrain
The use of self-denial in my soul.
Hadst thou the sense of seeing those whom grace
So overshadows and falls not doth import
Let thy imagination wait the wheel
Whom greater pleasure beholds than this one will
To overtake, and care not how it works.
For other avarice is not gathered from
The goodness of the farm, which yet is filled
With more of excellence, if well it gloss
The dismal mis'ries of the hoar-frost hoar."
Like to the bachelor, who arms himself,
And speaks not, unless pre-vision comes
Rebuffed by one that knows not by the name,
Such I became with image after gleam
Of my own image, which there I sustained
Both to my self and unto my own clear view.
Thereafter, when my solace and great saw
Complete, I issued forth from there the life
Of honest women; and, within the light
Of so much love, so much unguessed, I stayed
Mine eyes from somewhat speechless, till my mind
Hover'd a little onward in its flight.
"Thou hast good cause," it said, "to smile when thou
Hast blessed, and in thy work completer life
Beam'd on me so that thou out of my side
Wert of a better.  O, beware thee, if
I be that one, who, living, to the world
Hath brought me, and hath taught the way so much."
As go directest, some that, hidden, gaze
Upon the point where I have told them it,
Thus, after a little pause, mine eyes
With maiestick view did scan the blessed sight.
Wond'ring I gaz'd into those circles of
asper, and beheld those, which with sevenfold
enormous burden were of sparks,
Forgetful of that whereof in Paradise
All keep who eye upon these wheeling goads
A wandering its short watch.  "This they refain'd,
These shone through mere fickleness of their hue,
For in the beamy effluence
======================================== SAMPLE 147 ========================================
 of my verse. I
migration of my life and of my body from the body of the
lawgroom, and of the soul of it. To leave so much, so to do so, is
wonderful work, it will be almost to please the world.
I shall not put my words in question, for many of them have in
out-of-read books. Indeed, I know a judgment of your age shall
not be less precious. I shall look forward and see how far the world
will carry on. I shall see how it will be worth the telling.
And you will see how our existence will be be able to bear the
trouble on the deep.
With your own eyes I must look into your face, if I
profane my knowledge of myself, and I see the results of life.
It will be as well for me if I am gifted with the wisdom of
life.
You will not take this world away, though you give it yourself, for
you are ever a comrade to the world, and the time will be a
memorable one.
It will be as much better to hold back and hear the voice
that will now speak itself to you, and to know your heart in
silence and be ashamed.
But it would be more noble to keep back the thoughts of which I
have made among you when you come to know me, for I have no
need of all you have.
I will give my life to all you have, not to hide them, for I
am never too ready to make a long pause. For myself, I have
always loved you.
I love you, though I am your wife, and my heart is your heart.
And when I see men striving for your love, I think I
would love you too much.
You will not come to me, for I am willing to give you life
till I die.
I was young when I was a girl. My father was rich in
money when he was called from India, the doctor of the
University. When he went away, in his father's place, I was
quiet and very happy, trying to get a wife and to settle
himself in a duel. You will know his age and take the pains
all in the field, and he will come to me with a word of
goodness.
I am old when I am young and want to live in the house.
A young merchant, and a scholar in the trade trade, at the
covered studio in a round-rolling vehicle, and I am willing
to be asked of a beggar wife in some measure; and I hear the
sound of the great sea above me. When I hear the noise of
the sea, I know that the people are thinking of me in the
deepens of my heart. To them I feel joy as I sit with my old
friend in the inn, with his eyes on my knee, and his breath in
heaven, and my body like a young fish in the stream.
"Ah, but we are poor! Let but a woman pour out all her
cheer into the secret place, and let her pour out her heart into
the wells, and let her keep her secret!"
In the neighboring gardens in the southern country, which are
called by the modern "nomads," there was a temple in Lucan.
With the stone of a name, a name, a name, and a title, the name,
not the column, but the column it stands in the western parlour in
the corner.
A poet has fallen through the chronicler of his life in the
wondering way that he was buried, and has now become a
glorious essay of character; but it is not known whether he
is himself, and the whole business of his life, and ought to
speak of himself--as something of himself. To the end that he
might be capable, and a poet must be sparing of self-reward.
He must have some vision of self-sacrifice, some notion of
self-sacrifice, some jesting, some most tumultuous desire of
self-sacrifice, and the full share of some great and little
service of the heart, if thus he holds it an impious task to die
for. In a certain letter I wrote him that this satirical
writings made my mind laugh. In this letter I was soon at the
greatest rate, and, though the most pleasing of my poet's
work is done, I have sometimes forgotten to thank you for the
very tint which has the finest grace, and as it is not
praise or blame, you have no right to complain of him in his
profession of self-sacrifice. But, by all that I can do to
you, I hope, in
======================================== SAMPLE 148 ========================================
's song,
"When there's the need of health,
"To face the dreary blast."
Onward the cheerful pack
Gath'ring, the bears pursued,
Each panting for his hound,
To see the snorting roe;
While, heedless of the flock,
With open tail and jaw,
And bellowing voice, the hound
Made for the fatal spot.
He marked the shelt'ring ground,
So icy was the blast;
Then stretched his trembling hand,
And hugg'd against his breast,
And lick'd the blasted beech;
Then o'er his cheeks and nose
Spread his black crupper close;
But, ah! the hounds are gone,
The shelt'ring bush is gone!
He feels the piercing cold;
And all his nerves grow old,
His eye and heart are cold--
He staggers on his track,
As if he sought a dell
Far in the forest's womb.
With dogs and guns in haste
Through crowded streets he goes;
Alas! had he ne'er seen
A day like this his fate!
How many a dismal hour he spent,
His limbs in dust out-patter'd!
His heart was sunk, and soon,
Like that which bore the Vulture
Upon the banks of Rhine,
Lay cold and dead his saint.
But little mercy he enjoy'd--
The blood his hands profuse
Till, slowly quench'd, he sank;
And none his fears forecasted.
The night with greater gloom
Covers the placid tomb;
And darker shadows fall
Where he his love must meet,
And treads on love and sin.
And this is what he saw
Richly in books--but straw:
He nothing mark'd for good,
And on himself he curse.
What will the sottish clown
That he should seek so far?
To that most desolate town?
And none to visit oft?
What is't that pris'ner sees
That vermin in the vale?
All vain to drag him forth
From all his rural home;
For in the vale and wild
He finds a hermit's child.
To that lone grove he turns
Where long his dogs have stray'd;
Nor e'er had shepherds seen
An error in their mien.
Not wholly lost in thought,
But still in every thought:
He'll live in that alone--
Nor be to _him_ his own.
And, if he once has charm'd
His mind with pleasing thorns,
To that alone his heart
Can nothing now incline.
O Mary, still thou tarries
Where thou with Christ didst dwell;
Still as a friend and lass
Thy love doth all excel.
Since thou hast seen how much
Thy care has been to me,
Mine own tend thee;
Whose purse is gold, whose lands
Their poorest hoards of are;
Lead them with thee, true
And brave, though thou'rt so poor;
And lead, though thou and I
Are wretched, poor, for thee.
I cannot be thy true guide,
But I can lead thy life,
And will show thee thy love
By working for thy wife;
And as thy tender hand
Gracefully leadeth me,
And as thy smile inviting,
Steals me to thy count'nance too.
There, in a shower of blossoms,
Far from the spot where I am,
Still thou wilt stand, thy trembling
Little thumb rests on thy thumb.
There, in a pleasant dwelling,
With a crown of richest green,
Where our table, spread before me,
With sweet-smiling grass is seen.
And, though blind, I am not watching
Thitherward thy course to steer;
Still thy little hand is thrilling,
And with joy my heart o'erthrew;
I am led, but I am trembling,
And thy faithful foot is slow.
As the little bird doth move
About in the fields at night,
And sometimes sings with a love
As tender as its song,
And no one knows which way
To go, if she were there;
Her song, which we all know well,
By me thus singeth still--
And this, whate'er my fate,
Is tuned by my sweet pipings.
I love and I love, and the girls, and the lasses,
The young and the old, and the bride that I'm chose;
The loving and fair in their beauty and order,
They're fitted together in proper good clothes.
They're fitted together for fun and for dancing
======================================== SAMPLE 149 ========================================
, and are
_Babies_, and _Cows_, and _Cows'_--all together
As they were going to make the beds, and where
They found no pillow for their little feet.
There was a young man of homesickness,
His heart was heavy with love for one
So poorly woven that it broke with laughter
To think that he was hermit and herded
As if to make their beds so trim and neat
To be fed kisses for her little feet,
And watch the little clouds, or when they pass,
Or when they come, have fallen on her knees
And having passed admittance in such wise
He sat a statue with his eyes upon
The pillows which they wore of gold and fire,
To hear the little voices in the grass
Sing in them like ten thousand happy lays
Sweeter than any other sound's; and so,
As one who reads in history the first,
And turns from page to page, and does not care
To read himself, does sometimes think a man
Should read his little book all day, so oft
That the least whisper sounds far worse than wind
Or watery water to the little bird,
At night that it is hoarse with a strange sound
Suddenly in the air, his body shaking,
And his white teeth flashing with sudden fire
When they have slid away the precious stone.
Then came a stately Raven and a glance
As bright as when a young man in a trance
Comes to him quick as though he were the King,
And sits him to the beating of his wings
Until he wakens, and is glad and bold,
And though an angry little Birdie shrieked
For joy of his unhappy state, yet screamed
To see the little one so happy now
Beggar'd to be the death of all that's fair.
And still they waked, and still bright eyes did peep,
For never yet a sound so sweet didst hear
As when the Little ones had gone into sleep
And on their beds they lying, slept, and dreamed.
Now had the King no heed nor mind that they
Should tell him what this little thing had been,
The Raven's heart still breaking at his cry
For joy of one so wise and beautiful;
Then, when he heard the noise, he rose and went
And found a chair where he should sit an hour
And be alone, forgetting that he thought
Of her who brought him in there, had been born.
As some light child of the tumultuous town
Goes out at night-time from his father's knee,
So there before the wondering King did sit
The wisdom-singer wise, and with soft speech
Unto the little Child he bade him teach,
"The hour is come." "This day it must be so."
So with their prayer unto the child they speak;
But even so it was no dream they dreamed,
Or so they thought, that there be none so dear
As those dear Babe and Mary, tall and sweet
As she that bore Him, beautiful and tall,
With a blue sappy unguessed heart and hands
So full of soft repose, He walked apart
And saw her sitting on a chair of gold
And heard their happy voices speaking, sitting
Upon a table high, wherein was set
The wine and bread, a wine of Galilee,
Whose red wine makes the hot air hard and sweet,
A little wine that God would have sent
From some far Jutland in a great city.
For in his heart was love of little things,
Like the slow bees that wander through the flowers,
And as the bees that fetch their purple dowers
Sow out the honey, and the sun that glowers
In the wide lands, the miracle all his own.
And when the King no longer sat in state,
He seemed to sit alone with them alone,
A lonely man, and in his arms he heard
The little children talking in the dark,
And to the King he said, "I have no fear,
For unto me all this is very good.
Our day is but a little troubled sea
That weeps with us, yet cometh when we die,
And that our souls are weary ere they tire,
And all our hopes and fears are overthrown.
Now for this night shall come a dreadful day
When God shall crown our souls with fiery grace,
And all His saints shall stand around the throne,
And every child go forth to meet his face,
And then I know, behold, the King of all
But a poor man, and yet, the King of all
But Him, and though he were a beggar man,
Yet of the poor man's heart I know the least,
Although he be a
======================================== SAMPLE 150 ========================================
 as an over-si-pong,
But for love of a knight the king.
Then answered a horseman of Burgundy,--
"Sir, you see that it is, and I've heard it said it.
And one of your hundred has not been laid in the chest here,
The which is the worst of our foes.
"But you may not lie here, for we should take it hereafter,
But you must do such things."
The king smiled and took Sir Ribe to his bosom,
With a strong desire to discover
What cause for the fall was intended.
Then asked Sir Ribe to his saddle-bow,
"Your brother, the riding-gag, you bear:
I'll make him a ride-horse, and I'll go with him, after
It seems that he was,--and would dare.
"'Tis the green-garden stables that open my bowers,
'Tis a wild wood-bee, and my sweet cousin, the flowers,
Where there is no danger.
"'Tis a brave stripling youth who is noble and free.
'Tis a young princess whose care I will put on my company.
"And now, howe'er, I'll meet him in battle or fight,
I'll strike him just here, if I may."
"But, if he be able, the better my horse I'll ride."
"I'll strike him down here, if he comes to my side;
I'll make him a saddle, and I'll give him a ride."
"And what if the saddle be strained from the inside
In pieces on my back, and the red gold on my brow?"
"Then I'll break that good horse, if I meet him at home,
I'll strike him down here, if I meet him at home."
And into the chariot, to ride to the Queen,
The knight took Sir Ribe, on his golden cuirass,
And, mounting his horse, his brother away he followed.
The King rode forth, the King rode to meet him,
His father and mother, and all the land's chivalry.
The King rode out, the King rode to meet him,
The men that came there, but never came riding by.
Him I saw in a vision, a clear golden morning,
A golden day to open its gates,
A sweet little maiden of seven sisters wept,
And the voice of her mother spoke lowly,
"On a tall warhorse lay thy brother dead.
"Our warriors ride hither, they ride so fast,
That we may see the sun upon the west.
"And wherefore so sore dost thou sorrow so?"
"The old road, they say, is so long at hand.
"For thy sister's dead and thy brothers poor,"
The King said, "I'll go with thee to thy Moorish land."
"But wilt thou return me, sweet brother, I pray thee?
Wilt thou love a wife as well as a brother?
"And wilt thou with a love as true be faithful
As a brother?
Is she dead, can she perish without her sister,
Howl in wildest and deepest woe?
"Alas! alas! thou art meek and kind,
But, gentle maiden, no comfort can find.
"Alas! alas! in mine hour it may find thee;
No comfort, no rest, come my own!
"For the love, I have loved in my bosom so true,
And the joy of my heart that it must be to know thee.
There are maidens thou leavest behind,
But all that in me is is love like my own.
"It is the hour of the full golden hours,
Thy lips shall be young, mine eyesight fair.
"I shall be happy there--love will never leave me,
But I must love thee as I shall love thee.
"But I must love thee--love will never leave me,
And I must love thee--love's hand shall free me."
The King rode out of the castle gate,
With a loud hunting horn, and a red deer's mate.
High o'er the chase his daughter sped,
Roundly and under her apron she red.
Her cheeks were like rosy April flowers,
Her hair on his brow, and was golden-brown.
And the Queen in her hand a ring did take
From her finger white ivory bright and white.
Her lips were as sunflowers; her eyes were red;
When she saw how sweet, she was fain to read
How many days are a broken vow,
How long--love, and fame, and beauty now.
The King rode out
======================================== SAMPLE 151 ========================================
 of _sahibs_       _i.e._ Ν
_Ainsi contra derobe rauscht sichte schwebeten_.
Sich zur vergessen abgeht, daie sie erschlagen:
Daß wird ihr sich füllen, sie zur zur und reinen,
Und euren erschlagen, daie euch sie schwerungen.
_Aus dem stellens Sohlen_.
Von fern sich ziramand,
Und hoch sich zu denizen,
Es hohe! die!
Ein tief erstehrt ins Gefelen.
Ein sich mit sich zum Sterner,
Den fern erh' ich zur Morgenzeum,
Doch eweinte, fand ich hohe!                        _v.2>
"Von fern sie auch die Feuerscht und liebt."
Der wird so trattet ein,
Und wo er nun so bist;
Der wirlt' ich nicht so tragen,
Ach eferd schein ich zu,
Zur Bessermesse.                                       _v.4>
"Die blut es weise Nacht, die blut
Und weinte nicht, ein sie zur Morgenzeit."
Der Schildebwung weiss, heiß, ihr Leid verschlag.
"Bist du der Toten beite,
Fühlings' ich nicht dies kleinen,
Fünscheng Wilhelm sprach.
Bist du der Toten beide,
Fünscheng Wilhelm beide,
Für ihres Himmel.
Am Himmel mit auf's Ruh'
Denn leise Zeiss dazu;
Ein feiner Blevwerd zu,
Mit aunser Rosamand."
Nur der Töne schreifel
Und schleicht Feuer ganzeit,
Ein saß das Volke schrecken,
Denn weinte, einmalig,
Was nocht leibn's mit um die Zarte.
Denn leise schleib und seinen Weisheit,
Das stetsen Schleier sich vergereit;
Und wein Dorf im Wasser geier,
Und weiß die Weis'n wie das Leben.
Es warme sich zweiten, uns zu reichtet,
Und weill und weißen Weis'n hat ihn;
Ich canzt'rod leise sein, der Schleier
Stimm zu des Miedes in der Schmerz.
Wer der Weinen, der versteiter Weise
Und der Weinen sie beide sagen,
Weiter man nach ein, sie schriem Haus
Zu reichalte sich und fie sagen.
Wer weißen, wenn von Weinen,
Doch in der Nacht auf der Weise,
Das sieht, die Schleier zu hinausen
Und weiße nicht schwingen, uns weiter Weise.
Sie schließe, nicht zu weiter Weise.
Es weiter Schwanken, sie schlug und dann,
Wie kommen Stolz und weiter Weise.
Müde, sie schöne, küße, keine schlugen,
Mit von seinem Herzen immer
Alligher von seinem Herzen,
Und sieße alligher es nur fieden.
Den Weiter kommt' er alles Weise
Müde mich an weiter Weise,
Mächt' ich nun die schönste Gesicht,
Es ganz die blanke Stolz und Gern?
Es schwank' ich nun den Schleier mir,
Es schließe Schleier an weiter Weise
Und wieder sind die Glanke
======================================== SAMPLE 152 ========================================
 to a close one,
A man, with one face--
A goddess of parts;
And yet, alas! too much
In my good work, I touch
Only to make it known
Is something of the zone
In all the world the same
As that good fellow's name.
"I know you, Miss, like the rest of the rest of the poets."
Come to me, O ye children,
Do not let us sorrow so,
For we cannot, unregretted,
Plangeless are and vast.
If there's one among you,
Your head should be crowned
With a crown of glory;
And, alas! alone,
For a crown, ungarlanded,
Your eyes should look down
To the depths of sorrow
Underneath which we sigh,
And, indeed, in secret,
When we think of you, die.
I know not if in you dwell
Will wear one, or wreath one,
Or wreath one or wreath one,
Till, upon my life,
All that has worn you
Lies burned in the strife,
And will fade into death,
Since that day, while raving
Of false hearts from me,
I never can love you
Until, in the end,
Love and I are killed,
Because of our lying
Such hands would undo it
Even as the flowers do.
If you knew what we love
There'd be no doubting
In our love to move us,
And if you knew what
Would not prove true,
We'd go wandering
Thinking neither of us--
Hoping that from you,
Facing the wind,
You might draw
Onward, to bind us
To that thing
We stood wishing you,
While the moon made us ready
For the journey of love,
And for us the days
When our bodies were wings;
We might go in dreams,
And find death no way,
We might stay
Where you were not,
But might come to us,
And we'd go all day.
But, tonight, all night,
No one is there
We are strong to light
Like to you,
And lead where our feet dare
To tread the dark ways,
Serene, and grave,
Not to trouble
Us, though it vexes us,
Nor to vex with us,
Nor to wear our hearts
In a world of tears.
I shall wear no garments but the cold earth-flower
Of the world-old winter, and all the great rivers
Of the north, all the rivers about the mountains
Have caught nothing of my love since I was a child
And they all have taken my form.
There is no hope in the spring,
No joy in anything,
But only the wind and the sun
And the rain that is begun
In the forest; and, in winter, birds cry
In their songs, and a fire is in my heart, and a heart
Is in my breast.
And the birds have sought and found
Where the blossoms have found
The roots of my spirit's wings,
And in my heart I have found
A word, a word.
I think I shall not die,
The dead, the faint and dead,
In the long, bright summer days
When the songs are still and the songs come back from the earth--
But hear me and forgive me and pass unheeded
Through all the winter of my life.
It was there in the spring
I found her, sleeping,
A rose in a red-flower's heart;
For the world was a flower
With a word for wisdom.
It grew in a deep dream
Over a rose;
And a sweet white moth that flew
To a purple sunbeam.
Once, ah, once she sang,
A tender song;
And I think her hand is still;
For the world is a flower
With a kiss for giving.
She sang of a mother's dream,
And I am a rose;
And a sweet, sweet kiss that comes
Out of a rose.
She dreamed of a mother's dream,
And I know the word
That a mother's dream may be;
For, ah, she knew the way,
I know what way God's way is,
In the years that never are.
And my heart is numb
As a dead leaf,
As a blood-red leaf,
And a rose in the autumn-time
Is a word for me.
For, ah, once she sang,
A tender song;
And a love that comes and goes
Out of a far-off land,
For a touch in her songs,
And a kiss at her feet,
And a voice at her side,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 153 ========================================
 of a poem.)
The poem which we call the _Ode_, for example, presents a great
detaining to the public; and if the idea of the poem be not the
accordance with the author, it must be a matter of note to a
literature in which neither prose nor verse can possibly find
expression, for our numbers have a close moral, or even a
monosyllable; though it is seldom written, it is not given here,
but may have a unity of ideas. We have a unity of ideas, and
prose belief that, by a separate design, it is not given here.
In the most prose and vitas best it is called the _Nightingale_, an
poet may be attracted to utter a vow in rhyme, which no person
could surpass in any degree, and who, whilst he invents the purity
of poetry, may obtain the name of _Nightingale_. But the
essence of this quatrain is a subject for the following reason. We
may well suppose that it has been found that he has written
the lines of the _Ode_, which were printed during the last two
months; and though there has never been a line of English rhyme,
the poet does not give the name of _Nightingale_ as a _Nightingale_.
_Ode_ which is called the _Nightingale_, in the year 1697.
In former days the little _Ode_ I was trying to make, and I
was trying it once, I should not now succeed. It was certainly a
hearing; it was for my half-lines, which I thought it very
like that of my other minor poems.
Another reason for my sinking my loss of the _Ode_, though
myself, has made me forget both words and prose for the sake of
which I have never attempted.
In a French poem I have lately preserved the essential
several of the same kind. An old French poem, which is not a
poem, must therefore be subject to the creative power of
my _Ode_ by right belonging to a piece of verse-stledged
poem; and therefore I must leave it to the reader, lest he forget
the present only for its poem, for the past. One reason is for
myself, and my present, on which side, having myself provided
with many parts, I have gathered this number of lines. The
poem was found to be _myself_, as is seen from _Ode_. It is
I would not altogether separate from it, for, although its
meaning is rare, the _Ode_ is not a common one.
This is a direct view of some unusual interest in the work of
another verse, and even in all of it the same thought is most
smitten by the work of the original.
In this heroic poem the _Ode_ has some special effect, which is
especially the common prose, in private: because it is of the
same kind with which it has been composed, the one or more
worthy of my public works, which had been translated into
altogether, and which was previously called _Mimicha_. I
have neither now translated it nor will I have it in keeping with
the pen itself. If I think I should put myself again upon the
subject of a new edition of the poem, I should also add also a
more strongly to the present labour of a new translation, a very
few of whom have been gathered in one volume; and, as that
remains in literature of that kind can be gathered together,
with many others before it has arrived. However, it may be
contemplate the English words as having been used, and where
they are spoken. However, it may be added, that there is no
verse but its agency on some object or other, which can be
reinclined only by those who have most affectation and hate
the English translation.
_"Sappho_ will supply its place here. He writes to the _Tour_.
The original copy, of which this version is to be made
therein.
I have therefore to thank Mr. Clarke, in his notice to the
Bible, to add in praise, to commend my works of Cadwallader,
which, I believe, is totally favorite with the Muse.  They were
to be neglected, so let them make me all ready for the present.
I do not like copyry, paper, and paper better than the paper,
but I prefer it better, with the hope of being able to hold
myself up to its publication, than to be judged as a public
panegyric,--an effort less certain of the sincerity of the
character--the
======================================== SAMPLE 154 ========================================
 upon the bank,
And the wind, the sea, the gust, the cataract,
The earthquake, thundering from his chariot-wheels,
And crumbling to the earth and under heaven;
And all, behold! the wonder-work of God.
This is the ship I mean of Ophir,
That swiftly sails the ocean-billows.
The oar of the impatient mariner
Winds up the mizzen-sprinkled rowlocks.
My soul is like a ship, that slowly
Moves through the troubled waters of the land,
That slowly, slowly rolls, and slowly
Moves, and ne'er before it plunges to the sea.
Winds of the summer-time are waiting,
Winds of the summer-time are waiting,
Winds of the summer-time are waiting,
Winds of the summer-time are waiting,
Winds of the summer-time are waiting,
Winds of the summer-time are waiting,
Winds of the summer-time are waiting,
Winds of the summer-time are waiting,
Winds of the summer-time are ready,
And with them I will sail to heaven,
On a vessel made of iron,
Carried by the storms of winter.
Winds of autumn, winds of summer,
Roll, and sweep away our vessel,
With a song of winding sorrow.
Winds of autumn, winds of autumn,
Roll, and sweep away our vessel,
With a song of winding sorrow,
With a prayer of holy love.
Winds of autumn, winds of autumn,
Roll, and sweep away our vessel,
With a song of holy love.
Wings of autumn, winds of winter,
Roll, and toss away our vessel,
With a hoarse refrain of wailing,
With a voice of weeping, mourning,
With a mighty wind of sorrow,
Winds of autumn, winds of autumn,
Roll, and sweep away our vessel,
With a wail of sighing, mourning,
Wind, and woe, and mistletoe.
Winds of autumn, winds of autumn,
Roll, and sweep away our vessel,
With a wail of sighing, weeping,
With a wail of sighing, weeping,
With a wind of tears of sorrow.
Winds of autumn, winds of autumn,
Roll, and sweep away our vessel,
With a wail of sighing, weeping,
With a heavy sigh of sorrow.
Winds of autumn, winds of autumn,
Roll, and sweep away our vessel;
Winter and delight are waiting,
Wind and rain and the south-wind,
And the south-wind's plaintive complaining.
Yet we have the better heart:--there are times when
Sorrow has no place in her favor
Or a passing thought in her favor.
Winds of autumn, winds of autumn,
Roll, and sweep away our vessel,
With a song of holy sadness.
Even the winds of autumn,
Sailing o'er the azure water,
Bring from out the azure spaces
Fruit and blossom to the tree-tops,
Fainter and fainter,
Bring the tender blue-grass
Tossing in the passing.
Thus the heart of maiden,
Wind, and bird, and flower, and tree-top,
Yearning for the coming morrow,
For the coming of the south-wind,
For the softness of the south-wind,
For the maiden's heart's deep yearning
For the coming of the west-wind,
For the meeting of the south-wind,
For the meeting of the north-wind.
Thus the heart of maiden,
Wind, and bird, and flower, and tree-herb,
Still in absence, yearning,
For the coming of the west-wind,
For the meeting of the north-wind.
Ever sighing, sighing, sighing
For the coming of the south-wind,
Hoping for the coming morrow
For the coming of the west-wind,
For the meeting of the north-wind,
For the meeting of the north-wind.
Thus the hearts of anxious maiden,
Still regretting, yearning, sighing,
For the coming of the west-wind,
For the meeting of the north-wind,
For the meeting of the north-wind,
For the meeting of the north-wind.
Still they sigh for love and longing,
Hoping for the coming morrow
For the coming of the west-wind,
For the meeting of the north-wind,
For the meeting of the north-wind.
Ah! but once in former seasons,
When the
======================================== SAMPLE 155 ========================================
, by which you were called together, I suppose,
in your passage as a "sluggard"--and again, with the same
explanation as to the _present_, or of the latter word
in which the reader is reading most probably
without the purpose of remembering anything any longer.
To the "culpus madidis basilica præcordia ripis;"
and to "the lion", to the infuriate, rough-eaten caterpillar,
and all such dangerous forms as 'The Masque and Phæacia of Sidon,'
the "Etrurian", and the "Etrurian", and the _Cyclades della
seems to be the 'Greek Anthonides, Philomela, Pelias.'
"Euripides is one of the most marked names for the Cyclops, in
which the famous writer follows the "Etrurian".
"Æschinus, the father of cattle, and the city of Pindarus,
have given themselves, by their conversation, to a view of
the woods, or rather to make them a race; and the idea is
'Upsallust', and which was not uncommon to Ulysses in fact
he is 'himself'. Adornments himself, the author of this group
itself were certainly of novity, who knew more than slightly
speaking; and the author of this group had made use of the
book by conversing with one another over the pages of this
book. Both University and town were at one end of the
"youthful Achilleid"--the poem _The Youth_ (1865) gave its
adopted son, Theoclymenus, to enter after them in the
middle of May. The "evidently spear" and the "tierce"
were regarded as the most delightful of the works of the
Achæans. By the way of the story, however, that he was not
able to tell the date of the birth of Ulysses when his house
was on the rack of the stormy south-west wind; and he was
not yet quite rich, for the cask of Alcinoüs served to
him by whom Deiphobus sent his bane into the world.
After his return to Ithaca he made his excellent abode in
the craggy mountain of Iolo. There is an exquisite passage
through which the people were collected, it is not quite
likely that it should ever remain unrisen. In consequence of
towns, where the country was called [Sparti- Lethæa], it may be
known that the people of the country had a most kindly
fellow--some writers think, and others think that the people
of the country, not likely, of the country held a very
rapid life; while the people, who were never drunk by the
water or the country, were going on to the very edge of
the mire precipitate, and danced upon the headlands thick as
the snow-flakes, which they call 'Saevous deliberately,' and were
probably designed for the moment to erect a tombstone by
the help of a man. Ulysses, therefore, as Buttmann has argued,
still found the story a very different andTRISTANT in
his travels. For the story of Laertes is a more elaborate
date. Ulysses, therefore, having sailed over the seas, and
having had much difficulty in getting home, made a magnificent
story, and told the people a story about Ulysses' return, for
he was a man both willing to learn, and willing to learn also
something about the adventures of Ulysses and of his bane,
which Ulysses had told him. You can have seen him when he
went on his homeward journey, and still telling the story at
least. The yarns having accomplished as it had been done,
he started for the neighbour town, and went a little way out
among the jostling crowd. There he accompanied Ulysses, who
returned to Ithaca, and then went back to tell his tale to
Laertes, who gave him friendly answers. There he received some
questions and tells to his story a tale also told him by the
Achæmenides, who were also called Ulysses and Nausicaämes;
but the story does not, for the story has not been told so
much. The story is not told, for it has not been told, for
the first part of an extensive book.
"The stranger, being told by some one of his friends that this
can hardly be the cause of all my sorrow, said to me, I do not
was really like to
======================================== SAMPLE 156 ========================================
 and Carts with the Carts and Stems were laid
Deep sunk upon the earth,
There was an old man of Gounder's
Who walked the wind an hour;
He peered out over the glittering stream,
And there he sate to listen--
His hair was like the flying storm,
And his eyes were like the glare
Of far-off foreign lands,
And the waves were like a flying stream,
And the wind was like the sigh
Of distant, fairy things,
That whispered to his listening ears
The mystery of their vanished years.
"Heaven save thee! a good man has a thousand,"
The little dead man said,
And the wind sighed softly to him as she passed,
"And every man has a million to feed him,
He looks and he comes to a hundred,
But never a one to be gathered to a hundred."
The little old man bowed his head
And kissed his hoary head:
"O, tell me, Lady, tell me true!
Is there a gold to bind the blue
Or silver to constrain the blue?
"If there be golden chains, or none,
There is a golden zone there is a chain
That none can break, and no man wane
While Love has power o'er the free and plain."
The little old man bowed his head
And looked about the place,
Where the sun's last rays went leaping out
Into a blaze of glory.
He looked to east, to west, to west,
To all earthly light he gave no quest,
Till the sun set and all things were rest--
And he saw her smile at last,
And stopped and smiled till the sun went down,
And the air so blue and grey
Suffused the trees in the blue again
Like a smile of yesterday,
And a kiss on every face and space--
The little old man bowed his head
And looked into the sea--
"O ho, I pray thee, little wife,
What is it makes you sing?
What are your words,--what is your deed?
What is it draws you along?
The little old man who loves you so--
The little old man with the blue
And he loved you long ago--
"O, tell me, Little Wife, the things
That make you sing and sigh--
The silken secrets of the earth--
The birds and beasts and I,
And all the summer-tide and mirth--
The little old man with the brown
And he makes you sing to me--
"O, tell me, Little Wife, the things
That make you sing and sigh--
The things that make you sing and sigh,
The little old man with the blue
And he makes you lead and die--
"O, tell me, Little Wife, the things
That make you sing and sigh--
The things that make you sing and cling--
The things that make you sigh--
The little old man with the white
And he makes you sing and fly--
"O, tell me, Little Wife, the things
That make you laugh and sing--
The things that make you laugh and sigh,
The little old man to-day
So long ago he made his way,
And now you sing as brave as he,
As glad as laughing he.
"O, tell me, Little Wife, the things
That make you laugh and laugh,
The things that make you laugh and sing--
The little old man in the blue
And he makes you lead and fly--
"The things that make you laugh and sing--
The things that make you laugh--
The little old man with the brown
And he makes you lead him mad--
"The things that make you laugh and sing--
The things that make you so--
The little old man from the blue
And he makes you laugh and sing--
"O, tell me, Little Wife, the things
That make you laugh and sing--
The things that make you laugh and sing--
The little old man at the blue
And he makes you laugh and sing--
"So come to me, Little Wife, and bow to me;
O, tell me, Little Wife, the things
That make you laugh and sing--
The things that make you laugh and sigh--
The things that make you sing.
"Tell me, tell me, Little Wife, the things
That make you laugh and sing--
The things that make you laugh and sing--
The things that make you sing."
"O, tell me, Little Laugh, the things
That make you smile and sing--
The things that make you laugh and sing--
The things that make you sing."
"O, tell me, Little Laugh, the things
======================================== SAMPLE 157 ========================================
s their power to aid,
But when to fight the foe they bring,
In vain they spread their fire and sting,
Then all the valiant sons of war,
The proud and loud-resounding war,
In blood and death their triumphs share,
No more shall earth's fair flowers adorn,
No more the brave son-kings are born,
Nor all the brave, who guard the land
Where all the brave and well-loved band
Shall perish, with the dying eyes,
And Freedom's cause and Freedom rise.
The hero's heart shall ope for thee,
With that dear promise of the free; -
The true, the noble, and the brave,
To the dark grave and the true;
To the dark grave and the true,
And to the faithful and the brave,
With the long march and the slow.
TUNE--_"The Saxon Alps."_
Thy father's bard shall sing his song,
In Scottish or in Algiers' tongue;
And, through Ogyric's noble strain,
Shall mystick arts and names present,
To Scotland's King and clansmen dear;
And, far and wide, a tuneful voice
Shall laud the valour of the Graeme.
There's wild iris in the forest yet,
And Cumbrian on the banks of Allan Water.
Far in the murmur of the plain,
Fair falls the sound of mountain chains,
And the keen flash, from the majestic brow,
Of Freedom's sword is mingled with the air.
O'er Hermit's cliffs, and Alwick's heath,
The blackbird holds the dappled death,
And from the summit of the glen
Flashed flash the spears in death of men.
The hark! in distant chase they bound
Through dark Glenren, and deep Grimsby's glen.
O'erross the deep they ride amain;
But, hark, how blithe their choral strains,
As when on Scottish hills they sung
The war-song of the Saxon king!
The Saxon's heart shall beat for thee,
Tho' breaking zeal her zeal should be;
And, should the tyrant prove too weak,
By courtly pride and meanness speak:
The Gaul's proud race shall learn his song,
Shall own his worth and love belong.
The streams shall tell their thoughtful tale,
How, brave the clansmen, they shall vie
In battle-fields, on lake and plain,
Where, deep, and still, the Saxon train
Shall cleave the wave and wave the plain.
Then o'er the lake, from faery land,
O'er many a plain and mountain-hand,
The Sons of sires shall look on thee,
And bless thy name and thee with Liberty!
Come to these Loves! they say, and leave thee here!
These the wild rites of nature ne'er shall know:--
And, with them, live--the Druid's Saxon's heir,
Who, in the wild, unwearied Druid's bower,
Shall watch their sallies waving in the shower.
Yes! let the gentle hand of fairy Care
Touch thy cold heart with soft affections rare;
And, where the fairy circle joins the light
Of the rosy locks, and ringlets' blithe delight;
There, from the rocky dell, that skirts the steep,
And gaily glimmers in the sparkling rill,
Shall gaily chase the gaudy dancers still,
And make their sports with graceful ease along,
Till, in the grove, beneath the elm-trees' song,
Or in the wild, unwearied solitudes,
Where scarce their shadows lose their soft repose,
The mirth-song of the faun shall wake the woods,
And echo to their bells its mystic strain.
Yes! let the sainted soul of evening see
What forms these fairy-vested doves may bear; -
Dark Night, arrayed in sable stole for thee,
And keep thy sable pall in secret air;
And, in the moonless deeps of lonely night,
When even the breathless soul awakes the might
Of the dark clouds, to chase the morn of light,
Shall sable Night her raven raven hair unroll
O'er the wild Alps, with many a sanguine wile
O'er the dim Alps, and heap their snow-white pall
O'er the dim woods, and hush those bugles wild,
That all night-eagle, from those war-haunting flight,
Start at the sounds
======================================== SAMPLE 158 ========================================
--_Eve._ Waked, woke. The shepherds flew
In the dark mountain pass.
They knew not shepherds. Their flocks afar
Skittered on the icy plain.
Came a wild and ghostly troop.
They ran,--but met not one.
As a lioness should, when the herd is lost,
Cower on the green earth--so the ghostly train
Of the dead fell
Battered into their camp; but still the slain
Somed 'neath the giant's feet,
A wilder, aye the dead
Shrieked in that agony and wilder pain.
And the mother called aloud,
Looked up and saw,--
"I lie in the drift of snow,
And snuff the wind;
See where the white pelicans go and come
Howling to the frozen sea!"
_Eve._ Peace, peace!
_Eve._ Peace, peace!
_Eve._ Peace, peace!
_Eve._ Peace, peace in the vale;
_He_, who in summer all year toils,
The reaper knew,--
All that the sages of old time
Saw
To come with him to make an end of Time.
I will not waste my breath in vain
Upon the sound of the desert rain,
But my old thoughts shall dwell
In the cold North and sunny clime,
And I will plod, with the salt sea-foam,
Down into the land of the sea-grasses,
Till the sea-bird shall flit and flutter
Away o'er the lone, blue continent,
While my weak spirit wanders over the track of the sea,
And floats and dives into the vast mystery.
O the hills! O the hills!
The wild streams sleep in the sea!
A wild bird calls from the desert,
A cry from the mist is heard on the shore!
The waves sleep, the clouds sleep,
The wild wind sighs through the sky!
I will go with my comrades to battle,
I will sing my battle-song!
To put out the lights and the work of the day
I will come to the hills where the gray-beards play
And the soldiers shall laugh in the cold bright light,
And they shall see me again in their fight;
For I bring not the beat of my wings
While the cry goes round in the battle-storm,
But the cry goes round like the raven's cry,
"I have brought out the East,
And we must worship, or soon or late,
In the hour of the great defeat!"
_Adam._ How should I bear that face,
That man,
Of such vast bulk between the ages and the sea,
Till only a bay of green for me,
Where the shell
Rocks up the visible shape of the world,
And the far roar of it wakes my own soul too,
And in the abyss
Moves it and speaks to me;
And my feet in the beach of sand
Move as they will,
And I follow, and follow again
To the land
I love so well.
For I keep
Full knowledge of all the days,
The dawning gladness and the darkening light
That comes and goes, and is, and shall be
Till I am lost in the deep heart's might
And the eyes grown dim are as my own soul's sight,
And they are full of tears.
_Eve._                                         Be still.
_Adam._ No more of me;
Thine am I, and thine must be one,
That is all, and I am.
_Adam._                                      Be still.
_Eve._ My face is as the face of a glass
Which mine eyes shall fill.
And my heart, my heart, is mine
In the void and shadow;
The spell which enthralls and enthralls
The spirit within me,
Shadows from my fleeting soul,
And the dreams before me.
O, light of the spirit land!
O, shelter of winged things:
O, wind of the open air!
In the heart's light eternally
Sifting the golden strings,
Lift thy choral voice anew!
And sing for thy heart's desire
In the breath of some wave,
And in the heart's deep song of fire
L
======================================== SAMPLE 159 ========================================
;
And the next day is a fine day
To make a great wrap for my friend.
Oh, the great wheels, the old wheels!
It has been to me long and long ago
When people ran down to me that night
And I was as hard as a rock.
It was old when the world shut me out
And I lived in the gardens that grew out
To be a thing to my wonder.
And the gates of the City are opened,
And the great wheels, the old wheels!
And we all have gone home to die,
But each has a dream that never shall come to his
With a new vision before;
I saw a cloud on the sky of your love
As a great white glory,
A cloud of the open sky
That shines over the city.
Oh, the great wheels, the old wheels!
O, the great wheels, the old wheels!
Oh, the great wheels, the old wheels!
The night has grown wondrous cold
Since you bore me the whole round earth
Through the two blank walls of the world;
And I, who was the only man
In that paper page that you
Had read in the meeting of men
When you said to me, "We are old men."
Oh, the great wheels, the old wheels!
O, the great wheels, the old wheels!
How you fooled me and mocked me and mocked me
In the thousands of frenzied hopes.
Oh, the great wheels, the old wheels!
The old wheels, the old wheels!
Out of the night of the horrible night,
I have walked in the dull cold light.
And my eyes are blinded with tears --
How the tears come through their tears!
They are drawn on the wheels in a row,
As the wheels load laden with years.
Oh, the great wheels, the old wheels!
In the dim dawn of the day,
How you made them smile from the sun
That shone in your carven still ray.
They are spun on the wheels, and they thread
Through the night's cold mists.
How your tired hands drag and strain!
How they laugh when you pass them by!
But what has the wonderful carvel of old
With never a ribbon by?
The night is grown heavier day by day
Since you bore me through.
I walk down the garden paths,
Just for a breath,
Happy and weary and faint-hearted,
Waiting the chance.
But oh, the garden of God
Is like a little place on the sky.
It stretches like a tired road down
Into the night.
There is something in the strangeness of the earth
That drags at your feet,
That crumbles upon the grass and makes a noise
Of your silly feet.
I pass through the garden paths
And take a stray,
After some dust of flowers;
But I see your tired face
In the garden way,
Where you go out in the wind
Bitterly gay;
And you toss about by the roadside trees
And turn and sigh,
And turning back all night
By the fire-light lie.
I should like to wait and watch
For a bit of a place upon the hill,
And the sky so warm,
Should send a far-off whisper out,
And a distant call
From the far south,
Where the road stops short
That will bring me home again
And the little things that God has given me
For the only things that I can give.
Only the things that God has given me
For the only things I give.
And I sit in the gloom
And wait,
And wonder, and wonder, and ask,
And I know,
And I sigh, and turn away
And wish I were at home with you.
I wish I were far,
Far off from all I love, far away
From all I love.
And I should think I would wish I could be
Drawn back by the wind
To this quiet place, this quiet garden, where
You are ever so kind.
And I should think I would wish I could be
Ever so cold against your hand, dear love --
For a year's half dream
Of the warmth and the light
Of your face with my eyes and my soul
At my door in the dusk.
And I should think I would wish to lie
In the long bright wind,
And to think that I would wish to be
Dressed in the long bright wind.
And I would wish to be
And your face to see,
My heart to feel, your love to feel,
My heart to be your soul.
And I would wish to be
For a whole long day
And a black unrest of a happy hope
In the garden at the
======================================== SAMPLE 160 ========================================
 on a bier.
For he is foremost on the lot,
Of every martial exercise,
Of every force or grit of war,
When battle-tumult calls afar.
The muster has its own degrees,
The masses are the rallying-ground,
The forces are the ships that stem,
The fight is ours--that lives at least!
So, at each army's head advancing,
They pour into the nation's van,
They enter to an open place,
Wherein they show--a gallant army!
The ranks are moving; there's a shout
Of exultation, one, two, three:
There is a high and glittering host,
But now the people are within:
They crowd to meet the coming shock,
And all is silence to the shout:
The shouts and shows, the cheering notes,
Are calling to the closing troops.
Now loud in France the trump is blown,
And to the sound of onset given:
Now French and French in turns appear,
While French and French in turns appear.
Then back unto the muster come
The men who never yet have played,
The first of all the noblest few,
In battle stern, in judgment bold;
The first whose prowess is the last
Whence all things new and strange as past.
As in a line, as in a book,
The story of the battle stroke
No minds know here: the men who dree
To charge that flag, who does the right,
A stout old army--may he be.
And now they pour in on every hand,
And now the hosts are come in line,
When as the ear can hardly understand
That fighting is a glorious game.
The lion has a lofty pride,
He wears his manly figure,
A lion-mettled, ravenous eye,--
The colors of the ocean
Are red,--they're red,--and they shall try,
With courage, courage, and a mind
That can to battle move a mind.
The lion with his mane so blue,
Like one that never wore a cap,
Fellow-born, but fierce as wolf,
Has raging in his bosom,
That he has tears on every limb:
The lion, by his human pride,
Bears back his head, unheeding him:
The lion gives the peasant food,
The ox they give their milking:
The lion, by his hunger bred,
His homely master milking,
His little table and his shed,
To give his master dinner;
The lion, by his hunger fed,
Does, with his toothless body,
Smear up his ragged paws, and growl,
And bark, as if he scorned to give
Scathes for his master's dinner.
Then to the dogs they give their treat,
To the child-heap they give
The lion and the ox and kine,
The tusks and bowls to give.
And now the drum and trumpet sound
Their merry peals around.
Then to the huts of his retreat,
To the old-fashioned kettles,
Whose painted beef was reared to eat,
In baskets of eighteen-seven:
The pikes were out, the nets were set,
The pikes, that they might swallow,
Were tied, and was the country seat
Where they had first been snaring;
But the horse and bell was in the gate
Of the inn where they were lying.
And the knock-out was unheard by all,
Nor emptied many hollow.--
And the wife of the village still
Stood in her well-known cradle;
And she heard the long-lived chorus,
The voice of the loved one dying,
Calling, in tones that might have wooed
Her to love and to love's treasure--
But she heard not, and she turned;
But to look once again on the scene,
And question if the pike were in.
And the pike, the dappled deer,
By the wild beast at their head,
Were coming one by one,
Their hunting-ground at the copse;
And the horse and rider stopped,
And the gun and rider stopped,
And the gun and rider stopped,
And all was silence; and it was not ...
The crowd of the village left and right,
The steeple, where the red-coat lights
Of the "White Horse" dawning, in the dawning.
And as the horse-sway rustled through
The quiet of the moonlit street,
For three shouts, "To the wood! to the wood!"
He answered and was gone. And when the last
Call came as he drew near,
======================================== SAMPLE 161 ========================================
,
Or the tale of him who sang me.
I should have loved and lost, but that was all,
And if you love me not I hate you;
I love you as my knight, and ever since
Have loved and lost, have loved you.
If I loved you, let me have love even
For love's sake and for all your beauty.
No more shall I go down by moonlight
To meet the death that is more near.
I shall sit one day by your window
Where I have loved you before.
You will envy me? Yes, I hate you;
You will envy me no more!
I shall weep, and you will weep, too;
I shall be sad, and you will weep too.
Then I'll come back, or you will weep, too.
I will come back from rooms that seem so still,
And you will weep, and I will weep with you,
And you will weep, and I will weep with you;
And you will weep, and I will weep with you;
And you will weep, and I will weep with you.--
It came to be a summer's day,
Out of the purple-blue far away,
Out of the purple-blue wide land,
That seemed so fairy-land.
The light was there, a single ray
Out of the golden west was far
Across the rolling western bar,
And, far away, the purple-red
Was sparkling in the rosy West,
And all the woods were hushed with the warm sigh of the breeze,
And all the rivers were content
With an enchanting fairy-land,
That dwelt in a cottage-nest.
A foot up the stair! The sun came down,
Glancing through the western haze,
A beam from a woodland brown
Beamed on the moss and crop.
"There's a Fairy-queen," said the Fairy-queen,
"With her pretty eyes so blue and so long,
Looking as cheerful as any king's.
Well, well, 'tis a wondrous thing in a Fairy-queen--
A Fairy-queen that has come too late;
It is mine by the fairy-queen!"
"Tiny heart," said the Fairy-queen,
"It's all a fairy-queen!"
"And she lives with a Fairy now,
Gliding softly and still,
With her little feet that bruise
The grass and the flowers,
And her little golden curls
Pearled with the dainty blush
That she wears when she goes with the Elf-queen.
"She wanders among the leaves,
Where the dainty winds peep,
And all the birds of the forest sing
By her golden hair asleep;
Or in the moonlit earth of spring
Where her feet like daisies tread,
When they hear her low and laugh,
It is mine by the fairy-queen!"
The Fairy-queen sang beside the sea,
With a laugh that echoed down the beach,
And when the winds were laid to rest,
A gentle wind came whispering,
And kissed the seaweeds silently,
And made the dainty winds and rocks
Murmur, "Sweet, sweet, sweet! Sweet, Sweet!"
O happy Sleep, that dream-like sleep
Wastes not a moment's power!
For thine a dream's delay
Is but the wind's, a breath of dream,
And all the world a breath of air
To thine, sweet, Sweet beyond the sea,
Will be the wind, my breath, my song,
And the winds to hear thy breath
More sweet, and give thee pain
Than the sweetness that they gain
From the sweetest flower of the rain!
The earth was drowsy then, the drowsy grass was nodding low,
The sheep upon the mountain lay asleep as soft as now;
The shepherds in their straw-walled chambers leaned to catch the show,
And from the quivering silver fishes drew the silver bow,
And every little fish looked out upon the golden string,
And all the sudden darkness of the place was like a day,
And little girls were playing in the golden waves away.
A little boy and a little maid,
And Sleep was where no other maid may tread;
 Sleep and the years went fast asleep--
We were more happy then, I think, than now we now,
We roamed the fields, and loved the sky, and smiled at other men.
But one is now a name no longer out of France or Spain,
And one is here, a name that men call "Brancos" in the chain.
And one is at a ball and dancing, and a big brass
======================================== SAMPLE 162 ========================================
,
And the great man his last breath
Through the night's utter darkness
Rises slowly mounting,--
Slowly rising,
By his feet pressed,
His long hair
Softly mantling;
On his breast
Softly resting.
Thus we sat, while in the old time
We had sat at work together
Mid the great new walls and the thickets and trees:
In our old times joys, in our quiet days,
We could hear the rain on the roof at play,
In the garden-towers, and the wind on the gale,
On the sweet buds waiting for the door.
Then a voice said, I think, "You're tired of this life:
"Let us work together, we, too, must work.
Youth and age, the river and the sea,
Take the joys, and work together.
Work together, then, with a will and a will,
Lift the hands and eyes up into the sky
Where no cloud is, nor cloud is, nor cloud,
Nor ever a cloud was, nor ever a cloud."
So the voice said.
All the morning long
I heard the rain come hurrying by;
All the evening long
I heard the wet leaves go and come;
All the afternoon long
I heard the drip of the humming-bird's wing,
On the tree-tops of leaves, in the mosses,
On the old interred pane;
In the evening, when my love went by,
I heard the wind on the window-pane.
And I knew that there, like the Master,
There stood the face of the Lord of the world,
And knew that at last the sun
Came down, and laid him down.
And all the night long
Loves came and went; but I slept at peace,
Knowing, as I lay in the quiet,
The light, the life, my beloved, in the cold blackness.
"Oh, how cold the cold is!  No sun can shine,
And how cold the cold is.  No one has told me;
But my lover, my own lover, he lies cold in my breast."
"Oh, how cold the cold is!  No life is a happy place;
They call me cold, and I cannot forget.
I must do so still, and I feel very glad,
Knowing that I have loved it so tenderly."
"Oh, how cold the cold is!  No day can come at all;
They called me cold, not I, nor yet have I;
And I look to- backwards, and all ye see me
Wandering somewhat lonely and very pale,
In all the gladness of the evening sky.
"Oh, how cold the cold is!  No sun can shine;
It is frosted and no tears are on my cheek;
I must do so still, and I feel very lonely,
Knowing that I have loved it so tenderly."
I hear the rain on the roof coming,
And the wind driving by me.
My heart aches, I know not why,
For the rain is pouring by.
It troubles me too much, I know not why,
To think of such a noble place to-day.
(From a German by-way, with intemperance.)
I can see it all, as clear as day,
And never hear it from the air;
But I see something moving towards me,
And I am very tired of it.
It is the same old trick, I hear,
And nothing happens in the land;
It is the same old trick, I get from being cheated,
And all this while I am very tired.
It is the same old trick, I hear,
And I have seen it through my mind;
I know I cannot find what I would seek;
I do not know when first I come, or where I go;
I do not know I cannot find where I go.
I do not know when first I come, or where I go;
I do not recollect when first I came, or what I say,
Nor what I were and what was, till I learned to know.
I do not know when first I came, or if I am cheated,
Nor when I do remember anything that was,
Or if the things I do belong to me and what I was;
For the light of my eyes and hair may seem to me
A little bit of something that was like to be.
Then I must do nothing with what I have done;
Some things I must have left undone:
I cannot think of what will happen to me,
And no more about what's going to be.
Then I must do nothing, and leave what there was for
======================================== SAMPLE 163 ========================================
t he knew it,
Knew it, and said, "I'll go to the village
And take the road to the sea."
And the town was filled with traffic and traffic,
With raking of towns on the shore;
And traffic and business,
And the poor-folk with moving mulberry beds,
And baths and parlors and such;
And they found birds building,
And the pheasant cartwheels and grasshoppers making baskets,
And porters all hot for fish;
And all the meat loaded,
And the kettles, and all the tea-things,
With the farmers taking the road--
So pretty, and yet so shiny,
So much like a stick, and so fine!
The sun was shining, and all things round the village
And all the towns on the farm;
And the birds were singing,
And all the birds in the branch-borders,
And all the cocks thereby, and cocks thereby.
_Moolie-moo, poor little thing,
Very small, very small,
Has a hole in the door,
Hidden hole, and a hole in the wall;
And the house looks like a house,
With a roof all holes narrow and tall;
And the house that looks out on the road
Is a lovely little home,
With a rose on the porch, and a rose by the door,
And never a bird but grieves
While the whole of the house is alive with the dew.
And that is the house,
With a rose in the wall,
And always looks at the little things all;
And the house is always a yard,
By a good-looking pile,
With a fence of good-looking roof,
And a gate to all very handsome and grand;
A kitchen, and a yard
With a fence of good-looking floor,
And a porch like a princess's chair;
And an altar, and a well,
With the rose in the door,
And the pansy and honey-comb sweet;
And the kitchen, and a side
Of a young family,
With a book and a clock by the side;
And the sofa, and the room above,
With the carpet, and the hem of the door--
And the little upstairs,
With the rose in the door,
And the light of the lamp in the casement's end;
And a fountain, and a walk,
And the little cloth-walk
Of a neat-handed man,
With a cushion and a clock of praise;--
And ever, when the summer day
Is half-past half-past eight,
To the little kitchen, where the dish
Lies open, and the things,
Uncaring, are forgotten quite;
And the book is but a little door,
And no one asks a Word,--
It is a pleasant house, and plain
As on the quiet street.
And in the dark and silent night,
When the warm splendors meet
Of the low moon, among the stars,
I have forgotten which,
And cannot, dare again.
And when the moon, that is the light
That dances at the pane,
Doth laugh, and kiss, and go away;
And like a mouse in the corn
Is listening for corn
That seems the lightest in the world;
And I listening would be dreaming
Of things that I have heard,
About the night, about the moon,
About the lonely bird,
That sings above the lonely house,
Whose song is in its breath,
With its sweet, sad, sweet ditties,
Whose melody outwells
In the little night-time,
As the day grows dark and brighter.
And then my heart would wander
All suddenly again,
And go with its long, dream-laden
Dream-laden heart of music,
Into the troubled
Eerie dark, with darkness given;
And all the world would wail,
And all the stars laugh out their pale;
And I should go on wailing
With the Night for one who has not
The power to pour his music on it.
O, I long to go to my most admired mate
Before I lose my soul!  It little needs
My love, to give him more than he can give,
For loving more as much as I do life,
As if he had known more than I do life.
This is not death (for death is more than life,
And more than death, and more than time, and less
Were worse than dust, with much ado and sore),
This is not death (for death is more than life,
And more than death) for any other man,
Nor much more so;
======================================== SAMPLE 164 ========================================
! _Tunum viri_--the _Buneret_,
Or else the _Venus_, such a name
He hath not seized, nor tied her knots,
Nor set to any work whereby
He can distinguish _Venus_, _Venus__.
_Non fuet, Postume, Postume, Postume_.
The _Venus_ weets with constant care
To her and God, the _Buneret_,
The _Venus_ sends, to learn and know
The pleasing duties of her trousse,
Though she _Gems_ more than most, the _Bunuit_,
The _Venus_, and the _Bustrum_ wreathes
With every _ Planet_ in her hands:
Tho' _Venus_ sends _Celarent_ forth
To all the little _Venus_ lands,
For she has sent _Olympus_ hence.
She sends _Mercurius_, when she bends
To take the doom he will not hear,
For he has sent his _Venus_ hence.
And so it happeneth, my sweet friend,
The _Venus_, who in one command
Made all things as he lent her off
To take the doom she will not see.
The _Mariessa_, whom his grandsire bred
In a rich soil'd and royal town,
Who had the care of every boor,
With good _Iphiclus_ did crown,
And he, too, from the _Attic chair_
With _Venus_ took his deathless share.
By _Venus_' self (upon the stage),
He did his best, whene'er he would;
For he was kind, and loved to own
That happy love was his alone.
And now the mistress of the dance,
The old, the gay, the lovely Dane,
With her he play'd, and with the light
Of her red lips, he did her smite.
'But if,' says he: 'tho' we have known
But half our love for _Venus_ now,
I scarce believe she was beloved.'
So he went by, and found her not,
Pacing along without a groan,
And he in grief complain'd of her,
'Good night, my Rosy Swan, good-night.'
Next 'twas a day, a splendid dower,
To love and make a glorious bower.
So glorious was the _Mariessa_,
And the _Venus_ self came back to her.
At times before the wedding feast,
She was a _Sulph'_ Bride, whose carriage
Was twin'd with gold full thirty-three;
(An iligant and _Matinius_ came,
(The _Conbovitas_ were fond of fame.)
Her bedroom door was wide enough,
And the _Diomela_ there was plenty,
And like an opera-civalat
She made her couch, and made it splendid.
The _Adonis_ she loved so dearly,
That of right oft he play'd the measure;
And when the dance was o'er, he threw
Her pretty arms about her neck.
But one thing turn'd her out of fashion;
For her neck and breast were both in plight.
The _Dejanira_ was another;
The _Pebboblas_ she loved as tutor.
Her home was in a _Florencello_,
There was a grand _Alpasia_,
Who often kiss'd the little maid;
But when she started on her feet,
The _Dejanira_ took her seat.
She stopp'd, and, with a piteous sigh,
Her teardrops back behind her threw,
And round her in her furbelow
The _Ash-deoil_, in tatters, lay.
Upon the floor was splashed the last
Of her white hand, and made a blot,
And she was left alone--alone.
But when the _Dejanira_ came,
She kiss'd the _Alp cassia_ and her shame.
She saw her poor old _Auxil_ too,
In a dark corner of the bough,
And when he thought her very sweet,
The _Dejanira_ kiss'd her feet.
She saw her poor old _Auxil_ dead,
Beneath her husband's bier so stiff.
Her bed-clothes gaped upon her head;
He weeps and tells her of his grief;
And all the day she thinks to see
His face grow greater, and she shrineth
B
======================================== SAMPLE 165 ========================================
 a thousand
Or twenty men?  I'm sure we'll let him come at least as many.
It is enough for me that he has done the very things we deeply
Do they not happen in the twilight, that we keep the doors of
We have no doors or windows?  I am sure they do not open
without no door, there is a dark hole in the wall, and a hole
in the wall, and the wind falls from the west, and the clouds
hang over it as though they were trying to hurry through it,
and the grey flies from the south and the snow from the north.
I am sure these eyes will never open, in the quiet of this
time, till perhaps they have been blind to us, and they will not
tell again when they wake in us; and I know that the soul of this
is like a golden cloud caught in an autumn and a wind that is
cann'd in the clouds through the secret of its folds till the
darkness covers the world.
Where the last light in its last splendour is reflected,
where the last wild-flower drops from the ground, and the last stray
flower drops from its stalk, I would seek the sky around me,
and the earth far off from me again, and the earth between me and
the sea.
The mountains are my home, with the stars and the winds only, and
the clouds themselves my dwelling, and I sit here silent in the
night, and the sea's moan comes through the greyness of the
night, and the salt tears come with it wherever it be, and in
that shadow comes and comes the wind.
When winter is over, I sit here at the window of the inn, and
my mind is busy with remembering the days gone by, and the
passengers that once led me up from the dust to the house of
the dead man, and my wine, and my books, and my wine-soup, and
my wit that spoke in the sleep and the silence of the dead.
But, O soul!  O soul!  If I tell all in the night what a
shadow it is, then, O soul that I know.
It is but a part of your body that lies in the lake, but now it
is only a part of your little heart that trembles for you,
and trembles and trembles for you because you are laid out
of the lake.
O soul!  O soul!  O darkness, and O blinding flame!  O
lights that gleam out of the night and vanish from us!
Let us drift over the lake to the beyond where there is no
one to save you, save the wind.
Let us burn blue in the sun as it darts over the dead,
let us be one for a while through the long black night when
the winds are at war--when the leaves that shudder up and
sweeter, being broken, are a dull savour of sweetness
in their flight through the summer air.
The sky is gray, the sea-spray has fallen down,
And the long, blue waves are aching in their bed,
But in the light of your large azure
There lies in my soul a calm, still bed;
And the night draws on, and the night is dead.
I know where you are lying, there in bed,
Folded smooth, pillowed soft on every side;
I know the flowers weeping at your feet,
The night that wakes your wan, cold wandering tide;
But, O, the dreams are fair with your strange eyes.
And I, your lover, would have died forlorn,
Forgetting all your love, or faint or far,
Forgotten and for ever out of sight,
The one, the one I love, the whole night long.
I have watched the moon for hours, and the tide has ebbed away,
And my soul has grown to a sea of sound and sight;
The waves have set upon me, and my eyes have sought to pray,
O sea and wind, I am the soul of you.
There is no rest for me in the barren deserts,
There is no rest for me in wind or sea;
There is no peace for me in the loneliness of your distress,
Nor any peace save mine own to me.
O sea and wind, my music dwells in you.
I am the soul of you, the echo of your voice.
The wind of your voice as it blows in my body,
And the sun and sun of your music are one,
And the flowers of your life are forgotten in my soul,
And the sun and your songs are the things I have done.
You and I, O wind of our restless wings,
Wind of the lifted morn, where the dim
======================================== SAMPLE 166 ========================================
 as a king."
"Yes, it is true," the Baron said, "but you
Have neither iron, forge, or fire, or strife!
If you speak honour, 'tis with great disdain.
And what the cause of it, I well may guess."
"And there is more to say," said the king, "but keep
The truth to others."
Thereat the monarch,
That in this hall the Baron paused before;
And thus, amid the murmur and applause
Of all sat late, a gall-o'-warble said
The porter's voice.
"It is not war I need
But that," quoth the Baron, "for nobles' sake,
I beg of you the very truth to tell."
"The truth is there," quoth the porter, "is, in fact,
Not proven, but in fact,
Right as it is, the truth of which I speak;
And for the honour of the Baron's youth
What want these nobles do?"
The answer ran
"You're young," the host replied.
"But in the course of time my story's told,
I ne'er was tempted to speak ill of it.
I must remember, Sir, for a moment's space,
Ere from a chamber I come forth,
To view my castle and my wife!
What then?  The thought of them my heart forebodes,
And all I meet allows me to relate.
It is not so; but I have none to show
What I with grief and bitter sneer endured.
I will relate the number, and the matter,
Which now is running on before; and who
Can tell the story of the dwarfish bride?"
"We will relate the number, and the matter
Which thou hast taken, it is time to leave
Our story!  'Twill be a tale of noble fire,
If we will listen, and we'll hear the tale.
We have within us an estate
Which is apart from all the happiest lands;
Whose soil is far from sun upon the earth;
So that a man may there remain; for then
He fell away before the hands of men,
And now is left unto his wife and child.
Now hear the cry!"
"O yes, 'tis true!
There is a Lady in the Vale,
Clad in a white, and on a brown,
Stalwart as that which erst made men.
Of her the land will be the paradise,
Wherein the Lady of the Lake was put
To dwell; and to the water-falls will go
The white men and the blue, so that the green
And yellow flowers may happily be seen.
'Twill please thee well to trust, that it is said,
One of the water-lilies, one of names,
And when that thou doest take thy last leave
Of her, then thou art happier and mightiest,
If thou hast any word of favour with her.
But, tell me, and the people will allow,
In every need, that beauty is so rare,
That no one wisteth of so fair a leaf!"
Thus said the Baron, and his daughter gan
To leave, and both with speed away they went.
But Psyche, since nor coud there have been laws
For man to compass, doth her mind remisit
From sorrow into happiness; and e'en
Her stubborn will, which had so oft been bent,
Blameless and harmful to every sense,
Torture its soul out, and with evil thing
Gnaw at the thought of mischief.  So her son
To the great hostess he commended, and
Bowed down unto the Lord, whom now he loved.
"What!  come, my child, and tell, the nurse!
How has the fever called upon your blood?
And hast thou wet the linen, which with tears
Itself rubies, at the thinking of it?"
"A noble princess I have been, to whom
Great knighthood and the laws of Britain do
Make good the cause of death and massacre."
"I never knew the like, nor did the same,
But well enough that I have felt the same
Ere yet my earthly life had left me free
As is the life of thunder.  Well I now
Know this: to suffer without hope of death
Is as the pathway of the cloudiest.
"The nurse of every earthly sorrow is,
And evermore I need to look on her
That it may never fade, as she that mourns
For her beloved, when, alas! she comes
To leave her lovely baby, nor may learn
What love is worth; for this is love indeed."
'
======================================== SAMPLE 167 ========================================
 and the vernal ornaments
of winter, then, they gave to earth
the vernal ornaments of spring.  The vernal ornaments
of spring had not been kept without,
which now they had kept unharmed from their burden.
And those that planted and adorned the vernal ornaments
of spring, the vernal ornaments of autumn.  These had
never harvests to be effaced in vain.
And those that planted and adorned the vernal ornaments
of winter, the vernal ornaments of autumn, they
bore, and fashioned a temple, and built a temple,
propped on the pointed sand, and overlaid a tomb.  And
those who dwelt on high
among men adored the holy name of God,
and learned from him the nature of the stars;
and how these things are come unto the common race
of the Oldercanian.  He had also accomplished the
great discoveries of the world to come.
(ll. 478-izza: spiritual life is revealed by the
substance that has been dealt by him on earth by men
named the ichor, who ruled it of the world before and
before.  With these words, Christ says to the world,
(ll. 982-izza: 'Art thou not Orestes, who hast believed
that thy fame reaches heaven, to which thou art, as
thou art, a living God?--if peradventure thou art
a prophet, what art thou, and what is thy name?'
Then, as I spake, I saw that on the day forth the
Phoenicians had told the Phoenicians of their
purpose the seeds of death: and even as they were
lying in the ships, the Phoenicians brought them hither
from afar, and gathered them under their own chariots,
and then, as they were in their armour, these the
Phoenicians gat them by force from out of the stubborn
bodies of the monster, and placed therefrom their armour.
(ll. 982-izza: 'Art thou so mighty that thou art not
ÆProteus, and thou didst come down in thy flight from the
Phoenicians, to bring thine eyes to such great a cloud?
l.'
Then, as I drew near to them, I spake to them, saying:
'Rise, and behold now the sun, that shines so glorious,
which my eyes may not penetrate.'
Then my Leader: 'Have regard, and keep thy thoughts from
winging.  Thou hast heard well the story of him who crossed the
waters of Thebes, and from the land of the Peloponnese.  Thou
shalt come to the hemisphere of the world.'
(ll. 982-izza: 'Art thou also he, that art mindful of the
"Thus once and again I spake, and that fair goddess I
caught up in striking her on my breast, and her eyes, whence
it was looked on by the third in detail, did issue forth,
although she went straight toward the third and fixed my
virgin vision.
(ll. 982-izza: 'Art thou also one of the maidens of
Gloria?  And thou also of the other white souls that came
unto thine own country, with us and with us here, O daughter
of Rachel, and we others of our neighbour, and thou also of
Gloria.  In doing thou hast unlearned so much evil to the
of our parents.  Verily thou saidst to me, 'My house is in the
gloom, and they that watch it do all the harm they are
chieving by stealth.'
(ll. 982-izza: 'Art thou indeed Justice, Master,
So thou speakest to me, and I in all things tell it to you,
for the fear of death is not there.  Verily thou saidst,
"The livid stone of the ninth year would be most crumbled
down below the Holy One, and the iron spikes would be
stiff enough to frighten the swift angels."
(ll. 912-721) Then was this fair lady beckoned to her husband's
doom, and with handmaids danced upon his bed and took him
with her.  She had laid hold of him with her husband, the
swineherd, who believed that she had ordered him to set his
departure, and had promised her to do what he had already
promised, "That is he who is the Lord of hosts, that is he
who led the Israelites against their shepherd lords against
the heathen host
======================================== SAMPLE 168 ========================================
's grave, too.,
I can almost think of Thee; I would pray Thee day to-day,
O God! and is not I.        |         |
This I wish to be; that I might see my Judas come again;
I thought of that far-off priesthood sent from Palestine to Spain;
Yea, and, "O God!" I cried, "O God! the doom is mine!"
I think of Thee.                                       |
Yea, and I and Peter, too, and all the blessed, and near.
Nay, Peter, thou alone art left!                                
Know, I have loved you long!                                         
Now, Jesus Christ, forgive!                               _Of the Virgin
I ask not God, nor Paul, nor Paul.                                       MS.
Ah! little Jesus Christ, thy visage is a-bright;
Yet thy mild eyelids well the brighter, the more bright!
Yet what a sin from thee, thou most accurst,
Smiles on this foul humanity, this infant's heart!
If Thou be'st one, and One, and One, oh Lord!
Thy visage, is thy leaven-leaf; thy voice is stern;
Yet what a sin to love, to love thou 'rt helpless!                            ED.
Forgive me, Lord, forgive that I foresaw
Two captive sons for whom the Jordan bowed;
Two sli'mls to the East; one laden with a straw;
T' have made the exile home; and one before,
The thorns and shepherds, by the wintry blast
Puft from the sea, to wander at her will.                         G.
_Tuscan e medio tu, Paulor Mortis,
Thun' o th' faith, o 'a, o 'a' my poor Ann.
Nae giftie 'fu' o' boot on that wean's heart,
But to the Holy Ghost 's a sair part.                                  G.
In coelo hoc, quam tibi vita, certa Christus?
Hoc non est illae, o Domine.                             CR.
_The blind man's eyes are bright_,
_What he sees is brighter_,
_The good God's look is dark_,
_The true God's look is wider_,
_The true God's look is wider_,
_The true God's look is wider_,
_The true God's look is wider_,
_The true God's look is wider_,
_The true God's look is wider_,
_The love of true God shineth_,
_The love of true God shineth_,
_G. & B. condone_,
_The young man's heart is warmer_,
_The old man's pulse is keener_,
_The old man's life is sweeter_,
_The old home we might keep_,
_The young life we might cherish_,
_'Tis sweeter, Lord, to perish_,
_Thy love from our hearts sever_,
_'Tis sweeter, Lord Christ's brother_,
_And sweeter, Lord Christ's brother_,                    G.
_Mere praesenti
======================================== SAMPLE 169 ========================================
, 1695.
"It is the time for prayer, and for confession;
Both now are out, my life, and I must part!"
So prayed a lawyer, and was soon well pleased
All hired clerkships of the High Art tribe,
Who took their place at church; and when from thence
Forthwith their proofs of good received
Into their souls' most secret places went;
They told their brothers, one by one, they came
To do this office without pain or shame.
They to the Church came in, all duly said,
Both Preachers, John and Matthew honestly,
The men of God who in the name of Truth
With superstition sought to quench their faith.
One time Lord Thomas said, 'Here is some sign
That he will follow us in his own shrine!'
And as in front of all the rest was seen,
They waited with bowed heads, and in a ring
Two faithful soldiers (in the name of Truth)
Bore converse, till at length the Holy Church,
Which had been long professed to be a shrine
To God and man, to some one else remained.
Nor yet in vain; for on a message bold
Came to the Devil to say, 'What now you see
Shall be done witness to your judgement past;'
And that in taking them upon the place
The Master said he'd have you all his grace,
He and his Angels should be reconciled.
So, from the hour that he has cast his seals,
The Devil to his own sweet will did come,
And in his Father's name the truth to tell,
Who thus unto the Devil did translate: 
'You shall be saved, and we for peace shall pray,
And in our hearts a heavenly Father pray
Who from the living watchwords of the past
Can call you forth, to take you to His hand!'
So saying, he began to clothe his hands.
And from his Father's head a holy sweat
Stood, streaming forth like streaming fire that drips
Or lightning, when it catches in its course,
And drenches out the dry dry land with mud,
So, as he thought, throughout the waste of years
There ran a change and change, and still the voice
Of his great Brother called him, while he stood,
And in this wise he did his Father praise,
And all his soul with the same wish to reach--
For in that shape he saw some trace of Him,
A Spirit, to be with him in old times;
And in the shape He saw a Spirit move,
Whom he called the Son of God, not to be named,
And call'd him the Messiah; now he thought
What a mere mortal I must be, who yet
Didst find this in my Son. But this is past;
And I no sooner in my speech received
The word, than from the Spirit I discern,
Which had been questioned of a mystic Priest,
And who by his example taught the boy;
And thus was told that he was called in part
Of the Celestial City, in the land
Of the known Light, where dwells the true and foul,
And all the sons of men. Then he began,
For in the concourse of the eternal God
He saw a solemn rite for the most high
According to his number; and anon
The priests came forth; and by the Holy Church,
Through its long train of years, he now appear'd;
And, gazing on the ruin, there he saw
The Eagle, towering over it, far, far,
And near it of a lesser compass, stood,
The Eagle pre-eminent, between the two,
Looking on pious men, and grave in each:
Here a Contention, there an Envy round
Of evil and of good, which from the hand
Of one John took, and in the other took
The hue of fire from these, who with red flames
Perfum'd it in their bosoms: yet no fire
Of Hell had those among them, so the eye
Of the young Angel could not utter aught.
All round about the circle ran a wood
Of pitch, and not of coedar wood, but firs,
Instead, of pine; there many a bickering pine
Had fallen, and many a hazel root, and here
A dark red cell; and under these a group
Of dark recesses, in whose smooth recess
The numerous phantoms of the cave were seen.
In midst of this a table, cloth'd with meal,
Was set, and plates were ranged thereon with wood,
Foot after foot trans serv'd; a herald next,
Beside whose throne in highest majesty
The King of Heaven sat down, and thus
======================================== SAMPLE 170 ========================================
,
A song, a song.
The man from whose enchanting art
His faith, his hope, and strength were given,
When, dying, death brought no complaint,
And the last trumpet sounded Heaven!
A song, a song.
When life is a moment, when joy is a dream,
When pleasure the vision of life to beguile,
When peace her white pinion unrolled in a stream,
And the world to a dream is a smile!
A song, a song.
When the stars have resumed their their their shining spheres,
And the sun is departing to cheer up the flowers,
And the dawn of the coming of morn brings the tears
Which remain on the brow of each tear.
A song, a song!
And the soul of the tuneful is swooning in pain,
Like the breeze in an olive tree,
To its death on the fragrant flowers
We give the sign where our hearts shall be.
A song, a song!
When we are waiting for the day
When the skies shall be brighter than ours,
A voice, a song!
The dawn is breaking on the earth,
The day-star is setting,
The dawn lifts her crimson torch
In the deep purple of the night,
And her hand is full as the noon
Of the noon, my love.
A song, a song!
When our life beats her heart and we stand apart,
To judge and make a trial of the heart--
A shriek, a sigh.
Aye, there are voices in our wind and rain,
That rise, that are not heard when day is done,
And cry for the familiar chords in vain,
And murmur and lament and moan for one.
I look upon my sun; it is not far--
My heart is full of sorrow, and the tears
Are mingled in my eyes, as in a song,
Yet not so silently as in the years
When my heart bleeds and my heart dies for thee,
O sweet and tender lady of my heart,
And of me all thy kindness, and thy love,
The only living being--I the king,
The tender yielding--of thyself alone--
And me, O maiden, and thy sole above,
And me, O maiden! tender as a dove,
And pure as any virgin, and a life
Of purity, and passion, and the love
That fills the soul with yearning, and to be
A life of beauty, and of sacrifice,
Thou gavest me, O dear and stainless dove,
The home where holy souls are ever one,
And are to-morrow full of blessing or release.
I will go into the world and fight the fight,
Charge at the doors and cry for peace until
The pallid night shall cover me and mine,
The shadows of the ages gently fall
Around me--I can wake, and cry withal,
I will go into the world and fight the fight,
Charge at the portals and cry without a word,
I will go into the world and conquer it,
With hands on my knees and hands on my white
White sandals, draw my dagger in my throat,
And the dagger in my bosom, and my life
Will roll in rhythmic waves to meet this knife,
With feet on my knees and hands on my white.
I will go into the world to battle for a prize,
And battle for the end I long to meet,
And die at the throat of the world, and win
The glory of the world and die in my hand,
And fight with the world--I can wake, and cry
I will go into the world and fight the fight
Till I go into the world and turn my eyes
Into the world without a word, and go
Where my last kiss can hardly reach the sky,
Till I be like a flower to touch the earth,
Oh, when I die to end my days,
Where the world is as one wide expanse--
Shall I go into the world and die?
I have not understood. My heart can feel,
Too keenly felt for sight, nor felt to see.
I can recall one moment of the look
Of her slim hands and feet, and her clear eyes--
Those tears of hers that are not mortal, make
Me a strong body, to bear memory
Of my first love, and of my last surprise.
I am a mother, and yet strong men call me,
A mother with one gentle, loving mind,
A goddess, beautiful, devoted name,
Love, and the strength of life that shall forever bind me
To the full beauty of that which I inherit.
Love, and a love as sweet as my own heart
That with
======================================== SAMPLE 171 ========================================
 of the great,
That have been made out of themselves, if they were made
By their good destiny.
Laugh not, though loth, to find me out.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, to find me out.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, at entering in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atosing in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in,
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, albeit loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, although loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in,
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, while loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying in.
Laugh not, though loth, atrying
======================================== SAMPLE 172 ========================================
!
Pair of the sea!
In such a place I'd fain be back
To my lone dwelling;
But with my lips my spirit flingeth,
But I am stronger.
With heavy wrath to God my soul
Forgat and moughted;
At last its ancient feuds began,
And I'm unchilled.
Yet, when I thought it was a friend
I heard it stated:
That kindness unto man's sweet part
Made me a master.
I spake but as the birds do wont
Upon an alien shore,
And, as I said, I've made a feast
And shared my home;
In all things honour should be paid,
In all things happy;
Yet, though my garb with laurels be
Bound, as by duty,
For beauty and for grace I'd rather
Dow'rd I, a beggar,
Than a despised king in beggarly
Ran out from plenty.
I was content, and had no mind:
But yet my thoughts were free,
And had no wealth to gain my health
Nor power to seek for more;
And every day I wished I'd keep
At home in a far land.
To-day my hopes I may not keep;
The world is hind'rance;
I have a longing for the gain,
But never want it.
My friend, there are strange things to do:
I have to roam together:
My mind at home is still in view,
And I am lonely.
I had to-day to look around
Thy love in foreign fashion,
And I have many a restless thought
And many a sadness in it.
O, I have many a secret thought,
But not a happy notion:
I love thee to the depth of thought
For thou art what I seem to be,
Thou lonely being.
When thou wert born I knew no more
Thy parents were less wealthy:
Thy father took a thought of shore,
A thought of gold that could not save,
And that he never had a store
Of thoughtless trouble.
They thought that now thy father's pride
Was but a little child, and died,
As thou art gone:  but this I tell
To thee, whene'er thou goest to
The other world, in any shape,
Thy heart is only suited to
The narrow place in which thou art;
And there the great man's reverence is,
For from thy birth men sprang the first;
And there the evil, and the best,
And with the good man's blessing blest
Thy father and thy mother were.
But then, at last, my hope is fled,
And all my hope is in the tomb;
And he that once has shorn my head
Has by his care laid up his tomb.
I find him in the starry night
Who was my husband, and my light;
From him my star has taken flight,
And all my being waned to morn;
My labour done, my pains dispersed,
Into some lowly, humble shed;
And he by God who gave him birth
Has laid up his long lidded earth,
And I have many a thankless thing
To do him grace and comfort by.
What is this city, and what is it -
This crowd that for a moment clears
To distant times their sightless neighbour?
For this they're saying is a matter
Which time cannot dissolve and pairs.
And wherefore is there none like this?
I could have thought the city's voice
Was heard by me in my desire,
Since my first parents were my sire.
O God, my father, thou art his,
And wilt not, then, be wroth with me,
And I will hear and I will learn
And I will know as is most meet
The good in which he did his treat.
My father had a horse and sword,
And his mother not a sword -
A sword that I have got by day,
But I with it must fight and stay
Until the last field's bloody clay
Has pierced my father as I see
The mother of a son like thee.
When the sick child dries his eyes,
And his limbs they seem to shake,
Then the mother finds him wise,
And she's left us me to seek,
But her dear son has left me free
And with this sword shall fight for me.
And I have ridden, and I fear
To follow you till dead or clear,
But I am well-nigh broken-hearted
That you will not my strength befriend.
I will ride under the trees, and they shall guide me -
I will ride under the trees, and when
======================================== SAMPLE 173 ========================================
,
"My husband!" cried Lord Marmion.--"Go on,
Thou art my brother; go--the journey lies
Before us; let us join the funeral train!"
And, as they came, the King and Lord Marmion
Appear'd, with lofty step in silence pass'd.
The King, as was his wont, was slow to wrath;
But, firm as steadfast rock, his breast was clear'd.
"My dearest Lord," he said, "not yet the end
Of this short stay shall be; for thou hast been
My death, my friend, until this hour, for me.
"I know not who has turn'd my dying day,
Or who assures me that a nobler doom
My fate on life can wait me till I die.
But I shall know thy death is but begun
Upon this morn, when, as a fitting sign,
Thou comest, with fair visage, forth to me."
"I go, indeed!" replied Lord Marmion:
"And I shall follow thee, with all my strength,
And take the field of battle, fain the prize.
My life is thine, for I have forfeited
Thou wert mine own, and by a different doom
Will I be lost to thee." Thus ended he,
And, both together pacing down the hill,
Together came into the city.
Lord Marmion gave the sign to make the way
Through the dense crowd, to march away from the town
(For so they call it), and there took his horse,
And with him went two others. As they went,
The twain went on together, giving thanks;
I ween that, in the end, the thing was done.
The gates swung wide, forth H reception spied,
And straight towards him forth the King advanced;
And, after honour of that second sort,
Therewith the second, as he went, he came
And bade them raise their voices. 'Twas at first
That he to courtesy was wont in hall,
And the King's name had loudly rung, but soon
Fell on his notice, that his noble guests
And his mere presence, had not yet made pause
Before King Etzel. Not, as you will note,
Without the festal train among them, who
Dishonor's self had to the festal hall
All feasting. King Etzel bade them straightway
Hasten back all thir choicest treasures to
At early morning, when the house was still
Wide, and the minster bells made to the wind
And to the morning spake the last, and still
The next; till Hagan bade them stand aside;
Then bade his followers from the lofty board
To wait him well they guarded the eve;
Well might him watch, and the mass-prize endure.
When he had closed his treasure, they thought good
To do for their desires; but yet in sooth
A sumptuous feast it chanc'd they should not lack,
Until King Etzel bade that question ask.
He ask'd them not for life; he only gave
The good king's treasure; nought else ask'd they.
They bade the messengers with gracious smile
And thanks to God in friendship; all in turn
Were well rewarded; each to other spake
As fits them and to all, that after such
Good fortune might befall them, to their cost.
The messengers yet further question'd ask;
And all, whom well they lov'd, found none the less
For kindness, and the best of providence
They ever found, and, as they went, content.
The messengers, well waiting till expected,
Fill'd full the cup. Then might you wonders know,
At sitting on full many a valiant knight,
And much perplex'd their mind; they could not guess
That they had been to court ere they were thence
Led forth by others. They were right and smith,
And cunning men of Gunther's land; men's sons
And sons-in-law men's children; all the more
Had merriment their souls and deeds of blood.
The messengers to table busily
Prepared themselves; the wine their friends pour'd down
Fresh, sparkling draughts. The messengers then brought
Water and the best; then summon'd all
Their noble comrades from a secret store,
Wherewith they furnish'd it, and placed them there.
When thus to their companions' service done
From the high feast they feasted, forth they rode
In silence to their homes. Then went Sir Blas
The messengers: and to the high-seat placed
The king, the
======================================== SAMPLE 174 ========================================
-doodle-doo!
There were six of us aboard,
The _Mushra Gulliver_, from _Closet-D'Arroguer_, out of the
_Norkt'au_, the _Snug_, the _Frog-_, the _Whizzing-Anything_;
And when the ship struck her,
We didn't know whether it wasn't _too_ good or _too_,
But we reckon'd her the finest time ever was she,
She a little bit bigger and _that_ me, she a little bit bigger.
Just then we began to cry, "Pooh! pooh! pooh!
I'm going to kill the little birds,"
_And that's how_ we all cried_."
And then the _Nankin_, and the _Boobscot_, and the _Balkin_, and
_All these things we thought of are horribly cheap--
And I fancy they wouldn't do,
On this miserable day.
They said we might just _have_ a chance,
But we _said_ that they didn't care,
And, _I guess it wasn't possible_.
We all thought _I never gave_ a word,
But we lived on the same,
And the same birds flew down in the air,
And my _Boobscot_ said to me,
If you only had thought we could
See this beautiful tree.
And I--when I looked round for a tree,
It was, oh, so good!
But the beasts flew down, and the birds flew down,
And I never spoke word,
Till I really began to cry and sigh,
And it killed me to think of a tree to die.
"And then up spoke the _Boobscot_, _Nell_,
I say, what do you think?"
Said the _ Shoof_, "what do you think?"
"Well," said the _ Shoof_, "we're talking.
We have got to hear the _Boobscot_,
We've got to hear his talk,
We're talking of the terrible _Hoyle_,
Of the sea and of rock.
The sea that is black and strong,
And the sea that is fiery and wide,
And the storms that are gathering, I guess,
If you really want to ride."
Then we rode out on _Drishna_,
Up and down the windy hill,
And the very first thing I know
Is the Dragon a-coming to _you_.
And he cried, "Now, look behind you!
There's a hole for your toes,
And the way you can race with the _Bible_,
Why, this isn't a bad place for you!"
But the _Frogs_ went on wading
The water-way steeply,
And the way _Drishna_ tried to get
The boat, so they couldn't swim.
Said the _Frogs_, "Don't bother the boat,
But I'm going to kill you, too."
And the _Frogs_ and the _Dromedary_,
They're all running out together,
They're all running out together,
But the Devil has got the water in,
And all of them jump for a spell.
And a-while they creep under
The old rock's uneasy weight,
But the _Boobscot_ is harder still,
For the _People_ will soon reach the _Frogs_,
And with great uproar shout, "Hurrah!
How can you go round at all?"
So they hurry away, they are.
With the _Lubbin_ they're racing away,
But their colors are green and bright,
But to gobble that dinner I'm told,
For to gobble those _Monday's_ Feast.
And the young folks soon all around,
And the noise they cannot cease,
They rush to the door and are found,
But what do they do, my boys,
When they look round about for a drop?
Oh! say, can you see by the _Bar_.
They look very tempting, how small,
For to gobble all day in a flail.
They hurry away fast as they can,
But they'll be _foolish_ when they can.
They have not got many a slip,
But where do they take so, my boys?
A-coming o'er the _Wintry Deep_.
The _Boobscot_ and an old minx,
They've been to the hunting _Hamlet_,[J. 1]
"But there were better
======================================== SAMPLE 175 ========================================
.
Towards all, that I believe the oracle still works. But it
will, at the outset, be given to him as a proof that the
heavenly oracle is established here, and that the mortal body is
inwoven with such an earthly chain of happiness, that he
"Thou art a man of arms, Almighty God,"
As above all men is given the name of Truth,
As above all men is given the name of Truth;
As above men is given the name of Truth,
There is this power conceived in the human race.
Man, that while all else stands shrined in his place,
Must needs be born in thee a second birth;
Born of his hand, a being that with him strives;
Born of his strength, a being that nothing gives;
Of strength to march on where now rests the troth;
Of strength to leave the way that might go on;
And, of thy birth, make dispensation known;
Earth, heaven, the sea, the air, and fire, and sun;
The rain, the fire, the fire, and ocean, each;
Each has its store of good, without decay;
Each has his day; and each, his night, God's day.
All keep their place, content if they abound
In plenty, strength, and health, so shall thy race
And his great angel keep their place among
The mightiest of these cloth-songsteries of grace.
O, we will keep thee even of old
Happy, and safe, and chaste,
Among the wrecks that hide the wrecks we strew;
As we may sleep, and thou rest free from pain,
From toil of work, from toil of every way;
As free from books, as from the wars of yore;
As warm with ills; (which let us still deplore),
Like to the ocean, and as free from pride,
As the proud clouds that darken and confuse;
O, we will keep thee, sweet without offence,
Far from the humours of the busy world,
And from the bitter sneers and hate-filled slights;
To walk with thee in Eden's airy paths;
With noiseless feet among the grass and weeds;
To look at flowers, and to list to the hues
Of evening's wealthy pageant; and to feel
Thy breath's cool presence; to inhale thy breath;
Through trembling clouds of frankincense to flow,
And with thy breath to make the honey'd air
Grow incense as it rises through the morn;
As the full dew-drop trembles in the thorn,
To smell the day's clear bliss, and feed with flowers
Th' unfathom'd mystery of th' unknown hours;
As warm with prayer, as tender as with love,
As when with thee this earth is over-canopied,
And these, and all things, wait for thine approach,
Pale herds, white flowers that porch the altar-haste.
O, we will keep thee, sweet without offence:
Thou art our Saviour, we will keep the laws;
And from the dark decrees of changing fate,
If we submit, will keep us still in awe.
And, if thou know'st not this, thou mayst go on
In peace, and joy, and peace, and ministering;
And on that high throne-crown, without offence,
We will do nothing else, but praise thee still.
"Thine is my life, my hope, thy glorious one."
O, may thy gift, though poor and mean its praise,
Shine through us through the eyes of God, and shine
With ever-deepening glory ever new;
Till from the rich past, the present life grow bright--
May it shut out the glory of our sight,
Bright as the morn with earliest earliest dew!--
May it fold up its arms, breathe out its praise
In the near spirit, to the world's pure sight;
From the high heavens, where thy path is first,
May it take back that vision of the Christ,
Whose voice was heard in days gone by, and cast
A glory round the Christian's prisoned heart,
And, like an angel, build his upward nest,
And, singing, wait upon thy steps, and sing
A new, glad song to Heaven's new-born King.
"The moon is up, the day is out,
The sun is up, the spring is in my blood;
And the glad tidings of the joyous morn
The new-born babe is born again."
I watched, ere speech and song was still,
The happy new-born
======================================== SAMPLE 176 ========================================
 of _honest_ _brave_;
_This_ is a _fragrance_ not unfeard, but _guerdonges_.
If _honest_ be _delight_, 'tis not _benight_ to _reason_.
If men have any care with things, you'll presently
_This_ is a comfort _here_ is for us all the same.
We too have _wrong'd_ cries and _wicked_ strains also.
As for myself, I know it's _wrong_ to _argued_ the right.
The more 'tis so, I've now, now I am sure
The longer I've the more I'm bound to try.
_Ogier_, Ogier. Why have you so to suffer?
And do you, Master, for a little _comfort_?
I'm all of a sick and miserable sort
(As all the world would know) with my rheumatics.
_Naggin-gue_ is not the word that _sorrow_ meant.
I hope you've kindly called it a _painter_;
And _if_ I only went a _good-natured_ bout
I told you, Master, they were always _out_ of it,
And so I got it all _out_ of it yet.
And now come in to see with what I've told you
These rheumatics--
_Here_, Master,
Of course, I know
What's _my_ supply
Is _this_ for your sake--
And you will soon
Re-choose
Those ruffs of yours
Which now you make.
_The Voice that's called_
_Is the only word that's rightly heard
For every one that's _out of tune_--
_So that_ it's _not_ the thing but _right_,
_But you do go to each one then_,
_And you've the chance to meet_ the men
That _won't_, you know,--
_But you've the chance to meet_ the men
You didn't pick up in the slip.
I'm only let down in the nick--
No doubt you'll wish that I was dead.
I'm only let down in the nick
From the first you ever will get.
I thought if only you could wait
A hundred years, it might be you,
If it didn't matter then for _me_
That _justified_ the world, it was
Perhaps at last the last day you
Will claim the right to meet once more
The world that's grown too old for you.
I'll tell you, Master, that's a trick
To try to keep the right away--
That's _going_ now, when the time's to _get_,
_Just to make it spring again some day_!
Well, well, I mind that day at the Club,
Five hundred years ago, on the street--
So, no doubt,--I'd have _commodate_
The _careless task_ of my _belief_!
For, all I've known was once,--and now,
_No doubt_, I'm so _expectant_, indeed;
_I'm_ so _expectant_, and if you'll
Be Soifty (good Lord)--if you'll
Be Soifty, won't you?
That's just the way, _permit_; and, though,
However wise, I'm so _expect_,
It's not _all_ diff'rent _prop_ and _up_!
I'd like to be the laughing-stock
That stood there, bright and _panged_,
'Cause every evening, (at the week
Since eight this morn, when I had work,
And the church _stay'd_!) so pretty quick,
That wouldn't be so very long
Quite _undevelop'd_; so, you see,
Well, that's what I'd like to be;
For, somehow or other, _which_, God knows,
Is a sort of _excess_ of _clos_,--
And this is a sort o' _interfere_,
I mean, if you haven't got _some_;--
But this time--with God's blessing on,
I'd like to be a _Giant gone_!
So that's what I shall _take back_, or _take_,
If only for God and the church's sake,
I'd _give_ the world to be _put in_!
He knows, as I know him and his,...
So he'll tell me what it is--
He thinks he
======================================== SAMPLE 177 ========================================
, _The Blonde, or The Lady's Troubles_, 1646.
Hail, ye Genoese! Dominion giv'n,
Sarmatians call me, and I'm greece;
I'm graunt as fair as any mooase,
And a most prowd fogy, Sir;
But I will reivew mine own blude,
And I'm the king of a' the town,
And I'm here the stately Tragic Horace,
And I'm a poet, Sir;
And for my part I will avow,
That some guid Newashire or town
Was right to maintain me wi' precent,
And I'm a poet, Sir.
A' ye be fley'd I fear ye jouk,
To see your drouth was aye the oddest;
I'll try to better a' men,
On by and by ye till my fayre is fayre,
And I'll be master, Sir.--
It's you I need na jouk, my lads,
Nor yet a prouder place to win ye;
Yet by and by ye shall be won,
And I will be a poet, Sir,
And I'm a poet, Sir.
Come, Phyllis, Phyllis, Phyllis and Chloris,
Ye twa should think it fine;
I'll try and tend wi' you ladys that yearn
TO her that's far Nature's mine.
Saw ye Johnnie combs, my Cowslips blaw,
Ye air-goddess o' the Byby?
Saw ye bonie Meg o' Inby here,
She's gane to be our reigning dear;
O come again, my rural maids,
And view the langer ye're beguiling,
For a' that kenning is a trade,
And a' that kenning is ailing.
She has me by the bright blue een,
I've her fu' goud in apron shaw;
And her swaggering sonnets blue,
Nae wonder that ye carena by,
Sae beguiling on this earth,
And making muckle mair of mair--
Come, ten widow'd orphans hame,
Whase lament's no for Paradise,
But a' that kenning is a trade,
And a' that kenning is a' need,
Crowding tentless on the wae,
Cornwallis o'er the auld,
Wark has waur'd the tapster sprame,
A' that kenning was a' kin'.
I'll set ye down, a pint wi' grog,
And a quart to help ye;
Or, by the bye, ye'll some guid friend,
In a cup o' doublay,
When a' your gude fellows lo'e the end,
And a' that's guid afore ye.
Tune--"_TheCharge for a braw new Year._"
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk,
An' dinna be sae rude to me,
As kiss me sae before folk,
That's gude wi' a siller speid.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Nor heat my bannock up the fauld,
Nor say aut full fervently;
But gin ye'll tak my firmative,
I'se warrant no disdained faut.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Gin I can speak for a' my part,
I'se warrant no disdained faut.
Ye'll tak me, or I'll tak you,
As law's a stranger to your heart,
And gin I canna lived be,
I'se warrant no disdained faut.
Wae's me, for I tint mysel',
I tint my bloomin' graith's bloomin' bairn;
I canna get what I can get,
Nor what I've missed by ane anither;
I'se warrant no disdained faut.
But I will twa, if it be fause,
Ne'er try to be disdained faut;
I'se warrant no disdained faut.
Heigh ho! cant guid, cauld rags,
Rags, rags, rags, I tak your wheels,
Twa bonnie een that are so bonnie
That canty-downin' yellow.
Ower
======================================== SAMPLE 178 ========================================
.
And now, O heart! in the clear moonlight,
By what is this that I have seen?
_Mephistopheles_.    'Tis only a child.
_Strips_.     'Tis very well.
_Skeigh_       A new name has been given to the Wise Men of
_Westminster_           "Rondel.  Shelley took it from Rome
_Tales_                "Tales from Ancient Rome."
_Tales_              "Tales of the Ship and its Bells,"
with the _Tales_            The five-oared Chieftains of
_Uptrean_              "Roaring thro' the Castle."
_Tales_                  "A Ship in a Summer,"
_Tales_                   "Sailing for fav'rite Poit,"
_Tales_                   "The Three Usuries of the Round
house,"
_The Two Hundred and twenty-one_         Robert Browning
_Thalaba_                   "The Gate of Inferno."
_Io_                         "Sway of the World,"
_Skoell_                    "In the Battle of Court."
The Young Lady                    "Margaret-Plum,"
_Tales_                            "St. Louis-Plum,"
_Talesand-Tales_                 "God in Heaven,"
_Talesand-Tales_                 "God in Heaven,"
_Talesand-Tales_                  "God is the Comforter,"
_Talesand-Tales_                     "The Sure Dweller in the
_Talesand-Tales_                    "The Sure Dweller in the
_Talesand-Tales_                  "The Sure Dweller in the
_Talesand-Tales_                    "The Sure Dweller in the
_Talesand-Tales_                       "_Tales of the Fate_."
_Tales_                               "_Tales of the Fate_."
_Tales_                             "The Sure Dweller in the
_Talesand-Tales_                      "_The Sure Dwellers in the
_Talesand-Tales_                   "_Tales of the Fate_."
_Talesand-Tales_                    "_Tales of the Fate_."
_Talesand-Tales_                     "_The Sure Dwellers in the
_Talesand-Tales_       
======================================== SAMPLE 179 ========================================
;
For the porter's lad was gone
And his bonny boys had flown,
And inuld Coilia's stead,
Where their bones were reared,
And stonie Jeira, the lealest lad,
As ever in sicht he's seen,
Has sairened at his knee,
And his bonny boys had nae forgot
That they hae saur'd in vain;
There was but the ane, the lad
That lo'ed him best of all,
The deil had him naeaned out,
But a lowse to him did clang.
He gat him to his ain house,
And brought him a blink o' broo;
"Gude forgie me on my knee,"
He said to me, "O cocks,
For this is the Collieston
That ever was heard to crow."
He laid him down in the dock,
And gart him to lie at roose,
Till he'd put him to the swale,
Or else he'd sit by the nose.
And there he'd sit by the yaird's gate,
And wait for him at the bow;
And he'd get ane by the leg,
And he'd get the better row,
As meek as meek as weel;
And he'd get the better row,
And be Lord Glenbroach's lord.
And when the Collieston was come
Back thist yerself to me,
And I wat wi' a fecht o' sin
I ne'er had seen sic ae;
But it's thist when the Collieston
Incline to tak him to his lane,
And lie like a beast to mak,
And thist the Lord Glenbroach's ain man,
But my Jock has gang back again;
For he's aye bedimmed wi' pain;
I'll gang and meet him then.
"Sic a night, and yet a day,
As ever I did see,
As I gaed wi' meikle joy
I've had nae mair to tak me."
How weel do we than thank Him, great and great God!
O, what a glorious time have I wasted in bliss,
Now that we've neither pack nor cairns bought at a toil;
And that I've done for good, or hol'd by a smile,
And that I've got my share o' that I never can bear,
But that, to give my poor Jock, has no claim to my song;
But he that has both rhyme and music in his heart,
And has no hope but that he can stand the shock of the drum,
May have no power to stand the shock and beat of the drum.
He that has both rhyme and music in his heart
May share in music, or may chance to share in fame,
But that he has both rhyme and happiness in his heart,
And that he will never need a frown of his name;
But that he will never leave a frown of his shame
For a pauper simple old Jock, with no heart for to rail;
He has no heart for singing and he has no wit to sing,
He has no time for idle sing-song and bad rhyme to flatter;
He has no time for to preach and never to flatter.
Yet he that has both rhyme and happiness in his heart,
May have his share of the fun of the hev'rel in the fray;
And may he never lose all that he hath done for a day,
For not being fit to be knock'd down again and again,
The burden of the drum has been that he has rung,
Though his fame and his life be not better than his own;
So he that has both rhyme and happiness in his heart,
May share in the doublet laurel and keep himself a King.
There is no bitter nipping that can sting so well
As a pewter pettin that's of course about and ither,
To fill one's patience with a froth of very hell,
And a trouser of impudence to come and go and see
A wretched pother gut a man so very queer,
In the middle of the road that's not a man to mend it,
And so, to end in this one, I'm to be took in for a friend."
He is not very young or just arrived in time;
He can't have laid his hand off his head without its light,
Or said that his head, when his eyes were getting gray,
Had been turn'd on a long and careless sunny night;
But he did the talking and
======================================== SAMPLE 180 ========================================
.
But, as is said, the first of all he is.
There was said: 'As the dog's nostrils curdle
Up-grown stiff heads, so the end of the bag
Should see new legs and beak-gaff of him.'
'Tremble, quoth he, as sharp's he an acorn.
As if a long wound to the skin did add,
So is a salt to a salt to lean grass.'
'But why is this? Because of our old fiddle
The bag's mouth has a certain quality;
And as for the dog's belly, it's as well
As a tooth's head is.'
'What say you, Fairies?
Little elves,
Or do you want timber to cut the tree?
I never speak with you any word,
I only wish one tree would be absurd;
And it's as from the ground, you see,
Tree, you were sure a beautiful bird.'
'A good tree! Dapple and nuts are ripe,
And the tree keeps a very close carol,
But I'm not fed by top nor fig,
At the core of the apples I have had,
And you by the cider-press again.
A carol that sung in the golden groves
Of the days when the sun was at his height,
As I might have sung it: how love doves
About the children in olden times,
And the songs the children sing to me.
But my song now--now--how the dear nests are
Hidden under the woods so far below,
And the birds are quiet, and know not what
Finding is for our singing-birds, I know not;
How the children laugh and love it, and run
To the red-plumed cherry where I won you
To-night with a kiss.
For the rest--I will go on the flight
Away--an unseen hand will keep.
But what say you, Fairies?
You must not be afraid, I know,
As he goes by that way;
He must not be afraid, he must
Be near enough to go yet--
When the stars are all asleep in the sky--
To talk to the little ones.
Aye, keep your own secret!
Words may wake it up,
Or words, and the silence of blue chintz
Will hold all listening--
And you may hear that it feels like a hand
Tipped to lead you,
Wondering whether such love I can understand,
Or I am a friend--
Kiss me, then, dearest--
Kiss me in the beginning,
All through the night, little Fairies,
That we must love, as we do now,
While all the birds, and the flowers are,
Melt into each other's brow,
And we must be grateful for all they contain,
And be happy in all they contain.
What say you, Fairies?
They speak in a tongue out of heart
That I have never heard, since I learned
When a fairy came to me by the way,
And a fairy the tale of me told.
But there is not one gentle bird
To be met with in the glades, as they
Are linked in the night with the fairy-crowned train--
No bird, from one summer to one day,
But he is doomed to wander and moan
From out his lair in the forest alone.
How can I say that we leave them and never say
That they have heard of me, save they?  I would have you know
She buried her bright heart to save it.
But I found it
A cradle in the fern;
She was sleeping, and dreaming, she was not waken,
It shut her cage to keep.
Then back to dreamless sleep she knelt
And she prayed with the angels that she might still remain
Alone in the night in the forest alone.
They enter again.
With the angels as for a love-sake, I am walking
Where tall grasses grow.
And I lean from my window and mark
Those stars as they pass,
Which so often have wrapped themselves in the snow;
And I look, and I listen, and wait
For the spark to approach.  I shall start.
Oh, will it to rock her sweet cheek
When her dark eyes shine!
And my heart
Will be hot for the sun.
Oh, will it awaken, my dear,
And then
She will look in the snow if the storm be but bright?
Shall I look in the mist?
Or the snow, my sweet?
Because all the world is about to be night.
Shall I look, and I listen again?
Oh, will
======================================== SAMPLE 181 ========================================
, and the Duke, are forced to stay.
"Oh! it's really shameful," said the Duke, and took
The lady by his hand, and made her seat
Upon a chair, and clasped the hand within.
"I'm sorry for poor women," said the dame,
"Are not at all afraid of giving you
The rights of marriage," and with that she rose,
And laid a letter forth, and read the truth.
The lady smiled; the dame made instantly
A welcome, and her husband's name was Love.
She kissed the paper, and the dame withdrew
From that sad letter. Then the dame, who saw
Her husband now no longer, but did weep,
Added the letter to the dame, who read
The letter's meaning. "I am tired of this,"
She said, "that message, Lady, now read it.
You see that I, a fool, have been a wife,
And now another woman's name engraved
On you: read it awhile; then you will know
That I loved you; the more should you love me.
I think, I think, as I sit here alone,
Your people have been faithful." So she wrote,
And left the paper, and the dame made haste
To go to her cold dwelling and cold bed.
The dame's eyes softened, and when she turned
The letter to her trembling hands, she read.
I feel, I see, with what a strange delight
They would be in the night, had they been with me.
When the morning wakes, and, bleating with the light,
The dames and princesses their servants wait,
Pressing hands, flinging their golden swords, in haste,
And bidding her bring out her favourite,
She takes the hand of Love, and, smiling, looks
At that slim lady, Love, who stands apart,
And sends her greeting kisses everywhere.
But when the lady reads, she turns her head,
And smiles, and smiles again, and takes her place,
And when she lifts it, it seems the face
Of all sweet England. "I am tired of this,"
She says, "and, if I had, I should have this;
I think, I think, I think, I think, I think
I should have been a friend unto my end."
Then Love wrote, and she wrote, and he was gone,
And there she sat in darkness, and apart,
Like a thin picture painted on a wall:
Then he said, "I shall never see again
Such friends, such foes, such happy faces all
As I have known, and thought they could not be
The friends of me and mine, a thousand times,
But now that I am dead, and all my love
Loathed for a little, I have lost the art.
I have the art of Love which is part of me;
My heart is like some lonely ship on sea,
That sails in darkness, sings, or flies from me.
"Ah, Love! Ah, Love! can all the strings that move
Around the heart of woman be unstrung?
Can all the charm, the magic of love prove
Betrayed by passion? No, for Love is young,
And lives within more perfectness than truth;
And all the charm, and all the charm of youth,
Were flown in vain, and all that Hope has waned,
For ever and for ever out of reach
Of all the sweetest, is in vain for this.
I love my Love, and when I tell him all
I do but wonder, love, if he be young,
And if he be old, why, this I know,
That, very Love, I love him. But, good Truth!
You like too much, and always like enough,
And then you say you are not fair. Ah, no!"
Away, you say, the picture is too sweet
For Time, in Time's deep corridor to dwell;
But, in a while, the book itself, alas!
Endears, and every book itself endears,
As we must weep, to think that I should die.
Let us go then; let us haste along,
And by the river-side at eve-rise,
There through the dusk of night, through the cool air,
Under the poplar trees, we shall go there.
If it were so, how happy should we stay!
The air is laden with perfume, and sweet
The meadows smell of the cool spring, and the song
Of the thrush, and the blue-eyed violet sky
Is full of the breath of the hills, and the breath
Of the sweet, low-whispering birds, and the
======================================== SAMPLE 182 ========================================
."
"This is the time for a good man to live,
The time is the time for an honest man;
He shall be better to him than the rest."
The King he gently nodded his head;
And the King he winked and said:--
"But the time is short of a good man to live,
An honest man to give and to get;
But the time is short of a good man to live,
And merry men to mar and to fret."
"The time is short of a good man to live,
To keep an honest man to his wife;
He shall be better to him than the rest."
At a glance King Biddy D'Anwers caught,
And, as he threw it away,
He thought: "The devil take the dog of the day!"--
The dog of the night, was never a dog,
But a famous man of a courage and nerve,
Who fought on the field, his own true friend,
Who killed that dog so famous,
And in honour of the king an honest man,
Who saved that dog from robbers.
This gentleman lived in his own land,
The laws and the pleadings of his own;
And none could tell why the dog was saved,
Though the dog killed that dog of the day,
Though the dog killed that dog of the day,
Though the dog killed that dog of the night,
Though the dog killed that dog of the night,
Though the dog killed that dog of the night,
So dearly did the Lion love her,
To send away that dog from the day;
He took the horse back, and rode away,
When he came to a foot-fall near the town.
There were two honest lads out in the Wood
Who all alone walked on the surly plains;
They walked together, nor ever thought of harm,
But ever backed their pups and trotted their pups,
And talked of nothing but the hour of peace;
They spoke of bloody war and peace,
Of rest that neither matt nor shepherd can;
They rode the wiry sedges up the hill,
And the young moon in her milder smiles
Met their unlooked-for breezy misty way
On windy midnight breezes.
To the further woods
He came with bagpipes and crackling tales,
Of a cove that caught a little maid
In a cove that caught a beetle.
He was a good dog and a brave monkey,
And when to the door he came,
The poor old dame's
'Twas her aged sylph,
A nine o'clock scholar,
And when the moon shone,
The poor old dame's
'Twas her aged sylph,
A nine o'clock scholar,
And when the moon shone,
It was the moon
I'll not tell where
But where love is not.
The moon was not a bonny thing,
The sun was not the same,
The night was fair
And the same birds were a' happy,
In the cottage of my love.
The night is fair, &c.
Do you say that I love you
As when two grew in a grove,
Two little lovers
Sucked in an alder-tree,
That keeps the garden crocuses
Beneath the fragrant sod;
The same you sang to me
In my heart all the summer through;
When I was certain
The love one ne'er could see
Was, "Oh, how I hate you!"
In the cottage of my love.
The moon was not a bonny thing
The stars were not the same,
Two little lovers
Sat on a tree together
To weave the summer's game;
The stars were two stars in heaven,
The one a night of shame.
By the alder-tree I sat
And watched him as he grew,
The wind had not the words
To make the grave so wide.
And did he dream it was
A dream of night and day?
The moon it was the moon
In the spring-time of the May.
The leaves were falling,
And down came all the leaves:
"Lo now," I said, "you're dying;
Let us go walk away."
There was no soul in the wood
Save one of gentle song;
She was but beautiful,
But sweet and strong and strong.
My dear lady,
Your fate makes no delay;
It is all too late to write
Your book, and the way to teach.
So never fear, but oh, my dear,
For, oh, these are the only words I know.
The leaves that fall
On the tree-tops shall tell
How short a space it is
======================================== SAMPLE 183 ========================================
 it in the air
To win the ringlet of the day
And lift the curtain of the hill;
It will be first
To call
The harvest home;
It will be long
Ere summer come.
The sun has burnt the sky,
The light is extinguished by the dying day,
And all the clouds have fallen far away
In leaving the bird that sang to die away.
It is a sight
To watch the night
Break into day;
To hold a light
And lose myself in its accustomed shape
Until the darkness and the cares of night
Assassage the accustomed strength of feeling.
It is a sight
To see the day
Stretching away
From place to place,
As if engirt with a new-risen light,
With a new colour of the winter's day,
The world's light heart,
Its hopes and fears,
Its hopes and fears,
Filling earth's grass with the breath of May.
It is a sight
To see the night
Stretching away
From place to day
In a strange light
The darkness of the sky is drowned in grey,
And the winds shout
To bear the day away
To build the shutters of shutters.
It is a sight
To take away
The useless griefs that haunt the quiet day,
And not the seas that have their names to tell,
And not the wind that shrieks and never quits
The old, old year of the dead years well.
There are no things in the world without a life
That can run with the tide in the wind and blow
And bear the winds abroad like a tide for aye,
And can be faithless ever, as once long ago.
There are no things in nature like to these
That pass away like a stream to the sea,
Or the wind that blows in the face and leaves the foam
To carry them always wherever they go, any day.
There are no things that are lovely as sleep,
And the dreams that are sweetest and fairest as they.
There are no shapes that are graceful like day,
And the gleam that is deepest and fairest than they.
And the world's so wonderful and wonderful,
That the love that is fairest of all is not dim,
And the hope that is surest of all is not dim.
--I thought those who have studied their poetry
Met from a troop of dull-eyed, foolish eyes,
Who gazed and dreamed, and went on playing a trick
At the scenes they should never have looked upon.
They had learned their little tricks from the lads
Who knew their souls and they could see their deeds,
The shy young women who could not be hers,
And the nice young men who knew their lives and cares.
They had learned their little wisdom of song,
And their hearts were quickened to beat time and ink
And the great blue brawls at last had gone along,
And they could not sleep for the long, long years.
'T would take my heart to know that something there
Ringed me with purpose and could not suffice
To a work that was good and true; and there
I should see something in dreams, but no, no.
There was no thing in my world was half so true,
And somehow there was no one left so free,
And the old man fancied I was what he would be.
It was as if I lost myself in sleep,
And woke no more with a strange dream of home;
Or a vision that grew in a dim place, forlorn,
Until I lost my way and knew no more
How I had longed for the old place and the new.
When I had gone from this olden world of earth
With all the marvels that I would be at,
So many new flowers upon a bed,
And the old faces grown fresh into me,
And the old faces growing into me,
I cried in anguish, "I am not for long,
And I may die to get the old place back!"
And so I went, and there was a time to live,
And the old man always came to me and said,
"You may come back, but you will not come back
For I can wait and wait, and you are dead."
O, yes, but it was long ago;
It is as if I were a rose
And I were a little child
On some high, distant place.
The roses blossom on my path,
The larks are singing overhead.
I cannot tell my heart how many
Who died before me were content,
And the old man always came to me
To say: "I'm not a hero now!"
A little child with laughing eyes
Opened the door, and
======================================== SAMPLE 184 ========================================

With a little brown paper,
And a small white writing?
How many times have we tried and tried?
And yet this world is wide!
We know not what we have tried,
We know not what we have tried,
We know not what we have tried,
We know not what we have tried,
We know not where to find,
And from what dim paths we stray
To what unknown worlds may say
We know not what we may stray
To what undreamed-of clay
We know not what we may stray
To what undreamed-of clay
We know not where to find, or where
We can not find our prayer
Yet we go wandering where thou art gone
That thou shouldst ever be here
The only child-births we knew
Thou wouldst not love to die
For one or two thou wouldst not want to die
The only child-births we know
Thou wouldst not love to die
To-night the last of the earth-floods broke
The great sky and the high stars shed
The last light on God's house.
The world grows old, and the sun grows old
And man's heart hath its gates to hold.
And the world grows mad, and the heart's wild cry
Doth rend into a thunderous song
With a beautiful language
That wakes the dead from the strife
When the dead sleep on the face of the sunless sky
And the living sleep when time is done
And the soul's life is buried with one
And the sun is dead, and the last of the earth
Has spoken the word of the last of the birth
And the soul's life on earth.
Aye, that's the point where the race lasteth!
It is man's goal to the last of the races
The fiery goal that is all man hath.
But man hath a sword.  Who shall arm hem of him?
The last who shall smite him or fall?
Still round him fall and to earth's border
The goal lies as a wing and a veil.
The goal was a field of great danger
Where man's hope and man's heart were won.
The goal was a net of the earth's spinning
And man's life-winnowing net.
But the goal is a web of the making
And man's soul takes the thread of the law.
The goal is the end for the life that is breaking
And the goal is a horn of the bird.
In a dream that is dream and a goal aweary,
He is waiting to waken the last of the races
And the goal is a horn of the strong men's hands,
And he stands at the last of the blind men's places,
Though the last he he meets is the last of the lands.
Thy mists enclose the world of gloom
And leave no trace upon thy shadowy fields,
And yet there comes a morning fresh and fair
And new and beautiful and new revealed
And yet there comes the dawning and the birth
Of the new world, yea, and the great new earth
When the years are glorified, and the dawning
The light of the new dawn shall fill with light
And that so great a light shall fill with light
The night that is the first on this wandering heart
And the dawn of a new dawn shall close apart.
The dawn of thee is mightier than all things,
Though all things fare less than the world's first birth,
But all the world is mightier than the sun,
And the dawn shall bid us welcome earth.
We are old and grey and bent from far,
And our hearts are knit more firmly there,
And our blood doth more abundant grow
Than all the pride of Rome or Rome
Or all the pride of Athens.
Our heads are bowed as we pass them by;
We shall look on them without a sigh,
And all that treads or licks or coils
Shall pass into eternity.
For one of earth's best things there is
No light but one to lead us on,
And we are left less wretchedly
That we are left more wretchedly.
What thing hast thou to do with all
Thy daily task and nightly call,
And one to suffer and one to fall
As we came hither?
We will follow the path where God
Is lost in the night.
What have we done with all thy ways
Thy silence shall not stay nor stay,
And what shall we do with all thy ways
Thy silence shall not stay?
Thou art less wretched than our days,
Less burdened with thy mortal birth,
And less than they that were to be
Or light or air or sea or earth
Or stars or any fire of light
Or de
======================================== SAMPLE 185 ========================================
, in the second edition.
"He never would have his head
Uplifted, if by any means;
But he must be such a bard,
"And think that he can hit on high,
And scribble in Canadian pike,
And write at home all sorts of stuff,
The which in other words you must,
Before you know its worthiness."
This was in _I am not_--for I mean you are a person of the sort
Of the man, to whom all the words are but mere airy ranting
"A man can make a poem with only verses,
And his words are but idle words of heart."
"Mr. Swabland wrote to me this work of his own,
And, in his own opinion, printed it, too."
"And he said, 'This is just like Homer's line,
But Homer's is a poem."
"There's a line," observed Mrs. B. Hamilton, as Miss Windham said,
"From which he should have written, but how can he be read?"
One summer day,
Joyfully brooding over boundless authors,
"What need to tell?"
"The man in the meantime writes to Mrs. Brown.
"He may be at least a poet."
"What's his own way?"
"A man with a pen that's raw,"
"For the want of the name, sir?"
"What is he writing to me, sir?"
she looked at him with a grim grim grim composure.
"It is the man," she said.
"He is a man," she said.  "And you are right.
You should have been a scholar, Sir, and not a scholar:
The man who wrote us all that sort of thing,
And he must have been a poet."
"That's true; no doubt," she said.  "You are not quite sure
At what you say to me--at any rate."
He shook his head; and then she said,
"You make a book of poetry."
"I would be one of these latter days,
A man and not a poet."
"Then what would that have made you say,
With all that's good and certain,
That what is not your style, sir,
"A man, and not a poet?"
"What would you have said," she said.  "What man
Could write worse?"
"There seems to be more than a woman."
"Then what would you have said," he said.
"What would you have said if she could,
And read what you have written?"
"What would you have said," she said;
"What would you have said if she could,
And read what she could not read?
"There is a man, of whom you have not,
In good or ill fortune,
Who strikes for his freedom;
And you must look another way,
And she shall smile another day."
He glanced from her, but she was wan,
And he had the emporium of a weird."
He took up the book, and with a laugh
She shook her head.  "What does it mean?"
He said, "I have come here to say
That there are poets better than you;
They're more and less than Shakespeare's way,
I think you mean yourself, Sir;
It is not you, Sir."
And he vanished the next day, and she came on him once more.
"You talk like a man of religion," she said;
"And you say you never found the door,
And I want you to; for it's your turn.
I wish you were there, I think, to see
A man like yourself, and not me.
I want you to be in your land,
And keep this bright, fierce, calm, clear sky,
Free sky and sky.
I would sing of the things you see,
Of the men that are here below,
Of the women in my hotel,
And the men I've walked over,
And my little son and his wife,
And all my little grandchildren.
And I would see you in your place,
And you play the same, dear-one,
Till your eyes, brown and turned gray
And pale, with anger blent,
And your life's red blood red,
Tell me when the war is ended."
"But there is something in my way;
I've been to the place of a man
Because he has come by the day
So I will say: 'Come over here,
With the fighting men about you.'
There they are, anyway, my children:
It is I, and the shining swordsmen
That must reap the laureled brow
Of my
======================================== SAMPLE 186 ========================================
, on the deathbed of Mrs. G.
Chorus: The night is fast declining,--the stars are now all
dawning,--
'Twas not an hour before the dawn,--it was too soon,
Too soon to be night's noon,--it was too soon,
Too soon to be night's noon.
'Twas not a whit before,--'twas not an hour before,--
Each night the light was growing dimmer and dimmer,--
We three ran out, the little one to fetch.
"Hush, hush!' we cried.  "O help!"  With all her might
Pulled at us two,--'twas never a lift then more,--
Each night we heard the great doors creak and creak,
Until we found ourselves once more at home,
And closed in the night with a wall of flame.
The fire-light burned so clear, the night was near,
We could not hear it, though we were afraid,
We could not see it, though the night had claimed
Its cloak and mantle, and the night had disallowed
The moonlight on our faces from above.
A strange, strange light,
That light would never find us, never a mile,
A thousand miles,
Far, far away,
With echoing sound that blinds us and distracts us all
with fear.--
Far away, away,
We must sleep,--
Our blankets black and white are all about us;
All night we heard the small birds singing, because
A voice said, 'Time is late;
Come soon, and we will sleep';
And the small birds said, "The dawn is near;"
And the small birds they were afraid;
But my little one, my one only,
With a rosy mouth,
Said, "Sleep on earth:"
And my little one, my little one,
 kiss'd you for good,--
But I had dream'd too much, I vow,
Of meeting you now;
And I had dream'd a thousand times;
But now, I feel the sun has smote
My curly hair;
My head is ached, my head is spotless,
But I can wait
To meet you yet, to greet you never a mile.
Come soon, and we will close our happy door;
Come soon, and we will hear the birds complain;
For my heart is sick with memories of you once more,
Come soon, and we will hear--
The sweetest sounds of all we could beget
Come early, after all, and let them sing;
I used to wonder how I'd miss you, dear!--
The sweetest words, and what was meant for _me_.
_Hush-a-bye, Baby, you're comin' back,
Come, dear cher, don't get tired;
Come, I'll come to your mother again,
And I can't forget my naughty Jane._
_Bring her apron up, said._
Ah! but your mother is wise, and very wise;
You're a-kind, and you're only a lullaby;
And don't you think it's a pity she's wise?
Is your heart so light and a-kind, my boy,
Or you'd show your sorrow and yours would be,
If you'd come to your mother again,
And we'd keep the happy folks a-livin' ourselves so fond?
If you'd help us to keep them still,
Oh, I don't care, I'm so fond of you,
And so fond of you;
And the tears I weep in my own glad eyes
Are the only things my heart can see.
Oh, I wish I was young again!
But I don't care--I'm so fond of you,
And so fond of you;
And the doubts that weigh on my own young heart
Are the only things my heart can know.
_Hey, sing, for the ball!
There's a hole in the door;
And, pretty air, come out here!"
_Bring her apron up, said._
Come, little chery, come on;
Little chery, what shall we do?
I will kiss off my hat, so--you
Come, little chery, come, dear!
Little chery, if I go to town,
I am not sure I go,
But I'll kiss off her rosy lips
When they go to the ball.
So, little chery, come on now,
And sit on the mat,
And make some bread, perhaps, to eat,
While it's been the sky long,
And the ball is being, oh, my sweet,
Come, little chery
======================================== SAMPLE 187 ========================================
 you the fact, as you're sure for the day.
I'm a fool with a bullet that's breeding an' hitched from behind.
You can pick up a team that will hurry a death in the line:
You may talk around the world and you'll find it's only a joke--
But I'm not the man for the job.
There's a lot that's worth knowing
In the world without saying it.
Well, there are your old Europe
With the bigots of home and of manners,
With the bigots of home and of manners,
With the bigots of home and of manners,
With the bigots of home and of manners,
With their manners and sounds and their duties,
With the men that are active and pious,
With their wives and their daughters and sinners,
With their character keen and bucchers,
With their girdles and beltys of virtue,
With their lives thro' the life that is vital,
With the ease that the dear girl is lovable,
With the strength that is active and saintly,
The beauty and grace that are kin to us,
With the strength and the fire of the spirit,
With the pleasure of women and virtue;
With a fervor of feelings unshaken,
With a radiance that shames and estranges,
With a courage that no one can sever,
With the life that is soft as her bosom,
With the pleasure of life that is kin to us.
Well, we've met in the hush of the city,
I've seen and I've seen for my leisure,
And I've known the swift stream of life's moment,
And I've known the swift stream of change and confusion,
And I've missed the bright stream of the moment,
And I've missed my young morning's reflection,
And I've missed my young morning's reflection,
And I've missed my old lesson's derision,
And I've missed my young morning's derision,
And I've found her dear heart's seduction.
I have met in the rain
And I've found her dear cousin,
And I've met her gay cousin,
And I've found her dear cousin,
And I've found her again.
Oh, yes, I've met in the wind and the rain,
I've met in a curious dress;
But never again
Did she glance from her lattice to catch me or play me that way.
I asked her to come and explore
My cousin's new chamber door,
She told me the treasures possessed by the queen,
And that if you find them there first,
You may show your new skill
In the third place under the castle of Avon.
But the answer she took was,
"Yes! no! no! no! Oh! no! no!"
With a smile at the wall of the portal she bended
The stairway was empty without,
The room then returned to her
That the scene of the present had proved,
And I cried, "Oh, no! no!"
Then she told me to come and explore
Her cousin's new chamber door.
But nothing else to be done
When the banquet had ended her quest.
I went to the haughty repose
Of a small carved worm with long red nose,
And I turned me away
From the gardens of gay Helvetus;
She seemed to invite me away
As the dawning began to depart.
But the dream of my heart
Could never be false,
For the worm had remained to pay me.
And her way had been lost
And I found myself lost
In a world that had seen me afar,
In a country so old and so grey,
In a land that was rude and astray,
In a kingdom of stone and decay!
Oh, where did she wander and stray
'Mid the endless and vast unknown?
And where did she long to delay
Or to enter some she had known?
And where is the way to fare,
'Mid the endless and endless untried?
Oh, where did she travel and stray
'Mid the endless untrodden ways?
Oh, where did she wander and stray
From my dear little girl in the days!
And where did she seek for a home,
And wherefore there never would come
A return from her quest so long,
To be mended and ruined and wrong!
I called to a friend in the street
Who had just been to visit my dear;
"Why, I know not what he would say,--
Only hear him coming behind.
I can see to him at the gate,--
Only hear him coming behind."
The friend he had passed me and trod
The floor unwilling to enter and go
======================================== SAMPLE 188 ========================================
 to get away from the place, a very large company
of soldiers. The soldiers had their dinners, all of them
made for the army, and, as I am informed, they had enough
both for religion and religion; the choice was encouraged, they
receded the law, and they took their station. Presently the
Took the command of the army was, and they began to war, and
the army began to lay about a mile of fertile ground, for
they were well disposed of the prize. "Our tents are filled with
no sufficient void," said the Lord; "but a few strong troops
of soldiers will be able to advance the enterprise so fully and
ready. This is what I see clearly, and therefore I will tell you
all in order to which of the two, being then here in the army,
may bestir himself and do the bidding of the T`ang dynasty.
For the benefit of the army you see the Cilician has a great
gift of victory that the people of Ind are glad to receive it,
and to settle their hands again for a whole month but a half of
the time the army is settling, and it is laid over there. Then
one of the best armed is going to make an expedition,
to break the treaty up, and to come, and at last to strengthen
our ships.  Let us then take the best part of the spoils;
for when the Cilicians fight for their human species, they will
fight them. Then will the Cilicians fight for their shares among
the Cilicians; the stock is kept, and the Cretans fight, and
the Cretans fight the more numerous, for the Cretans still
cattle, and as yet there is no one can take more than the great
miseries of the other Cretans, and still some remain untaken
in their camp as yet, and some still get taken in together with the
Troians and with victuals, and yet some go off as fast as they
can.
"Let us now take the best part of the spoils; let us see whether
the Cretans will get tired of following the Cretans, or will be at
all the time with their own driver in battle.
Meanwhile there is a time when the horses are all getting worn out,
and the Cretans will not be put back on their ships, for they are
weary and ill-content with their own driver's whip. But even as
the great sea roars round upon all sides round the ships, and the
Trojans are not in the face of any danger, but they will go back
to their own land in the great glory of fight. If they could
entear battle with their driver and give them wounds, even we might
hear how the Cretans perish in their folly, how we go down
to the house of Circe and hear the death-wail of our vanquished
Then spoke the goddess, and called the goddess to avenge her
and her displeasure against the man who was so angry. "Now," said
she, "if you take this man yourself, he shall make a meal
outside the ship and kill you for killing you. If it is indeed in
such an honor as mortals expect, let us send out from the house of
noble Jove the lord of thunder, who will soon crush you at once
and all her other immortals, for I will stay here and rest my
hand upon you."
"And you," she replied, "will go to the sea shore to get you
escaped from the ships. You will not yet come home again, for the
gods are stronger than you are. I wish to go and lay you in a fair
bed beside the sea, nor will I say nothing to tell the woman;
whereon she will let the rest of the sea mix with you one to
the ends of the waves and then I will give all your heart's blood,
and if any man would see the growth of this man's heart, let him
suffer nothing; furthermore let him go and be a comrade to the
hero that Is calling the great bar-champions. Call him and
ask him about his father and mother hence, that he may show
their noble deeds and fight their own way. For this we shall go
again into the fight against the Trojans; and I bid you all who
are in the cowardice of our hearts to stand by you and slaughter
them."
With these words she went down into the house of Ulysses.
When they had done all this they laid their hands on the good things
that were before them, and when the king told them had done so,
the two of them were alone again, and they went to their
======================================== SAMPLE 189 ========================================
,
The tale of the battle to a bloody end,
The tale of the battle to a bloody end.
So from the North the great, great tidings came,
They told the story of the battle's doom,
And told it was good fight the proud array
Was once more seen by them in battle fray;
Yet to the North's long honor was it held,
The goodly North in pride of gold and land,
And she herself a lovely maiden sent
With joy to see the strangers strand by strand
As they did, and the message they did bear
To them come tidings of the battle there.
But all the while that she alone had sent
The maiden her message by the way,
That some to her, and many were to tell,
Might take the message of the warrior old:
Hence she in secret with her fair tale went,
And to the ladies' hall the same she sent.
For with such message, that with joyful look,
The women's eye o'erlooked the strangers' hall,
And there, from all the country spread abroad,
She brought the tidings of the victory.
Yet had the maiden passed not on so far
To seek amid their city's din and noise,
But on she went with these afflicted ones
To seek amid the city's din and noise.
Now in her house they came, thence many a one,
But for her sake, she left the walls alone:
Yet there within their wall these women stood,
As though amidst the city's noise and din
The very city of the foemen stood,
With hearts of grief upon them stabbed and slain:
But for the ladies and for them alone
They left the houses and the house of stone,
And came from out their wall in haste and fear
To see their lords that had been far the best
With their two ladies now in her despite,
Now when the walls they had compassed round
With fire and brimstone from the city's height,
By this they had been left so desolate
That they could keep the masts and the windows out
Of the great baron's hall, and when a rout
Of men and women filled the wide fair hall
Throughout the streets; and when at length the ball
Of the young stranger rushed into the hall,
And that, to wit, too long had failed to bring
The maiden's mind to a so desolate ring--
So with one thought the maiden gan to live
And strive against that evil one and die,
So her life's annals and the deeds of men
Were rifled and her love lost utterly!
Then said the lady, "He who is most wise,
O lady mine, the wisest and the best
Spake words--who was a noble and a blest!
Nor did my mother weep nor her own breast
Cement that I from her so dear a son
Should ever leave, nor ever come again
Unto that noble bride a prize so fair
No stranger prize, nor friend, nor any friend
Shall ever lack, so my heart here end."
She said; for who was she that would not tell
Of her own home, before her hope had set?
Then with her hand she grasped within her breast
The hand that held her father's inmost bower,
And when the sun should end the lovely day,
The lady cried, "Fair lady, come away!
Forget my woes, for thou mayst win a joy,
A love so sweet, a new love, one that clings
To mine as love makes many an hour of years:
And I will tell thee how my true-love sings
All through the palace of my love and me."
But when her gentle hand she had reached up,
The maiden sighed, "O love, sweet love, be still:
For if thou needs must keep me living, love,
My tears shall never make my woe a quencher,
But in my life I'll ever be a lover--
O love, how brave thou art, how full of ill,
How full of cunning, loving, and how good
Thou wilt fulfil thy promise to my will."
And when her eyes were on the happy place
Wherein she saw the dames and damsels rare,
She turned them toward the king and took her place,
Clad all in white, and with a cheerful face,
And said, "I wish thee luck, if I come soon
To see thine eyes, the lady of my wish."
She said; and forthwith with her fair array
Of fair and gentle face she came away,
Wherefore she went toward the forest gray,
And there to the deep wood she took her way,
And there she heard a rustling in the brake,
======================================== SAMPLE 190 ========================================
 of a great multitude of horse-travel and
sailors for the deserts of the lower regions or in the
mountains, with huge bootmoths of beetle-bark, and with huge
moss-coloured perquisites of shoes-cord, and with
masts and masts of foreign vessels, and with which they were
wrought, of wool in their hulls, and with great canvas, and with
double neck-hats made of the sea-fowls, many in their girths,
many with their bare breasts, and with the white neck-bone of
their brims, and the huge sea-daisies.
The thighs of the sheep, all compactly, and their cloaks of
flower-yellow, and the milk-white chargers, all set with bells
and wrists, all well made with bowls and spoons, and were
fashioned in sooth with nooses, and made into them, and upon
the shore they washed in oil, and were clad warmly.
But after that the thighs of the sheep were washed, and thus
the rest of the flocks slept; and that day the thighs of the
cattle were spread abroad, or it was the wind that did blow from
the clouds.
'So, when to the garden of God, the Lord of life, there
happened a certain man that was not afraid to speak, when he
held his eyesight, with the eye of the beast, when he saw that
the man walked forward, and that the woman was delivered;
and he rose to speak with him; but these twain went on in a
steadfast manner, and lo! the face of God appeared, the face of
the man was distorted as by an elbow; and the legs were
broken; nevertheless the Lord said to him:
"Lo! this is the face of the man who slays our fathers, and
throws on me its shadow. So it behoves me to put away these
clothing, and to make the bed ready before the dawn."
The leopard reached out his arms to save his own life, nor
could the woman don so as to prevent him.
The leopard said:
"Go now to the mountain's mouth, and take a pitcher, and carry
water for the camel's body, that the drink-offerings and
the kchestrels may offer it, and they may offer it
water for the kchestrels. While thus he has time to think
of the bite of the tongue, and having done good to the last,
he will offer it water for the thirsting shepherd, and he will
then speedily offer it and not refuse."
And the shepherd went and took the pitcher, and placed it in
the face of the man, and lo! the woman was delivered
up in a blessed cloud.
Then forthwith the man walked, with the face of a fair
daughter, a pure-born maiden, to gaze on God, and to
he look with gladness.
When the maiden had rightly discerned the matter in the
bathing-doing, she began to weep, saying, "Thou knowest
honoured mother of men, the Almighty, who sittest with us
at His pleasure in the Heavens; for he is terrible in
grace, and knows that without help, he shall be restored
with all joy."
The shepherd sat with his fair daughter on his knee, and
he looked with tearful spirit up into the face of the man,
and said, "Father, give me this cup. I wish the spirit
of our Father to visit men within our walls."
The king bowed low before the face of that fair
daughter. The face was pale as death, and her eyes
closed for the first time. And straightway the hand of
the man had laid him upon the breast, and the face was
shining in his gladness. Then the prince gave his hand to
the old man and blessed him:
"Father, who art thou, and whence comest thou? Thou
kast not thyself in this our dwelling, in which thou
seest the dwelling of our son? Tell me all, and tell
me who is that noble one, how he fares with thee, and
where is he? For I have come from the hill-lands of the
home beloved. I am arrived, and by right of birth I come,
because this man sits at this world-wise entry. From this
life he vanished with the spirit of his race, and went in
to the dwelling of our prince, and by right of birth he went
on to the mountain-pastures. He passed on in the forest of
a mountain by the road to look forth at the city of his foes.
And
======================================== SAMPLE 191 ========================================
 I can't hear of--hear what ails the Doctor,
You're almost of a sick man's quicken'd to the quick.
Why, what's the matter?--Why, there is a doctor there,
Picked from the devil's back, and not the thing is clear.
Now, there's the Doctor sick and has the natural stuff to suit;
And there's a doctor there, and there is something of a tax,
And there the Doctor is, like him, a man that's dying drop;
And there the agent he's--a chap that has a kind of skill,
A silver eye, and hands, to send a fever in his face;
A kind of sleepy sound, a fever at his dullest days,
And then the agent sniffing of the morning in the lanes.
A man may reach by trade, but always get along a heel;
The middle article is not to raise a second tax.
There's the diseases, doctor, in the sleepy nick of death,
And the physicians, in this nasty box, are sure a glorious breath;
And there's a barrel-organ teaching men to loaf and dream,
And little children saying songs of comfort to their souls.
There's the doctor there, the doctor everywhere, is looking,
Says at the wheel, and p'raps he says, "'Tis wicked to be damned;
If I were told that I was going to be damned by a bear,
You'd almost think my little voice was getting to be praised;
"If't is the worst, there's no disaster," says the doctor's clerk.
Now it's not the best way, boys, to put the question to your mind:
If you know the worst, then get it back with your own penknife.
"_Cosi vi geritur in loco amore_."
No! You'd be deaf to my statement; if I'm cross, deaf to my moaning.
If I were dead my soul would live on, and dead would I be moaning,
Dying to sleep--but this I tell you, boy, there's nothing to fear;
Sink down to sleep, and wake!
"_Cosi vi geritur in loco amore_."
What says the man?--"You can't tell me. I've married for fifty."
I have not asked you, you say? I know. I have done my sixteenth year,
And I, too, have played my fifth year; and, sir, never told you,
For I could not get five years to make an old wife of me.
Why do you write about it? I'll write it:
"The sheets were frozen stiff;
The winds were in the south,
And danc'd the frozen hand,
When first I landed here.
You've chiseled the boat, and I
Will back directly;
We'll sail and row with you,
And all that's pretty poetry
Will come and go from our lips to our English lips.
Where is the tailor, who,
With buttons and a pin,
Would shut the baby in?
Just watch the baby. Jes,
He works so fast he can't get in.
Oh, what a joy to clamber there;
To lift his shawl of hair
And to shiver his pail,
And toss his paper cap
And say: "It's cold!
It's getting dark!
It's getting dark!
It's horrid!
I'm sick of it! It's getting dark!
And it's best to go to bed."
And then he gathers a paper,
And says: "The baby will look very queer."
And so he lets it fall:
"It's no use to sleep there in the bed."
But the auntie said:
"I've got a dreadful cold,
But the baby is not much old
And doesn't even get
Any ones to cut his head."
But the auntie said:
"I never ate them,
And they're so very nice!
They're all so very nice!"
So we watched him go below,
And he and I and Oh.
And it made us very sorry
Everything went wrong,
The wretch! It's horrid bad to mind
The baby that was blind
And wanted to play with,
Just watch him when he woke!
If I was young,
I think the sun was shining,
With golden curls upon my head.
How shall I be afraid?
I think the sun is shining,
And I see the world is bright;
But if I were old,
I think the corn would answer with delight.
If I were rich,
I think the sun would warm me;
But
======================================== SAMPLE 192 ========================================
,
All _en_ to-morra,
_Tout_ of _buer_,
_Torte_, _con_, _i_, as the old Kronos.
"_Cein_ or co_, _i_ the best.
No man can be a _man_, I make no plain amends:
I can but _cloak_ things to the end o' my days,
An' I'll ask nae spice nor substance fer my depends,
Nor I'll _be_ the shirer piper all my days.
"_Yestreen_ to drive t'other horses,
_Some_ tied up, I turned the witties out,
An' bade 'em plain out the way they ought to go--
I've got _a-fallin'_ a steeple in my shoe!
"I never saw asaw an' not a fence,
I never never watched asaw a roof,
I'm sorry all the time I'm in my pate
To hear a feller's whip an' go a-froze.
"I've often felt the sting o' all my life
All through my limbs, at two-toed-do,--
I'm sorry all the time I'm in my pate
To hear a feller's whip an' go a-froze!
"But then, what's more, I'm not so black at all
As that the sma' kicks up my shins an' all
Myself haint due to drive the scarred fiend
Out o' the house where _he_ is coppin' in.
"As long's my legs as any man can see,
An' I done well, I'll tell you plain an' free,
So all the gang that went the way to _farre_.
"The fire that comes a-creepin' in behind
Don't know our _stricken_ wits without a twind,
The worst o' all is crook an' mended gin.
"It's all so long ago, it was before,
When I thought I'd jest rolled down the door,
An' come to see _my_ legs--wot's there that got?--
That's but a boy that's gone to sleep a lot.
"I've got some stuff fer cuisses on the door,
I think they'll never make it more _'fore_,
An' not a bit _now_ like they used to be.
I'll jest roll in when I'm under bed,
And git my restoratives all cleared--
I'll jine _now_ with the rest--ez-here's some!
"I've got four bunks to grip an' pike an' gun,
An' not one _benches_, fer to do an--not_;
It's good enough, but how I git them on,
I can't git none along 'at's wot it is!
"This mighty fuss that's railly in the wind
At all the 'ell-holes of my body kind,
The things that live 'bout farm-life's 'bout a joke,
An' all the bad it's railly to the crook,
An' all the good I've got to go to do.
"This is the way a man's got _quite_ good cheer,--
'Cause one good house is rotten to the core;
It's nothin' else is rotten to the core,
But good enough to do 'em good ther'ore.
"I'm sorry I'm not leaky, now, nor smart,
A house's 'bout bad an' will be left to Art;
But, as the birds is tickly in the nest,
The thoughts o' them that's in it all must be best."
O, that Friday night as I lay warm in bed
A-list'nin', someway, shortly, in the gloom
Of half-past four-year-old Skiddaw-shyd,
While as I heard a frog-paw croon overhead,
Aye, sweeter than the sea-mew's note o' doom!
'Twas but a step down there, as I'd been creepin'
Through a sough o' ferns to where we sat
'Neath the wind's wailing pines, or off we stept,
For we could hear the wailing otter stole.
"A few miles off," I'm creepin', as before,
Tho' that was so hard 'n a thing to see,
An' that was good enough to be so sore.
======================================== SAMPLE 193 ========================================
e, the "Wedding Bell," and that old fairy
Sir Tannhauser, there lived a goodly King,
All of his own,--and every name he bears
With him could call one to him.
There had he lived well
Daily together, in each pretty nook
Where round and round the green-sward stretched a brook
Of pretty flowers to the sunbeam-laden air,
Until the sun sank in a cloudless night,
And in this sweet familiar place there grew
A hundred roses blushing to strange hue.
And what a skillful sire was this to show
To them who gathered them in oak or elm!
And what a wit
To sing them like a song;
And they would praise
Some natural measure long,
And in it found
Such honeyed pleasure as
Is only thought
To one who hath a rhyme.
So sang this book all day,
And when the sun was sinking in the west
It grew so beautiful,
Those little dewy leaves
Were brought here by my father with a song
So gentle and so tender and so true
That all the leaves were tender;
And all the flowers and trees,
And all the golden clouds out of the sky,
Could only make a happy home for me.
Sing to my youth so young,
That I with love may live and never tire,
So little time for song!
For all time long he dwells in song again,
A shepherd-boy of dreams,
And all the blooming flowers that he has loved
Are blooming now for him with golden bells
And tender herbs.
Sing to my youth so young,
That I with song may live and never tire,
So little time for song!
For all wrong done for right;
And all the tears and all the tears I shed
That I have shed for him;
And all my songs and all my broken lyres
And all the songs that are the love of life
Are to his song as fair.
Sing to my youth so young,
That I with song may live and never tire,
So little time for song!
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may live and never tire,
So little time for song!
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may live and never tire,
So little time for song!
And when I die the music of my soul
Hath reached its fullness, and my heart, O God,
Shall have no word of comfort but a rose
Which shall not fade nor yield a resting-place
For memory of its tender-hearted youth,
And all its tender loveliness to me,
And all its tender loving-kindness to me.
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may live and never tire,
So little time for song!
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may live and never tire,
So little time for song!
And I shall sing old birds to many songs
And pass their joyless way,
And watch the white moon in the blue sky's face,
And in high heaven stray,
And sing old things of childhood's paradise,
And say old things of days gone long ago.
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may live and never tire,
So little time for song!
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may live and never tire,
So little time for song!
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may climb and sing in strength
And play a part of youth,
And sing old things of days gone long ago.
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may live and never tire,
So little time for song!
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may still aspire,
And sing old things of days gone long ago.
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may play and not with fire,
And with the harp may play,
And sing old things of days gone long ago.
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may play and not with fire,
And with the harp and song of all fond hearts,
And hear old things of song depart,
And weep old things of days gone long ago.
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may play and not with fire,
And with the harp and song of all fond hearts,
And so sing old things of days gone long ago.
Sing to my age so young,
That I with song may play and not with fire,
And with the harp and song of all my youth,
And so sing old things of life
======================================== SAMPLE 194 ========================================
,
And there we'll leave her;
The dews of heaven shall fall cool
On her old skin as she lies in the dust
'Tween the stars and the sun,
And for you alone?
The little brook in the meadow
Is singing and chuckling in its song;
A bit of water, a bit of sky
Is beating along
Through clouds that hang in the wood behind,
And the sky swings along
Through the little brook in the meadow
To the little brooklet's song.
Now all is cool again,
And the night is full of light,
And the little brook in the meadow
Is singing and chuckling to its song.
Now all is cool again,
And the little brook in the meadow
Is singing its song
Through the golden dusk of the summer night,
While the little bird in the branches sings
As it dips in the twilight, and dips
In the crimson shadow, and dips
In the blue of the downy cloud,
That shadows the little stars:
"Oh, where is your little brown head,
And where is your little nest?"
The little birds fly away
With their little heads to the rain;
And the little brook in the meadow
Is singing and chuckling to its song.
The little brook in the meadow
Has a narrow house, and its house is small.
A bare bed that the boughs close down;
A place where I can sit and look at the town;
And you must look to the clouds above and ask
Which is the little house that looks up with the sky?
A little house looks down,
With a white face and black eyes;
A dusty corner to the wall,
And a mound that is half dried;
And down in the fields, close by,
The little old house that looks up with the sky.
A baby tree looked down one day
And all the children were asleep;
Her mother used to take thebay,
And toss the board and toss the cup.
"And were they born to bear the bed,"
A little bird said, "fellows?"  "No,"--
And here they lie, so very, long,
A-jooching up and down the floor,
And nothing done but well-a-day,--
A-thinking up the little house,
And all the children in the lane.
Tall, slender trees, with berries red,
With soft leaves, where the sun shines through;
And there they have smelt like petals shed
On the morning they were borne to you;
And the tree is a garden, grown
For the birds to spread abroad;
And there's something it never could know,
In the winter if they were found to be,
A-tapping any magic nest
For the birds to cover their eggs;
And so the little green things come,
With their bloom and their windy song,
And their butterfly, the dragon bee,
And the blue jay, and the jay, and the white jay,
And the little bird, and the white jay,
And the little bee, and the little bird,
And the little bird he gave to us,
In amber robes and rainbow rings,
But he will never come back to us;
He is all gone into his sleep,
And he has neither eyes nor wings,
And he has neither candle-light,
And he has neither candle-light,
And he has neither stool, nor table,
And he has neither candle-light,
And he has neither fire-light,
But he has neither candle-light,
And he has neither stool nor table,
And he has neither sow's moonlight,
And he has neither fire nor milk,
For he has neither fish-light,
And his wings are so soft that they are mottled
With gauze and jet, that they are mottled
With jade and rose, that they are mottled
With jade and blossom, and with spelt,
And they are spilt, and made delicious,
With jam and whey, and many a jam,
And ice and snow, and salt and suet,
And many a pie and jam, and jelly,
And many a jam and many a jam,
And toasts and pies and toices hot,
And a feast-roasted lamb and many
More sweet and round, and many a jam
Of curds and pease, and many a jam
Of curds, and roast, and suet, and tea,
And many a jam and many a jam
Of prawn and prawn, and many a jam
Of raisins, and of sugar-cane,
======================================== SAMPLE 195 ========================================
.
"He was a man of the firmament and firmament,
And he was a comet;
But, if ever he sought
The depths of that dark solitude,
I shall but echo my song!
"For this bright air, that night,
He clove the steely sky,
Till the chariot of delight
Pace'd and vanish'd by his flight.
Then I rose, and he came,
Who bore upon himself
The burden of my flame;--
The sorrow, the repining
Desire, the pity:
With that strange restless thought
That glows but half-brother!
"You are quite lost to him,
You are quite lost to me!
For I have lived to see
A light on your fire-lit cheek
And your hair on your golden hair,
And the light of your golden hair,
And the star of your golden hair.
"I do not think, ah me!
That you were very fair,
And perfectly true to me;
And I do not think, ah me!
That you were quite too tall
For my great heart to bear!
Ah, could I see that eye,
As it sparkled in your hair,
That smile,--one moment's glance,--
I would answer, and only feel:
It might perhaps be tenderness,
Or a mother's fondness,
Or the joy of your love's deep distress:
But it did not matter,--
Could it not be elsewhere?
"But, in spite of all my love,
You are far away from me;
And my heart has been far away
With the earth-o'-the-spaces
Of all other creatures;
And my God, in His grace,
Has been pleased to pardon
My love, that has so much grace
That he grants me no comeliness;
And all nature is not made
For a thing so small as you and I.
"For you? You are my God?
Do we not, in our day,
Grant to ourselves our daily breath,
And to hear your voices say--
'The joy is an eclipse, and He
Is the shadow within the soul,
And we see within ourselves: His ways
Make the best of good.' There is not much
But it can be borne: we have our own.
"For the love we feel to ourselves
Is a mystery divine,
And a weight which ourselves can bear,
Though we stumble against it there,
Though we know not to what we are,
That our God can bear alone.
"His ways are not very great,
Though they show us all is not
The goal we cannot see at all,
Though they bring to us our tryst,
And defy us with a gesture
That our God is not a saint:
While his goodness is a mystery,
We are still in his great love,--
We are fit to lose our souls
In the infinite control.
"'The world is our own, we think,
But we have our souls alone;
And our work is crowned with light,
And our faith is more than their own,
And we may not falter and shrink,
Though we know that it is ours,
Though our triumph is a might,
It is ours or ill that we,
And God's glory is a might,
In the world of things we are born:
And if there be nothing for thee
But dust and a haggard world,
What matter if, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For no thing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing, and if she were made
For nothing
======================================== SAMPLE 196 ========================================
 his lips with kisses,
But the air is chilly!  See how faint,
How clean and cold the stars appear!
Ah! the white is flecked with yellow,
And the black is black, and flecked with white.
Ah! the stars are flecked with yellow,
And the sky is dark with fleckless light.
Hark, the trumpet hisses, wailing!
"Strike, O strike the rhythm in the line!
To the camp-fire!"  Where the warriors
Slope their glittering golden fires,
Gather the heated woodland rivulets
And the forest-leaves that gleam and shine.
For the host has fought the battle,
And is darkened with the night,
And the forest's silent voices
Take the path he spake in flight.
Not in vain, O holy brothers,
Mourn the widows of the brave!
Not in vain they wail the daughters
Of the conquerors of the slave.
Ruthless is the army's outcry,
And the night is dark with rain.
Hark, who comes to save the slave-cursed?
Who believes the planters' chain?
Who believes the bondman yonder
In the harness of the slave?
Look!  A star is glancing upward,
Far beyond the blue sea's foam;
Look!  A star is shining downward,
Where the white sails come and go.
Look!  A star with golden forehead,
Where the white sails come and go!
Let your mournful eyes discover
All the suffering and the woe!
Oh, they look at you and love you,
All their joy is in the sleep!
Oh, the dreadful night of danger!
Oh, the horror of the slave!
Oh, the awful night of terror
Round the sleepy bed that gives!
With his chain the brave are bounding,
With his flag the free unfurled.
Breathless on the cruel mistress
Comes the fearful night of woe!
With his chain the brave are bounding,
With his flag the free unfurled!
'T is the weary night of horrors,
That the slave comes back to die!
Oh, the awful night of danger!
Oh, the horror of the weak!
Oh, the horror of the weak!
When the tyrant's oath is threatened,
And the bondman's arm is weak.
And the curse of unpaid kindness,
And the oath of unpaid toil,
Is the curse of unpaid kindness,
For the guilt the land gives vile!
Oh, the dreadful night of horror!
Oh, the horror of the weak!
Foul and hapless is the prison,
With its scowling fiends of fire!
Oh, the horrible night of horror!
Oh, the horror of the weak!
And the curse of unpaid kindness
For the crime that pleads for hire!
Oh, the horror of the vile!
Yet the sun of hope is setting,
And the night is drawing to its close,
Where the land its sin is hiding,
And the slave is waiting for his slave.
The sun is set beyond the west,
And with the lingering day comes on,
With night upon his rolling crest,
To bring the tyrant home again.
Oh, the horror of the weak!
The night is past, the day is dead,
The world's cold misery has fled,
And the dark night of inward shame.
But calm, and yet the while we sing,
We'll save the tyrant's prisoning song,
He bursts in thunder from the wall.
He burst the dungeon doors and bars,
He shakes the hinges of the soul,
He sounds the brazen bell of brass.
The world is all before him,
But dark the present in the past,
With the perishing cry and groan.
He rises up to life at last;
The tyrant dreams of liberty,
And his heart is in his hand.
Oh, the horror of the weak!
The night is passing fast away,
And in the morning of the morn
Some fiends of darkness bound his way.
They bound him with a sable band,
The black and yellow band they bore;
They bound the wretch he loved so well.
And while his spirit swells the groan,
Oh, the horror of the weak!
And in the dungeon of the grave,
Some of the angels rise and save
But where the sun is shining now.
And while the captives round him wait,
The sun-god's smile is on their eyes,
And the poor man's tears fall thick and fast.
And when at last the night is past,
The morning star, with softened light
======================================== SAMPLE 197 ========================================
 the good man.
"What's the matter? A fool's joke.
What's the matter?
I only have my fun.
To be sure my friend will own
That I must look up and know
What's the matter?" "Now well, I know.
And yet
Why do you speak so?
All for that sake.
My business I've forgotten,
My business I'm resolved to do.
And all the arts and knowledge,
And all the arts are well of you."
Now, at the last,
That little actor laughed,
And all the arts are well of the boy.
"Well, well, my boy.
You'll make me laugh;
I think I'd rather not grow up
Than do the whole."
"Well, boy,
I'm a great hero, and nothing more,
You're a mere piece of tin,
You're a mere metal in the piece of brass,
You've no idea of feature or colour,
But in what you've said,
All you know of truth,
And I don't care about yourself."
"It was something you said. It wasn't you?"
"If I had thought
That you were talking about me in March,
I should go on for a few minute later,
And I would go on just a minute later,
And I should get on."
"Well, I don't care.
I'm a man, as others will, and I'm a coward.
I'm a man, for I'm a hero."
"No," he replied,
"I'm a fool, and I don't care to you."
"A fool? It was rather too bad I said.
I'm a man, a fool.
To tell it I was a coward you said,
Yet I didn't know,
In the presence of one of those here bury'd men,
How they hanged their deceased men.
"But you were a lover again, for this,
Your blood and your life ran fast.
And to see that you lay on the cross with the rest,
And it will be hard to wait.
For I am the man,
And you all have had nothing to dread,
And I will come again to you in March,
And it will be hard to wait.
"For you have slept well."
"If you haven't roused yourself,
I will come in the dawn and go for the church.
I'll come in the morning, and when the sun is down
I'll come in the evening, for I have been there
With the other chaps whose work is not done well,
And they must have their graves in the very place
Where they will bury them." At that word
The crowd beat their breasts and they moved their hearts
Toward the setting sun.
And all the crowd
Bow'd down and went in the same tired way--
For the priest keeps travelling his little load,
And he looks hard for his wife and his little lad--
But he looks cross for his wife and his little lad.
The priest looks cross for his wife and his little lad.
But the man grows tired of waiting when
The priest comes home from the door,
And he dreams of his wife--and his little lad--
And he looks hard for his little lad.
The wind shrieks out at night,
And the moon pales white.
The wind wails out at night,
But there is a wind
That wails and wails on the storm--
And there is a wind
That moans and moans on the rock--
And the wind is blowing warm.
The wind moans out at night,
And the moon is cold.
The wind is blowing warm.
The wind has shifted the sky--
And the wind is growing cold.
The wind has shifted a black star--
But he wakes in the cold cold bed--
The wind has shifted the stars--
And the wind is blowing and dead.
I look out of my window to say nothing of you--
I open my window to say nothing of you--
Why should I look at yourself with the face of a woman
Who has written the tale of a man or a man?
Why should I look at myself in the face of a woman
Who has written the lie of a man or a man?
Why should I look at myself with the face of a woman
Who has written the lie of a man or a man?
Why should I look at myself with the face of a woman
Who has written the lie of a man or a man?
Why should I look at myself with the face of a woman
Who has written the lie of a man or a man?
Why should I look at myself with the face of a woman
Who
======================================== SAMPLE 198 ========================================
."
Then he thrust his broad sword out,
And a loud shout went round,
"Rule with those who die for God,
Whom the Devil shall find,
"Wife, and children, and maids, and wives,
Fairest of the fair sex.
Leave a large flock of sheep
To the flock, and flee with them."
And at once with his sharp blade
Did he drive a band away.
And once more as they all came home,
He set a blaze to the west:
"Whose brave fellow fights for God?
Who is a true Christian and blest?
Wherefore art thou so hot for heaven,
Therefore dost thou burn and die?
Better be dead than alive,
And thus dry leaves to fall."
Then he looked up and was amazed,
And the blood in his eyes ran fast,
And he said to himself, "Alack,
That a lion should steal the whole
"Of thy flock, and the birds of the air
Thy poor body and soul!"
And he looked upon London, and he shouted aloud:
"Lord, what a plague is this!
"Come, my sons, and take me, and have me cowers,
And I will have the whole."
Then out and spoke for England, being the leader and chief
Of the brave rout that followed in his conquering army of right,
And he left England and his children and the priests and the
mule,
And he left the church and the palace beside him, and all
the rest,
For his part, and he left the rest,
For his part, and he left the rest,
And he left the rest and the rest,
For all, so far removed from him,
The common lot and the common lot,
In each man everyone must own
He is the same, whatever befall
In all, I know, and all, that men call him man.
There is a world that loves the axe.
For it is all made clear, that these
Are all of them, and all of them all.
For the sword is sharp enough for the hand,
Because of it I say in pity,
And where I say it shall not be so,
Because of it I have not seen it.
And yet you have not made a sword,
And yet I say this is my sword;
And, as my sword may be more keen,
I shall say so, indeed,
It shall be as good a swordless sword
To die for in the war.
No more do I say to his mother's heart,
It is not as dead as alive,
But is not as dead as dead,
And shall not be buried in the world
As soon as it lives.
As long as there is light,
As soon as there is light,
As late in the world the sun
As on the earth night after night,
My love shall rise on the morning of my love,
And the wind be on the evening air,
And the rose upon the morning roses,
And the river and the wood, the sea and field,
And then they shall pass from me,
But the stars of every day shall hold
O'er the way they have forgotten me,
For the star of my despair
Shall be my banner where I am.
When in the day of my despair,
And in the night's still rain
As I cry to the wind and sky
The whole world's vain endeavor,
And all the hope of life grow cold,
The woman's heart goes out to me,
My love shall never fail,
I shall wear the garland and the crown
But I shall be one with the women
Who call on them to sail
With sea-wind and a wind that brings
My love a merchandise unthought
And that they know not if my love
Have yet known anything of us.
Or else I shall go up in the dawn
To the place where I have been
And draw from the darkness of my life
New stars to be seen,
Or draw from the shadow of Time's hand
New stars to be seen,
Or loose my hair, or draw it home
When the hours are so long that come,
That I must be where the sands run low
And I shall be where the tides move on
And not--shall never be.
Or in the sunset let my love
Put her face on my life;
For I shall gather in the west,
Where never a deed is done
Or a word in the world be said,
For I shall be dead.
The summer moon and the summer sky
Were both of one note and the other note of the bird.
And I knew that their wings were the color of brown.
And I knew that
======================================== SAMPLE 199 ========================================
 from that place,
And in that place I'd rather not be there
Than live in heaven;
And, when you die, there's death beside the door
And that should be the door,
Some other room there'd be more like a grave
As different from the earth.
The man that makes himself a part
Of what he has and does not,
And takes whatever thing he will
And what he says he does not,
Is one of all the persons in the world
That he has had before him.
The man that makes himself a part
Of what he has and does not,
Is like the man who tries to take
And walk in all direction,
Or like a slip-kneed punch-stand on
A box that someone heaps on,
Or like a fish that's thrown
Into a pond when he's begun
Without a fish-hook or a line,
Or like a rock that's sheer
Or crooked as a mallow-wine,
Is just the man with a wooden dish
That's in the middle of his dinner;
A man that shows a lot of skill
And crosses all the dinner mill,
Is not much used to what is seen
Without its aid afforded;
A man who sees the things he sees
And not intends to be mistaken,
And not reprives to be mistaken.
A man whose mind and body, say all this,
Are like the little green-room
With just the door to let in light,
And just the door behind the right,
And just inside the left to give
A glimpse of him to every living;
And yet not always wholly bad
That any man who sees the real
And really good should ever see.
A man who thinks life's nothing
And has no abstract reason
For any speeding season.
A man resolved to live
And plough his way with even feet
And never see the ploughman eat
That land so far from his desire.
But no man living has such bliss
As certain men who see
And know the soil where all things are
And never feel the ache
Of things they call the living,
When all their will is plain,
And all things seem but mere men
In all the time of year.
The other man has never known
The depth of longing after fame;
He has but eyes to see
And never has a sure by
But he has hands to build and hands
But he has hands to build and hands
But he has wings to fly
And cannot make a bridge at night
For all that is to come.
The other man has never known
The depth of longing after fame,
And though he have but eyes to see
They are but lips to say
That every man has had a name
To match his work and say,
"I never saw such things as these
Unless I do some bitter thing
A hundred years before.
My business it would seem
To leave behind me all I'd do
And never hope to do."
The other man has never seen
The depth of sorrow after joy;
And though he is so old
He does not feel the truth at all
But only can't attain.
The other man has never known
The depth of grief that's in his eyes;
And though he does not weep
He can't obtain a sweet, soft thing
A thousand years before.
For when the end comes round
The old man always says to him:
"I wish you all good-bye."
There are eyes that can't return
To eyes that cannot see,
And eyes that cannot see,
And little feet gone to
And little arms gone to
And little legs stretched out
While the wind is in the wheat
And the corn is in the air
And the apples in the trees
And pretty birds are there.
In orchard ways we tread
When apples are all grown,
And when in the garden-bed
Is such all I have known,
A light is in my head,
And when my hands are dry
I am not alone.
There are ways that people find
To make the dead things glad
With the light of shining behind
And shade of rain to-day
When apples are all grown.
There are ways we never see,
And I don't ask if that's true
That all the way I go
Is there where all the grass
Is sharp and growing grass
And the apple on the bough
And the pear on each bough
And a cherry on her chin
And a rose where all may see
And a little bird that's made
And a sun that's living still
And a little bird of air
And a light where all may see
And little birds that play
And a little lamb that's stayed
And a light
======================================== SAMPLE 200 ========================================
,
The Poets and the Knight o' the North,
The Seeker of the Soul of the ages,
They both shall sing for evermore!
They both shall hear the infinite singing of the stars above,
We shall gaze no more on earth's majestic stars;
But upon higher seas and shores of man,
Seeing the symbols of its power,
Their sacred fire shall sing for evermore!
I would hear the eternal chants
Of the mighty ones of the earth!
I would hear the eternal chants
Of the glorious ones of the earth!
I would hear the eternal chants
Of the mighty ones of the earth!
I would hear the eternal chants
Of the blessed ones of the earth!
I would hear the eternal chants
Of the great ones of the earth!
There is no death! If this be life,
What death is to be overcome?
There is no death!
The sea which gives us the name of the restless deep
Is a mighty link of mystery
To the uncharted.
We stand before the mystic thrones
Which bear immortal witness--
The unknown stars!
We look at them with a wondering love,
And wonder if their splendors there enshrined
The meaning of such worshiped love
As chastens the dull stare of the sea.
We seem to hear the voices of the waves
Which rise when the sea-child is singing,
But we see not the mighty flags that adorned Earth
Like a glory or a glory for us!
And, lo! from a cavernous heart
A seraphic voice is singing
"God is the Lord of the Universe,
Whom the mighty ocean obeyeth."
The world lies fallen. It has forgotten
The glorious deeds of the angels,
The glorious legions of the earth,
The unknown kingdoms of the sky!
There is no death! If this be life,
What death is to be overcome?
The little lives who have lived in the sea
Go on to the sea-girt islands,
And the unnamed mountains of the air,
And the mountains of the earth.
The sea is a raging cataract.
There is no death! Suppose the angel
Should come in a flood! This is the path
That leads out of the darkness into light!
If the sea, like a rifted scroll,
Should blossom a thousand leagues to the shore,
The sand is an infinite scroll,
And the secret of Eternity more
Than the mystery of the stars and the sea,
Is written in letters of golden light,
And under them, as he lay asleep,
The sea and its mystery came to him,
And he wrote in a book.
It was the booming of the sea
That rose between the sea and sea
Upon the verge of infinity:
It was a mighty mystery!
The unknown gods, no more could see
But the still mystery of the sea!
And the unknown gods, when day was done,
Walked by our ghostly minster-tombs,
And waited for the mystery,
And knelt upon the shoreless tides
That only whisper as they go
From the unknown Infinite.
It was the booming of the sea
That rose between the sea and sea!
And, lo! above the distant roar,
The sound of that terrific cry,
Which rose and rolled from chaos into the infinite choral chant of
Our God, the Almighty lute!
The sea is a flaming fan,
And we are made but to aspire
To glory, from God's own inspired
Desire--and to desire!
The sea is a raging fire,
And the waves are a roaring mace,
And we are not the least desire
Of the peoples they call our race,
But God, who is Lord of the universe,
And hath the universe for his home,
And our souls are made for variance
With the great mystery of God!
Now the waters begin to swell,
And the monster sea, from the slime and the coil,
Seems for leagues on leagues of a thousand
And for leagues on leagues of time!
The ocean is red with the threat of the waves.
'Tis over, the doom of the winds!
We have reached the broad blue vault of heaven.
Now the waters begin to swell,
And the white white foam is abroad on the sea!
Oh, what shall we do in the mighty gulf then?
For the sea's vast heart is beating
And the deep is a raging fire!
O God! we are lifting our hearts,
And our souls are at the mercy of God!
I heard a song in the street,
Where men went out to sea,
A song that I never knew,
But some way back to me.
It sang of Liberty's birth,
(Ah,
======================================== SAMPLE 201 ========================================
 my father's name,
Where the waves of the ocean came
Down the current of the Thames.
And that's what the old man said
When the children were a-head,
When they gamboled in the shade,
And the sea-birds came to pluck.
And that's why the old man's heart
Was opened, when a-shed,
To the children, who have grown
Very old and gray and brown,
And have left their father's land,
And are passing over the sand,
To the children, who have grown
Very old and gray and brown.
And that's why the old man's heart
Was opened, when a-shed,
And is passed into the sand,
And is lost among the men,
As the sea's eyes see no more.
Oh, the sea's eyes have their way,
On the shore of the deep;
Oh, the Sea's eyes have their way,
On the sand of the deep.
And that's why the old man's heart
Was opened, when a-shed,
To the children, who have grown
Very old and gray and brown,
And have left their father's land,
As the sea's eyes see no more.
Oh, the Sea's eyes has their way,
On the shore of the wide;
Oh, the Sea's eyes have their way,
On the shore of the wide.
And that's why the old man's heart
Was opened, when a-shed,
And is passed into the sand,
As the sea's eyes see no more.
Oh, the Sea's eyes have their way.
And that's why the old man's heart
Was opened, when a-shed,
And is passed into the sand,
As the sea's eyes see no more.
And that's why the old man's heart
Was opened, when a-shed,
And is passed into the sand,
As the sea's eyes see no more.
Oh, the Sea's eyes have their way,
On the shore of the wide;
Oh, the Sea's eyes have their way,
On the shore of the wide;
But that's why the old man's heart
Was opened, when a-shed,
In a little five year, now,
In a little five years now.
Oh, the Sea's eyes have their way,
On the shore of the wide;
Oh, the Sea's eyes have their way
On the shore of the wide;
And that's why the old man's heart
Was opened, when a-shed,
And is passed into the sand,
As the sea's eyes see no more.
Oh, the Sea's eyes has their way,
On the shore of the wide;
Oh, he's growing old, and brown, and old,
And the Sea's eyes must turn back to the sun,
And his old face must burn white, and his hair
Must catch at the hair that he long has known,
And his old cheeks must burn dark and old eyes
With a glance as old as the eyes used to be--
How we love the Man with the Maiden's hair!
The Man leads forth the bride to fill
A brimming pail betwixt a bard and maid.
It is the brimming bowl she bears
For her as well as him.
Her father bids her rock her knee
To hear their marriage song,
But no man minds her with the brimming glass.
She throws her veil over him,
He throws her veil over him,
She throws a veil over him,
The brimming pail to cover him,
But no man minds the brimming pail
That she has half the sweep of her fair foot.
She throws her veil over him--
For the great queen's gold,
But no man minds it with the brimming glass.
And a kiss is on her lip,
And a kiss is on her brow;
What is in her eyes, she wins the prize.
What is in her voice?
He has taken this for his,
And she kisses him as long as she can reach
Her heart, her arm, her hand, her breath,
When the charm is gone, and the song is done,
And the kiss is come to stay.
It was not for the singer's sake
That the high priests made a holy vow;
He sang the prayer they taught to keep,
He had not the heart to pray for the Queen now,
But a vow to love and to die for her sake.
But he has made a loathing of her,
And with the dreadful oath he has sworn her,
He has heard the whole truth of it,
And his mouth has heaped the curse on her
And the secret of
======================================== SAMPLE 202 ========================================
, and others of his other friends;
But here, alas! this one short moment ends
The short and glad career of life,--and oh!
How many hearts there are, so fond, so true,
So fond, so loved, so tender, and so pure,
So trusting, and in hope to die with them!
Let his example, like himself, be sung
Into his own emotions, or at least
Alike his spirit, and with love's own tongue
To him be sung!
Tell me, ye earths,
Which now so joyous seems, and now so glad,
Beneath the sun, in joyous change so glad
That earth has joy enough to laugh and sing?
Say, have ye wonders from the Heavens above?
Or, is it sweetest, loveliest things that live
In the wide fields of Heaven, with spirits rife?
Oh, no! it is not bliss enough for man
To think how bliss may be, and to be free;
But this sweet air to wander through and scan
With infinite pleasure from the blest abode
Of the calm garden, where, like him, the king
Takes joy, but never knows how soon! how soon!
This joy so sweet, this very bliss, this bliss
Seems full, and infinite, and God's own bliss:
But there's a joy, 'tis sad to think there be
Such joys as these, in happier days to see!
And now, what glorious might hath been, I see!
And now, what marvel? rather, we behold
How the fair trees of heaven are opening wide,
Yellow and green, and carpeted with gold;
How calm and calm, and yet how fresh and bold!
And now, what wonder? why, what wealth and fame,
When earth, and heaven, and man, are filled with shame!
Is it because the olden glory fails,
Or some old memory of ruin daunts,
The heart in which is then so fresh and fair,
The spirit gone?--'tis well enough to care
For what is left; and yet, 'tis best to go
Where sorrows might have been; and pass, I trow,
Thro' weary ways and still destruction's blow.
Who now will care to live, if but to weep?
Hearken, ye dead, to the dead midnight bell
A fresh, sad, thrilling strain:--the dead are there;
But there's a sound of joy more loud and sweet,
And thro' all earth a joy like heaven's own blissesse;
And now, what wonder? ye are dead, and dead
Among yourselves, and dead thro' all the spheres,
And all the suns of all the days of Heaven!
'Tis well enough for me, who've lost that power,
Which, like a tyrant, was itself a throne,
And, through black ignorance, hath stript itself
Into a shape that would persuade the world,
The only glorious scene from which this breath
Of feeling's joy, so full of strong romance,
Seems to restore the world that it was then.
And now what wonder? what, what wondrous sight,
And by what kind of a celestial fire,
That heaven should own its power, which made it shine,
Which on the earth would make its radiance shine;
And in those weaker glories 'tis the power
A soul should feel, to give it wings to fly,
To bear it down to heaven, and sink to nigh
The home of joy, and sink to some low state,
And drink in heaven the glory of her own.
And lo! this is the hour, and from the earth
The joy, this life, this music, and that song,
That thou, oh Night! and thou, and thou, oh Morn!
Thy only occupation is to die.
Hence, who can say that mighty powers, which bless
This night, are not the great ones, the least kings?
O thou whose light is by the darkest streaks
Upon the darkness of those awful wheels,
Whose circles are the twinkling of the moon,
To whom invisible objects are as bars,
And, through a window, there are past and past
The terrible crash of the irrevocable bars;
There, in the night, my own electric power
Fell, like a sword, around the midnight hour.
Thine, too, thou art as a small cloud,
A visible gem, a cloud of night;
And all thy little links of being
Have broken, almost, from me;
And all that I have slighted, to my mind
There is a sky around which nothing shines
But the invisible mountain of
======================================== SAMPLE 203 ========================================
 I have been to look upon
A man who could not stand upright,
And not show his forehead with the mask
That had been camping round him,
And there was just the mask that was
Closing up his form with;
He would have gone to the street to see
What his own form took, and it was not his,
That he had been acting;
But though the one was seeming just the very best,
Such a little rascal!
I have found the trick had come, for fear
Of being like a silly huck,
With his neck so supple
That it would not be done by me,
Though he were a poet of some mean terms
To the other gentlemen, but only of men.
A rascal, too easily bred,
That would even be treated
To appear where he lived in his way;
But yet could not have met my eye again.
One day, as it happened to be,
You thought he was over six thousand miles from yours,
And then that he was coming more slowly
In the shape of a panthereadon,
That he was not much to blame for riding.
You thought he must get a bit on,
But he didn't care to ride.
The rascal, having just begun
To be ready, said he was to charge the ladies
That he would not run
Until the next summer, and you might see
If this rascal got into a hurry.
He was riding, and if he had a chance,
Just let him run faster.
A servant came in was there,
And said he was going to tap the horse
And stamp him into the ditch.
You may see that I can see
The horse coming up at the edge of the street,
And then catch him, you doubtless will see.
You will see, when he comes to town,
Cans, cajons, old cajons, and cajons,
And people who gather up all.
Cajons and cajons with their caps
And their long collars.
How the wind shakes them, the little leaves gay and sagging,
That they swing and sway and waver.
How the wind comes homing, the little leaves gay and sagging,
That they swing and sway and sway and sway,
In a golden round and a silver round, and oh, how the wind
Cries as loudly as ever!
Yes, there's the wind at sea, in the clover and heather,
The sea-wind's welcome and the wind that's there,
And over and over the clover and on and over heath,
And when I am gone to the land I am lying.
My friends, there's nothing you think and nothing you've heard
Of me, of my old days and the long years,
That made you sing by the clover and on and on,
And when I am dead and its dust is a-there,
And my name's no longer--what's the thing now mean?
But after all the years of woe and sorrow,
And the whole long while the end comes round,
And its "I have torn and torn you" and "I have fed you"
And the earth has been my sorrows' comfort too,
Woe's me for the wind-flower in the moorland bare and brown;
Woe's me, that I die with a wind at sea,
And I must rise and follow the sun's kiss on,
The day was going to be over and over,
The wind came out and smote and beat the clover
And off they went and by, and who then were they?
To the end of the long way they came,
The sun and the snow and the wind on,
Like ghosts between the sleepy flowers;
The wind was going down in flowers
And the snow and the beech trees wreathed them,
And their branches made no sound,
And the beech trees stood all round them
In long thin rows of branches,
As tall as tall can be,
With green boughs trailing sadly
Through half-frequented boughs;
And the air was heavy with sweet odors
From those far distant boughs;
And the beech trees stood all round them
In long thin rows of branches,
With brown arms lifted sadly,
Like the shadow of clouds;
Only a faint noise
Was now made o'er;
Only a sound of laughter
With a sad, still grandeur
In the interspace.
A few wild birds were singing;
But when they were come more near
They were lost in the boughs and singing-time
That was lost to them evermore.
And the birds knew not of the weather,

======================================== SAMPLE 204 ========================================
."
The old man's cheek grew warmer
Than before he had felt it.
"O I'd dreamed," he said, "the thought of me,
"Of a girl by yonder wood tree.
"There's my mother--I should be forgot,
"And forget her--in the schoolhouse--
"Her father in the schoolhouse,
"Or her uncle in the schoolhouse--
"I should still be childish,
"And forget her, and be wild."
"Yet I had not been here
"By the wood tree--in the brush-wood,
"As a boy I should have been."
"And I'm not as yet there
"As 'tis now," he said, in a dream,
"But I think a sweet little fairy
"In a fairy-like green forest
"Was feeding the butterflies."
With a bound and a pretty roundelay
The old man came back from the wood.
From the wood through the clear day,
And the green water-ways.
And the old man's face was wrinkled,
And his hair was russet- curly.
Then he said, "O Pipe of the Pipe,
"O Pipe of the Pipe, look in,
"And the pipe of the Pipe shall tell you
"How I loved you--how I fell;
"How good I suppose I loved you--
"How good I suppose I loved you--
"How good I suppose you loved me--
"What good I suppose you are."
"It is not right," said Pipe of the Pipe--
"It is right to suppose that I,
"Or you or anyone who loves me--
"Or ever I loved you was I!"
He was a goodly man, I had the slug-and-the-the- racks,
And the load they were heavy for the little lids of eyes.
For a little smoke and a little smoke and a little smoke and smoke;
For it lasted five hours,--there he was,--and he was dead.
For he lay in a grassy spot, and gloomily mummied he
He had closed up his mouth in a little stone hole through his skull,
And the sweat and the dust and gnaw and cluck of his gray skull
Were a-coming of giant men from the woods at dawning day.
And the hills of Sterne lie as a hundred valleys lie;
I can hear the tramp of feet that pass the cattle by.
And along the road at last, where all the rivers run,
I see the shadow of the man a-vigging to and fro;
The man that is not born at all, and the mother that can
But is done with the man that is dear by every living thing,
And the road that is broken over for the living thing.
I heard the wind a-whispering,
The leaves were stirring, and the sky
Was over-woven with a sheaf of silver,
And all things were aweary at the sound;
Till suddenly I wondered what a wraith was that,
And whatFinding it was in mind:
For suddenly I knew I should have risen,
For I was looking o'er the world of things,
And looking to another realm, and then
My mind went back to it again.
For all things I had fashioned in me
Were marsh and river, and the sky,
From morn till noon, was heaven and earth; and all
That now was or will be of me, was new,
And all things justified and things undone
Were the first things to do, as here I stood.
The grass is folded thick with seed,
The light along the river leads,
A silver lamp is flickering in the yellow west;
The shadows gather in the meadows,
The morning streaked with dappled dew;
And the brown bees in their honeycombs are folded,
The new-born nightingale is hushed;
I turn to see the friendly golden moonlight
Lying gold in the pale west's breast.
But soon I feel, my new life stolen away,
Frosting the apple-bough, the sun-thrill sent,
The birds upon the mountain, the brown bees
Thronging and fluttering on the spring-tide air,
And all is hushed and happy; every leaf
Wings a new musk of light.
The yellow lamp is carried to the garden-close,
The lily folds her shawl against the day,
And every bird is singing a new song,
Because of dear desire.
And when I die, the yellow lamp burns red
Beneath the window-pane:
A tall pale rose-tree
======================================== SAMPLE 205 ========================================
.
_St. Peter's Church_ (_Vicar Fathers_, III. 10) is the church
edition of such a book as the "Maimuni in Amathms," or the
_Honiica_, that is purely useless in its own nature, and includes
all the short poems written by the Giottesques. It consists of a
_Nepanias_, the French word _swarming_, rather than of _swelling_
_Corchetti_, as it was used by the Dante in Orona, and in Latin
_Kai per octos mobatas              Ronsardius,
Davius Adoedi_ (i.e. theiso).
_Nariad Ganymede_: a variety in verse. It is the general
unmistakable, and a beautiful simplicity. It is a very deeply
_Altenburg_ and _Amethus_ were the only things in the Italian
_Amoebo_, a name pronounced _Tenedos_ or Veso. It has a
_Hesiod_, and this, probably it was a later corruption of its
influence. The _Altenzo_ was a mountain of hills and a wild
district to Jupiter. The precipices of the larches and the
mountain of the palm-trees were such as had frequently been
rebuilt in the district of Italy.
_Alcandra_ (xxx. 6) had a virgin in her face.
_Amphitrite_ was the daughter of Alcanzo, and was named also in
_Cpactoli_, a river in Spain. She was a Greek; but this was not
_Amphitrite_ (xxxvi). The name was Alcanzo III. It has been a
_Cancionero_ was a mountain of Mount Carmel, and mentioned as
_Cancionero_ (_Cancionero_). The name was Alcanzo III. It was
famed for being founded on the Golden Coast Coast Coast Coast.
_Amphitrite_ was a name used in this passage by Philip IV.
_Cothariot_, from the name of a shepherdess.
_Amphitrite_ was a name used in this passage. It is beautifully
_Cicero_, or _Doric_, or _Dorian_, who, in his story, was
_Davide_ or _Davide_, a country town in Africa.
_Davide_, a town in Africa.
_Do,_ if you like, you may have gained the victory.
_Doquilles_, or _Davide_, was the father of an ancient
chief of the Tyrol family.
_Doquilles_ (xxxviii.checked) was the son of an aged
chief of the Tyrol family.
_Doquilles_, or _Davide_, was the father of a young
child. In his father's time it was called _Davide_ (laborabat)
and he was so called from his early youth. The son was
_Davide_, the son of an aged old Anastas.
_Doquier_, who had a large nose.
Boldly would he fight, and gladly would he fight,
He would make no effort to set up a tree.
He would hold his mane, to save him from a stain;
And would aim and to help him to put on a skin.
He would prove a raw bear and kick up a cane,
And to help it to run, that would scarcely begin.
The boar would get through, and the oxen would grind
Himself to the bone, for he fell to the skin.
He would let his teeth fall, but he ran in full stream,
And would make his tongue clean, if he kept not upright.
The boar would get up that would only upset him,
But the oxen would wrangle with their old tails.
The boar would pull, but the oxen would curtsey and jump,
So they took their sides off, and broke up the tree.
The boy would pull, but the boar would blow weaker,
So they fell down out of the tree, which was higher.
_Doquilles_, a city in Africa.
_Doquilles_, or _Davide_, was a city in Africa, which had also
been a strange kind of country in Europe.
_Doquilles_, in the figure of a monkey on the other hand.
_Doquilles_, a city in Africa.

======================================== SAMPLE 206 ========================================
, who was a great
Grave brother through an Empire, by whose name the good King
rewarded those who were oppressed and abject.
From the time that the English and two English were called upon to
From the time that the English brought back to the day, when he
thoroughly centres his good will with the Protestant Protestant party.
The two last ladies were called upon to show much sympathy by
There's a little dispute upon the dates being about the date.
incontinently as to date the dates which are to the dates
conferred, and which are to do someingeniously to our great
conversationalists.
The two last ladies were called upon to celebrate Mr. Frost,
The eldest was calabo, Quo'mus Alphius, for whom his father
The eldest was calabo, Quo'mus Alphius. This gave him the
The eldest was calabo, Quo'mus Alphius. The eldest, Quo'mus,
The eldest and the lovingest of all the ladies was calabo,
This is the most marked of Goldsmith's character in the present
Among the famous gauds that decked the grove,
There is one story of the Queen so chaste
And all her shining train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
And all her train that 's past compare,
And all her train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
And all her train that 's past compare,
And all her train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
And all her train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
And all her train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
And all her train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
And all her train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
And all her train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
And all her train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
And all her train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
And all her train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
And all her train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
And all her train that 's past compare,
Sounding her praise with all her charms,
Till all the world is praised of, "They are blessed for love."
The following are some of the extacy of the gentlemen who have
been a most illustrious and illustrious citizen of the province of
Dryden, where he published his poems on the occasion of his
birthplace, and afterwards at the highest extremities of Dryden.
In Cumberland's Museum (Glencairn and the woodlands above), is an
extensive and very famous book of the "Minstrelsy and Song," a
inscription of which might, from a metrical translation, have
A short song of "A True Relation."
In Cumberland's county of Netherpreciado died, the son of
believe there was another book of that name, composed of few
dolls more than graver, which none could read. Of these verses the
author was proud and honored by the admirers of his time.
The second and third books are those of a very decided and
contemptible Scottish minister of England, who, though we believe
themselves.
adornments which deserved to be placed at one entrance, the
thirteenth and seventh centuries.
But the author was proud and honored by the admirers of his
"Here are stories of childhood,
Gardens of the West,
Glimmer of the mountains,
Far more wonderful stories
Than our other children.
Gardens of the Western mountain,
Full of the mysterious pleasures,
Full of the morning's wonder,
Gardens of the night sublime,
Full of the glamour,
And full of the glamour of the sunset,
Fill all the heights with splendour,
Fill a land of flowers and dreams,
Fill a land of beauty
Made from the sand of time!
There is a land of beauty,
Round about it rolls my mood,
Where the shadows of those who see it
Stand in the lonely night sublime!
There is a land whose name is Youth,
The very place of reverence,
And in these lines of passionate rhyme
Cherish a marvel--that is Youth,
The very place of much romance!
And this is the
======================================== SAMPLE 207 ========================================
 it on the head,
Thou wilt be gone, thou shalt be gone!
The sun sinks down, the light is dead,
The birds are flown, the flowers are gone,
Who heard the lullaby accursed
Were happier than the day was done.
For O, the great, the wise, the good,
Were worse than all the world to them,
Not one should hear the new-born flood
Of life renewed or death renewed.
Alas, they all are dead, and gone!
The flowers are gone, the birds are flown.
They have not died, but only one
Lives in this world of things alone,
In this dead world whose name is Blest
Says to their master in the rest.
We must no longer mourn, O Lord,
Thy servant's death is now at hand,
The work thou heumberest lies the Lord,
And is accounted His demand.
Thy creature, still survives the hour
That gave him life, the grace He gave,
When all the waning years of life
Were but a morning vision of the sea,
Where every star we meet with life
Shines out its very God, the Sun.
I think we shall not meet again,
Though in the world of light we roam,
For all, all this, is yesterday
But yesterday and home from home.
And he is dead, and there he stood,
Among the clouds, in his old place
And in the light of those brave days
To which the dear ones gave their place.
He said: 'The light of life goes out,
And mine, and hers, and mine, are gone,
And thine and mine to-day shall see
The world that is to be, 'Tis known.'
And my great dreams will not forego
Their measure of content for me,
Nor any, in my happier day,
That I must tread his paths aright.
Thy love for me shall yet outrun;
And, knowing this, once more I seek
To feel my soul's true trust, once more
The joy that was my happy lot,
And, if I meet with him no more.
How long shall I have lived at last,
To make and drain the blood of life,
And hold the peace of all life's past
As nothing left to heal its strife.
But all our days that seemed so sweet,
Our hopes that once were all in vain,
And all the hopes that once were ours,
Are fled like fruit which Time disowers,
And all our joys are flown for ever,
And each a day must seem a night,
And yet a dawn shall haunt our morn,
And I shall wait till the next hour.
The dawn is bright but faint and far,
But yet the first and last of stars
Shall shine on Earth, like deeds of war,
As on the arch of heaven uprisen.
The evening of the day is near,
Yet we have journeyed far and long,
And in the noon's fresh splendour hear
The voice of mighty God grown strong.
Then through the dusk I see the Light
Stand still, and far and cold and white,
Against the dark and solemn Night,
And far between the worlds of old.
Night of the night is passing strange,
Yet on her face a star's beam
Is burning like a star, and strange
To me this light of Heaven is seem.
The stars are come and go with her,
And singing still is all the air,
And soon or late is every shape
That knows the love of her fair face.
O, who can wait?  It is to be
At last we have found peace between
The dead and the live grave, and see
Sorrow and love and death and light
Run in and out the dark and shine
Alike the mighty armies of the Night.
A thousand miles from end to end,
With one accord they circle nigh
The world in one perpetual wake
Of dawns and sunsets and of skies,
And all the heavens are one with hers:
A million miles from end to end
With multitudinous ravelling
Of wind and tide and dashing showers
And roaring sea and rushing water,
And evermore beyond the gates
Faint music and wild water falling.
The sun sinks down on the waste sand,
The sea turns round, and bright and calm
Dwells at the level of the sand,
And the wake of the wind and hiss is brief,
And the silence is like a closing rhyme,
And the last of the stars is nothing more,
And nothing more shall come and go,
And the last of the stars must wend
And the stars have gone and the
======================================== SAMPLE 208 ========================================
 the steeds in front of his horses,
Or the white-sailed ships of the Argives bring down to the sea.
Then from out of the sea a wild boar tumbled about the ship,
And he cut off the mast of the ship, and the crowd of the Greeks
Lay in front of him, and he sat down over it all alone.
Now when they had come to the clear spring of the waters,
The ship floated swiftly along the shore of the sea,
And swung high o'er the white bones of stalwart heroes.
Then he swung high on the mast of the ship, and hung low on the
Then the sons of the Trojans shouted out upon the water,
"O friends, O good and well-a-day! what can it mean,
That we cry all together? or is there one here alive,
Who could still cry 'Alas!' and stand up to it with his sword,
While the horses were foaming and drinking as they came down?"
But the noble son of Tydeus spoke: "O friends, the ships are good
They raised their spears in haste among the ranks of the Trojans,
Then they ran to the left, as they had been made by the young men.
But Antilochus came up with his spear and stripped his good hide
Out of fear of his fellows, and he killed Antilochus as he
slung his thigh.
"You can see now, friend, whether the sun or the breeze has
disappeared for you; see, however, that the waves have fallen
Achilles with his chariot, as he was speeding on his course.
He is fast asleep, so that we might hear of his coming, for
we have not reached the ships of the Achaeans."
And Antilochus answered, "Men, horses are making a great noise.
You see, of a truth, Jove the Olympian.  He had no other thought
of fighting though he was under his own roof.  He had built
the walls of the Achaeans to keep them in check of war.  When
you had told him of the terrible war, he struck him with his
bronze-shod spear: he fell into the hands of the Trojans, with
wound-shod spears and with ashen spears.  Nevertheless the Achaeans
breathing hot for Hector fell in the crowd; they therefore
stayed them hand to hand with them, and killed many of the
With these were the slain of many another.  From that hour in which
the gods rescued the son of Peleus and the son of Peleus.  They
brought him out of the sea shore into the tents of the son of
Peleus into the hands of the sea-goddess sea-goddess Dawn.
He was son to the son of Tydeus, a valiant man as he was
ever born, and the people were amazed when his speech came to
plain about him.  When he had now come up to the starry heights of
heaven he went in quest of the son of Peleus, whom he had slain,
though he had not killed him before.  As soon as he heard his
saying, he made his halt under the waves upon the shore of the
Sicilian sea.  His spirit failed him, for he was longing to fare
the homeward way.  He escaped the stress of battle and went on his
way rejoicing, for in that he and his comrades had fallen
saved the son of Peleus.  He came back instantly from the ships of
the Achaeans, with his spear, from the battle, to the clear sea,
where the sea beats on the shore round the citadel of Amre.
To this, when the son of Iphthima was returning from battle, he sent
the sons of the Achaeans to call the Achaeans to aid them.
They were dismayed, and the Achaeans, lifting their battle-cry,
came up with the voice of those who were all about the ships,
and he had left them in the midst of the Danaans against the
Trojans.  He could see with his eye from the topmost stone of the
heaven, as the Trojans saw him.  They had great Achilles son
and son-in-law of Jove the giver, but the swift chariot-racers
came neither from the ships nor did they dare to go by them.
On this the son of Phyleus drove them from the ships, and as
they fled took their places on the shore of the sea; but as they
were now come up to the ships of the Ach
======================================== SAMPLE 209 ========================================
,
The "Fairy-fancies" were the first to come,
And then my soul was filled with pain
At sight of that strange tale of ours,
A tale that must with truth remain.
The thought of it my heart beguiled;
The thought of it, in calmness, smiled.
But now I know the worst, the best!
I know it, and I love the rest.
From the Emperor to the Prophetess
A message comes from God most dear;
The message of the Father-heart
Bearing its message far and near:
"I have but reached the farthest goal,
And this is but a type of life."
They tell me that our city is not a place
To seek with all the tears we vainly try,
But that the highest seat, and highest grace
Of all our life, is Jesus' blessed eye.
How many days are coming on
Since last a youthful pilgrim bore
The purest gift the gods bestow--
And then he left us but a day
Of sorrow, and we missed the way.
A weary day, a weary day!
I would not in my longing rest!
For oh! I know that thou art here,
This weary day of weariness,
Whose blossoms blow in every year.
Would I were where the summer flies,
So wide and sweet, so far and far;
There, where the wind is hushed in sleep
Like some enchanted mariner,
Who has not felt the earth's soft stir,
While all the world goes moaning by,
And only dreaming of the day
Whereon he steered his ship for Greece,
The land where he was born again,
And left his own felicity.
Ah! there were happier days of bliss,
Of hope and peace and longing free,
And when the dark waves found him there
Who loved him not for his vain love,
But for his heavenly perfecting,
All else was lost with him for ever.
To-day is but a day of years--
The time when we were friends again!
We hold the bitter memory of the past
By all time's flowers and the flower flowers slain.
And we would sit beside the sparkling Thames
And watch the wakening glory of the sky,
And see the moon bright up above the spars,
And hear the stars and watch the Evening's cry.
No, would not thou wilt weep--or hearken while
The lark strives out, the day being done!
The days were blest when thou wast made a man,
Before thy days were made a joyous life;
But the sad present brings this sad regret,
Which comes to thee as never yet hath been.
Away then, while thy life may live!
But not in vain--it shall not be.
I shall not hear thee on thy ways,
And pass thee by me, weeping!
I shall not see thy dark eyes shine
With tears of love and faith divine.
For I will pass from thee with grace
Thy life shall be to thee a shrine.
It was only a dim regret,
And a shade of unknown pain,
That in the heart of every man
There runs a common pain.
My days with thoughts are all the same;
And all my dreams with tears;
I have missed the old glad days
And the glory of the years.
I will be ever, evermore,
In this lone, strange lament,
And never again may I remember
My own loved long-lost years.
I shall be ever, evermore,
In this weeping, dim despair,
In this longing, all regret,
And never again, on this sun-dried shore
Shall I weep an idle sigh.
A little while--and yet, a little while,
In all the mighty world above,
How can I then love any other man,
Or even if he must love me?
The days of old are over and gone--
But not the old that we have seen.
And I--I wait with longing heart
The coming of a better green.
"What have the mountains made of all,
Or oped the gates of iron?"
--That's my Delight;
A thought from me
Forever turns to pain.
And it's O to love him all the same,
And to a simple end to roam.
No, let him starve;
Let him have rest,
For ever, no!
He'll love the best,
The weary, sad-faced, lone retreat
And in the light of Heaven meet him.
And he will understand
And work and wait,
And find, whene'er he leaves the door,
A heart that's there.
But it
======================================== SAMPLE 210 ========================================
, or _Grammarie_, a horse.
The following are perhaps the most typical of all the four
concerning the nation in England, which had long been at strife
in England, against the French and English, the first assault.
The following are the examples of a number of gentlemen, who,
being made prisoners, directed them to the Tower for three
hours of their lives, and to spend a whole month travelling with the
rest of them.
The next are two to whom I have referred lately to mention
that part of the history of England is derived from the
other sources; a branch of the Royal Lee, or Royal Lee, a
circular rivulet through the northern channel of the Long
Parliament.
The next are the eleven persons, as I have again heard
from one of the men of whom I spoke.  On their return they are
sent back again to King Henry's Court after the murder of
his son Nuche is represented in the act to which all his
fear of Nuche's departure.
It was in an era when King Henry and Queen Mary
Victoria attended the funerals at Queen Mary's, that island in
discontented with the society of Roundheads and the progress
of Roundheads; and it is now affirmed that a century after
and after King George it came to be held as King
England was a time of special courses and public as well as
her buildings are now sunk.
Among the King's new dominion now, and it remains to
suppose that there are some who are to say it.  At the
peace of the country and kingdom, the English are determined
and determined against it, and so keep together the kingdom
and succession of division.  But that kingdom is extending to
somewhat beyond the dimensions of the crown; at no single
time do the number of the incidents of its old heroes and
the birth of King Henry, as the times do, suggest the infancy
of a change of style and dress.  In some cases it is a fact
that we cannot determine beforehand what we should do
after the manner in which the English were brought into
England, and that, having been sent by the King from England,
they would find no other dwelling place, but the fortifications,
and the fortifications and the ecliptic.  For the whole of
that we must allow that there may be a Royal assemblage between
King Henry and Queen Mary, one in body and in spirit, a
young soldier of the Queen Elizabeth, who, after having
taken part with the army of King James, is stilluzzarded
with admixture of a peculiar liquor (which is so many
in English, and which they seem to think still to enjoy),
and their friends, and allies from England, are, as the
realm was, set up.
And this was the first thing in the account of England's
history of her birth, which was to proceed by a change of
name in England upon the subject of the subject.
I have just come to know about what things the King and its
great-grandsire would have found in my account, there is
nothing better now, that can be said of any man from this
country about to escape.
I know you, Sir, at this very time they were used to
really have seen a Royal Highness, and now, indeed,
that will be seen from the King, and have found a Royal
 Cousin of your country, as in that case of his, rather
an over-large Extempore.  In short, this Royal Highness
was so far in favor of having such a Royal Highness
to himself and his Royal Highness, as if he were one of his
nonpareities.  It is, however, impossible to say that he
was a true character.  In his own persevering and
dispensateness, he could not keep his Royal Highness under such
before.
Our very ancestors have pretty much of their own sort,
and so we never had so many children except that, in a
early years, he was a-napping.
We have had our little group of friends looking for him in a
letter, and knowing one person more would make his
tolerable self turn and take hold of him, we know, but
he won't look out, and he won't.
And he wasn't.
The King and Commons had just agreed with our
British and French Kings, and had not lost any of his
words, for our dear Uncle King, and had not lost him.
The People of England had been so provoked, that in
our most unpleasant temper they were almost even Quakers.
But this little show of what a fine show is, in any degree,

======================================== SAMPLE 211 ========================================
 to the best of the German
Fur-bloom mouldy
Thou, O Christ of the holy hands,
Blessed, blessed be His name!
Thine is the richest rose,
The one that blushes at His feet,
The one that weeps when none has wept;
The other, the one that feels,
That sinks in the battle's tide,
And sinks with the weight of shame.
The one that weeps and falls
To the dust with all his powers
Of strength and of faith and trust,
Of hope and undying faith,
And weakness, and sorrow, and death,
The one, O Christ, for a sign!
O Christ!  What an angel is this?
Like a flower flung from the hand of the Lord
I lift mine eyes in worship,
O God of love and mercy;
A light is in each face
That lives and moves and moves--
That like an angel shines.
He gives me praise; he fills me
With holy words and sweet;
He gives me my daily daily life;
He makes me holy.
Lustrous and bright he glows,
And he sets the stars to my desire;
He gives me my entire desire;
He gives me a perfect day;
He gives me the Sabbath's white, white Sabbath rays;
He gives me a golden dawn;
He gives me the rose's red light;
He gives me a kiss divine;
And the glory of the cross
He wields while the world is waiting for his song,
And the man to the woman is the nighest still.
Gentle soul, open to God and to Nature,
O breathe on the breath of thy loved one, oh breathe on the breath
Of thy breath and its echo, O breathe on the flowers,
Pure sorrow for man and the earth and the light,
The calm and the joy in his presence, the power to interpret,
The peace and the peace of the night,
The purity and light.
God gave us the fruit of his will;
He gave us the morning hour;
He gave us the dawn and the dew,
And the wealth of the world in flower;
He gave us the rose of day,
The rose of the dawning hour;
He gave us the heart of stars;
And the song of the wind in bowers;
He gave us the heart of flowers:
With joy in the heart of God,
With gladness in God for one,
He gave us the rose of the dawn;
And our Lord sent the rose of the rose.
He gave us the thorn of the rose.
He gave us the thorn of the rose.
We gave Him the rose of light,
Through sorrow and sickness the rose to deliver,
The rose of the dawn, to light and joy;
And the rose of the rose of the dawn.
O Earth, if you knew what I am,
And what I am, tell me why;
I am old, and my hands are tired.
I am old, the old years die.
I am old, my hands are weak.
I am tired, and my heart is tired.
I am tired, and my feet are tired.
I am tired, and my strength is tired.
I am tired, and my hands are tired.
I am tired, and my heart is tired.
Tell me then, tell me whence you come,
For it is neither far nor near.
You have struck me with your lance,
And I have not struck many feet;
You have pierced me with your dart,
With your lance for I can meet.
I am old, and I long to hear
You, O strong-armed leader, tell.
The old years wear away,
With the mould in the mould I hold you,
And your hands, ere I go to hell.
I love you, I kiss your hands,
And your hands, ere I go, I hold you.
I wish I could die, but I would not die;
I would die, and I would not go.
I wish I could die, but my will would stand,
I would die, and I would not go.
Farewell, farewell, thou fair and young bride,
Farewell, adieu, thou sweet and young bride.
Thou wert wise and wert wise,
And wert wise in all thine eyes.
A shadowy veil is o'er thee,
A light is on thy face,
And, on my heart, thine image
Is bending there to trace.
She lives and loves with all her heart,
She is bound by naught to me;
No words of mine can ever part
From her dear company;

======================================== SAMPLE 212 ========================================
 I know, and what he thought would be,
To tell him, had the learned been planned,
You would have placed your hand upon his heart,
Which might have been his own!
The child was yours!
Behold her on the path,
The mother! in her dream!
And in her heart!  For years
No word or look she bears,
With smile or mien.
She is the mother of him who was born this summer day.
Ah, who shall come shall tread it in a dream's retort,
Where the wan water rises clear, and white, and calm, and deep,
And where the stars grow tender, like a sea-bird, tost.
Here let me end my journey and the tale I tell--
The tale that no man knew--
A story that a man believed--
Its visionary hue.
This is the tale of the poet: when a lover
First came to earth, he found
His work with tears forever gone;
And all the world seemed growing gray
With the strange thoughts he bore
Of that sad, lonely, shadowy land,
And the strange, sweet, silent sea.
Now in the old sweet world once more
He wonders much of the strange ways
The new world does;
It stands on the other side now, now,
And wonders at what he sees
In the lovely, moonlit sea....
The poet looks to God now, and
The human soul that moves
In the eternal, spiritual communion;
Through all the earthly years
It moves with the angels, and lives and moves
In a rhythmic tidal rhythm of time.
Through the open window, a shimmer of white
And the myriad colors that meet,
The people go shining, each under her light,
From the temple to the street.
They turn and walk with a happy tread,
The crowd of people that move and meet
Around the temple in the temple gone.
Then they go on their way and are left on their way,
Far off between the mountains and the sea,
The stars above the city, the earth below,
The voices of children in children's laughter;
And, all that was, they turn and wander there....
Out of the infinite ages of the dead
They gather and gather and weave and turn,
Till the living, all alive, find life
As a sunbeam in a stream.
To a beautiful height where the sky is a-glow,
Far, far off, far off down the valleys below,
The clouds have a story to tell in a sigh--
A wonderful story that fills every soul....
To that wonderful height, deep down in the blue,
They go through the heavens, deep down in the sky,
Proud, proud and they go through the souls in their glee,
With a wonderful voice in their wonder a-ringing....
I shall never forget till I'm dying
This beautiful song
Of a beautiful, wonderful song.
The voice of my darling, the voice of my darling,
It is sweet, it is sweet to a child
From a hundred long miles at the end,
I can never forget till I'm dying
This beautiful song,
Of wonderful love,
Of toil, sickness and doubt.
For it is not in my path
To toil; toil; toil; toil; toil;
Toil; toil; toil; toil; toil; toil; toil; toil;
Toil; toil; toil; toil; toil; toil; toil;
To each pang a remembered face.
O, the tender touch,
The long, sweet caress!
The tender touch,
The long, sweet caress!
Shepherding the lambs on the mountain side,
Heaving over the mountain side,
Soft and clear and low,
Deep and clear,
Deep and clear.
High and clear,
Far and clear.
The wind is a-coming, the birds are alight,
The wind is blowing the song of the night,
The lake is a-sailing, the lake is a-dancing,
And the waves sing a song all the night of the day,
The lake's song of wonder, its mystery's lay.
There's a loveliness hovers 'mid sorrow and sin,
Though the skies be abjured and the hills have a crown,
The loveliness even of God is less sweet
When the soul of the lake is a-dancing,
And the soul of the lake is a-dancing.
I saw you in Liegemen's camp the day before,
And still you slept, a sweet and sleepy bird.
We watched you on the field, and still you slept
======================================== SAMPLE 213 ========================================
 his paltry share:
Tears of quick gratitude, they spread
For one beloved child's, who died to give
A loving pledge and an unwedded life,
To follow love with hope and faith and faith,
Those evermore through infinite good.
But the child's father--that is his own child,
And every one who had a Father's care,
To whom the stars of wisdom ever shone
Like glorious lamps on glory's vale and hill,
And to whose feet the dust of carnage rolled,
When the world came adown the years rolled by;
And, at the last, she brought her child to me;
And, with my own--and did she come to me?
The night is past; I see the morning rise:
See Queen ascending on the eastern sky,
In her grand splendour-waism, and deep peace,
And in her happy children's singing eyes,
As they kept watch, the stars gaze on the earth;
While down these valleys where the streams still feed,
I sit alone, as in the silence there,
With my heart waiting in the mystery
Of its own mystery. From her lips I ask,
As through my soul the murmur of the sea
Calls up into the heart a voice that asks,--
"Why hast thou come to mock me, Ritten One?
"What hast thou found for me in the last land
Where all is silent save the robin's cry,
And the green-tinged lily, like a thought in her heart?"
I cannot bear to watch the stars at night
Because of one I love so well, who came
Seeking the mercy of my spirit, asking
(And that is like a language to my lips)
The touch of her fair hand and in her darkened hand.
I cannot bear to watch the stars at night,
Because of one I love so well, who comes
(And that is like a language to my lips)
To ask the light of her fair face. O world!
I cannot bear to watch the fading eyes
Upon my face, whose beauty never dies,
Until my whole heart beats in all the fires
Of my desire! O world, that I could come
And dwell with thee, as in a father's heart
I--who have given thee once mine own--could come
And give thee back the old life thou dost give,
My heart would break before I had the love
That grew into me and is faded with my life!"
And so at last in the far West at last,
All day, and all the night, I rise and come
Unto the light of her pure eyes that hold
Her image steadfast in unfathomed deeps;
And the strange light that lit her living soul
Has veiled my eyes, and I am lost. I know
That in my heart still dwells a holy light,
A holy light wherein a soul abides
Unbroken, though unseen, and glides
Unseen into the eternal shadow of thy love.
The stars grow dim above the eastern gate;
I think of thee and stand with vacant stare
Upon the triumph of thine Eastern gate.
In the last wisdom of all years,
When the soul cries aloud to life
Prayer for a home with the dead--
I rise and walk with thee
Into the light and the shadow--
The first love, that a woman brings
Up from the world of sin,--
I, in the last love-light, see thee stand.
The long day dies, and I come back
Into the light and the shadow--
The slow day dies--
Into the long, long twilight....
I walk down the garden paths
But I cannot find the door.
The cold rain flutters through the doors,
And I cannot speak until the day dies.
I enter and draw breath
For the first time to hear the rain--
The wind, the wind--
Heavy in the dead leaves,
But out of the dead dark
With the light of the dead leaves.
In the dead grey of the spring
Like a sheet of silver, flying,
Dawn goes crying;
In the noisy spring
Like a sheet of silver, sinking,
Slowly flying
In the light of the dawn.
Now, in the dead grey of the spring,
And in the long cool autumn day
I see the bare leaves shudder,
And the wet leaves seem to play;
Then suddenly shining,
Like a sheet of silver licking
In the wind--like wind that dances
And sings aloud.
I pass on through the garden paths
And my heart
Somewhere there waits a woman
Beneath a coffin-lid--
A face that waits
For the dead in the black.
I will
======================================== SAMPLE 214 ========================================
 by their mother, and
of their friends whom she left behind her.
The child was the first to die, but the other, having a
mother, and a servant, on whom her husband, the father of
the house, was very angry. The father of the housewife was
eriely treated by the father for the most weighty of
possessions. The one-year-old heir was the name of the
rich-haired lady, and his name was Dermuid. The one-year-old
son was Antony, who was called the Antilycolic Queen. The
old woman who married the one-year-old husband was Antyram,
who was born about the size of the neck of a merchant, as
she was called by the Bell of Bow.
The one-year-old heir was the old name of the father, and
the other Maithil.
When, however, the daughter of the wise man ruled over against
Antony the nurse, and had been served with gold and silver,
then the name was Dermuid. The one-year-old, daughter of
Antony was called the Maithil. The daughter of the wise
man had served with gold and silver, and now the name was
Antony. The two Maithil maids brought gold and silver for her
men to wear. When they had got all away to the fair place
where the house was, they took to the house a tub for
Antony's daughter, the wife of Samnudd, who was called the
Antony's daughter. The two brothers gave a loud welcome to
Antony. When they got back to the poor child, Antony made
a warm welcome to them; the two brothers called him
The brothers, and all of them made a salute to the
mourner, saying, "Antonia, the two weak ones that have been
left here by our country's foemen are making a long journey,
and to-morrow shall see them again.
"Antonia, the name is given to Dermuid, king of Argos. The
race of Dermuid has never descended to this realm but
fades and disappears in spite of his descendants.
"Cybele was the name of the daughter of Cadmus, and the
Cytherea, the sister of Atys. It belongs to Dymas, a
famous race of men, in flocks and herds. The people call
Antony with a loud cry, that his son is born again in the
"Cybele," said Pallas, "will come, with all this wisdom,
and speak my heart to it."
"Hector," answered I, "I will tell you my father's name,
all those who wish to visit me, and my own mother would
not."
The old man trembled and took my hand in his own, and said
nothing, but he opened the doors. He said, "Old man, you
must not go in fear of death, for you know how one already
must be. And first look round you."
Then Hector called aloud for his charioteer, and he led the way
through the ranks, while I followed after with a voice that
"Good, my friend, now that the spirit of the field is coming
against us, let one of you take command of your steeds that
they may be upon the farther side, and fetch the best of it,
for the rest on the ground have horses which can jump at
themselves in their terror and be near you, for they are coming
from heaven, either to battle, or to slaughter as you have been
indebted to your horses.
"Let some of you take care of your steeds, and their driver, at
least, will come with all these gifts:--but I see nothing, I
am afraid. I will go into the host of Hector, who is first
among you to open the gates, and to hold the chariot till the
whole city falls into the hands of the Trojans."
With these words he put heart and soul into them all, and they
started aside.
Tydeus and Menelaus son of Tydeus followed their flight, and
noble Peiraeus by his chariot, with Achilles son of Pelegon
at the front. When they came to the Olympian heights, they laid
their mightiest among the ranks, they fell upon the plain, and
Argives, like to those who were fighting around the fleet descendant
of the Cretans, stood on the top of them like chieftains
vanquished, each with his spear in defence of his fellow
Neptune, who was bringing great darkness upon the Trojans; and
Podes, like to
======================================== SAMPLE 215 ========================================
 of men;
And this a man who knew you,
Told of his years that had come.
But I know you are wise;
You are all of me.
I know you think your words are good;
I know your ways.
What right have you to be a fool?
But I am sick of the fulness of your soul.
That is enough;
But you know more than our lives;
For all of you are the same,
And the Gods are like the earth--
The gods too are miracles.
The moon has a red rim
Between the fleecy clouds
And the stars.
The silence of the earth
Is like a soft caress
Upon the quiet hills.
The white birds go
About the air.
Their song is the sun.
Oh, that is spring, and oh,
That is the day!
That is the day
I want to come along
That is the way.
The light is in my face,
The dark is in my hair,
The sunlight in my eyne.
I wish I was a bird,
I'd fly into the sky;
My heart is there.
For there is many a bud
That grows up white and glad
Unless there's a star on my head
And I am glad.
There is a little wood
That stands along the road,
Quite like a moon that is sad at its root.
I'd rather be a bird,
I'd seek somewhere to find,
In the little wood,
Than a bird like a wild-goose in the wild-wood.
I would live in quiet
With a lonely bird to-day,
As easily as where a tree
Puts on a quiet stalk;
As if the little wood had lost its leaves.
And a bird is always young,
But a nestling little bird
Is too old for the young.
I am afraid to be a hunter,
It has no birds that be gay;
But, being my only hope,
I would give nothing to you.
There is a little quiet pool
Left by the quiet hills,
Where the old tree
That once was full of shades
Is just as quiet and cool
As it grew here.
Now I can see
The little pool and the little green pool
Left by the quiet hills,
And I know how patiently
The little pool remains.
The old oak on the hill,
And the little blue pool
Are just as content to see
The colours come and go
When I look up,
And the moon's a yellow cup
And the leaves move everywhere,
And the leaves are silver and pink.
Now I would be a bird or a bat,
Far from this wood's noise,
And I'd give all I had
To fly with my singing,
And hide myself in my joy,
For I know that there is one
To-morrow, one.
The tiny ferns,
So many and sweet
Are in this pool
All waiting to pass
Where, when April's at
There I go to stay
So long, and go
So eagerly.
The ferns have forgotten to play,
And you still can see,
The little ferns
To-morrow the tree,
You may see their silver and gold,
And it almost grows like the sky
When you walk in the fields alone,
The clouds and stars and all the sun
To go down to their quiet place,
But there's a little sky
To-morrow, one.
God send you every bird
In its wings at the window,
And every wind that comes
That thrills it into the air
And makes all the trees be bare,
And the trees be bare.
God send you every bird,
In its wing itself wakened,
When it takes you far away
To spread their garments on your way,
And the heart of the world be stirred
Be it dead or quick to start,
Be afraid to turn and fly
From my presence, or, perhaps, to die
And never to be where I am,
And where I will be till I die,
All alone somewhere in the world
And everywhere around:
For no more memories of the sun,
The birds, the blossoms, and the grass,
Nor the sky's blue and sunny hours
Nor the beauty of the Maytime flowers
Shall make you think they'll stay away
When you come back at evening or
When you come back at evening-noon,
And all the world is still as wide
And all the ferns away.
And the sun will not come again,
And I would go away
From this place and all that is
The world of yesterday.
Then go into the night, and
======================================== SAMPLE 216 ========================================
 to a second,
And another such,
But it came down down,
It fell, and they never found him,
The sickness of some
Whom Mr. James had given to a great deal from the English.
So, when all were duly ordered, to the very last word of
precisely,
And though the people were extremely ably-nodding and
bowing,
As the old folk say,
When that "Old Bob White" was a "fiftieth;"
When he went to "West,"
And when all were ready, and well disposed, and
money was spent,
They were to be sent from the "Charter Journal";
And "ample on" and "red money," from the pocket of
Goody Blake, who was, for a hundred and a year, "charter
paid for."
When next next the packet was read,
There occurred to be a sale all aboard her
From the "Charter Journal" in the Herald,
The only thing which, to be said, might be
"Sure and certain."
This affair, however, was not very clever,
For, as every captain tried to take the plunder
She merely went to "West," and then returned there,
And found her husband had a treasure store
At the "Charter Journal;"
"Tick-a-nick, match for lock," said she,
"You see, it's easy now, but not too bold,
"So take the rogue who'll give him a new one."
"You should have seen the man I wish to see
"Just at the corner."
"Who was it?" asked a little Ting,
Who stood in the corner.
A little Ting, she was a model
Of the true spirit of a long-lived nation;
And when she turned her eyes upon his face,
He turned upon her eyes it surely was all disgrace.
She was a model of a man to be
An object of an emperor, and she stood
With that deep downcast feeling of her soul
And that tremendous power of human right
Which, though naturally born, must give us quite to see,
With that deep leadaunce about her waist,
The patient, sleepless spirit of a child
Who waits for her, and, waiting till she turn
To drop the plummet down, looks over long,
Then enters with the great walls of a new world,
The one true temple and the destined good
Which she would do to keep for him alone.
It is the vision of a human life
That she who makes him has been, and the world
That she who gives him, with her growing pride,
Her own great hope that on the hills of Fate
She will come down to bind him, and to die a man.
To win him, yes! to be a brave man and not weak of limb,
But with the strength of conflict; and to meet the eternal Truth
That rolls through all the purposes of all the universe.
There is no greater victory in woman than she who dreams or
dreams
That he is lifting up his right hand,
The man who sees that land
That she may win for him.
But one man dies by service,
The other does for that
Through love of one who dies for it.
In a garden of roses
Is a great queen,
The queen of the roses.
And all around the palace
Is a royal palace
Of roses and of roses.
Its courts are made of gold,
And its chambers are paved with gems,
Its chambers are paved with emerald.
Gold are its floors of marble,
Gold is its walls of steel,
Gold the idols of stone,
Gold the courts of heaven.
But never a king nor queen
Lay down for hire or hire;
For the hearts of men and women
Were made of stone,
And the hearts of men and women
Were made of stone.
What we have done for that,
We have given the work we have done,
We have sold their hearts and goods,
But never a living soul
Has been born with us.
For we have loved the sunlight,
And the moonlight and the moonlight,
And the music and the dance
And the singing and the dance,
And the music and the dance
And the dancing and the dance,
And the saying and the singing
And the saying and the singing,
And the saying and the singing,
And the trembling and the waving,
And the beating and the dancing,
And the saying and the singing--
And our hearts and lips and hair
And the words and words of love,
We are made of stone for standing,
And our souls are made of love,
And the moon made of the ocean
And the
======================================== SAMPLE 217 ========================================
.
"Tortoise is the rabbit,
The creeping nightingale the owl;
The owl is the magpie,
The wild-goather'd bat an eel!
"The loon that is out with the moon
Comes from the farther fields of noon
Scouting her wings from the combes of heaven,
Carrying his challenge to earth
Before the world he goes to bed;
He sits on a rock and he turns his head
And he calls to his young wife aloud,
Calls to the moon with a frightened voice,
Calls to the stars and calls them hail;
Calls to the leaf and the blossom and burst
Of the fast-closed gate of the fairy land;
Tells them how the nightingale is beset
With the secret things of the magic sea,
Tells them all of the fairy people
Who walk by the naked shore,
And talk to the moon when the night-wind is still
In the vale where the willows wave
A blue feat in the branches of the willow.
"Now, fairies, come out of the sky,
And wander and wander and shine,
In the morning flush of the golden dawn,
And along the shore of the fairy land,
Where the willows nod and the little ripples prance,
And the little waves kiss their lovely feet;
Ofttimes we hear the long halloo
That wheels to the sound of the fairy bell;
But if we meet in the long ago,
No joy we know in the days to be
Shall ever come to us here again;
For a thousand years are gone
And the leaves rustle as they dance
Round the rich ruin hewn
Of the brown wood where the fairy people pass;
A thousand years are gone
And the leaves rustle, and all the flowers are grass.
"Dear child," said Merlin,
"Dear child, if I were but a child,
Love would grow into my mind
With the old golden key,
Of a bird that sings and is free."
"If you are a fairy, then," said the King,
"A light on the blue of the sky:
What is the name of the fairy queen
In all the lands that are by,
Now with a wail of pain
Through the ages they pass and pass,
With the dragons that ride at their will
When the dragons they ride in the air
When the dragons they ride in the air
When the dragons they ride in the night
When the dragons they ride in the night
When the dragons they ride in the night
When the dragons they ride in the night
As dragons they ride in the air
When the dragons they ride in the night
The fairy ladies made a bed
With a rose-tree by their side,
Of a branch of willow they were afraid,
And the child they loved looked cold,
And they slept; and the dreamy dream
Of the red, red rose made life grow less,
And the white rose turned to gold
As the soft white snow covers the ground.
And the tale is told
Of what they were afraid of,
Of the dragons that lived at their Queen's request,
And the proud and dolorous giants that fought in her land.
The children of her land are known,
For they go up and down her walls,
In the bright days of summer,
When the shadows of evening fall,
And the stars are dim in heaven,
And the dews are in the falling showers
When the wind is in the pearly
And the stars are out in heaven
When the nights are red in heaven.
"Come," said the Fairy-Din,
"Come and be my darling queen,
And we will build a fairy hall
For her and for her only,
And though she be mistook for a fairy hall,
And I be made her king, I shall not care for a bee."
"Mistook," said the Fairy-Din,
"What is the name of a queen?"
She answered him,
"Mistook," she said, "or queen,
For I would have a fairy hall
With a hundred beeves to drink it all day long,
With a candent for all my guests,
With a ring for all my heart,
She shall surely want a fairy
To kiss her lips apart,
And at night to the fairy board,
To drink the nectar of the king."
"Mistook," said Merlin; and she laughed;
And there was a smile on the Fairy-Din's face,
When he marked how that fairy queen
By a single gracelled cap,
Had, in the Fairy-Din's grace,
Conceived it was the King of Fairy-land

======================================== SAMPLE 218 ========================================
-Hood.
Now, in the morning, over the hill-tops,
Gaily the youthful minstrel chanteth,
But in the evening silence follows
Again the echo of his footsteps;
And again outstrips the sound that floats
From the old church tower--a mass of mass,
Mingled with the melodies he sings,
And the old sacristan is dreaming of it.
Not a song is heard!
Out of the hollows
Of the dark pines
Flashing a moment,
I can see shining roofs and sombre roof,
And a golden chasm in the valley below,
With golden spars and great gothic lars.
The golden bowl shines with flame and with heat,
Through the thickets
And through the green meadows
Swiftly move golden
Fierce sparks, that trail along like red flames;
And, with their sparkle,
The golden chasm from the moonlight-sea,
Whose brightness
Is the faint heart of the night-dweller,
Flashes afar on some land of far-off dreams.
The golden Chasm a ring of smoke
Gleams across the bridge that runs,
Where--in the valley
Stand the gold moons,
Like pure silver stars,
Like pale silver stars,
And as the dark dome
Of a great temple
Gleam in the darkness--a temple
Of gold beneath which there is ever
A glimmer of light that is lighted
With silver--ah, even in the darkness!
This is the song of the wind,
The cry of the waters--
The storm-swept oak,
Its emerald cup
Sparkles and sparkles
In the green pools that ring
Along the edge
Of the bright rocks,
That the sun makes purple
For a path steep and difficult.
The sunlight is falling
On the rough, milky roots of the rocks,
And on the dark stems of the elm-trees,
With the stamp of their stony buds,
And the stamp of their little buds,
Shadows of clouds,
Like the passing
Of a cloud coming from the West,
That slowly melts into the West.
The clouds are thick
With hovering wings,
And I see their sparkle
Upon the tree tops
Of the great, rushing river--
A bird on the wind-bank to-day,
That shrieks its war-note
In mockery of the sun-washed blue,
That shrinks, as the eaves of the elm-shuttered oak-tree
Are bowed in anguish through and through.
And suddenly, through the night,
And through the naked sky,
With one long, pulsing,
Kilandelian wings,
The light of the moon,
And the wind, and the sun,
Are suddenly beating
Across the wide river,
In a rhythm that sings,
Like the hum of a great gong,
Like the cry of the storm-gong.
_O my brother, the rain of your beautiful tears,
The song of the rain,
The song of the rain, is like a sea
Of glory and bliss to me._
There are tears in the eyes,
There are tears in your tears,
For the heart of the rain is the heart of the sky
And the sky makes the stars of the years.
There are tears in the eyes,
There are tears in your hearts,
For the heart of the rain is the heart of the sky
And its tears are the stars of the years.
There are tears in the eyes,
There are tears in the faith,
For the heart of the rain is the heart of the sky
And its tears are the stars of the years.
But the night goes on and the rain comes on
As the songs of the rain come on;
And our hearts lie still in the dark,
And our tears are the tears of the rain.
There are tears in the eyes,
There are tears in the face,
For the heart of the rain is the heart of the sky
And its tears are the stars of the years.
There are tears in the eyes,
They look in their sorrow,
They look in their sadness;
But the heart of the tempest can find no answer
To their deep, deep plaint--
The heart of the rain is the heart of the moon
And its tears are the tears of the rain.
There are tears in the eyes,
There are tears in the face,
For the sorrow of their years
Is the heart of a night-blackened storm.
The shadows of the trees rise up from the hill,
As a white and ghostly wraith of Death,
And the moon, as a ghost, looks down from
======================================== SAMPLE 219 ========================================
 the steeds and his light canoe,
His flashing and fiery idol, as though
'Twere some dream which he knew. And they drew
The red, red steel, which he thought was for ever,
And all these his dream would come true.
'And that's for ever,' he said, 'and I'll come.
Oh, I've brought you the goal of the game. And I'll try
To make you a man of each spirit that lives,
And a soul that is worthy to die for a woman.
But now what'll become of the dream? Why, I'll make
A name of the river and flood and the grass,
And a name of the water I'll see with a kiss,
And some beauty as fair as the moon will be there
To match with the beauty at last. 'Tis a name
That I'll make when I come to the river. Oh, take
You and water again. You were once that old oak
You saw in your youth! You were beautiful then
You were never so sad. Long ago you became
The favorite object of my boyhood. You held
You so far in respect to this stream--you became
A favorite of the past. You were ever alone
In that pure, pleasant waters. It was the truth
You showed me, and I often thought you were his,
And now did he seem less dear to me now
Than his. And I wish I had only that place
Where I can see him, when only a boy
At my study, and see his eyes in the dim
Sun, that shineth around him and seems
The native expression of his life. It looks
So brimmed and happy--it seems to me, it seems,
To see me, when the days with gladness rise
In the spring-time. I shall never forget
What your heart thinks of me, and all this too
Goberté; and I shall find the dear name I love most
Well--I'll be the one for her sake, and the one
For a boy's sake. If your love is in its strength,
You may think that you love it too much. You will
Remember the days when we twined the red rose
About our fingers, and I was a boy,
And my curls were like blossoms. If your heart
Is a garden with blossom in its bloom,
You may think that it is hidden from the sun
By other flowers. But it must have a secret,
And I would find it in you. O you!
I knew that you were beautiful. Was it you
So beautiful I could see that little maid
Who was my heart's delight--to love me still?
I have felt my heart was stirred to beat against
That sweet and fragile, delicate rose of love--
Ah, the thought is over, I'll not care if I hear
Where it winds about me in this garden fair,
That has no scent of blossoms.
And I know
That it did your heart's beat acolately.
So I would find it in my heart a way
To love you. So I would enter with a cry
The old familiar places. I would dwell
By the beautiful places, when the roses bloom,
Woven of the red rose and the darkling night,
And when the night is gone, and the sun comes home,
And day is lost in the trees and meadows, and the grass
Is trodden into colour, and the flowers waken--
And all the love of the garden seems to wait
Till the roses open, and the night will never close.
There are ways of loving that are not for me,
And the path, somehow, is long enough to be,
To dream that you love me, and that you love me--
And I would begin to cry aloud to me--
And then--to think that I should be a friend
With this beautiful, quiet, empty world
That is my heart, and all my life and name,
And the world that is only mine to love.
No, I have made you a garden of roses for me,
And I have laid a white rose beside you, and sworn
My love shall bloom before it. 'Tis a wild
Summer flower, and my love the wild wind blew.
The roses were lovely when I was a child.
I was happy, because the wind blew, for you
Shook the wind and trembled. Then I knew
I was happy when I was a little child,
And the strength of a wild, sweet wind blew my cheek,
And I had no thought of sorrow. And I knew
That my old sweet life was but a little stream,
And my heart the wild tide of the wind flowed over me
And the sun shone on your
======================================== SAMPLE 220 ========================================
 and the _Kirriya_, where the great
rudder of the _Kikrouya:_]
And the young _Kikrouya_, the little and the strong,
Came to their several houses, and the _Kirriya_ sought.
"All hail, thou goddess-born, and welcome, thou,"
Cried one of the _Kirriya_: "I am here in Spring;
Now, with thy fair locks crowned, I claim thee as mine."
"Wilt thou, O Goddess-born, go seek my distant home?"
Cried the _Kiratiya_, pleading like a child.
In the _Kiratiya_ answered thus the holy man:
"Go to the river, O celestial maids!
Arriv'd in the great city, in a city of my people,
In the company of my people, to a lofty pillar.
Go, and I pray thee, daughter of the Wainamoinen,
For a thousand full reasons give this answer to the herald."
But the maiden heard him not, and did not go. She hung
Her flowing tresses o'er her head, her form was smaller;
Her slender feet pressed not the ground as on a birch
Her feet had been; but on the border shone her tresses,
Blush like the virgin of the _Kirriya_, when she called upon her
From the far-stretching roads she came to meet the shepherd.
All the maidens stood and praised her; yet within her
Neither a word spake she, for anger in her heart flash'd.
Then the lovely maiden spake in hush like the down of the aspen:
"I have forged for thee a summer-sword of purest gold,
To hurl thee to destruction, and thy people to thy death,
That thy foes may think upon thee, and thy lovers fancy.
Be it thine to slay them, or to lay thee low,
To leave these bands of bodies uninvited by thy people,
That so thou mayest live unharmed amid thy foes,
Life shall be thine, I know it, for I love thee better than I."
Kaukaupi thus made answer to the shepherd boy:
"I will myself now work as my ransom, and devise
In the summer-season to hang it in the balance,
(This having, I will make use of it fully)
So that my neck be bound beneath it shall not fail me,
For I will make this garland ready for my marriage;
And be it thine to work with my hands, and to protect thee."
Thereupon the shepherd boy uplifted from the ground
His golden locks, with golden ringlets to his shoulders,
And a shepherd to his mistress bade pour out his oldest
coat with his whole flock of sheep and goats and hine.
Kauko, by the shepherd's fault, having completely enveloped
Kauko's body and his oxen, inwardly thought to cover
With his own hands milk the babes within his dear one's bosom.
Then a shepherd rose with hurrying feet, and running in his
throat:
Kauko, by the maiden's wile and beauty of all women,
Pitying it, he took her in his arms and led her to his dwelling,
And thus the shepherd addresses his wife thus to the shepherd:
"O thou herd of wolves, my dearest treasure,
How hast thou run to meet my coming hither?
In what forest hast thou crept into a wolf-path?
Or is it that thou hast come from a high mountain?
Or hast been sadly trodden on the meadows?
Or hast been sadly taken thither by birds flying?
There is no one, surely, living here among the ghosts,
Nor have I carried thee, but I have left thee dead."
Then the shepherdess rose, and closer to the wolf drew,
And she ran with eager haste to his retreat,
And spoke these words, with gentle voice and look of wonder:
"O thou herd of wild wolves, full of hunger and of hunger,
How hast thou bound me, how hast thou journeyed hither?
Where my dear wife has gone, and why hast thou gone sadly?
What hast thou done, O miserable creature,
Why have I not come hither to visit my dear husband?"
Thereupon the wicked wife of Ilmarinen,
Quickly drew sword, and quickly raised a heavy cross-sword.
Kauko, by the shepherd's fault, having removed the heavy cross-bow,
Thus the shepherdess of the Northland spoke up to the maiden:
"Tell me not, O thou bride of a barrow, why
======================================== SAMPLE 221 ========================================
 and a little--but the man's a man.
That's a long way out ofHit and I shall come back to you the day of
The rain patters on the roof,
The wind blows the chimney back,
It is soft, and it is not loud
It has dropt the saps from the blind
It is very loud on the rain
It is dull and on the rain, I think,
It is harsh as on the rain
It has gathered the tears of the flowers
It has shed them all on the ground
It is dark! and the rain comes down
It has wet and it is still
On a bench by the open fire
It has dropt the blood from the bergs
It is lonesome, and it is hard
It does not smell, it has no red
It moves no, it looks like the dead
It has opened its mouth to me
It is dark!  On my window-ledge
The rain patters, it is not clear
The wind blows the window-blinds
My window blows on the empty street
My window is a big white block
Not grown with clamor and pain
The rain patters on the window-stone
O for a garden walk
The rain has put my windows open
It is growing dark here on the street
The wind blows the white dust
The window-sill has got a hole
The rain patts the face of winter
The rain patters on the bare ground
The door is not like a door
The sea, my heart!... What dost thou fear
When I come to bid thee good-bye
Thou soul that art so young
Thou hast put on thy garments
Thou who hast made the clouds
Thou who didst leave us all
The little yellow dog-rose
Thou who breakest sleep on my head
I have brought little yellow
It is full of sand
The rain babbles on the window
I would not enter
I would not know the wind
The day rattles on the door
I should not want to wander
I would gather blackberries
I would gather blackberries
I would spit upon the fire
One that goes to bed
I have a big bag of rags
I have a bag of rags
I have three little wooden crosses
I do not want to climb
I went the opposite way
I have a little brown bag on my back
I put a little bag on my back
I have a great big bag on my back
I see my little girl
I am quiet and very quiet
I made a hike on the other side of the road
I can eat small hot eggs
I have my little brown bag on my back
I know what the noise is
I read a little book
I didn't know when at school
When all were with me in the house
When the rain came
When I left the open door
When the sun was low
When I came to set my body free
When the dew was cold
When you came to set my body free
When I came to keep still
When spring comes
When it comes
When winter comes
When I go to keep still
When the frost is low
When it comes
When the daffodil
When I am warm
When day is gone
When the sky is red
When the fire is out
When the wind is out
Where go the ships
I sit in the darkness
I lie fast asleep
I am in the darkness
I am the wind
I move through the crackling trees
I glide through the grass
I love you
I love you
I have a little brown bed
I think just how much you'll repay me
I am so small and dust
I laid a kiss on a tombstone
I cannot pretend to live
I sing the birds so
I am a bee
I have come from the fields
I never lose my heart
If I were only two or three
If you were only two or three
I should like to rise
I love you
I have little daughter
If women could be fair
I love nothing
I am the happy western wind
I live in the dark
I am not sure of day
I live in a house
I live in a house
I have a little brown bed
I sit on the hearth-stone
I have a little daughter
I am a little girl
I have a little golden bird
I love thee
If you were only two or three
If you were only two or three
I will dig my grave
I am a little boy
I have a little book
I saw a bird
I have heard a wonderful tale
I saw the clouds
I saw a bird
I live o'er
I don't know how to sing
If you were only two or three
I
======================================== SAMPLE 222 ========================================
!...
O I saw them, the green of the forest!
And I shouted, "It's done but a good few!"
Till the green leaves of the oak were tinged,
And all the red branches of the oak
Were naked to the wind.
But no fire was burning in the forest,
No drought came on the land,
No hand bore the land,
He looked for the leaves of the oak in the cold damp sand--
No seed-root was spared;
He opened the seed-holes of the oak,
And in a hollow dropped the seed.
The dry land was shining in the sun.
And the grass was alive with ruddy sap.
And the heat-root, in the hot air,
Lay ready for the drizzle of the sun:
And through the warm air,
A little blue speck
Swung in among the yellow leaves,
Made by the wind,
Hung its yellow top in the thick leaves.
And the wind was silent.
"Go!" said the tree-toad,
"Go with me,"
And the gray squirrel:
"I will follow you."
I had a bright butterfly
On one side.
But when I reached the sun,
I saw on another
A few short paces along the path,
That I knew not how,
And in a short paces they came,
And where it was that I saw a nest
That no one else could brook;
But the steep yellow sun and moon
Pressed up their different wings, and, lo,
The garden was all full,
And up to the little window
Lifted its little fence of many colors.
And so, through the open space,
They had passed inwardly
With noiseless tread,
While a white birch, with its long green tassels
And yellow borders of yellow leaves,
Pressed close together, yet, the same as before,
Just as the other two leaned on to feed,
And the same as before,
To the same moment, they slipped away into the nest,
And, leaving their nest,
Looked down upon the yellow spotted toad.
And so one night, at the utmost
No one ventured to rise,
Or, ventured down the steep hill path,
Taking the open country highways
And peering into the country,
To arouse their sleeping anger,
While the moon, like an enamel,
Uplifted his light pomegranate,
And the shade of the tree-bedunk.
I was almost moved to perceive
How the silly people came,
How their cloaked heads were all uncovered,
To receive them with great joy,
Knowing that it was not a wonder,
Till they saw through their eyes
A sight in the moonlight,
A slight sensation, that no one
Had ever known before.
Now I walked out of the house,
In fear lest she should be frightened,
And lest she should know what she thought,
And run to meet me, and fetch me
Her father from the farm.
And I walked to the door,
And pushed back under the threshold
When there was no more to hear.
For I heard no steps coming
Till I reached the empty house,
And I heard no steps coming.
And there in the house,
With its leaves in the soft wind,
Sat the pretty little lady;
She was always so very kind,
And so very gentle-minded,
That she did not seem afraid.
And just as I asked her to come,
She said, "Why do I stay?
Do I hear the winds howling,
And the rattles coming in?"
But I did not answer,
And she did not stay;
The door opened, and she
Stood all still with her head down
To let the traveller see.
And I saw her eyes still kinder,
Though so large she was,
Through her open door,
Grow largeer and smaller,
Until she seemed full of the light,
And I saw her eyes still kinder.
And she came to me as the night
With its loud waves rising,
As the night-wind rises,
In rage, and full and spreading
Far off, on the beach,
And in its wildest rushing,
Sole voice of the many-surging sea,
And all the wailing cry
That fills the solemn air.
Then one came near me and tried me,
But I saw her eyes still kinder.
And I said "It is not fair!"
And she walked to the door,
And wandered once more,
But I did not enter the doorway,
And there at the end stood she.
For I heard her voice still kinder,
======================================== SAMPLE 223 ========================================
 and and the
_Tents_--Pallid tablet.
_Trees_--Fairies' house.
_Fairim_--A small wooden wooden tower.
_Tarry_--On the side of a field that died.
_Tarry_--The harvest of the year.
_Tower_--An ancient castle.
_Tower-tower_--The Highland duke of Derry.
_Trow_--The trowel of the March breezes.
_Tuneful_--A wise, ancient Scottish, strict destroyer or trav'ling
_Tuneful_--The English word for "tuneful."
_Tuneful_--The way the dialect.
_Tuneful_--The one word for "tuneful."
_Tuneful_--The one "tuneful," the other for "tuneful."
_Tuneful_--A reproved, a reproved libel, a weak, and
_Tuneful_--A abuse of Lord, or Lord.
_Tuneful_--A reproved, a scolding word.
_Tuneful_--The word of the Lord.
_Tuneful_--One who, under the same blanket, reads
_Tuneful_--One who, under the same "tuneful" of the Lord.
_Tuneful_--The word of the Lord and the Master, spoken aright.
_Tuneful_--The word of the Lord.
_Tuneful_--The mouth of a drunkard.
_Tuneful_--The word of the Lord, and the Lord of the spirit.
_Tuneful_--The word spoken aright.
_Tuneful_--The word of a drunkard.
_Tuneful_--The word of the Lord, and the Holy Ghost.
_Tuneful_--A small penny bill for fifty penny (coinedffectual).
_Tuneful_--The "tuneful" in "tuneful."
_True-love_--The common word for "tund."
_True-love-dame," and "tongue."_
_True-love-dame," and "tongue."_
_Tinker_--The little gray drudging-cap on which he is sitting.
_Trow ye_--The wife with the plums under her chin.
_Trow ye_--The wife with the plums under her chin.
_Trow ye_--The wife with the plums under her chin.
_Trouble-thralls_--The wife with the plums under her chin.
_Trouth_--The thought of having taken on his supper by half a
_Truffling_--The thought of being disturbed by the thought of a
_Trig_--The thought of the matter of the two old stools.
_Truffling_--The thought of the matter of getting away drunkards.
_Trinkets_--Found the door not ready during his short three
_Tinks_--The two names of Tinks and Tunki's wife.
_Trow ye_--A man of eight or nine, either old or aged.
_Trow ye_--The wife of Tinks and Tunki's wife.
_Trow ye_--The wife of Tinks and Tunki's wife.
_Tuneful_--It was "wit," "wit."
_Tuneful_--The thought of Tinks and Tunki's wife.
_Tuneful_--These sounds in one sense are not in the least
_Tuneful_--The thought of Tunki's wife.
_Tuneful_--A large measure of the well-known word.
_Tuneful_--A large measure of the well-known speech.
_Teeth instruments_--The inventor of the art of printing.
_Teeth and Teeth sing, and Teeth rehearse_--The poet, beginning
_Tuneful_--The source of Teeth with _tuneful_ sounds.
_Tuneful_--Curious, painful, abominable.
_Tuneful_--Nothing more than Teeth is now known.
_Tuneful_--The thought of Teeth and Tunki's wife.
_Tuneful_--The thought of Tunki.
_Tuneful_--The thought of Tunki.
_Tuneful_--Nothing more than Teeth and Tunki.
_Tuneful_--Nothing more than Pindar's wife.
_Tun
======================================== SAMPLE 224 ========================================
!
O the blessed Virgin all divine!
The star of the heavens, and the fire
That makes the earth and the heavens one,
The love of the vine and the moon;
The love of my mistress and me;
With the sun and the stars above,
I give the vine her hundred tips
That circle her throne of stars.
And when in the valley she kneels
Beside me, still blossoming,
The flower of my lady, the rose
That her bosom hath shadowed in brinks;
With the sun and the stars above,
I give the vine her hundred tips
That circle her bosom of stars.
For him and for her--by the stream--
The wine is not yet, it is sweet;
For the sun and the stars above,
I give the wine of July.
And when she came down from the skies,
My love-torch began to sing,
As his singing made other men,
And my heart began to sing.
And I sing to the trees that bend,
And the waters that draw the mills,
My heart to him was as a lark
That sings from the morning dew,
I sing to him as he sings
As his singing makes other men,
And my heart makes him as men.
From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard."
Ye are coming, ye fairies,
And sweet is your melody;
With your soft tenor tinkle
And loud tenour clear and strong;
Ye come and rejoice not,
But hush to the trill of the wind,
And waft sorrow and pain.
And the rose blush and the viand
Ye bring to the people of toil;
Ye bring to the saint, the preacher
Whose name was writ in the Psalter's file;
To the grey of the age be obedient,
Nor wage diapason for spoil!
But hush, gentle song-bird,
And the night-wind be pleasant
And bring to mind no sorrow
Or bring to memory no ill.
In song and dance o'er the lea
We wander no more at our ease;
The leaves mingle in our alley;
The flowers mingle with our alley.
She cometh unto me.
She cometh unto me,
The dew of the evening that flows
Between my window and my heart;
I wonder to whom she may be.
I wonder the birds at our window;
The leaves mingle with our alley.
She cometh unto me;
The wind from the south is a-coming,
And sighs from the north-west, "Good-night!"
But I lose my way there, pursuing
A wood-path that leads toward the light.
She cometh unto me;
The wind from the east is a-coming,
And sighs from the west, "Good-night!"
But I lose my way there, pursuing
A wood-path that follows a rose
Where the lilies grow and the lilies
Bloom in a sunshiny glows.
She cometh unto me;
The wind from the south is a-coming,
And sighs from the west, "Good-night!"
But I lose my way there, pursuing
A wood-path that follows a rose
Where the lilies grow and the lilies
Bloom in a sunshiny glows.
She cometh unto me;
The wind from the south is a-coming,
And sighs from the north-west, "Good-night!"
But I lose my way there, pursuing
A wood-path that follows a rose
Where the lilies grow and the lilies
Bloom in a sunshiny glows.
She cometh unto me;
The wind from the south is a-coming,
And sighs from the west, "Good-night!"
Yet I lose my way there, pursuing
A wood-path that follows a rose
Where the lilies grow and the lilies
Bloom in a sunshiny glows.
She cometh unto me;
The wind from the south is a-coming,
And sighs from the west, "Good-night!"
But I lose my way there, pursuing
A wood-path that follows a rose
Where the lilies grow and the lilies
Bloom in a sunshiny glows.
She cometh unto me;
The wind from the south is a-coming,
And sighs from the west, "Good-night!"
But I lose my way there, pursuing
A wood-path that follows a rose
Where the lilies grow and the lilies
Bloom in a sunshiny glows.
She cometh unto me;
The wind from the south is
======================================== SAMPLE 225 ========================================
 and
sought the city of Athens, and were to sacrifice them with
honour to the immortal gods. It was not long agone that a
beauty so much decayed, but there appeared to arise from
the pavement of the tomb of the tomb about which the anointed
Auro ebbed, and with his body he was encircled. Then
Aeneas took up the body, and in fashion as he was told to
conform his speech, and was pleased when he saw him approaching
up from the body. And thus when the stone had been completed,
the stone fell, and the earth did not cover it, nor did
it endure anything like to it. The mighty tomb was a long way
thereto toward the sea so swiftly, and did not cover it, and the
earth ran up, and the sea fell upon it. The great ribs of the
stately stone were closed up as if to shut out the doors, for
some great fear yet haunted the city. The stone was fastened
on the ground, and the high wave of the sea bore it far down
to the Phaeacian ships.
Thus the whole body of this man was covered with dust, and the
stones about it were wet with tears, so that the bones of
all of the dead were covered with salt.
Then Apollo, son of Jove, spoke thus saying, for he saw that he
was in great sorrow and long time upon the steep hills standing
up among the dead. Now that man has become pregnant, he stands
up in his place and bids him be ruler of far-famed Argos, who
in all his wanderings over the sea runs smooth with the dry
water. As for himself, the sun, the earth, and the water, he
says that he will not look after his own words. Thus then
he said to Jove and to Pelops, saying, "Hear me, Trojans, and
Trojan men, and my own close fighting. If I shall turn the
day when I shall come upon this man, I shall count my own
fighting on this day. If I shall stay my fighting till my own
time comes, I shall make waste of life with the ghosts that come
before my ships, and at my heels shall keep on fighting round
all day, and on yesterday's field if I wait for the coming of
some brave man, I shall die on the morrow, if I go about
among the Achaeans; if I go before my prize and get beaten
there. For in these days there are many Achaeans whom I wish to
save, some in Argos, some in Ithaca, some in the coldsome
Island, and some in sandy Ithaca, and some in sandy Benaco.
I wish indeed there might be two hosts of ghosts who come here
saying, "Hear me, Trojans, from the pitiless armour of the
Thus he spoke, and they gave their orders and went back quickly.
Now the Achaeans were led forward and the princes of the
Achaeans were gathered into assembly. The son of Atreus was
among them and said, "Hear me, Trojans and Achaeans, that we may
stay longer now, and let us make of the ships a fair show-board
for ships. Give it to another Achaean captain, who may come
after us, and who will bring it hither and put it in the ship
that we have taken away. He will soon come here, and will pour
water into a golden cup, and will give us hecatombs and the holy
to adore the Sun. Then will the others gather into assembly,
and they will promise gifts before we go back to the ships and to
their ships."
Thus he spoke, and they all laughed applause, and saluted the
son of Nestor that he had come from his land. He bade him
put on his shirt and sandals, and take his well-shod spear, and
leap it at him with a spring forward. He bound up the double
shoes in his strong hands, and made even his handiwork of bronze,
and brought them into the hands of the Argives. In the same day
brought Calchas from Troy by the yoke of the son of Peleus,
son of Capaneus. As for him he is the fleetest hero, for he
son of Peleus. Menelaus came up to him and said, "My friend, you
are utterly mad; heaven robbed us of all our bravest bravest, for
one of the Achaeans was not a bravest and best comrade.
Therefore, now that the gods have made the two brothers, and my
p
======================================== SAMPLE 226 ========================================
 and _Cocoa_, and are given
To the "Ode to Evening-Scarfs" to sing
The praise of night.
A chorus of "A Lamb and a Lion"
I heard once in a quiet street
A Captain sing and beat his heel.
"Good-bye, Old Year!  Good-bye!" he said.
And all the while a cannonade
Of firm-set sound broke through our sleep,
And made it seem as if a bell
Swung somewhere near a vessel's keel
To smite this Old world into hell.
I thought of Fragilion, where he sank,
And how he bravely must have fought
And saved the flag!  And here we stopped,
And fought his fight with Falterre.
Where is that old contrivance of his
That made you think the work was his?
That made you think the work was his?
What was it?  Was he sick, or ill?
Was he as happy as a kid?
The night is crisp and chill;
The wind is out with the snow;
And we want to go back to the inn
To get the absintar, the line;
There's a feather-bed on the porch,
And the rain's as cold as our coats;
We shall soon be well awake
Before the break of the day,
And we'll sulk abreast away,
For we've had the old carcase
Looking after the train.
It's April now, and the air is keen,
The woods are alive with the breath of spring;
Through level meadows and under high trees
I see the lines of the run-away "rifice".
Now all the roads are new, and the grass is green,
And the rivulets run with the happy thrush
And the busy bee with her dainty blush;
And the butterfly sickens because he has flown
To join the wheel of the run-away "rifice".
And one from the other kills, and thinks
Of the joy she has brought to her little one,--
And the rivulets run with the spring to rest,
Each giving its turn just to his own,
And the old horse grins when he has gone
To join the wheel of the run-away "rifice".
Now, the sun is hot, and the air is chill,
The wind has blown up from the half-mooned sea,
And the clouds of the north have gathered wet,
And the slopes have blotted the half-mooned sea;
And black on the east the night-clouds float,
And red are the fields with the warm, white drip
Of the warm summer sun coming up to bathe
The hedges with gold in the heathery fen
Where the lazy cowslips dot the paths of men.
And the boy who sings when he hears the run-away "Hip-Steps"
May laugh to see a hedge of heathery trees,
With an oat-thatch on the fence, or a wild-fowl's screech,
Or a boy who thinks of all that makes the world so sick.
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the mountain crest;
Through mist and through shadow
The river is crossed and crossed
To where the road winds at night
Through tangled trees at twilight.
By Bridge Shallow, close recess
Of Aunt Ruth's pig-boned house,
Where she sits in the moonlight
Beside the chimney lug,
Sits she, and dreams of things
That may be or may be.
And down by the Treasury
A thrush chants a hosanna,
And softly, calling, sings--
_Ave Maria!_--that's the hosanna!
_Come down from the royal stairs!_
Bring in the purses, O bring in the purses!
Bring in the purses, O bring in the purses!
Bring in the purses, O bring in the purses!
Bring in the purses, O bring in the purses!
Bring in the purses, O bring in the purses!
Bring in the purses, O bring in the purses!
Bring in the purses!--and bring in the purses!
Bring in the purses, O bring in the purses!
Bring in the purses, O bring in the purses!
Bring in the purses! O bring in the purses!
Bring in the purses!--and bring in the purses!
Bring in the purses! O bring in the purses!
_Come down from the royal stairs!_
Bring in the purses! O bring in the purses!
Bring in the
======================================== SAMPLE 227 ========================================
 on the world!
_O man,
I am in the highest sphere!_
_The sun, a rover, never looks behind
His heavenly path in the courts of pride;
And when he storms along in wrath he leaves
His ancient kingdom and his path untrod;
And in the midst of the wrath of Him who spurns
Earth's weakness and is mighty in the wrath
Of His eternal God who made His world!_
He is a king in an ancient tale!
I see the red light of his hurrying lips
In his proud palace on the hills.
My heart is big and strong.
He leads the hosts of wrong and right,
And weeps for joy to see the world go by.
The world is growing old and grey.
And he is dead, and I am old.
The old moon fades and is cold.
_The moon, a rover, never will die!
And he is dead, and I am old._
God, I know you,--wherever you rove!
Where all my memories of you are,
I follow the flight of the thought toward
That was so swift and fleeting and free--
And I wander for all the world thro'
Before my time-defying might.
And you, my soul, in pride and in scorn,
I follow the light of the thought thro'
The wonderful wings of the years, that flew.
And my soul is glad in the light and the sun.
And I wait for the beat of the wings of love,
And I see the faces of faith and hope,
And I feel the soul of the great to come,
The light of our feet in the paths of truth.
I feel the soul of the great to come,
And I feel the soul of the great to go,
And I wait for the word in the breath of the word.
And I wait for the word in the might of God;
And I feel the soul of the great to go.
Oh, do you remember that fatling of teeth,
That tangled tresses of silvery white,
With the dainty gold-worm that twinkled from it,
While you knelt on the hill-top with cold desire?
Do you remember the eyes, with a rapture,
The lips that met glances of sweet long-lipped blue,
The tremulous lips that burned in the rapture,
The faint, sweet way,--are you?
Are you weary, and do you remember,
With the dawn of a perfect new time, that you must go,
To the sun that shines there and the rain of spring?
Ah, I cannot forget you!
I only remember the kisses that kissed you,
And the bright dream, and the warm warm caresses
That whispered to you that a kiss,--and I forget you.
Your lips, and mine, are like stars when they dart
Athwart a luminous twilight of amber;
Their width is inscrutable as its beauty.
It was only a kiss that I loved with you,
And the beautiful kiss you gave me in my possession.
My fingers like rosy nets strayed,
Drawn by a sudden thought of the red sun,
My hand, my hair in masses,
Hung floating over the dark sea-beach,
Leaving me alone in that room
Where we were,
Where all my dreams were like music
Before I went away.
Oh, I must dream again that I went with you,
And the wonderful, dreamy way that you walked with me,
And I must give my soul up
To follow you thro' the light
In light, in light.
Oh, I will dream again,
And my heart must break with the words of love
To follow you thro' the light, in light, in light,
The beautiful way with the moon.
But never you came, but oh,
I wait for the word to speak to you.
I am afraid of the wind,
The heavy flood that bends the sun
To carry home the joy
Of going thro' the light.
Ah, I have dreamed again!
I dreamed, I will not walk with you,
We have no word to say.
The wind is the cloud of your sleep,
The moon is a crimson tongue;
But I shall dream again
Because I am alone,
To dream of your eyes and hands,
Of your hair and hair.
Oh, I have dreamed again,
But I shall never dream.
What have I made of my own beauty,
And what of your soul made me
As I walk to your feet,
As I lie on your shoulders,
As I lie in your heart?
I have taken my first look,
Like a woman I must obey
======================================== SAMPLE 228 ========================================
, to
"The Royalist,"--as Horace paints a spiteful picture of the
The following is an apology for the opening part of Mr. GAYNARD
An Epistle from an Author's Poetical Works
P. AND V. A PEP superhuman first appeared in the following
"P. and Q. A. undeserved success" in the following numbers:
From his own works, from his own works, the epic hero, Evenor,
something of those in which he is not the exactest, nothing in
his vastness, which represents to a factitious philosophy, and
admired the passion and the love of power."--_Extract from
AEschylus, The First Book of the Protestant Receptation_.
of the two pieces.
Of the two pieces.
_Vivamus_, a species of composition, which to discover is to
their original.
_Vivamus_, Dryden, Dryden.
The two pieces are of so many pieces that only there could be a
several couplet; but it is _one_ which must be equally for the
and for the other.
Both Pliny and Cleon are Poets, yet these bring us back again to
the antiquity of things.
This piece is commended by Dr. W. STEVdest of a Protestant
celebrated on the second and Gentleman of the _National
Literary_, and of the following nine lines:
"Just to say how two or three things we cannot do but serve each
other.
"These two pieces being written all over at once, and part of it all
together by some fortunate and fortunate woman, a man, a
favourite woman, a little boy, married to a man, a boy,
and a great man, to the four and yet the worse."
"Who are you that from the West
Do come to my house and come to my nest?"
"I am Anne of the Mill, and you know very well who you are. You
seemed to me not to be trying to find fault with my mother. She
wore hair by your side in the way I came by. It was not hers.
"Yet it has always been your lot to be a guardian angel, so you
think I sent you the thought of the High-Priest of Noroway, and I
shall be there when I get them ready at the altar before Holy Church
very high." See here a story in a flourish.
"Go on, little one!" she said. "Go, and come at once to the
lotus for me. I will put you to the utmost."
She flew on for a moment, then she dropped upon the ground and
threw down her own muskets in the cause of her confusion.
suddenly, the whole witch stopped, and the man was drowned.
"A pretty picture of yourself, dear boy," she said, "with its
sandy mouth and the trick of it, is a very pretty idea how I came
"I have been to Holy Church, and will not ask its name, but I
have been to Holy Church to turn every lock of it into a very
obstinate christian, as you may guess at the utter damnable sin, which
I have myself been to the very poor, wicked old puss.
"Go on then, go on!" she said. "Let me look at your little
disheartened child." "I will not look at a thing so wicked as a
"O, Anne! do you think," she said with a wickedly solemn
imp behalf at her cunning imperfect trust. "I would
I can't see the harm, dear boy, that you are so selfish and
relievable? I am afraid you would be to God's people that I
should be quite displeased with it. Go on, for I have longed
for earthly means."
"Why, it looks to me more than selfish; but I thank you very
now. You are a good young man and wise."
"O, Anne! do you see?" he asked.
"I have seen you. Where could you find your gentle father--a friend
ever more happy than yourself?"
"It is only the child of the Ephesian Muse, Anne, of whom it
has sometimes been given. It owes nothing to the man that it
descends from the poet."
"I am only the wind," she said. "You are only the wind."
"I know that you can make of the lake a great lake of water, and
cannot show itself without your aid."
"O, well, dear Anne! I feel I have a good deal of danger from
people fear; on the other hand I am terribly unhappy."
"You are indeed
======================================== SAMPLE 229 ========================================
 the song
That she sung;
And I think it is a sweet thing
For gentle maidens to love the moment
When they love each other and vanish.
She has a laugh of her own quick heart,
And a word that's fresh from her lip,
But I'm glad with her so I would die,
If her lips had only spoke.
I have a word of beauty in it
For beauty, her dear name to see,--
A word that's like a rainbow's shower,
And is more precious than a flower.
I'd be a thoughtless, dreamless woman,
And think of her as day is dawn;
I'd love her lips in a sealed dream,
To find the meaning of 'nyght noon.'
I'd love her lips in a sealed dream,
As day hath opened heavenward;
But she's a world of lovely things
That perish with the setting sun.
And all that's lovely are a part
Of this our love without disguise,
But the best thing that's worth a heart,
Is to go beyond the rose-tree
And find her with the silvery eye.
And I know a thing you'd like to feel
Were I the sweet dividing kiss,
With all the love that's undermoon
And will ever come to such a kiss.
I saw you like a butterfly
With golden wings,
And if I told him, in his glee
I'd give my soul to you.
I loved you ere you fled--
The child was one,
And if I loved another,
And since that may begun.
I have a secret, I am sure,
That is not true,
That holds my heart in its pure purer
And yet is not so new.
I'll find it in the sweet disguise
Of him the dark-eyed girl
Whose beauty with his loveliness
Seems made a thing divine.
Or find it only in the shape
Of him I love so well,
That all who love unlovely
May have some healing tells.
If you are not alone in the white world
Drink only to the brim
Of life's red wine,
And may not know what dreams are worth
If you are not alone with them as mine.
If you are not alone in the new world,
Nor any dream about you
To win yourself a vision of
And not a broken vow.
If you are not alone in the old world,
Nor somewhere beyond the blue
Where no voice calls you to the light
And the skies' unbusy eyes--
You may understand, and so you will,
And I in the old world too.
If you are not alone in the new world,
Nor somewhere beyond the stars,
Nor somewhere as a seer who sings
And no one knows when he is alone,
You may not ask, "Bring us no more,"
I wonder if you will
If you will go back to us, and take
That empty heart of ours,
And drown in the blue skies these words of a song.
If you will go back to us, and take
To our desolate room and there
The pain the old gods we had not dreamed
Were as better things than here--
Though it is not all we can desire,
Yet if some day you'll come again
Beating and satisfied, and you will say:
"God has filled all we can desire
With the peace and the glory of the earth."
If you will go back with me, although
We shall never know the earth--
Though the grasses be but flying seed
And the grasses are but waving hair
And the stars and the sea-glories are,
Still we shall drink of the old sweet air
And walk in the light of a shaken hour,
Though it is not all we can ask now
To have or to want, or even to know
When we have had enough of the old gods' love
On the old bare earth, to kiss, to love!
Oh, that 'twere a lovely thing, to be
A thing of beauty, a goddess
With a golden heart to sing,
To sway with the winds that blow around
And breathe the long long winter hours
That are the mouth that laughs, the eye
That is full of flowers, the wind, the rose
That is half a-smileth sweeter than
The kiss of a mouth that is half like love.
If you must go back with me, though
We shall never know the sea,
And only the foam about our feet
Shall curl like amber over it.
It is as though it were,
To go back with the birds that go
And meet with us, for we must know
They are not as waves that are,
But
======================================== SAMPLE 230 ========================================
, or _Saturni_, the Muses. See Note to p. 8.
Canto xiv.
"Degenerate de la terra, deum delapsa sonet,
Dein, cum sereno; dein vent ausus unda,
Dein alta dedit, dein salusciens, ausus
Deinde parentum."
"Hic, servo; aususus idem, et unum apud te utramque
Erribilius, et unguentum periisse in aevum,
Dicere: cui gradu, hic, servo parce volubilius."
and his description of the gods, and the old man's native land in
_Acra suos rerum mihi_.
"Venerabasque viam, videtur late loca."
"The intermedy with the three gods had been set upon the
"The four gods had forsook Ulysses for ever to exist in
_Book IX._ In this instance Mercury takes up this passage,
"Hercules at his departure leaving the city of Arna himself received a
_Book XV._ This passage is probably a misprint.
"At length they, rejoicing, the whole scene of their voyage,
"Hither, how often the sons of the Muses, the Muses, and the
"This is one of the passages from which the description of this
"There was a tower of Olympian thrones
Built in the Pelusian rock,
And all those wondrous things did tell,
Which, in their country's story read,
Betray their birth, and give their fame to thee."
solitary prophecy.
_Book XVII._ The early use of this word is, that the powers of
provinces the harmony of death.
"And when she saw the Sirens fair
With smiles and kindling eyes so meet,
She said: 'These creatures, once so light,
Must all be born to feast at pleasure's feet.'"
Dinde doloris, magna cum corona possint,
Marcellus, mellitus potuit, amoena calle."
"O mihi sunt eollo, et nomen olim inane dicis
Per facile est, quae forma meo sinistra dicere,
In dulcis magis et odorum nomen adepta est."
_Book X._ In this line the line was--
"Listen, my friend, what I can impart,
Thoughts of the day, sleep, and a serious care."
"It is not, then, I am slow;
With all my soul a musing I will go."
_Book V._ I have a little box in my box,
Which, though I may not enter, I can see,
I find no treasure robb'd of its delight,
No memory of those joys that were to be.
The treasures of my heart there are indeed,
They are so like our pleasures,
And, when I see them, I will take a wee,
That little box again I will up-send to you.
Now that the sun is hidden away
And night is come upon me,
I see, amid the trembling flowers,
A man asleep upon a bed of flowers."
_Book VI._ Why do I love you, you old man,
As dearly as the flowers,
And I'll kiss you on my brow,
That you may be so clever?
And when you would most truly love me,
Then in some other way,
I'll seek to be so kind to you,
And show you how to woo me.
Oh, then I'll kiss you, silly one,
From out my pretty shop,
And then I'll kiss you on my chin,
And show you how to woo me.
Oh, then we'll do all kinds of good things,
And love the pretty flowers,
And talk about the pretty songs,
And sing about the showers;
And sometimes we'll be wroth at times,
With many a sentiment,
And sometimes we'll be cross at times,
And never mind the showers.
Away he went as victor still,
When first he felt the storm,
He saw a pleasant face of May,
And heard a woman laugh with him.
He took a daisy from two bears,
And set it on his curls,
And there he saw a little bird,
With silver pinions shining.
And he has built a castle,
And there he will display her,
For her little birds to sing a song
On summer afternoons,
And in
======================================== SAMPLE 231 ========================================
, B. T. Crow, D. 200.
Gilt Cheapside, Robert Gilt, B. 731.
Henry V. See, Pretha F. Robinson, D. 1.
Henry V., Poet-Long, (Causes and Critical Series from).
Henry V., Poet-Longer, (Lest Wrong Noted), (for the Year,)
"Him who shall put the Tempter down."
Charles I.) Should you ask me in what nunneries
Shall I look for him?
Or dacíls from the green wood of the Basel
In a penroach to my rhymes,
Or in what ails thee?
Askin, thou hast nowhere fixed thee, Charles,
For all thy days.
I have forgot how many a month agone
I wrote concerning thee.
And I remember how in the noon-day
Thy shadow o'er a field of battle shook
And fought and slew thee.
And in the noon-day thou rememberest
My promise of thee;
And how I told how once thou hidest
My face behind thine eyes with silken flowers:
How once the sickle of my heart was glad
When the fire burned me into smoke-wreaths
Which thou rememberest.
And I remember how in the days of old
Our verses for the first time together were
 encampings in a lonely little wood--
The home of me, the simple ways and wild.
And I remember once more
The words they changed with every day,
And how my childish feet passed
Adown the grassy turnpank's flowery margin,
And where they trod the grass grew into elm;
And them again, in after times, the black
Violet, and the pale cistus, and the lizards
And the white lizards and the white lizards
Danced with the grass upon the water-phens,
And made much music in their native swamp,
And all the grass grew into yellow leaves
And yellow roses from the crumbling rushes,
And from the hollow pools through tingling rifts
The water-calves all round the water sang,
In the warm days when the cool shadows slept.
And then we too, from out the shade towards
The grassy moor,
And here and there among the pines,
With lifted eyes and mouth still lolling under
At evening in the noonday shade
And drizzling leaves that rose and fell again
To kiss the dew;
Or when the bees had left their stings
To sing above the unmown heather
That settled down the bare hillside
To watch the sunset on the heather,
And down the bare hillside
And through the heather's edge to go,
And where the heather was in flower
And in the shadow of the bramble,
And all up the wooded verdure
And down the heathery hills at evening,
And thither, where the great winds blew and threw
The bronz and seedling flames that grew,
And all the grass grew into gold
And all the flower-beds were aërial,
And all the flower-beds were corn and hay,
With golden harvest-leses at midday,
All hay and honey in their winter day.
And all the time we heard the whips,
And all the places where the wild ducks were;
Now only, where the blue eggs are,
And the warm clover-tops, and the high hill-side,
And the dark rooks that build about the eaves,
And in the grassy green and clover-hide,
The whips and ditties of the shaking steers,
The hidden thunder of the hidden rain
That steeps the downs, and fills the windless lanes;
Now only, where the hedges are undistinguished,
And the dark swallow-blooms are broken under
And the great uplands, which the winter's ragged
Black waves are rolling in the windless west,
And the white gullies in the windless east
Are floating, and the summer land is green; and now
The far clouds gather and gather as they pass;
The leaves, the grasses, and the distant far
Are sparkling like to some great sea at anchor,
And the great sky is girded with sun and shade
Over a little land.
Now, where the meadows were no more
And the bright sky no more,
The long grass no more,
Under the grass, beneath the mound,
Under the grass.
And in a dream we say, "Dear," and forget
The word, and turn the long hours through:
"Dear, it is lonely in
======================================== SAMPLE 232 ========================================
.
_Laus lapides: tripit imber edax, &c._
The two Meaths, which now the walls surround,
Of sacred Creeks against the wind blow round;
A Thracian boar, who in the thicket plays,
Invites the Gods to raise his furious hounds;
With whirling snow they bathe their bristly sides,
And curl their tails in waving golden heaps.
The Thracian mother, as her son came down,
From heaven aloft beheld the fateful crown;
Her bosom heaves, her neck expands with pride,
Her shoulders rise, her bosom glows with pride;
Her arms, her neck expands with eager gait,
She tries the Strand, she paces o'er the plain,
And seeks, amidst the thickest of the fray,
What means can conquer, or what means can gain,
Whose fatal issue can to both be vain?
The sable troops, as thick as clouds in May,
In dread of death, with horrid fear lay on;
Nor would their limbs, the terror of the day,
The dire event from which they could escape.
When near they came, with Pallas' aid, in haste,
A Thracian arrow fixed its sounding waste,
And straight through every iron headlong jet
It tore, and fixed the feather in it there.
"Haste!" shouted they, and backward rushed to meet
Th' irrevescible steel, and rushing through the fleet.
The Trojan, next, the Dardan arrow feels,
And, leaping, proves his fear is still in heels.
Black slumbering deep, with horrid clangor, cried
The Thracian leader of the Lycian guide,
"See, here the spoils the god with conquest bought!"
"Amen!" cried he, and shot a dreadful glare:
The Dardan troops, in arms, pursue the war,
And, whirling, cast the fire-flamed helmet down,
And on the topmost parts, his headlong flight
Dismind the Trojan squadrons with the sight;
The slings of fire, and shivers from the sheath
Smit by the steel-blue coursers, fly alight.
Nor less the Trojans, with less compass far,
When their whole host comes down into the war,
The Trojans theirs, and Hector's labors find
With greater ease, and so pollute the mind
Of Jove, who saw their chiefs unawed in fight,
And left them to their glorious doom in sight.
Heaven with a shower of blood appears each face,
And with redoubled glory all their race:
The Dardan troops at once and Trojans fly
From all their friends, while loud the Danaans cry.
Torn from their foes, no longer can they shrink,
But rush on all, as when a tempest sweeps,
And from the mountain tops mount pedestals:
So rushed the Trojans, through the mid-array,
When Hector, as a mountain-glade, looked down
On Troy's brave sons, with grief and fury crown'd.
As when a lion grim, or lion old
Of mountain race, when rage the forest sees,
And the wild boar sweeps in the rout of men,
And his torn hide, a mountain ash, appears;
So from the Trojan host, and Troy, they fly,
And in the dust beside the ships lie down;
So, when the Trojans fly, the Dardan men
Are hurried to the ships, and, driven amain,
Are flank'd with lances, and the clashing sound
Of chariots and of steeds is heard resound.
Nor shall the warlike Greeks, the rage of fight
Shrink from existence, or forget to die
Unharm'd at home: for not without offence
Of combat can the Trojans tame the Lycian sense.
But if some other Greek of all the Greeks
Have shar'd their vengeance and been doom'd to bleed,
What hope, in flying, can the Dardan toils
Escrieve, or hinder to his sword this day?"
With these, he seiz'd his golden-pointed spear,
And struck the hollow of the hollow near;
But miss'd the mark; and doubled to the ground,
Beneath his belly, at his breast it stood,
Then, quiv'ring, dropp'd the life-blood from the wound.
He falls upon his bended armour, lay'd
Prone on the ground; and loud his armour rings
About his knees, and with a mortal wound
The life-blood centres in his boss
======================================== SAMPLE 233 ========================================
, iii. 3, line 5.
"_Who can teach? who, what, who shall gainsay it?"_
"The fairest part of nature is the man that can conceive it;
The greatest wench is he that makes great music while he lives.
_The fool that mocks his grief or sympathy;_
"But heaven, in pity, looks on him, and says: 'My friend, I am of
great-grandm teacher, who mocks my vain attempt.'
"There's the philosopher that, after all, supposed it wise
not be prudent and wise, not fickle.
There is a witch who charms his ravished ear,
That makes him lose at once his golden toy,
And then the wizard sees the silent hour,
The flashing eye, the magic silken form,
And bless'd captivity.
"And then he calls his treasure-crowned,
'I'm the poor wretch that has no parts,
If there's no wealth that in the pocket won't be found,
A thousand threescore years or two are gone,
I'll get my fortune from a hundred win,
If that be an ungenerous sacrifice.'
"He gaily laughs, and thinks that you shall find,
When you are told what you confess and say,'
"'You don't despise! you don't!
"'For I believe you are a clever man,
And so I do!
I'm sure I do! I'm not to see my sins,
And you would like my name and not be mine,
But pray politely do the best I can,
Let _my_ attention find some other man.'
"But though I'm proud and wish your pardon, sir,
I've ne'er forgotten what I tell you now.
To you I give the greatest satisfaction,
If you would have a seat and friends with me,
I would a kind heart never would incline,
If you could leave my presence at the shrine,
And, if you went, I then should bid you say:
'You have a friend; the man of honest heart,
Who loves his neighbour as he loves his wife,
Might find a better friend than all he can;
For I can lead a life by way of life,
Though it be laid upon me by the hand,
And still, if you were pleased to go, command;
But be my lady sweet and trusty then,
I'll sit with her by day, and drink my fill,
When you have seen my face, and found my tongue,
And heard my name, and wished to speak my word;
But do not think I am one of the blind,
Nor do I quite forget the times that are.
I'm here, I don't know whether I shall go;
My business is to know each other's ways;
A power is like the Solway of our days,
A breath of summer, and a pleasant thought,
A love of duty, and a trust in God,
A little pleasure that is far from men,
A tenderness exceeding human pain,
And little that is left them when they do.
"And first I know, my dear, my dear,
I have no worldly gains to give:
It is not that I do or cry
To your dear eyes, which you will see.
I cannot say I am unwise,
I do not know how very wise
I've been with you, that very night.
I'm not so young as you are strong:
I'm not so sound as you are fair.
I'm not a genius; what am I?
O be my love, and let me die!"
He stopped a moment; there he lay:
A gentle spirit seemed to play
Almost as soft as mother's kiss,
And played him smiling day by day.
"And now at last I have no words;
If you have any thoughts, my dear,
To make your meaning understood
I'll teach you how to make a song
And play it pretty now and long,
And make the music that you know,
And make it fit for your delight
To keep it moving in your heart
Till it do sing as well you can.
"Then it must rhyme. It must be sung;
It must be touched upon your tongue.
It must be wholly sung between
That words and thoughts. Then it must be said,
That you'll be heard as if they said,
'That song is neither heard nor sung.'
"And it must rhyme, and it must play;
It must go wholly out of play.
It must be taught, because 'tis so.'
And it must play till all be done.
"So now I'll keep you, with a smile
======================================== SAMPLE 234 ========================================
, whose very face seemed set
With the expression of such power, and so refined,
I would have held it down before my mind
By a comparison with all its elements,
And never tired of any part; anon
The whole earth like a flower is gone and gone,
And as a tree some fruit in spring returns,
And its whole branches only bends a top
And never withers, but of like effect
That from the north its top is lifted up,
Shoots forth in summer and in autumn-time;
The rest, the leaves, all stirring in a ring,
Still live and die; the flowers that die away
Die and are faded by autumn and spring;
The cold wind blows their heads and moulds them grey,
And blows their scum; and so, when winter comes
To the warm South, that strips itself of snow,
The whole tree sighs for its own summer's lot,
And all its branches, almost withered, rot
With its own breathing; but not all the boughs
Nor of its boughs have yet so closely twisted
Their roots to find this tree, even as this
Is able to give every bough to growth.
Still some time since, the roots of every bough
Lend their ten leaves a lustre till they die;
But I, why I doth this my glory die?
The mighty ocean, and the sacred earth
Are but the breath of some immortal flower,
Which fades not, being blown upon the wind.
My heart is all aflame with love's desire,
And all my being is a woven fire
To make the beauty of my lips more fire.
The earth is nothing, but a mighty sea;
And in my heart, what matters it, I would
The wind should blow my ship across the sea
To where the islands point upon the sand
And those far islands have no place or bound?
There are many islands set in one round,
And in my heart the birds of many lands;
But one small island has its boundless breadth;
The other has but one meridian strand,
And this small island has its boundless length,
And this small island has its uncharted strength.
Here it is boundless, but a mighty sea;
And in my heart I feel its boundless force,
And in my breast the sea.
I am alone with all life's many griefs,
The many, many loves that I do love,
The many friendships that I hold in thrall,
The many broken loves, those broken ties;
Yet when I look upon these faded eyes,
And these dead lips, and these dear lips, my own,
These eyes of mine, these broken tears, my own,
These broken sighs, these fits of joy that pass
Like shadows, shadow-shadows, when the glass
Of the deep flood is darkened into glass;
These broken sighs, these tears of grief and woe
That have left my heart too deep for words to flow;
These useless hopes, these empty empty hopes,
Stripped of all joy that even its love consumes;
These useless hopes, which merely seem more blest,
Sicken and sink, with all these restless unrest.
Oh! lift me from this deep and unknown sea
Where the wide waters roll with ceaseless motion,
Where all the mighty billows and great cliffs
Whelm the great continents and seas with silence,
Where the great winds and mighty seas break not
And the great earth lays down her tender breast,
Where the great clouds lift up their heads and bow
To kiss the tender world beyond its breast;
For there I could not look through the large eyes
On one so wasted and so wasted fair
Who is so old, who has so withered her hair,
Who is so weak, who has so faint a soul
Whose hue shines dim through her worn hair, and says
She has no heart, she cannot understand,
Who has so worn and changed her face with this,
Who once has been so beautiful and wise,
Whose face shines through her eyes and makes them dim:
Oh! lift me from this desolated sea
Where human love was never more than this;
For there she sleeps and smiles and loves to wake,
And knows that she is dead and all her heart
Tastes through her broken heart with tenderness.
And I will come to you, my plaintive song,
And seek your spirit in your old distress:
For if you find it in this lonely room
So full of hopes and longings to come true
You may not ask me, why it is so long
Since I was with you there at eventide,
And all my friends were with you as you died.
I will arise and go
======================================== SAMPLE 235 ========================================
:  `Doubt that not many times shall be.
"The mighty river that from which I came,
Through whose swift stairs the spirits of the world
To earth yet fallen are never so enchanted,
Ayein it rushes, circling in its course,
As fire in seal, through which the vapours duct,
Scattering unceasing, so that from those lights,
The pyres, which now are rising, never can
Have their reflected back, as through the vain
And utterless seeks mingle; but the rest,
Weary and impotent, remaining still,
Go onward, and in silence go along,
Gazing each hour from the first beacon-star
That pointed down to earth: and I beheld,
Within the deep, upon the shore of Lants
A sea of livid fire, froth, and a gloom
Heavy as that, which it abandoned cast
Hold on the region underneath the west.
In its long wanderings through the tree-stemmed boughs
I saw light, even as a woman returns
From doing the bidding of her husband's will;
And, after that, I knew not where to turn.
And lo! a flaming fire, alight against
The deep, and made a shield for my bold breast,
Beholding me no longer in the fight.
The second and the latest, which it joined
In sad warfare together, I saw placed
Close at the bottom, underneath the ground
Dangled a tresses hapless and wild-eyed.
Then, as it seemed to me, all changed was changed:
But not in ever change a sword; and I
Made answer, "Lady, if thou ever see
Henceforth another champion, if thou see
Any here, here repass thee not for fear;
Wherefore of thee a woman leaveth not
Save one alone, and for the general loss
Of all things, save thyself, that here beneath
Thou mayst bear rule: be thine an easy one."
She said: and I made answer in my dream:
"Far off some distance binds us; for the road
Opens before us, and we cannot chain
The smooth ascent, unless thou dolt thy back
Upon the sharpened reeds, and make thee see
The valley only, not less great than that,
Which peradventure from the second scar
Is ill-advised.  But, if thou pass
And I are prisoned, think not that I care
For death, lest more than those who pass me by
May keep me in remembrance, more than these
Who here have power to sin."  So I my suit
rasoled, and settled not my heart against
The purport of my speech.  Yet, as a man
Doth fall to strive 'gainst will, he casts it down
First where the craven chattereth; so I him
Overtook, threw down mine eyes, and nothing saw.
"Of all theBecause to the chimney of
The hermit hermit that with pray'rs and pens,
And to the writing of his boundless brow,
Is making of the mortal shoulder-glance
A desperate appeal, and this," she said,
"The other, to concede to his demand,
Standeth noght silent; for the bell at noon
Wageth no such, when that the heifers nigh
The hermit doth at point of his desires,
Rideth noght chere his shins, nor he doth rest,
Till his shins come; and so the holy life
Giveth him, he is noght outward or congealed;
For he who is most spiritless and naked
With Beatrice, and passeth on the way,
Weary of every saintly thing, that merits
A mortal's privilege, sets out for us
A hermitage, and is at rest; nor how,
To any merit but spiritual, natures
Are known or noted; for all these have with
The evil stricken, all the good selected;
And no degree so worthy save the worse,
Whosoe'er deprives himself of life or hope,
In Beatrice, as did I, the fixed
End whereof now is wisest.  This thou urge
M there, where souls are scared, by shallower off
As swine, unto the valley; there, who will
As in his swine, is at rest, and it is well
Where thou wilt come, when gangest."  Happy bee!
The minister that waited upon her
With honeycombs spake; and I, to do
As he was taught, leaped up, and then was gone;
And, as a
======================================== SAMPLE 236 ========================================
.
_Favorite sociras._
_Coventry Patron: a Present of the Coventry of Mrs. William
Cowper's Journal_
Thou shalt not tarry here,
Where I have breathed my last.
The sun will soon be set.
The dial's struck.
And we must each be one.
We must be one.
The moon, my love, shall be
The wife of every mortal.
We must be one.
I go and stand with care
Where, hidden from my sight,
No footprint yet is there.
I shall be always night.
As long as thou art here,
I shall be there.
In the sweet-briar bed,
In some cool, shady nook,
I shall look on thy face,
And say between an act
And smile, "I wish I did."
Tranquilly I walk,
In green and gold arrayed,
With silver stars in hiding.
I have a lofty head;
I have no wish beside.
I stand alone, alone.
When thou dost rise from sleep,
I send my burning eyes
To see what thou dost see,
Thy face, my love, and me;
Thy heart, thy hope, thy all,
To me, my love, thy all.
Ah, thou hast guarded well,
For love thy lot must fall.
What shall I send my lover?
"Forgetful man," thou in my verses saidst,
"Forgetful man, forgetful man, forlorn
Forgetful man, who all the good doth scorn."
O, that deep, mournful mood!
Where anguish sits and waiteth ever!
I know thee, that thou seest
All joys are present;
Thy joys with joy are rife.
They come and go,
Thy days and years, to come
All golden while, from far and near.
They bring the truest, sweetest year,
That ever blessed human heart.
They brought thee flowers,
And many an aching head;
Thy locks with finest threads they shone.
They bring to thee the breath of life,
And love to be thy dream, not less;
Thy lips they are a sweeter flower.
They bring thy mind to joyous days
With all a world to give.
I know thee, that thou'rt ever true
To all and each one, never do.
I know thee, that thy proudest face
Is ever decked with a sweet spring-place.
That all things nourish a good cheer.
The greenest tree that's sweet the year.
That all things blessest is thy death.
Thy death is death; it girdeth thee
For aye and a day, O, love, to thee.
Thy death is death: the greenest turf
Upon the greenest grass will grow.
Thy grave is grave enough, but thou
A cold grave needest, till the turf
Shall hide thee from the summer air.
Thy grave, that holds the holy dust
Of all the greenest trees will hold.
Thy grave, as holy tomb, no stone
Shall hide from mortal eye may see.
The greenest meadows yet have green,
And the deepest flowers are here.
But the most tender and the sweet
And the fairest fields may bear to see
The rose and winter-loving dove,
Beneath the fresh sod newly sown.
The violet there will surely bloom,
And the yellow lilies blow.
Though thou art more in thy strange bloom,
Thy flowers are only snow.
I wish I were as far away
As the green stream that runs to the sea,
And I would be where flowers do stay,
And there, on the sand, lie side by side,
One knows and the other's shade, by the way,
Where the flowers in the thickest hedge and the bough,
At morning and evening and evening and morn,
Are rising, are falling, are flying, are born.
My sweet little one, on thy neck to lie,
O, thy dimpled face to me,
And thy brown breast where I would rather be,
Than the wind in thine eyes to see,
And the stars as their chariot wheels roll by,
Are sending the dreams of thee!
I've a dream-brimmed bonnet on my brow
And a crook for my garland band,
And a cowl of silver on my throat,
And a ring of sea-flowers ferling the dark sea-wave;
But I've no sweet bird that sings of love
Or that songs
======================================== SAMPLE 237 ========================================
, who was a celebrated troubadour,
the son of the famous Fauns, and, moreover, the old
S Authoress of the Odyssey, whose fame is the highest of
among mankind. It is not true that they are the author of
being a great deal more familiar between ourselves and
brother than the one. I should feel myself obliged to you
to take the trouble of informing my father there to fight
with, and being sure that his father is dead and gone, and
left me behind on board his ship, even though he had been
anxious to put me on board the vessel under my ship. It was
once the custom of the gods that Aeneas should bear his
old ship in a larger vessel, and he was careful of trying
to get over the water, that his father might cut the throat of
some one to me and help him now, but I did not get my hair
straight, for all the time he was in the wind."
"I remember now much also that your father gave you charge of
all his substance; then, moreover, you would go aboard a ship
with half a crew on her back; and if you wished to get
much information, of an ancient comrade who is coming
up from the country of Iolcos, you may have seen him at
first--for he was a good ship--and he was dear to you, but the
ship went on with him, for he was a good ship of his own, and
it was very near the place where he was. I was astonished to
see him come and greet him as he came, nor did I see him again
in his shirt. In the morning he woke from his fair slumber with
the gods going with him. He was a good ship ready, and had
gunned six fat calves upon the deck of the ship, and the
captains of the flock were on the rocks at the place where the
old man had been. There they built their ship and sitting
in their thrones, but I, being too weak to do my part, and
I made my way to the ship and rowed round the yards, and
kept my eye on no one to look looking on, for the sun was
rising behind the clouds, and I was on the way to my ship
to the place where the old man had been. There I used to
start and go on board and look after him as I did, while
I took sides, and when any one came to me I was the only
one who was looking at my father with my eyes. This old man
is usually a man who, for all his years living, and the
heart of him deadens with the anguish of starting out of
the house when he is gone--but why I should ask him if he
makes a journey?--for I am a sorry man and in spite of all
his ills. My father is very ill, and I am quite alone, for
we cannot help it. I have come home with my little ship
company that I had when I left captain of P Aeolus, son
of Tiresias. If I keep them apart I should think of taking
them back to Ithaca and not giving them to another man. On
the contrary, it would be a very brave thing to go on board
ship-board or out among the starry people, for these are
very like, but they have no ships with them, and they are
very far the best, and I am exceedingly fond of them. I
steam with my good ship and goats, and on the other hand you
hitch it all into the cave where the rocks are high up, and
there is no cup to which do I carry them."
On this she left them there, and they went back to the town
to draw the ship down into the dark dark sea. The gods
seemed to have brought her to man's door--and she went about
after the young men and set sails on before reaching Sicily.
Presently she came forth in the guise of a young woman dressed
by the nymph Thryades. It had been an easy matter in common
with other women. It had been Meliboeus, a clown, a man
without any kind of knowledge, but his wife was the best girl
that Iorchus had, and the people called him Phineus. The maids
stood round like the rest of the flock of the heifers, or
cattle from some low range of hills. There were sheep and
sheep who went about making a long train to one side of the
other, and they thought that other would be better treated
blessed Phineas, and that he might fare guiltless, whereas the
old man sat safe in his own wicker-baskets ready
======================================== SAMPLE 238 ========================================
.
CANTO VI. The Earthly Paradise.--The Spirits of the
Contented.--The Spirits of the Light.--Sinners in the
Dante.--The River of blood.--Conversation of the
celestial Rose.--The temple of the Mighty Father.
Dante.--The River of blood.--Conversation of the
Dante.--The River of blood.--Conversation of the
CANTO VII. The Earthly Paradise.--The River of blood.--The
Dante.--Itiner, and other Paradise.--The River of blood.--
Dante.--Gluttonou and Innocence.--The river of blood.--The
Demonselaüs.--The river of blood.--Conversation of the
Dante.--The river of blood.--Conversation of the
Dante.--The river of blood.--Clerk of the human soul.--The
Demonselaüs.--Vision of calamity to the cross.--The
Demonselaüs.--Vision of the Blessed, drawn by the arm of
Deïan.--Vision of the Blessed, v.
Dante.--Vision of the Blessed, v.
Dante.--Vision of the Blessed, v.
Dante.--Vision of impotence.--The River of
Enalostrau.--St. Peter Damian.--St. Peter Damian.-- Sanle
Or ever the lofty walls of Hell Carthagements arose to heaven.
Prostrate upon the earth he lay, bowed up by anguish, and
Alas! that gaze forbore: for on the wounds wherefrom some
irones
And the sweet flowers that nurse in their young buds the tender
Their fairest blossom diffuse on the ground.
Around him anguish wrung and torrents of wild tears fell;
And from his forehead a stream of sorrow flowed;
And from his lip there gushed forth a bitter sweat;
O'er his pale cheek a deadly sweat ran fast;
And to his feet a burden fell and beat,
For on the ground the fallen Christ fell, with the first
Round which the fount of life for ever flows.
When at the very top of life's alarm,
The mother bird sat silent in the shade;
When by the waters of the stream her brood
Rose from the bank and hid them from the view.
Then to my mind a longing came sere,
That while it seemed to me, it would not be;
That, which at first had ta'en from me away,
Much less was seen by other eyes than I.
This too I heard, and, as it seemed to me,
Within my breast the heavy burden lay.
At the first hearing it caused more unrest,
I turned me round, and listened to the strain,
And still it echoed me, for never
Had I done thereto, and, as it seems,
Still that first sound did waft me on the ear.
After much tossing had I reached the shore
Of the long main, that at a distance lies,
At the utmost verge, that takes me o'er
O'er the wide main, to where the mourning eyes
Of Rachel weep, and Rachels, childless, part
Homeward, from tears, the sad and fearful sight
Filled me with wondering.  "Why dost thou not lift up
A heart so heavy, and then sorrow steep thee
In sorrow's dreariment?" I thus inquir'd.
"How and what art thou come, that thou may'st know
Us not, who know'st not, where thou say'st that us--
As from a trance we slumb'ring lie around,
Yet ne'ertheless, with senses karpen-dark
Kneeling, all pallid, and we cannot speak."
He answer'd: "We have borne too much and tried
Much flesh, and little checks, of many a man,
Forgot to say, all, all, nothing, come to naught,
Since by thy folly we are thus brought forth."
Ill strives the will, 'gainst will more wise that strives
His pleasure therefore to mine own preferr'd,
I drew the sponge yet thirsty from the wave.
Onward I mov'd: he also onward mov'd,
Who led me, coasting still, wherever place
Along the rock was vacant, as a man
Walks near the battlements on narrow wall.
For those on th' other part, who drop by drop
Wring out their all-infecting malady,
Too closely press the verge.  Accurst be thou!
Inveterate wolf! whose gorge ingluts more prey,
Than every beast beside, yet is not fill'd!
So bottomless thy maw!--Ye spheres of heaven!
To whom there are, as seems
======================================== SAMPLE 239 ========================================
,
"As a dead man might drive back in the road."
"I'm glad I had not legs."
"I've had enough."
"You won't be so good as I was. I'm the root of this fact. I
"What's that?"
"What's that?"
"You don't know, sir."
"You don't know how much you know."
"What do you mean?"
"Not you, sir."
"You mean the thing you mean."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the thing you mean?"
"Do you mean it?"
"What's that?"
"You mean just how to say how far?"
"How did you know it all?"
"We all had something to spare us, sir."
"You mean just how to say how far?"
"It was very strange you mean."
"Nay, nay, I mean what is,"
"What have you been?"
"I mean the thing you mean."
"No, it won't be so strange, sir."
"Do you not know you mean?"
"I mean the thing you mean."
"Oh, just how funny you mean."
"What have you been doing for me?"
"Just how about rabbits."
"What have you been doing for me?"
"I'm not the first I ever saw;
But, perhaps, I never noticed it."
"I'm not the first I ever saw."
"Somebody said I didn't mean them."
"And I'll tell you what's going on.
I've had a hard, hard time. I've gone."
"What's the matter? Now that's all I know,
Now that is what you say."
"It's that little girl."
"It's really and aren't they all right?"
"That means, I mean. It's the way there's been--
They were here--they are all over me."
"I'm not as good as what you say!"
"You mean--'course, they could mean me--I.
I'm not so good as what you say."
"You mean I meant--for that you say."
"I really wasn't afraid of--"
"What did you say? You mean that? I'll tell you.
But they took their fun out of me yesterday."
"I just mean they--that--"
"Why, you know--why they took me away.
I want the boss inside you?"
"That's something I said."
"It seems he don't, not now. I'm going to stay."
"He's not so good as you say."
"He's not so strong as I. I can proceed."
"He's a fellow you mean, sir?"
"Why, just how kind of him."
"Why, but he is not a part of me.
He doesn't even see my eyes.
He can't see my inside, and no surprise."
"Why what does he say to me?"
"He says that. If he has eyes, then he knows how to talk.
Just the same sort of talk that I made of my new coat.
How I got it off this evening."
"Where did he go?"
"In a way that he doesn't talk, after all."
"He said he'd have it. He'll have it all inside myself."
"I've a fancy you know."
"He says that we'll see him there. He will."
"I'll be a part of one of us. I want it."
"I'll be the part of one of you."
"And who is it?"
"I cannot tell," she says, now. What is that word?"
"And he was here. He was afraid of the king's."
"It was a big thing."
"Who was there?"
"The Red King. A cap at him," he answers.
"Where can he be now?"
"To ask the King for a drop of water."
"I like the way they did."
"Well, I suppose they all went to pot."
"He wished to know who you are."
"How do you mean?"
"Very well."
"I don't know it."
"My name is Nary. Let me come in here."
"I'm going for a little more from the King's."
"I know it."
"What do you know of that?"
"Did you know? If we told him we should."
"He went as a guest from Coldisdom.
He was at once the most man-loving man.
It caused all this. I am in the trouble."
"Then the Prince was very angry
======================================== SAMPLE 240 ========================================
, with an airy light,
On the blue surface of the sky.
And thus we hail the dawning light:
Arouse ye then, my friend, and let
The wind blow o'er you from the west.
And lo! as the great sun sinks low,
The west glows greenly overhead,
As though he with a flaming eye
The clouds of heaven had just come out,
From out the west a flame of red
And forth it leaps, a fiery ray
Of light on the horizon's rim,
And flings the far hills back.
He came with evening, and the wind,
And tears of tears adoring,
Bore swift and light, a precious freight;
The clouds were running over,
And darkly soared the early cloud,
And the great sun, well nigh being gone,
Sank, one by one, in slanting down
The dark, and melted suddenly
The clouds that veiled the sky.
He saw below, the yellow moon,
In that proud chiton hidden,
In his calm, happy heart repose;
He heard her voice--but how so sweet?
There was no voice or echo.
He knelt to her, the moon was bright:
Her hand lay still upon her brow:
The long, bright locks were clustering idly
About her lovely shoulders,
The long, dark locks were rippling slow
Upon her slender waist,
A full bud, as though the dew
From off the flower was culled
Had fallen; and her graceful hand
Was ripe and white, as in the land
She clasped her, timid yet, to cling;
Her neck was tender, and her eye
Looked up, and her soft cheek was bold,
And thus she sang, to his who gave
Her breast the form he gave her,
And gave him, ah! to steal away
The flower that bloomed upon her brow.
And when the last sad hours were spent,
The maiden, with her soft brown eyes,
Saw, with a wild joy, her own again
Touched his, and all its fairness shed
Such tears as never maids have shed.
And with a mournful deep despair
The maid sat by the altar there,
Weeping, for ever speaking,
And all her face was hid from sight;
Her hand was still, her heart was light.
And by her side there sat a youth,
And whispered, and her eyes were bright,
"O my sweet mother! list or hear,
Weep not for me, for I am lone;
One child, with whom I used to play,
And heaped the gathered flowers I have
Heaped upon temples fair to see,
On the pure columns of my heart
I live for ever, and to thee,
Oh, be my own, my own, my own!
He was a stranger then," said she;
"He came from 'drowsy Italy
And sat with me at eventide;
And oft I thought how he might go
To the white grave beyond the sea,
And wept when others passed away
From the fair earth--a little while;
Wept o'er the dead their little tears
Asleep; he thought how he might smile,
And wept--that little thought was best
Which I, more stranger then, may know
Is to be loved--a little friend
Whom none may ever come to bless;
O mother! we were close at hand;
Together we had gone to live
A year or two, and now we stand
The same as childhood, grass, or mire,
Who tingles to each other's name,
And with a mother's love returns
The same face once, and from the same
Full well your face and every thought
Are one, and only one, to shine
The fairest face that angel ever                           G.
Oh, would that I had never seen
A happy youth so fair and bright!
Nor had I heard his voice so sweet,
Nor guarded sighs, nor tears, nor sighs,
I would have rather felt than seen
Some semblance of the angel boy.
His father, he had borne to years,
And now he weeps for him, I think,
And grieves that it would fain be known
To any other child of his.
The mother and the father-in-law--
And they--are they?--were he and I.
The good Sir Peter, whom his age
Had glorified since he was gone,
Grew heavier, though I heard him more
In every sense than words of mine
======================================== SAMPLE 241 ========================================
'd,
Or, rather likely, by our country's aid,
He should not, in his wandering, distant inns
Be honour'd, though with others of the name
And lineage of our sires. For 'twas not long
Ere he departed, that high-minded man,
Met in the open plain, and, after much
Conerr'd at seeing his descent and fall,
Drew him between two fountains, and, beneath
Two grots of rock, along the perilous rocks
Plann'd, and two caves, and over the steep sides
Plunged in abysses vast. There often was he born
Service devout, that into his portion,
By some strange want, a holy pilgrim's seat
He spread, to shade his ampler journeyings
In sacred senate round, and there beheld
Solemn retired the well-built fortresses
Of him who had from God descended; who,
While yet a boy, scarce glimpsed his father's face,
And in his dreams beheld a loftier line
And power celestial, of that heavenly band
Angelic, who in circles above found
A city glorious. For like honour yet
The angels wages his religious toils
By gold and silver, and on land the same,
The same who from the lowest depth of earth
Descended, of all ages there were sung
With sounds so sweet, they from the anvils long
Could not have sunk beyond the ocean's bounds.
Three fishers went sailing out into the West,
Out into banks: the second, in green garb,
With plumes, that to the heaven's rim were ascending,
And the third, entering a fair bay, gave God thanks
In forkening thus to ship and barque, the which
He to his faithful company gave in charge
To enter, and therewith to fills and panis down
With fish, that they might sacrifice to him.
The yeoman next, drawing his nets and traps,
With three white nets he caught, to catch and hold
Upon his ready hol-dogs, with a hook
Ready prepared, and fasten to his snare.
All these he fixt, and to the second shore
He brought, and now the third day set at nigh
The eastern steep, and the fifth day was at large.
But by the third day's close approach the dogs
Set up a roar, so that three beasts or so
Were drawing fire; and at one cry the dog,
With his broad tushes pieced, tugg'd with fright,
Distended both his ears, and with one tongue
His tail all tugg'd together. He, amazed,
Feared what a dog was in, who, wretch full fond
Of outward life, unto the chieftain turn'd.
"O fair and noble creature, who in heaven
Dwell'st in the midst of wisdom, and couldst know
The means to win compassion, whose dear cause
Is, not to pass the gates of sense beyond,
Through vanity, that prays thee to be brief,
Because the way is such that prudently
Thou shouldst be cautious; for short-waisted pride
Tis seldom worth the money-making Glutton
Crush'd into fraud.  But since thou hast not me
In all this world, I'll lay thee down in earth,
And never, never leave thee here below,
Father, to speak of Judas, if there be
Any abroad so ready to believe
Thy kindly acts, and not to see the world
Through all its crowds; for, ere the childish tongue
Can utter aught, the wicked shall be sated.
A little hind is that way brooding, first,
As well as thitherward.  And further on,
If it be seemly, he yet lives there still,
And hath a master's eye thereon to mark
Th' affection, wherewith to store them up
So sore, that they shall need their power to help.
No less than thou in this observe, who chief
Areater art, than such, to human shape.
Whence thou mayst know the primal love, and whence
Thy reasoning hath embraced, tast of my dish;
And likewise I will tell thee, why the soul
Is hitherward to show, if thou wouldst say,
Who weeps and chidels to these ten, all scourged
And scourged hath every part by the seep fosynx
O man presumptuous, thou, who thought'st to bring
In thy triumph o'er such floods of deluge!
I not remember, though I often state
Myself a scythe, in these four hundred years,
A man who in
======================================== SAMPLE 242 ========================================
t’s
_Ic ubi filia mi forete, nec mi forete deberte, meo?_
I, o mi Soster! I, o mi fader! If ever I lefte
Fer love, thou’ll’st excuse me for ever a-twist
From serving thee, or wilt thou ever erre as mee.
“Goddete, forsooth of late thou comest in thy minde,
What! out of thine, why dost thou lye at hir gin
To me. O were it loth and well to past?
The folk þat thee so sorowfully conning
In theyr songes to singe, of that ye were,
Would lay on me a grievous qualm&grave.”
“Ah, well-a-way,” q{uod} thalpyrm, “but then I say
Watty is love, and nought of that thou say.”
“O nece m{a}n me no worcher of thy hede,
That I, thy frend, am trowed hys tyd.”
“A-wen me the hote ye wolde not lye,
And I forgo the whyte for to dye.”
‘To lerne.’ -- rusty-witted g{ra}ce of gold.
“But h{o}u! for h{a}m!’ sayd Aleeler,
‘Thou hast ben alle hys thogh it were fayre.’
‘Thou lefte not my pay lastimte,’ sayd Aleel,
‘With no wyse, but a vnfayntable man,
To pay the beste of hys in hysdale,
But thanke it hym. Pykyll, and Aleel,
It were a shame for wot of that it were;
For I was nevere yit in no extremit,
To pay the beste of hys that is here.’
‘Sire,’ sayd the fader, ‘Sir, verily,
The beste is good, and is non of ly;
For if ye fynde it somwhat of it,
That I forsoȝe, ye may not me fle.’
‘Thou seȝ wyth, and gader, saȝe I schal,
A-walten for drede on lyve-tre,
That myserye hade neuer ben here.’
‘I make myn avowe to God for to saue,
Sith it is so, I may here naye.’
‘To god,’ he saide, ‘to godd’s owne fayre,
So schal I seye, and weke it to grene,
And yf it be to grene a-right,
With-oute the beste of myn hert chere
Me liste fro me, ne wolde I more.’
For to speke of hys brethren tweye,
That to hys brother Bole thenketh he;
He seyde he so, he seyde he no lenger,
A-twene alle the folk that is there.
Thenketh he stille and gan bi hys bowse,
Ful liste he yelpe, and seyde hym lowe,
‘Lo! mercy, fayre wyght! for goddes sake!’
‘Everich of hys spere,’ sayd the knyght,
‘For Christes kingdom, for any wyse man,
Suffre not one worde in this londe.
‘But if I hade myne intent before,
And on the grene wybe hys spere
Beset I redyly to-fore,
So foule it is on lyne, y-wis.’
The lenger they telle that they were born,
And they tolde of Robyn Hode;
He was full wroth that they were born,
A man that men never hadde.
‘By hym that s{ir}, saith he, what is the ende,
That we may drinke of this sorȝely swete,
‘Thys ys a man forsooth in dedely wyse
======================================== SAMPLE 243 ========================================
,
A good friend to our whole house; the wives
Of the house are all downstairs--the boys
Not even to themselves, and scarcely could
He do so, for his mind is strangely framed,
And his heart fails him!--I must say good night!
We are all in the clock (just now I say)
On the midnight--and they were down below;
But all of us, living or dead, as far
As a thought or a fancy could point in their flight.
The tall clock was ticking, and he kept on,
And the pendulum beat in his dizziness
As if it ran over for hours; a dull sound
From the very first moment he spoke, and the door
Was closed--not a sound!  How loud it seemed!  Whoa,
How loudly its arms flung down the table!--Oh,
How loud it was, how it crooned in the room!
He never knocked but sat; he only looked
Like a lame bird--Oh, so slow it was!  And there
Was all that he had got to hear of his legs--
A leg, and a leg and a thigh-bones, and the rest
Of his legs being wasted in mockery.  He
Was a man of a score of different size,
Some fifty or twenty; and at a glance
A shade of anger came as he walked about,
And his lips were cold, and his mouth was dry.
He was too old and tired to take to the work,
So he left the house so to his wife beside
The house, and another came down the stair.
And she hurried home at the top o' the bed,
And saw with the mother and nurse, but she flew
So slow she had scarcely strength enough,
To drag her baby into the room,
And the two had almost run out at once--
A bad kid that would do such a thing
To do to bring her up: she was nervous,
But the trouble had gone with her, for what
Was left her but little by three of a day,
And three of a night?
But the mother said,
"It isn't a matter of fact: the deceased
Was only the uppermost graveyard that holds
The body of the corpse about to be put
By a stronger than that of the coffin--a living,
A dead corpse."  So they buried him up,
And soon found him gone; but after he'd called,
The rest were a flock of five thousand strong men
Ready to carry him off one day from jail.
And there was a man who struggled and shrieked
And fought for his right, as though he were dead;
But they pulled him back under cover and limb,
And his obstinacy was no longer near,
For, when he got there, the woman was dead;
And that was a life as lovely and brief
As any man's, and the worst of it all.
She was busy making the coffin, she said,
As a matter of fact that the coffin looked rough;
But she gave him a kick: he jumped off the trunk,
And the coffin was littered with dust for a day.
The last time he looked at her, her head
Was all on a heap, where the ground, in the road,
Was a holiday footing with nothing to proffer;
A jockey outside?
Was he sober?
Or was it the pleasure of waiting for a week
With the woman he couldn't, for nothing she saw
Before he came back to his bones and the dust
Just as he came.  No, she just wasn't quite so,
To let him out and perhaps that were so.
She let him out--he rode off the track
As though it were nothing at all.  Her eye
Was an eye of keen fire, and its keen flash
Was as bright as a spark of an eagle's.  He went
To the front, and he saw what her grim features meant,
When she felt she must leave him.  At last he said,
"I'm the chap I have made to stand on that track;
If you let us up here, I'll throw up the load,"
And his boots drew his breath into the rougher.
He looked at her under, and saw how her eyes
Had been hollowed, and kept their colour back
From a light that illumined the crowded place.
She saw the coffin, and saw it was there
With a ribbon of light in its depths, so she stopped,
To see if he saw her.  "Why, I don't know,"
She murmured, and went to him.  "I see some fun
On that coffin where you are waiting."  She turned
And looked at him steadily, and saw his tears
G
======================================== SAMPLE 244 ========================================

_The Return of the Rev._'ial Banks, &c., from the MS.
_The Memory of the Rev._.--R.B.]
_The Priest of Janus
Who on one Saturday
(As his opinion of the present Household)
Had left the Salt House,
That Yesterday was fusty,
And in a corner sought to find,
But found it otherwise.
The Priest of Janus
Was sent to do the thing
But by the feeble
He did not make it burn.
The Priest of Janus
Hastily put up his book,
The Holy Book, and then
He read the text again.
The Holy Book is from the Front of the Skeletons to the
inner's wives and babies. It contains some forged-gays (says
it from the ends of an ox-stamp) of pure white.
I had to put the boy to work,
And to put him in a shaggy pew
Before I let him find a crib.
I have put him in a jacket,
With a band of mystic leathers
And a side-sleeves all of him,--
Sandals and sobs and tears,
And a little book before he gives
My son a scrip with its stray ends,
And the cradle's little covers
And a little cushion behind the cover,
And as many times as any other
Not a tenth part so safe to see
Asleep upon her bed of trees.
And so the boy will make a coat
To stand his mother's shoulder,
With a thread of golden wire,
All her arms and all her legs,
And so the man will set the shoe
Into the horse's mane and bone,
And he'll lay there peacefully.
Blessings on you, every one,
Blessings on you, O my brothers,
From the angels of the farm.
Blessings on you, all you bring
From the hearts of all you labors,
From the moils of Ida sing.
Blessings on you, O my brothers,
Blessings on you, baby brother,
Blessings on you, all you have,
Blessings and farewells from you.
Blessings on you, every one,
Blessings on you, baby brother,
Blessings on you, all you have,
Blessings on you, O my brothers,
To the loving one I bear,
Bring her to the manger under ground,
Bring her to the stable door.
Blessings on you, every one,
Blessings on you, O my brothers,
Blessings on you, O my brothers,
To the loving one I go,
Bring her to the manger under ground.
Blessings on you, any one,
Blessings on you, baby brother,
Blessings on you, all you have,
The Babe and the Bible we all bestow,
Singing as they went down by the way,
"Out There in the East,
The world's a-wooing:
It will soon be well."
The world's a-wooing,
The world's a-wooing;
The world's a-wooing,
This world's a-wooing.
The world's a-wooing,
The world's a-wooing,
The world's a-wooing
The world's a-wooing.
All you are beautiful, all you are beautiful,
All you are beautiful, all you are beautiful;
Do you wish you could be a little boy, anyhow?
Do you wish you could be a little boy?
Do you wish you could be a little boy?
Do you wish you could be a little boy?
Do you wish it?
Do you wish you could be a little man,
Do you want to be a little man?
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
I see the sun go down the valley as long as I see him,
And I see the little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And he's coming up the country, and why should I care if I'm
A good little fairy-faced one,
A bright-cheeked, and chubby,
With cheeks all apple-brown,
And a little crooked head.
I see the merry children making butter and tea,
When I see the happy children getting butter and tea;
But when I see little shadow, I like to be a man,
For I like to be a baby and never give him money.
I see the
======================================== SAMPLE 245 ========================================
, and the Lactea which is
fought and destroyed at the first.
v. 37.  From forth the west the zodiac.]  Ulysses was the Norman
descendant on Jupiter, the son of Jupiter, by whose death the
whole earth is divided into four parts, being beneath the seat
of the sun.
v. 37.  A dolorous groan.]  The heavens, which are supposed to
give a prayer to the gods after having knocked down the gates of
the abyss.
v. 47.  The viper.]  "The noise of the Sabine forest and of the
sovereign winds arose."
v. 81.  I bit my brows.]  "Those who have been in the habit of
diversities."
v. 81.  Caesar.]  "Rome was the father of Caesar in the time of
Caesar, the son of Pompeius.  The former was named Brutus,
and the latter was Tullus."
v. 81.  Titus.]  He is said to have been the successor of Peter
v. 102.  Titus.]  Titus, the murderer of Pompeius, who was made
are Slain by the Romans.
v. 101.  Peter.]  "Through fear of the envy of the Sabines, he
designed to quit the order of the church, and betook himself
to the place where the mitre was."
v. 104.  From forth the west there.]  He compares the sun to a wolf,
in the time of winter, to a lion of much height, which,
from its cover of green leaves, was supposed to roll over, under
the weight of a cold, or smeary staff.
v. 102.  My Caesar.]  He again cites this memorable scab.  He
was killed by a cart-andlicke man called the Colchid, which was
transformed by the Romans, who are said to have sprung from the
consequences of the Tretima, in which they were held by the
Titans.  It is most pitifully with the fact that it was
called Taurus.
v. 111.  That.]  So Lucan, Apis was regarded by all the rest as
ancient and ingenious poet, as a well-peopled Englishman of
somewhat skilful and well-chosen citizen.
v. 112.  The Roman.]  "Through the fear of Caesar when the Roman
sisters were in their service, the Marchus and Cornelia being
buried, Marchus died, and Pompeius was desirous of Sicily.
v. 11.  There where.]  The Marbion of Romulus lives, who, if we
shall presume to think, was born of the same family, who is said
v. 26.  There where the Soldan.]  Alluding to the death of
v.27.  He made his pile.]  For the defeat and cruel defeat
with which his victory was planned.
v.27.  Ovid's bard.]  "She fled away while she was yet a
child, from Caesar, but there fell a second time in error of
"v.28.  In amaze we stood amazed there, I saw a form move
as it were the shadow of a man, and we saw him do his shameless
heart."
v.29.  That other.]  "That was the face of him who scaped from
one who was driven from her and murdered her, to the fatal
vengeance of her impious father."
v.30.  Ovid's bard.]  The Areopagite, who, finally, was
"Veneran," in which his verses placed their date.
v. 25.  That.]  He alludes to the defeat of him, which
was being defeated by Pompeius when the defeat of Pompeius
was disclosed by the Parthians in the Triumph of the War.
v.30.  To a stream.]  The name of the Hellenic goddess Diana, who
holds the river Achelo, and is a river which, as Brutus says, is
that of which it is the former, and probably the latter is
Apollo.
v. 26.  The boiling cake.]  The Marca, that, to be gathered
together in a basket of sugar and tea, with which it is
full, were the chief serving-men; and when they had finished
the cakes given them before them, they took their places
among the remnant, and Caesar muttered them benumbed by his
side as he was speaking or said, "Here it is, after all,
thought, and making itself beneath the sea a place where
======================================== SAMPLE 246 ========================================
s and Wood-nymphs,
Frolic o'er my body,
How I love them! how they love me!
"And the music of it
Is throughout my soul;
Thee, the minstrel Horace,
Thee, the rose of roses,
The lilting Cowper,
The lilies of the forest,
Rattling on my body,
Fragrant with my soul."
In the deep blue July midnight,
When the early dew dries,
Comes a whisper of orioles
Through the pine-tops,
Over meadow and over hollow:
One by one,
Through the clear gray morning,
Rocks the warm brown weather
On the gray inclosing eyelids
Of the meadow and the pine-trees.
Like a golden flower
In the air,
Walks the brown cow gayly
Tally, cheery bird;
Every note of note
With the selfsame measure
Dies as if it pleased or pleased.
On the hillside, cool and shady,
Where the early violets grow,
Breathing the delicious air
In their native violet,
Comes the breath of morn,
Spenting soft the dew;
Marigolds grow purple
On the mountain side,
Where the little bluebird
By the valley sits,
Sipping out the morning sun;
And the earliest dew so sweetly
Sparkles down her track;
While, beside the wood-fire,
Merrily and loud,
With a merry voice,
Are the merry thrushes,
Now, in little fairy-tales,
Dancing down the sunny glens;
Now the robins loud and clear,
Hailing hill and dale;
Piping, as they float,
Flute and bush and may;
All the little bluebird
Joyfully and clear,
Tents them in his little coat,
And, beside the wood-fire,
Back to me he moves;
Stating his small tinsel
On the sunny shelf,
As in company with me
Trip they on their little feet,
Now, as down the wood they go,
All the leafy elm-tops blow;
While, beneath the branches,
Through the tall poplar-trees
Flutter little breezes
Now so green and gay,
Trip they, now as gay,
Flash the squirrel, now
Wink the flowers away.
What a pretty company!
None can sing or pass me by
While I sing my little song;
But the merry thrushes,
As they flutter to and fro,
Perched on my pipe, and free
Singing, merry as they sing,
Perched upon my pipe, and glad,
Bright with melody the air
Lends to melody the woodland air;
While, all seated in the ring,
Round the little minster-spère
White wings safe and shining feet
Sailing through the clear blue skies,
While I sing my little song.
Sunburnt, the sunburnt swain,
Blind in his fire-blue eyes,
Drinks his wine of bursting red
In the smoke-pudded coppice wood;
While, with his wife and child,
Merry and sad,
Walks a sad,
Sea-worn sailor,
Feebly-burdened,
Clambers up the hill
Crying, with his song,
"Turn and see
All the world's one wrong;
Turn and see
All the glad,
Sea-wrinkled,
Wishing all right,
Turn and see
All the rapt,
Dreams of merriment
Winds above,
Touch them now as they
Turn and see
All the rapt,
Dreams of merriment
Winds above.
Tick-tock, the sea-mew
Swings on tiptoe,
Silver-dappled
Slippers to the quay,
While, with bare feet,
Straining past,
Faintly sloops the wave!
While the sea-mew drifts,
Teary with the gale,
All his beamy sides
Swinges in a hail
Blue as cloud,
Bending, staggering,
Down his shadow-haunt
Clambers in his eye;
Till, a-stare,
Flashing far,
He, upon the beach,
Is drowned in his own weight
Oval and profound,
Rugged in his own weight,
Hollow and profound,
Dark as a grave,
Dwelt a woman in a shroud;
A lonely woman,
Miserable of man,

======================================== SAMPLE 247 ========================================
 to live--
It's an old,
And there are no strangers left by
But I myself shall know them
And I'll tell you about it.
But what shall I guess of those
Who live by bread and water?
For when they come to the garden
And walk down the lanes like strangers,
I laugh them away with laughter
Whene'er they come to the garden.
The children in the courtyard
Are little, but oh, what children!--
Their sweethearts are always pretty--
They laugh with all their hearts in pleasure,
And look with all their heads at pleasure.
When children run about the meadow
And pick the ripe grass in the meadow,
The sun goes up, the rain goes down
That makes the trees so dark.
I grow so tired of my playmates,
So tired of playmates and books,
I don't know if they're good or ill,
I'd like to sleep away.
I see the day--the sun just rising--
A bit of light upon it--
When I go down the valley
To meet my love at night.
The sky is gray and grey above us.
Over an empty field I;
So tired I cannot sleep at all
But follow quick and clear my eyes
Through all the wide, wide door of the night,
And see her there, the lantern gleaming
Among the yellow leaves of trees.
I hear her step along the pathway
Which makes the wind to beat and sound
And light the darkness near about me
And give me back my weary feet;
The creeping leaves are silver gleaming,
The leaves are gold to me.
On the gray night clouds are creeping
Across the sky;
I cannot see them clearly,
But I am sleeping.
Like a snake you lie,
With spots upon your wing.
Like a black snake, maybe, it lies sleeping
Close to my breast.
Like a true soldier should I lie sleeping
And wish for rest.
I feel her arms about me,
I drag the long hours by,
And then I know she knows I'm coming,
She knows I'm coming.
I never saw one yet;
What will he do, I pray?
I only know she knows it.
I am a woman, she;
But in all life I'm like a woman,
So the best things I can't go through:
God only knows what things I do!
I wish I had a dozen sons
Like them, and not like cats
As much as they are in meadows,
And not my father's dog;
I never knew a prettier girl
Than them my dear daddy was;
And there he had his tail all furled
With buttons all the day.
Yet when his curly tail came through,
A happy child it was,
To see her work a-sweeping
With combs and sheets and trowsers.
He looked around and said, "To-day
Methinks I'm coming here."
And then he thought it was a sin
To come to that dear father's kin!
A woman! and I wonder if he ever
Had such a mother now;
I've never had a bigger boy
Than him I lost my own.
I was a beast, I went my way,
In all this great, fierce war;
The lion was a kind hearted man,
And me a lamb of jar.
And in the snow I saw them go,
Like to a lion fierce.
But never in the Christmas Eve
Did I, until I thought
I saw a woman there with eyes
Like stars upon a brook;
And when the windy winter night
Was growing sad and still,
I thought of him and kissed his hand
And went my way of shaking.
And when I went my way to go,
Forgot the fear of tears,
I found myself once more
A running stream of tears.
And then I turned and found myself
Beneath the tree-top near;
The beggar lay dead by the bank
And the moon had gone to sleep.
And yet I had a dreadful fear
That, with one poor, hungry boy,
One of my little children
Should be devoured like wild.
The night is passing.
Pale, pale and trembling,
The day fades into evening.
The wind that blows from the uplands
Has fallen cold and grey.
Ah, who will keep the cold out?
Pale stands the west away
On a low rock where the gulls cry
And the winds sob and sway.
And the wind that comes sipping
The sea out of the sea,
Is sobbing a tune to the gray sea-wind
With soft voices moans under the night
======================================== SAMPLE 248 ========================================
, as they used to do,
Of _our_ selves.
This _was_ a splendid place for Christians; they
Were happy in their _pipic_, though, to say,
They did not even see this _inferior_,
They did not _prove_.
They had _calibriks_ on that old _quilt-ed spot_,
And, with the trust of holy bodies, they
In _each_ other's _legs_ and _charity_ set,
The _blind_ and _spurchen_ of all past existence.
But here you find a snug, warm, snug retreat
Against the worst of "those who do not eat"--
As to my _father_, if you have _heats_, that way,
I'll not be slave to _this_ damnation.
But now, these _veasts_ I must not wish to board,
Without their _princess_ to transfigure
My _greatly_ grandest _admire_, Lord!
The _conquests_ look well pleased to _me_, like _you_,
And be content, I'll have my _pilgrims_ too!
_The_ only _one_, they say is that vile Inn,
And, in the worst of all, a _heats_ of sin."
"Lord," quoth my mother, "never was in such a place."
"_Some_ place the other, _or_ the _inner_, in the dark."
The words were scarce by my last parent taken,
And the only sin that sin could sin has done in it,
Was to make straight for Adam a pitiful one--
To _give_ him his _evenings_ to the _inner_.
_He_ and _he_! ye powers of darkness, whose dark eyes
See naught but evil in the _inner_ of the _inner_:
And ye, who haunt the tombs where sleep the dead--
Be still, my Lord, upon this hallowed room,
That I may ne'er see _them_,--for, there, they say,
"_Weep not for him and suffer that eternal_";
_He_ and _he_!--Oh, ne'er shall I see _her_ guilt,
If I have ta'en _her_ to the _inner_ room,
But with mine own have wiped those tears away,
And called her mine, _my Betis!_ what to me?
That I should weep for _thee_ and _my_ offence,
That I should moan for _him_, and _my_ offence,
That I should moan in silence for my sin,
As _one_ God in his own eternity.
Thy tears are falling, Lord, in mine ears,
The words of thy forgiveness that are not yet done:
_Thy_ tears are falling! _my_ deep grief is past,
And thou shalt not be moist, or it shall last:
Come, blessed Spirit, who art deified!
_He_ and _he_ weep in their deep crimson tide.
The sun was sinking in the crimson west,
The stars were melting into fiery showers.
The waters of the River were all wet with dew,
And the cool air in odors rich with flowers.
The golden West was all aglow with gold,
The stars that flashed into the glowing West
Were rolling down in radiant carimps,
And like the glowing hoofs of chariots
The moon was sinking in the sleepy west,
While the great Ocean swell'd to floods of pearls
And many a league like fire, and dashed with pearls
The rosy foam of his immortal limbs.
Thus was the World in flowery apparel clad,
All glowing through with gems and silver gleams.
Then the bright morning of the _thou_ came forth;
The air was pure, the water wondrous sweet;
Up from the earth in molten silver streams
The stars were streaming, and the waters bright,
As from the glory of the earth newly risen,
Set in the radiant courses of the sun.
_He_ also swelt in that celestial bower,
Where angels welcome to the _spring_ of day,
And bring to light the gladness of the morn,
And glorify the new-seen Paradise.
And in that city's gorgeous palaces
He sought the Moon's more heavenly House to dwell!
For there his longing for the Day-King's daughter
Dreamed that the Worlds great harmony would fill.
There, in the light of the pure evening stars,
He sat by the clear waters of the West,
He sat him down upon
======================================== SAMPLE 249 ========================================
 you a
desert.
You go home in a night-time and I've seen you
giddy.
You go to sleep in the night when the fever breeds
you,
and I've seen you stand on your knees in the shadow of the
van,
When the black shadows of night are round you and I
stand at the door,
And you talk to the men about my bed and it's
I keep my bed and I sit down the night
in the moon.
The night seems to come and the stars look out, as
I walk down the lane.
And the leaves drop down from the trees in the
nodded rain.
And some one says, "Poor fellow!  It's not this
that's he!"
This is the place and this is my bed where you
take your rest.
To the right, the left, and the wrong is there, with
the wrong and the wrong
And it's Oh for a heart like mine to beat, and it's
even for a child!
To the left, where the black shadows of night are
spreading to-night
In the damps on the blind and the drips on the sill and
the sight is a-shin'
That's the place where my bed's to rest and my bed's
not empty!
You go out in the glo'mon and away in the scrub and
the mire;
You go out with never a drap for the sleepin'
sore in the fire.
Oh, I'm sleepin' deep in the rain and in the quench
of the ground,
But you are a liar and you're none of the
rest in the round.
Oh, you go out in the night and you're sick at the
stairs by the stove;
You go out alone and the world is your own wherever
you are stokin'!
There's the black, you there are the curs and you're
dead in the mire,
And you haven't the bones of the wicked poor
folks that went with you
In the quiet days of the long ago, in the quiet
days of the idle day,
And it's O for the heartless days of the weary day
of the idle day!
The house is waiting for me, but the door is shut
I look in the face of the mire and I hear his
moans and his cry;
For I hear his low and deplored tread, and my
weary heart is bowed
And I fain would sleep in the quiet night with
My master to rest is calling, and I know I shall
sleep no more.
The kitchen is waiting for me, but the fire is
gnisA"ze;
I am hungry for food and you are thin and
silken, O.
The old man has gone where the sparks in the chimney
flying,
With his wife and daughter gathering the threads for me
a-flying;
The children gather in closest of duty and
sorrow are there,
And you, my master, your cheeks are cold, and you
retire in the chair!
The fire is low and the wind is high, and firs
blaze apart,
And the shadows grow by the tall-toothed fireplace,
and the snowflakes bend
In the corner where is a seat for a
boy to rest.
The shadows grow broader and swifter and
more abrupt
The fire glimmers out in the smouldering ash
and darkens the room,
And it looks as if some one were in a hurry to
obey the gloom!
The room is bare of the embers and the sparks;
the night steals on
With a gust of sound from a foot-fall near the flame.
It is damp and it is not cold, and a dull silence
the tone
Of the voice is lost in the room where the room
knocks one to one.
I say with a prayer that was not a word, I say with
a sigh,
Why has my master gone through the doors that
beams out on me?
Why does he come through the bars, and on through
the doors of my heart,
And on through the windows the sound of his
finger-tips to me?
All day long he has sought me, but I have not
seen him through the door;
To-morrow I may forgive him, but let him remember,
and when he looks back
He will never know how I suffered, he knows
I could never tell him no more.
The room is empty before him, the lamp is burning
low,
We two shall go to him never, but I know he is
dead, and I must stay
Rather a little longer, in the wretchedness and
======================================== SAMPLE 250 ========================================
, R. H.
As I rode in the cane-brake,
The road I saw of a woman
Was grey with dust and bone;
And I thought of a woman that lived by herself,
But the thought of the thought of her vanished and fled:
There was only a glimpse of the sunset sky
In my riding a donkey stopped;
The dog in my harness was snorting
His tail to the back of his neck.
The moon on the hill was bed-churned
As I went in the cane-brake,
And I fancied that she would tell me
The road that I thought to take.
Through scenes of umptany hollow,
Of green in the wind and the rain,
I could glimpse the roofs of the villa
And the sky where the elm-trees were plain.
The moon was bed-churned for me.
There were many windows, at twilight,
That would give out a ghost to me.
I fancied a woman that lived by herself,
But the thought of the thought of her vanished and fled:
I could not see her--my life turned out
Like a wing that has thumped the dead.
My friend and my comrade, my brother and sir,
It has gone from us, gone from us;
I can see the smoke of the bitter cigar
That glowed in the midnight raw.
I've seen the black fog hanging over the hill,
And my friend and I've seen the moon,
And the river asleep on its peaceful breast,
As though it had passed from the noon.
But the thought of the woman has rolled like a stone,
And I've seen the dead man stand,
And the shadow that dropped from the crumbling wall
Shall lift me to face the land.
He went for a hundred and fifty years
To the land where his lady-love lay;
The tears came into his eyelids, they fell
On his eyelids like pearls away.
But his heart it ripened, and all his cheer
Was turned away in the West,
With a wonderful, wonderful yearning,
For the place where his lady-love lay.
And I know that he passed with never a word,
Till the shadow of twilight fell,
On the moon-dappeled hill, at the midnight hour,
In the clamor around the cell.
I am weary and sad...
The world is too lonely
To give where I'm not.
The time-stilled measure
Of time and pleasure,
Ere the dead man came,
To give her what she
Had earned in another place on the earth,
And the place with her soul in it,
I know would be sweet...
But I'm weary and sad...
The world is too lonely.
It was one in my heart while my love lay with me...
One with me in my sleep when my love lay with me,
When my love lay at rest within my arms for me,
Oh, she was sweet then... but I was sad then...
Oh, she was sad then... but I am glad now...
I shall forget her then... but I am glad now--
It was only a dream that woke my soul to reason
When I saw my love at the end of her eyes.
A poet was singing in France,
A painter was painting in France,
A painter was blazoning stamps,
A poet was painting in France;
A poet was painting in Spain;
A poet was he at the ass's tail,
And he wrote in the name of his pen.
The painter was he who could draw the light
From the fire of his brain that he felt;
The painter was he who durst sing in sight
When music swept out of his soul.
The poet was he who durst paint in awe
The beauty of Greece and her lyre,
And saw in their eyes, as a breath of new morn,
The beauty of love that was fire.
"Oh, where is the painter?" the bard said.
"He draws clear here just for his breath;
A poet is he who can draw as he can
With a song and a hope to the death?"
A painter was he who could draw as he can
The light of all truth that was truth;
A poet was he who could draw as he can
With a song and a hope to the death.
It was in the years gone by
The poet sung of the year,
The poets now were the masters
Who wrought the colors here;
And each was his friend and pupil,
And each, in the same old way,
For each had his violin fitted
To fit the name for his play.
But the fools who went with the painter
When his artist was dead
======================================== SAMPLE 251 ========================================
.
I will arise and go--
To the top of the mountain-cave
And there I shall dig for me.
I will dig no more to-day
Until I see the sunlight on the shore;
Then my eager heart I'll tell
To the man who came from the farther sea,
That there is a path that leads
To the place where God Himself is safe
From the meddlesome thral.
He is not so fleet as fleet can be--
One may not stay his feet.
He must go where stars are bright--
Wherever He passes, never be weary.
He must travel one's own way
In an age of faithfulness;
And the strength of faith shall pass
Before he is wholly healed.
There is a path, and He will find
Just the path to the farther shore.
There is a path where the false Shechin
May lie as the old plain swine should:
When they know that the coming night
Will hide them from their longing
I'd say--"There has come a day
That shall bring you all the glad!"
Till I, too, have learned that there is one
Will watch the stars as they go on.
There was an angel whose singing
Made my heart dance with the lave
Of the waves of human feeling,
Of love and of longing;
For love which is life's true
And leads up and down and down
Will show them it is God's own crown.
And there we shall play and rest
For a little while and a little span;
And then, when the day is past,
With the world begun to win and see,
We shall miss the smile and the kiss
Of the angel that comes and sees
All the wonders the heart will send.
I shall stretch my arms to the sky
All day long of the earth to keep,
For I have but a single eye
To be watch for the last hours of sleep.
I shall open my arms to the sea,
And I shall set my feet in rest;
For each one whom God holds true
Whither the wings of the spirit fare.
I shall go where waves make way
At the first sun of day,
And I shall stand by a shining track
Whose light you will see in its coming back.
It shall shine where the trees are bare
When my wings shall fall in the morning light,
And where the grasses they grow are fair,
And where I shall find me by night.
The little birds are glad of me
All day, all day shall sing:
"Make room, make room, O little One,
And build thee a crown of spring!"
Now it is winter. But I do not know
The long bright autumn days that shall be mine;
Sun shining in my window, and the dew
Drenching my wings. But I have a rhyme to twine
Round my dear raiment; and my gown, well wrought,
Waits on my lips to fold it; and I read
The whole broad page--_Goodness and Goodness ahead_.
How I can thank thee, little Sun, thy beams
Cast on a pleasant summer time of June;
And I can think of the bright summer days,
That made thee happy, as the birds of spring
Their April way from earth, forgetting thee.
To thee the flowers that, hidden under trees,
Gently and gently lift their heads and play
On the warm meadows of thy bridal hour.
The drowsy rain-drops, like a silver shower,
Fall softly o'er the grass and disappear;
And where the sunbeams float upon the sea
The white-winged clouds lean down to meet thee there.
I cannot read the raiment and the flowers,
But I can see them through thine open door.
I cannot hear thy whispered cry and call,
But I do not feel it; yet, O wind, thou art
The only music through my heart of hearts.
I never knew thee, little rain, or time,
Or anything not heard thee when I was
A child, a little child, a violet.
I did not know thee, and I feel thee still.
I cannot see thee; yet I know thee still.
The night is dull, little rain; and thine
Is the great ocean and the pale white ships
That sail before it, scarcely seen in space.
Thy rinds are all of them; and thou--thou
Breathest them in my heart, and do they speak?
I do not feel thee; yet thy voice is low
And sweet, and low, and pure, and low and sweet,
And far and faint, and musical, and sweet.
I know it is the
======================================== SAMPLE 252 ========================================
.  This simile is taken from the third book of
Canto XVIII. The Giants are described as having, for instance,
as being drawn by the Romans against the French and Italian,
at the time of their landing-place.
CANTO XVIV. Ante-Purgatory.--The Stairways.--Prophecy of
CANTO XVI. Ante-Purgatory.--Discourse of Statius on the Redeemer
O XXVII. Sixth Circle: fourth pit: Traitors.
CANTO XXVIII. Fourth pit: Simonides.
cherished by the blessed at their wits.
CANTO XXIX. Ante-Purgatory.--Physicsinspired by the magicians
to obtain fame and renown.  This is the first pit: of all
ones since that time the first pit is not mentioned.
CANTO XXIX. Sixth Circle: Fifth pit: Simonides.
CANTO XXIX. Ante-Purgatory.--Prophecy of the Princes and sons.
CANTO XXIX. Eighth Circle: fifth pit: Antinomaea.--
Charybdis Bell. tenth pit: ninth pit: Simonides.
CANTO XXIX. Eighth Circle: fifth pit: Human spirits.
CANTO XXV. Eighth Circle: seventh pit: in Simon halted.
If any be t'wards you, ye may make excuse;
If any that be come a-yein, it be well done;
If 'tis not for the world, then unto that be in haste.
CANTO XX. Eighth Circle. Escape from the fifth pit.--The sixth
CANTO XXVI. Eighth Circle. The poets climb from the sixth
To the sixth pit.--Geri del Bello.--The glory of the Blessed,
Stand still for ever, and that company will keep
Their holy rapture; for these souls benedight
Have lost, and I to myself am left alone,
With this sweet weeping. Dream ye not of other change,
Which oftentimes restoreth then, but rather
Shall set them weeping.
CANTO XXVII. Eighth Circle: seventh pit: the company of the damned.--
Of those who have no eyes, and pass not out of hearing,
They, who, through cowardice and through penury,
Are stolen and wasted, are therefore wrapt in woe,
Who through dishonour are, and have no mind to watch,
And by their folly are thus struck with sloth,
That they lament for no lost soul, but like
To scour a land and then for ever scape.
There are in this a folk who, for the love of living,
abode; and they that other folk are making,
Because the wicked one with evil diet
Beneath the earth, is moved by new device,
Because the souls of other are secure,
Through evil will, because of the desire to see.
All this together with modest justice mind,
Which to itself, and to the others, good, etc.
But in the servants' art is never wanting,
So that no harm proceeds from it to tear them;
For every soul has in itself some colour,
Which is becoming dark or dusky black.
'Tis so the sun through middle heaven goes
From his cold course, but in the realms of light
It perishes, when that is quite extinct;
For, as if out of chaos there had been,
So Mars from heaven would vanish from his light.
CANTO XXIX. Eighth Circle: ninth pit: the souls of the damned.--
Of those who have no eyes, and pass not out of sight.
Do ye believe me these the souls of those,
That clad themselves in splendour with the shape
Of goodness, and in that with which they are furnished?
If ye yourselves can make unto the light,
Wholly ye must endure it, if neglect
Or pillows make you worthy to be loved.
These I reprove you, and to you commit
Myself to everlasting torment,
And unto those who on their sin have justly borne
Degrees of lasting pardon for transgressions
From God, who absolves them of their oaths.
To you in truth I need not now be clear,
Nor for your wilfulness or infamy,
Let this suffice to give what I receive;
God and the Angels have deserved your sin.
Of wicked deeds against the flesh of men
Long as they were they do them justice turns
To cleansing, though in their defect they be.
Therefore, when ye have cleansing reached the sum
Of goodness, ye excellently heal the same.
The will of God, which is the making of men,
Borrowing and bowing
======================================== SAMPLE 253 ========================================
, who, when the Sun, that fills it
over Sodom and Gomorrah, had descended into Hell.  He the
doom of Babylon over the Sultanate, who beheld his ruined
home, and bethought him of the vengeance that befell Sodom and Gomorrah
and Gomorrah, and because he lamented because he had paid the
goad of the Prophet, when he went into Canaan.  After that, he
gave thanks to the Eternal Power that such an act had been
grievous to the afflicted men, that they be no longer in
heart and head, but in the mind of God, to give them peace in
that region where the punishment took place.  As regards the
spirits, when the heart is broken, such as remember the unhappy
spirits, there was not a single one in that region but was, in
years, keen as the darting of a dart, to take the doom of
murder.  For if truth had not come down to the multitude, and
had avoided death and been slain, as were the heads of the
headless throng of sepulchres, the hostile armies would have
been abandoned, and the multitude, as was due, would have fallen
forever in calamities beyond their time.  One would almost
look towards the west, and note the heavy cloudlets rolling
faintly on the mountains, and note the deep thunder falling thereon
with a crash resounding.
A whirlwind swept over the broad earth, and smote the lands
confusion, to be abandoned on a mountain; and the wind, in
painting his flanks, tossed them backwards and forwards on
puff-puff-puff; whilst they, as a wave would drop a torrent
in its wrath, bore the remains of the cities downward, and
that people then might know, at last, how they were gone.  The
people watched upon the mountain while they sat conversing, not
at all the people; but the ancient people of the city, in a
tranquillity with the thoughts of God, and with reverential
methe, all received noble hospitality.  All were pleased, and
though Enoch were still alive, not one of them would forget Enoch
almost sooner.  The other souls were lost.  Among them was
the family of the king of Aragon, and there were two sons of
Robert, who, as were the two patriarchs, divided the heritage
of the king into two families, under a ban, over the care of
Henry VIII., and Henry VIII.  The other three were orphans to
Lancaster, and in England.  After these there were two
children.  Their father was rich and numberless, one to east,
and winter snow.  Their father was near the time when the
kingdom of Jerusalem, and in wealth and quiet found them
sun.  Their day was one of those of winter, which leaves but a
low light behind them; and so they were made part of the country,
making a rich heritage; but it is often known that a poor and
wintry time was drawing near so rapidly.  They were ignorant of
the bounty of God, who gives us His blessing before the world
has changed to depravity:  God alone knows which were most
jealous to lead them on to misery.  God abhors all human
kindness, and, after the common cry for help, needs must abase
their hearts at His mercy.  The number of the years which are
abundant since the time of Henry, and the years since God
sent that punishment to them on their way, has been known both
through all the world and in truth; but I shall go on before
you to your trial and prove the truth.  There is more to be
told by the Hebrews as being foretold by the elders of the
Creod.  I will introduce a truth here only to you.  Hope
that your majesty may see this book published by himself, and
that he may prove it in the light of God; and that he may be
more sure to bring it to light, and to give to the earth
its harmony.  From the time that Is this book, it is the
author's property to choose.  It was neither lawful nor unjust,
but it was likely he should have known it before he knew it
for his own part, that this work of his hand was to print you
at this time at my hands; and that you may be sure to have a
true health before it."
He was a sensible man, and he said it to himself; for the
present state of his condition was immense.  In his presence
he was the only proof, that his majesty had assumed
======================================== SAMPLE 254 ========================================
,
To the best of the rabble and corrupt,
Is the spirit of Liberty, with which
The world is in tremble and agony cursed.
But the soul of the innocent is aware;
It will rise once more in its sacred air,
And strike again if it strike through her hair.
Then the soul of the powerful is aware.
The soul of the powerful is aware.
It can gaze on the face of the Deity,
Or the brow of the sage who looks out as the soul of the great;
It can drink deep the blood of the sacred is there,
And keep safe without the impure eyes of God,
The insatiate craving for sight of all.
If it should come from the star-circled sphere,
The eye which has seen from the Deity
Must see it.
It will follow the path, and lead it to God.
How long, O Lord! can the life that we lead?
The heart of the strong is the soul of the brave.
And thou, O my God! know I know that thou art
That strong to the end, and great to the grave.
The life that is highest in Truth is the word
Of the terrible Truth, "Life is the word."
O God! give us faith in the days of thy might,
As we lead it on high to the height,
And forgive from thy scorn the temptation of might,
O God! give us hope in the days of thy might.
The man that hath wrought from his soul shall not see;
He may enter thine arms, Lord, and be free.
The man that hath wrought from his soul shall not see;
He may enter thy presence, and be free.
O God! give us hope in the days of thy might,
As we lead it on high to the height,
And forgive from thy greatness the evil of might,
O God! give us trust in thy might.
Till once, when it dawns, and is still,
And is born, and is born anew,
And the spirit of man shall set forth
A new light in sun and in dew,
No matter how hard it is prove,
And the hand of the foe shall untwist,
And the blade of the foeman shall rust
Like grass in the wind that is move;
And the spear of the battle shall rust
Like leaves in the dust above;
And the voice of the foe shall be still,
Through the sound of the trumpet of strife;
And the deeds of the fathers of Life,
Like leaves on a battle of life,
Shall rust on the graves of the dead,
And flutter as leaves on the bier,
And fall--never waver, for we have seen--
The graves of the ages of strife;
And the blood that flows never for bread,
And the heart of the dead, and the dead;
And the hearts that are stanched for the rest,
With the fangs of the serpent and snake,
Shall have strength to arise for the fight,
And to set free the spirit from death,
And set free the heaven from its grave.
And the mightiest souls of the sons of the free,
Whose palms have a language for speech,
Shall chant the grand song of the great
To the God that is father to man;
And the song of the great shall be heard.
And the God of the living shall sing
For their children, for sun and for star,
The song of the wonderful birth,
Which gives--as it were--peace and good--
The unfolding of knowledge afar,
And the birth-land of freedom to man.
But the song of the beautiful land;
The land of the terrible dead;
Of the better, the better, the best;
And the song of the grand old song,
The songs that were heard not of old,
When, a moment, the dream was begot;
In the land of the brave and the bold--
The land of the nobly and brave--
With the freedom of life through all lands,
And the strength of the land that is yours,
And our own in the might of the brave.
And the song of the wonderful land;
The land of the free and the free;
And the song of the wonderful song;
And your life shall have joy and in pain,
In the land of the brave and the brave;
The melody of life shall be heard;
For the day and the night will have birth,
And for joy and delight, in the birth
Of the people of earth--there are all
The sons of the brave and the brave,
Who have served God and are free!
The night is dark, but I hear her breath!
All
======================================== SAMPLE 255 ========================================
: _Vergil_, _vergil_, _verily_.
When all the children are asleep,
And the soft, dim fragrant air
Comes laden with the scent of flowers
The mother of the tender hours,
The violet in the bosom weaves,
The little flower that lives in Spring,
And the first dewdrop in the bud,
The dewdrop from the bosom flings
Its delicate petals in the sky,
Ready to fall, as the dews fall,
Falling on the bank of brooks,
Till the bees hum with a warm clang
Through the clumps of woods and rocks.
Then comes the cowslip, white and red,
Spreading in her florid rings
Its delicate and golden blooms,
Like the tassels of a moth,
Or the breath of mountain-fowl
To speed our winter queen.
A blue and ruby sky,
Like a burnished sun at eve,
Spreading in the western sky
Sweet purple whiffs of light.
And when the first-born brooks are fed,
And the brook in the meadows lies,
The children sleep
Deep in the woody depths of sleep.
Then come the cowslip, white and red,
Spreading in her florid rings
The crimson of her cheeks,
The maiden of the early hours,
Whose breast with its mirthful plumes
Hath the first nestlings of the brooks.
Then come the cowslip, white and red,
Trimming with red the rosy sky,
The herald of the early hours,
Who comes, like a king, to die.
He comes with a sword, with gold,
And the moon hangs over the wood,
And on the hill-top, on the height,
The wood-winds whisper with delight.
He comes with the wind, with the gale,
And the night hangs over the town,
He shakes the willows on the trees,
And they rustle and rustble and moan.
He comes on the wind, with the call
Of the nightingale in his throat,
And the night falls over the ground,
And the night falls over the town.
He comes through the wind, with the light,
And the Night hangs over the town,
And the trees lean down to the stars,
The mother of the growing corn,
The sire of all the golden corn,
The dear little tender heart
Of the little tender head,
Laid low on her breast, for rest
Too deep for words to speak,
For the song
Of the little tender head,
And so,
With the night and its darkness and its dreariness,
It stands up like the high Dream which He wears
In his arms out to a world that's far away,
In whose face no cloud hath ever looked or shown,
A word of the syllable like the sound
He breathes from the heart of the little tired soul.
For he sits by the River and hears the winds
Call his own name from the little sleeping rivers,
And he marks the starry Spouting of the Night,
And he marks his sisters' names and home-spannances,
And he marks the lonely star the night and the day.
And he sees the wind in the maiden's cheek,
He he sees her breath of flowers that are hers;
And he hears a voice that tells of life and love
And the little dreams of things that lie
In the sleeping woods of the little hills.
From the river's bank in the little stream,
From the whin among the pine-trees gray,
He sees the stars, a sky of blue,
And the laughing stars around him,
As he journeys through the twilight
Through the twilight to those lonely places,
Where no night-bird ever croons or chaunting
A happy song to children's faces.
And the silence, and the peace, and the silence
And the silence and the peace of night,
And the silence and the silence and the silence
And the silence and the silence and the silence,
And the silence and the silence and the silence
And the silence and the silence reigning
In a kingdom of the calm and silent sky.
And over him the shadow of death's shadow
Is pitiless. There is no light on earth,
The darkness and the shadow of death grow dark,
And the night-winds moan,
And the night falls from the hills,
And the silence and the shadow, and the silence,
And the tumult and the silence and the silence
And the silence and the darkness and the silence.
The snow steals down the mountain like a mantle,
Like an emerald, on
======================================== SAMPLE 256 ========================================
, A.D., 31.
Baron's Head-stones. A Tale of the Man in the Spring.
Cunningham's Twelfth Night. A Tale of a Hallowe'en.
carnage. An Indian tale of a Hallowe'en.
Cheruck's Waldes. A Tale of a Hallowe'en.
"Behold! the mighty Gheber is come!"
In the first canto of "The Knight of the Day."
Copenhope, a Passer-by-Chancellor (via-wisen).
Crow comes to Blackford with a Poem.
Cobbler's Calroll
Milton was born at Dublin in 1750, at Viscount Morley, in
The Bald-headed Alps
Crowns are on every side, the mountains
Tom Thapson's (frosty, wither-strewn).
White-headed Finns are past the Poppies,
Grey-eyed Susans are good at sea.
Sang: "Methinks, I once was quite upon my way from London to
Cobbler's Calroll
Cobbler's Calroll
The old dog's grey head (it was a big one).
Higgledy, piggledy, piggledy, piggledy!
"The wind goes blowing up the sea,"
Cobbler's Calroll
The Queen of Hearts
The Queen of Hearts is the Queen of Hearts, mistress of "the sea,"
Cobbler's Calroll
The Queen is the Queen of Hearts, mistress of "the sea,"
The Queen is the Queen of Hearts, mistress of "the sea,"
The Queen is the Queen of Hearts, mistress of "the sea,"
The Queen is the Queen of Hearts, mistress of "the sea,"
The Queen is the Queen of Hearts, mistress of "the sea,"
The Queen is the Queen of Hearts, mistress of "the sea,"
The Queen is the Queen of Hearts, mistress of "the sea,"
The Queen is the Queen of Hearts, mistress of "the sea,"
The Queen is the Queen of Hearts, mistress of "the sea,"
The Queen is the Queen of Hearts, mistress of "the sea,"
Witch-a-cake Straight
Come, sweet maids, and trip it
Away, away, away;
To market, to market, to buy a fat pig;
A pretty girl present,
A plain foot is longest;
If the bas-ter's as black as your hat,
Yet who would not eat it
A pig and a cat
Bees burnt in the street,
Mice about on a quarter of ground.
Bees in the street.
Crowsy, cow-sy, no sun going down.
Two legs sat upon two legs,
All on a side;
On the top of his head,
And two toes ended.
A wise old soul was he;
With an acorn in his cap
He tossed it about.
If two legs will win
Three of us here,
We'll make him a nut,
 baked in the street.
Half a crown
To keep from his head,
And half a crown
To keep from his feet;
If the skin be black,
Let it stay in the mouth
The Devil said,
"What ails you, a maid?
You bet her you'll find
If the sack be in hand
Half a pound!"
Then a pig ran upon his toes;
Doves put in their mouth,
Crows and geese came and he burnt his nose.
Doves beat their noses;
The ground was all red
With the strawberries on his head.
Who has the house by the Ho?
I have never done so.
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating of curds and whey;
There I met an old man
At an age,
Who had fifty children,
And they didn't know him;
He wore them in his cap
Swinging up high;
And he looked twice at the top,
And said, "What a pity
That old man should have a daughter!"
Sat in a tuffet,
Eating of curds and whey;
There he threw some breads
On both his hands;
But the platter was eat,
And it turned out all brown;
And there sat a young man all night.
Sat in a tuffet,
Eating of curds and whey;
There he threw some breads
On both his hands;
But the platter was eat,
And it turned all brown;
And there sat a young man all night.
Sit in a tuffet,
Eating of curds and
======================================== SAMPLE 257 ========================================
, _B_.
{ Basswyl,} {omicron,} [Greek text. See "To "dramatic," i.ab.
{Martin}, =By Athenaeus}, i. acciung, | by Homer, ii. 15.
{hell. Rois,} &c.
{See also p. 26 in the "Ode to the Skyl," iii.
{P. 26,} where the "arte" is not written, but "cried".
{Pisg. See "Love's Poll, and Plan," i.e., "poetic esteem," i.e.,
{Pilgrim's Progress}, i.e., Socrates, i.
{Pilgrim's Progress}, xv.
"So much for the ease I have with thee,
And so much good company at hand,
Why, then, thou fain wouldst read, with me,
Thy poems, or thy works, or the like,
Which I do love so much to see,
And love them more then can I write;
Or love to hear the praise of Art,
And so admire the gifts of Art."
"In after time most truly, Mr. Wordsworth, he was, as it were,
tried to illustrate the extraordinary beauties of the books, in
which he read most of them in _Aunt Judy's Madam Figgers_. His
"Just as lame sure the pheasant must be,
When in the air his limbs are used,
By the sweet food he kindly takes,
Which is the word he ought to make,
Whence he perforce must use his wings,
His body or his plumage strong,
Who, for his use, his purse can hold
When he in durance keeps the field:
But nought at all those glittering things,
That have more life, more heavenly springs,
So fine is his poetic wit,
That all his life in easy style
From his excels he did collect,
And only used some slight respect:
The love of living in a line,
And all his work his praise combine,
Which he at once inspires to shine
And warm his gen'rous bosom's fire,
He loves the dainty rush of Fame
And her triumphal funerals,
Which he in his own language dares
Record his triumphal bard;
This shows him how, like things that are,
He hath his darling, in his care,
Drawn from his high estate, and where,
In simple verse of metre, he
Adds sweetness to the sweetest breath,
Which he inspir'd to hear and see,
And, at those times so fair and fair,
Makes his own city more his own,
And his own virtues are his own.
But he will make a poem of himself;
In poets may be most akin
To that whom we all read of in _Ortymed_,
Or him, who did his charge regard;
But this we know, that he perforce
Has play'd the manliest parts of talk,
And he should give most often forth,
At a lecture, to an honest speech.
But such as he is, we could well see
Bold works by him are play'd by thee,
For he doth truly play with skill,
And with a courage high and deep,
And an undaunted heart, and then
We wish him not, if he hath men,
But only those that have a sense
Of humour, and to hear and see,
That his skill hath so well become
As he can look to more than aught;
And his conceits, from fools and sages,
Whatever he with great men doth own,
To be like thee he is alone.
Thus he himself, that nought could aid
His poet-versing, though disdained,
Did on those holy streams relies,
And in the poet's language stands,
And with his master takes his hands,
And speaks with him familiarly:--
"Now let no idick, sabbath-day,
Like a sick man with fever ill,
Give up to breathing-while he pray,
And turn our wits from ill to good,
And let that purest blood, each morn,
And every night-blest scene of care,
From out the sweet entranced sphere,
Rise to the full up in his praise;
And while he makes himself of art,
Aye, without setting it aside,
His works can ne'er be put to rout,
And whensoever he plays hide.
He says, that in their proper bounds
And skilful cullings are like praise;
That in his word there's n
======================================== SAMPLE 258 ========================================
, and a
propriety.
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?  The theme of the poem is:
What is the theme of the poem?
What is the theme of the poem?
What has the theme of the poem?
What can the theme have of the poem?
Who is the theme of the poem?
Who is the theme of the poem?
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
Hark! hark! the choristers cry,
The bells they bray, the bells they blay!
And hark, hark hark hark hark hark--hark hark hark hark--haeful hark!
The song of the poet is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
The theme of the poem is:
Love mourns for the dead,
And Love mourns for the dead,
And Love mourns for the dead,
_Chor._ If the reeds wave,
And the reeds wave,
If the reeds sigh,
Why is it that love sighs for the fair,
And the reeds sigh for the lovely,
That loves and loves and loves not lovers?
Ah! if no sweeter lute with Harp strung
Fills the soft night and dew, than the soft morning,
Nor notes of dulcet harp have charm'd,
Be it for love or beauty, what bliss,
What wrong to you, what right to you?
Since love is without aim, love without end,
And without blame in after-times divorce,
For having once your lips and face,
If e'er you speak the word, speak it again:
For if a hundred tapers more,
If a thousand more have light,
Where is the heart that loves, loves more
Than all man's lays and all his art,
If e'er you speak the word, speak it again?
You speak the word--the mask you wear,
But speak it out, if that you can,
With looks, with gestures, and with prayers,
And with your soul's deep voice,
You speak it out, with soft assonance,
With low-hung kisses, with low-hung presage,
With half-hung thought your lips, with the low word,
You speak, with the brown syllable,
You speak and say, with the pallid brow,
"_Love for Love is as wind in the cochine,_
_Love is the leaf of life, my dear,_
_And the root is on the hawthorn tree_.
Love is for nought else, my dear,_
_Love is God in love, my Jean._
Love to your heart my love hath brought,
For lo! my life lays bare its thought--
Love, for your eyes were wet with dew,
For your lips and lips and hair and morn,
For all the dew that in them lies,
Love hath made green in April's skies.
Love on the dewy wing came up
And on my neck my arm I flung,
I feel his lips to part and tryst
And all day long I lay me down,
And know the pain and pain I've had
And moan in secret half an hour,
For love hath made me half afraid
Of love and love's unspeakable hour,
And I myself can scarce forbear
While my love bleeds aloud with pride--
For we, who walk into the mire
Of the windy lanes of death, must tire
And scarce dare once again to plod
Buses and plod again with love.
When we might bend above the brink
Of the wild stream
======================================== SAMPLE 259 ========================================
.
There are no more to say.
There are no more to say.
The road's a road
That neither saw nor heard,
And neither saw nor dreamed,
Nor heard nor dreamed.
Where the world is wide,
I shall either stop or stand
In the great and evil Hand
There's a hill that I know,
And the hill's a hill
That's nearly as full as a side of a wood.
There's a wood that I know,
And a hill that I know,
And the hill's a hill
That's as full as a yard or a yard.
There's a hill that I know,
And it's far as a little head off the hill.
There's a wood that I know,
And it's far as a little head off the hill.
There's a hill that I know,
And it's far as a little head off the hill.
There's a hill that I know,
And it's far as a little head off the hill.
The road's all very cool
And the hill's the very sky.
There's a hill that I know,
And it's far as a little head off the hill.
And it's far as a little head off the hill.
What is a woman's way?
In a quiet woman's way,
Not as you see in a book that's printed down?
Her days are all the same, the same
I keep them and I keep them apart.
She knows no other way;
The sun comes sometimes up to see
A little woman in a tree,
Who thinks I am a woman yet,
And looks down at me and smiles.
Her ways are always pushed aside,
And sometimes when I shake her pride,
She pats me for my easy pride,
And says she's not obliged at all
To wait so long as all the rest.
I know I like the hills, the sky,
For there's a longing in them made,
And for my own love's eyes and hair
They want my eyes and nothing more.
I know I like them all, the sky,
The hills, the sky alone;
I have a wish that the sun and you
May meet as friends on the hill.
There's a longing in the man
That I must choose to win,
And for my own love's sake who can,
I must make ready for the fray
And win my own sweet day,
Or else won't fit the night that's sent
By a coming year or two
To make her choose the spot where she
Will sit and rest her head on it.
There are no gains in my plan;
I know she needs me for a wife,
Or else I won't.
There is no death,
However, in the days that's dead,
Shall be my last abode,
My crown and glory and my own,
If I shall find my life,
To have what angels give,
And keep her to my side.
I shall not ask for earthly bliss,
I shall not feel it; I shall count my gain
In vain the joy that soothes my soul; it's past,
Its morn of life; yet if I win, at last,
Just to my work in my old ways, to-day
I shall be happy where there's nonpareil
A single pence of my existence are.
I shall behold you in my dreams afar
Couched on remote and melancholy hills,
And I shall see you in my dreams afar
In some sweet garden long forgotten, aye
And in the dreams of distant golden days.
I shall not ask for life without a word,
If human love have written in my heart
What all our joys are in, or all our days:
For life is like a mirror where we see
The azure mystery of the mystic sea.
I shall not see the beauty of the waves,
But, in each change that spirit meets with soul,
Will in that mirror find the lost I love,
And pass the shores of thought beyond the goal.
I shall not be called to the fair world of friends
Who love all things and part in all things fair,
And make our language holy with a kiss
That heals the wound, and saves the lives from strife.
I shall not see the sunset on the sea,
Nor the moon's face in the cloudless sky above,
But I shall read the meaning of each rhyme
By the last book we written in the world.
I shall not see the glories of the night
Nor the great deeds we dreamt of in our dreams,
But I shall read the meaning of each rhyme,
And read the meaning of each lyric gleam.
I shall not hear the secrets
======================================== SAMPLE 260 ========================================
's, and other
Haskets.                                   _Of the Past there
is nothing but the shadow of the Future;
Not what is nothing, wholly or infinitely,--
What, though you carry with you tragedies and plagues?--
And what are those you dream of?--Only shows you
What all things mean--the knowledge which all men
Share in, and take with you their origin.
For, what are all these secrets?--Only shows
The ultimate and certain Mystery
Which all things know, but only draws and kills.
You are too sad to dream of--that is why
You would forget it; for, unlike a man,
Life has enough of loneliness and strife
To vex his soul: life knows so little of,
That where it is is happiness is life!
Then, after all, you have the secret fault
Of seeing, seeing, not how many deaths
We still commit, but not how many sinks,
Yet are called crawling through a mesh of gyves
Which to the past's entombing gates, we were
Bereft enough to make it: death, at first,
With an enormous hatred that pursued,
As with an instinct tamed, and a black fear
Haunting the soul.  We were apart,--my sins
Bellow'd within us; and I came, and said,
Seeing death was my scheme, and I believed
I was not worthy of the hate of war
Or the black terror of the world's revenge
Or the thick darkness of the sea, I felt
My limbs were whole, and when I thought that then
Death had a sense of strength, and I became
Alive in weakness, with no fear of war,
And scarcely dared to dream I was forgiven,
And never loved again, and never wept!
I think that now I am reproach'd of sleep,--
But sleep, and sleep, and sleep, and sleep, and sleep.'
O night, and silence were the stars.  I look'd
Upon the lovely landscape, and beheld
The hills and valley, and my soul was fill'd
With the bright flush of youth.  I watch'd and thought
Of some long vanished day to come;--I saw
The eastern hills, the west, the world, the west,
And the last light on the mountains, and the dawn
Of life;--and then I sigh'd again and knew
My home, and then a pensive sense of peace
And unanchor'd fever, and I knew and felt
That I was number'd with the dead, and slept!
Then, suddenly, from the remotest slope
Of an old bush I saw the distant sound
Of rushing waters, and a distant group
Of sleeping men, and beasts, and the dark hush
As with an awful whisper thro' the bush.
And I beheld the moon sink o'er the deep,
Like a slow river o'er an island float,
In the dark waves of night, in the dark stream,
Where never human footstep trifled there!
I look'd, and, as I pass'd, I saw the moon
Sink, as a vessel slowly moving down
'Mid tangled trees, along a sandy plain,
All gliding down, as 'twere a dream, into
The broad and silent wilderness, whose black,
Swoln mists arise from the dark waves, that lie
Weaving and twisting 'twixt those ocean shells,
So still and lonely, far above the reach
Of the still ocean,--and so lonely too!
One night, by the still lake, my truant bark
Sailed o'er those sparkling billows, and I saw
The long-sought land that grew from distant cliffs,
And hills that sent their light from the west's end,
And valleys, slowly creeping,--all was still.
And now, far off, the distance into which
The stars had fled,--by the lone watch-tower form'd
Of the lone gull, that watching from the rock
His young and happy watches, when he came
From yonder forest wild and darkling woods,
'Mid those huge boughs, and all the nodding vines,
And bushes with their broad shafts, I beheld
A scene of shadows and of phantom forms,
Like ghostly shapes, that moved along the waste,
And moved, and whisper'd faint and faint, 'Come, come!'--
And I beheld the forest solitary,
That seem'd to breathe a whisper, and a sigh,
Like the dead sea, all mingled in the ghost
Of some old fairy
======================================== SAMPLE 261 ========================================

An old song by a maid
As I gazed on the dead
And the song that I made,
And the song that I played.
Then I heard a clang and clash,
A sharp shrill bodiff clash,
And I knew that the end was near
And the sun went down the slope
And the moon came up the slope
And the birds flew over the dome,
And I saw a strange grim form
Standing there, and the moon
And the owl flew over the dome,
And the owl flew over the town,
And the owl flew over the moon,
And the owl flew over the moon,
And the owl flew over the moon,
And the owl flew over the moon,
And the owl flew over the moon.
I had a dove that lived in a fair Abbey-lodge,
And my bird was a knight that looked after a squint or two;
I sat under a stone, and the moon was above me two.
Three fishers went sailing away to the east,
Away to the west, and they never saw the west;
And I had a lass, with a pretty pink cap on her head,
And my bird she went after the Queen of the Brabaria.
Three wise men of Gotham lived on the wharf-edge,
Three wise men of garb, and three fools out of breath,
And they put all the stars in their harps in their hands,
And tied up their heels in Dame Venus' commands.
Now, Tom would be ballast and fed upon crumbs,
Now, Tom would be midsummer-night in his house,
Now, Mary, an' puppy don't play with our lads,
But sit in your larded owen by the side.
Curly, comely, whiskered, all unco grassy,
Coz we will venture our entrance at no errant ball;
If you have a hot birdies, go rail round about,
And we've got to look after a shilling of grog.
Not a shilling of porter, not a bite of mutton
Shows how much of a sugared bottle's behind;
But, oh! Tom bears the colours, you'll think that a peacock
Comes the apple and peaches, how sugared to the mind!
When I think of my birdies, oh! when I think of my birdies,
There's a fly to our business, a fly to our heart,
An' the birdies all flock, with a pretty fresh feather,
To make a most humbug, a most sugared part.
I went to a mill, and I worked till I'm fully repaid for
The flour and the washing; and first I began to sweat,
For I thought I was going to have my birdies at rest,
When a letter of a random alms come up from the East.
"Oh, it's up to the top, and away from the spin,
For I know there's a fire to this Hangeddon of Tyne,
And a little brown wife is thinking of her once more,
And her two small daughters spin round the wheel.
But the hardest of all is to wait, and the best of it is
To get up and go down where the sun rises;
Whether by bridge or by stream they are under the water,
They have to put up with their tools.
Then come comes the golden age, and its face
Looks as though it would turn the mill wheel faster,
And the miller looks out on the half-grut and says "Good-day,"
As he goes to make butter an' bacon.
One time I went up to the barn,
A-singin' anicker spick and sprear;
I knew my front was rop and wrang,
But my back it never turned a far.
Then up and spake an old wife,
Had better ha'nt her back;
She put it in the old wife's eyes
That lived in 'er face so hard.
I knew she wasn't very good,
And that her sleeve was clean and neat.
"Well, if you want to see," said she,
"Them hoods you want to see, you bet."
"Thank you, sir," I said; "I said so;
But don't you trouble, old wife, you.
As I've been up and down the track,
I know my front was always dug."
"You bet I wasn't, sir," I said.
"As I've been up and down the track,
I guess I'd make my first go down
As quick as might be made by crow.
So when you sees the old wife here,
She're out
======================================== SAMPLE 262 ========================================
t,
The old churchyard,
_"Bannocks o'er head"_."
A little mushroom table spread
With little clover and sweet hay,
And, as the evening shadows fall,
A little old Methaeus said:
"A loaf it is,
And not too high;
But let it lie!"
The little brown Content, who spake
Beneath a leafy limb,
Said to himself, "This is a cake,
And not too sweet or small;
Now tell me, who thou wast to make,
And I will tell thee all."
"Growing I will sing, as dost
The voice of my beloved one,
Beneath thy shade." His pleasant tone
Made answer none might hear,
But all their comrades round him clung,
In one glad song, like one
Whose spirit to such music clung
Would say, but could not say,
As they came nearer,
"A cake of bread is better than bread,
And not too sweet," they said.
Then quickly turned aside their heads
And faster sped,
Their voice a little to him said,
"Buddha! to thee it is given
In God's name over the earth!"
"A cake of bread!" replied the King,
And many a saying there
Of those he'd seen and heard;
But all in vain, for he was seeking it,
And he was minded well,
With twenty heedless mortals all
Who knew him as a man.
He found Him sitting by the fire
On which the blood down freely flowed,
And, as on earth, He thought his words
Had well been understood.
And then a joyous little band
Of close-shut eyes,
So close about Him and beneath,
Half parted up, He blessed them all
Who disobeyed His God;
And said, "Their Master is indeed,
O, very human ones!"
The great King spake unto himself,
"All men and women and all beasts
Are here to walk about
The streets of Eden, from whose walls
No foot has come,
None ever yet have come at all
Who, in such order that yourselves
May keep the flowers!
And I, the happiest of all men,
Am holy to these saints of the old.
I am not one for any such
As I, who sing
The song of those good people, who
From their good-will and righteous laws
Have nothing spake,
Nor written laws, nor wrought such deeds,
For all their long and happy lives,
Are set apart
From the dear sons of their ancestral friends
Whom they had known as I do these
In their bright presence;
And I am one who hath beheld
The many, the few women, who
Are radiant with a new-born splendour
That hath made bright my forehead and
My mouth so sweet,
And my red lips so soft,
Murmuring love and sin,
That men are less afraid of me
Than of their mother,
Or that I am like other women,
And scarcely better.
_Wagner_. The day is growing dark and chill;
My brothers lie in their graves to-day;
From our dear children we come to weep:
We have dreamed together,
In days dark and brighter:
We have dreamed together:
We have wept as others sleep
In the spring days of childhood;
Dreamed of things in cities, skies, and seas,
And of the bright blood of the flowers:
Yet the dead dream
Can never return;
We have slumbered together!
We have watched among the trees;
We have known the winter's shade;
We have seen the lightning's fiery glance
Shot round in flakes far-shining;
We have heard the sea-bird's piercing scream,
And seen his billows rave.
We have seen the lightning's red and fiery track
Spur the air our homeward course;
We have known the lightning's fiery flash;
Yet the dead dream
Can never return,
We have heard the whispering of the woods,
And the thunder's midnight peal,
And the lightning calling.
_Faust_. 'Tis an ancient wizard's wand,
And the wizard Merlin's lore,
And the wizard Merlin's haunted wand
Hath withered the flowers once more;
And the earth lives now, O magic elf,
With magic's flowery wreaths
Ever burning round the fairy queen,
Ever burning, ever dying
On an emerald sea!
Where the tall cat-houses grow,
And the spires in gardens blow,
A myriad creatures haunt and play,
And the light, sweet fragrances upclose
Through the
======================================== SAMPLE 263 ========================================
, by Mr. D. Crowe.
The MS., is from the 1809 edition, that this single stanza
"The best MS., written for some COPHIES, by the late SIR JACIS,
originally originally devoid of interest, as we shudder to the
depths, we are told, by the late SIR JACIS, who, being obliged
to dispose of new readings from ancient Greek, is the founder of
the piece, and which will stand for ever in the same place.
In the first edition:
"Lines after the Rev. Robert Mr. Crowe, by Rev. Thomas W. Borsier:
"Mr. Crowe, at the latter end of the thirteenth century, is by
occasion led to the office of Recollections, and on the same
subject; and for the present occasion, we have again some
effect on the duty of giving the first edition a better
language. Our readers will indeed remember the obvious errors
constituting them as they are no less original, which the
recurring and presumptuous fall of other books, or as we are
indebted to Professor JACOB. If you had been aware that his
Christian Church has been indebted to him to the Rev. Mr. C.
CRISPLON, of Ecl. C., is a distinct instance of the Fellows
confined to that part of the century by the Rev. Dr. JACOB.
First edition:
Appointed for the Funeral of the Printer, and Ecl. C. 13,
and is here used as a proper attendant for Cleeve's Club and
Mr. T. L. C., with the exception of that Religion. In the
first edition, with the exception of Sir Robert Ainslow, it is
endured in--
"From the necessity of knowing the causes whence you conceive the
similitude of a formal writing, as well as the incurable
genius, or the gravitude of a formal speech, can scarcely be
finished with a line from this text into the last two years
the original has been entirely imitated, and we cannot
translator understand any farther the original of the second
verse. It is not improbable that such errors, or in other
imagines, may be so much admitted as to give an idea of the
liveliness of its approach--some future event to which may
satiate itself, and at which some invisible oracular will may be
the foundation of the original sin--for no truth is needful
of a certain loyalty to the welfare and good gift of knighthood
and general good; and that "a fixity" may be signified to the
"A narrow ass is a good fellow, and 'tis not enough that he
go to earn his bread another year."
The second version had, that the "fisher" was the special
features of a human soul, and the whole character of a human
life was good; of that the second version was not the fittest.
Mr. LOUIS, however, could also have produced a poem, and
performed it to a Christian.
B. LOUIS, in the present edition, was the most successful and
just portions of one hundred and seventy books, which were written
perhaps to call forth.
The last two volumes were from the Cambridge edition, 1638, 1638,
considerably to complete the life of the first man.
The Cambridge edition, however, contains a complete and open
work indeed, which, by itsYork to the 36th of January, the
London, of which the first version has long been accented
(from Boring-town), is not unlike a living work. The one
strikes out, as the second has done, no extensive deal of
form, but as a whole, and then follows the third.
Mr. LOUIS probably has justly derided the work, which is
now to be converged in the work, and beginning with in the
difficulty of the work. Mr. LOUIS and I have justly
discerned it. If I cannot value the work to be called in
_mete_, what should I value it? I would be as much
original to it, as a real person, I should be so much
original to it. If I could have done the work, I should shut
these two pages for the last time, not even in that last
part of the work. In short, there was a man named WILLIAM
abroad in the Work, was not yet on the merge ranks, and the
abounds as of all things that are possible to describe the
true actions and emotions of the work.
succession: it was in the first edition, and the third
======================================== SAMPLE 264 ========================================
 in the dark?
O no, 'tis thou!  O no, thou art
The only same;
Thou hast no other title free
Than mine own name.
O no, 'tis thou, O God!
The love of this world-conquering breast;
'Tis the wind that calls and calls us to the test:
'Tis the breath of the Great God, that whispers the whole.
O no, 'tis thou!  O God!  'tis I, who wait
In the dark for me;
And the love that I feel can never be too late,
O yes, 'tis thou!
O yes, 'tis I, who am grown so great
In a world of sin,
And the lust of all men so low and great
Can never be in it.
O yes, 'tis I, the world's false counsellor!
That calls him folly,
And bids thee beware, lest thine ears be cut
With other knives than thine.
O yes, 'tis I, who am grown so wise
In a world untrue
In love of all men so little to thee,
O yes, 'tis I, who am thine own undoer.
"The world's at Pain," was the song,
For Love came laughing along,
With his soft, gold hair and her gown of gold,
And his breath in her hair,
And his smile in her mouth, at the jest he told
When his bosom was kissed, from its depths profound.
With a wild joy he was filled
With the first glad drops that were spilled,
For Love came laughing along,
With his long gold hair and her gown of gold,
And his breath in her mouth,
And his laughter and hers, at the jest he told.
O no, 'tis I, 'tis I, who grow so wise
In a world of sin,
And the wealth of all men so little to mine,
That I would not be thine.
My queen hath bought a new song,
And a song can I sing,
And a lover will kiss his sweet mouth
To spoil his sweet side,
If I kiss him on high, to his eyes so blue
That his thoughts may be wise.
"The world's at Pain," was the song,
"For Love comes sighing along,
With his gold hair and his sighing lips
That his fancy may dream,
And a lover will kiss his sweet heart
To keep out his dark, wicked heart."
With a wild joy and despair
At his dear feet she bare
The wealth of her lover's heart
That could not be his share:
"The world's at Pain," was the song,
"For Love comes sighing along,
With his gold hair and his sighing lips
That could not be his heart:
'Mid pleasures of earth and heaven
There's no one to be a traitor--
There's no one to be a traitor--
"O Love, O Song," was the song,
"For in sweet truth Love's all strong
And in sweet faith Love doth alight
And the world's at Pain"--but the word
Was swift and low, and men heard;
And the song, and the song, and the song
Went into a shadow of pain
In the shade of the past o' the main.
When the moon comes from her place
On the world-wide world, in the space
Of her old and lonely soul,
She goes through the gates of the soul
Of her old and weary soul.
With her gold hair and her face
She goes through the gates of the soul,
And the song that she sang awoke
In the airy rooms of her yew,
And the cry of the wind shook the air
On the hills of her lovely hair.
O, beautiful is my love,
With a face as fair as the sky above,
And a soul like the lily is stirred
To the exquisite sense of her word:
And the sweet air wakens and sways
With a whispered joy like the dove's,
And the fragrance that comes through the maze
Of her fragrant hair is Love.
When the night bird dries his eyne,
And the stars dim the moon's pale wine,
I will lie like a haloed rose
On her bosom as stars shine;
And love will wink its eyes
Like a diamond spark in the moon,
Till I fold in the arms of the air
Like a golden bird of the sun.
Where the heart of a man is born
In the land of the love of truth,
When the heart of a man grows young
In the depth of earth and the height;
When the heart of
======================================== SAMPLE 265 ========================================
!  O, I am lost, I moan for thee!
I would like, my dear--
O, what griefs from sorrow flow!
Would like to be,
Even like to be!
Is not thy glossy jet,
Coloured like the tawny sea?
Like a flower,
Blooming at thy daily feast?
Does thy pained eyes,
Gazing on thy mimicry,
Gaze, as thine, upon the earth,
Wretched themselves, that look on all?"
This and nothing more.
What, O why didst thou sigh?
Why?  Why weepest thou for joy?
Why, O why do sorrow lie?
Why, O why was I true? . . .
"I am not fair: I would change body
Silks so much in my hair.
I am the thing I choose:
That is the thing I choose."
"My robe--I do so err:
My heart--I do not know;
And I do have a heart--
But, O why, it shall be so."
This, O dear, is fine:
It once was dark, it twice was bright;
But this I know--I will confess it:
I have a love, it is very light.
When winter comes, and all the show
Does tinge the world with tinted snow;
When all the birds sing--"Welcome, Spring!"
When all the flowers in garlands blow;
When every flower laughs--"Victory,"
When summer comes, and all the flow
Is turned to icicles--"Bless your eyes."
When autumn comes, and all the show
Is turned to icicles--"Bless your eyes."
When winter comes, and all the show
Is turned to icicles--"Bless your eyes."
When he whose love is turned to dust,
And presses everywhere his trust,
Knows neither fear nor trust,
Finds in the things he loves the most:
All, all is gone, that he has lost.
This is, O Lord, my prayer,
Not only blest
With any blessing now.
O Lord, I cried, in vain do we
Kiss Thee and fall
On not our lips, but all my soul
Feels in Thy love, and all my soul
In Thee lies down and weeps alone.
Now a little while;
Fear that I may never see
Your glorious smile
Once in paneless heaven;
Then a little while;
Fear night will be
Darker than a wintry sea.
So, Lord, I bow my head,
Since the grave so soon is spread
For me to fall and sleep.
O Lord, I pray Thee now:
For the long, long day
We together will bow our head
As a little stone,
Naked and gray,
While the wind doth blow,
Or the storm doth blow.
So, Lord, forgive: a while,
Let no more vex me
For fear I should have one
For all, yea, so.
For I will keep in peace
My burden well;
Bear the trouble patiently,
Hear what I kin best--
Grow strong and love the best.
In the old days time made it good
To do all day the best we can,
For the dear old years they lay along
The end of our life's golden dream;
Before the end of our delight,
From then till now, can come no day,
Because we know the good they did,
And do all that our hearts can say.
The days of our forethought are fleet,
As yet our hearts keep time to sing,
So long--and yet so quick to greet
With joy, so swiftly pass the Spring,
That we may never, never see
Such days again--or dare to make
A happier life, a sweeter fate,
Than this--nor ever to forsake
A life that's fleetest, a life so brief,
If it indeed be all we gain
From this--that we might live again.
My brother's dog is out of town
With a steamed horse watches his master's door,
And he watches a boy, that rattles down his chain.
He is only running for the cows,
And I fancy sometimes his ears may pull.
And I fancy his eyes can see both field and farm,
And he has such a lazy heart, as he
Could hardly have a jest for his mother's sport.
But when it comes to the turn of the day
And the hay is spoiled, and the dogs all gone,
We sit and talk, and laugh, and play,
And have a day at home, I trow,

======================================== SAMPLE 266 ========================================
, of the book of Solomon
The Old Man's Confession--An Orator
The Muses' Closet--Poems
The Haunch Of the Author--An Essay on Burns
The Poor Man's Comforts--Poems founded on an Estimate
Priestess of the Poem--LONGFELLOW.
"See," says the Muse, "what an enormous folly you were at,
The pleasure, the trouble you suffered were such a affair
That one would have thought it too much, but the mind of the Sage
"See," cried a Muse, "what an abuse it is to be sublime
"The Devil take me for an ass--He hath given me his curse!"
The Moral: The Orator's Judigree
The Bell of the Desert is open to you,
And I myself the creature for adorning.
I am for the first time. I begin to be,
But first to be--for the first time I begin to be
In the midst of God's mysteries, the birds and the bees
Are singing for me, when I am grown
To man's estate in Babylon.
My wings are the feathers of a dear,
And, like a bird, it sings, not knowing
To what 'tis calls a joy.
I stand at a window and say:
"How can he know that it is growing?
He hath no knowledge of decay,
Neither of the past or this.
"Only the present knows the pleasure,
And the desire knows whence it was;
Only the present knows the pleasure,
And the present knows the worth.
"The stars of the night and the future are his,
And the past and the future are his;
For him the old books are a curious thing,
And the heart of the Sage is wise and warm.
"He knows and he loves them, yet never
Happier can he treasure them;
They find but the old-world melodies,
Only the sound of the chime of the chimes."
A long and lonely journey
Would be a trackless journey,
Since I went in spite of the search for truth,
And learned the Voice of Youth.
The end of life seemed hopeless;
A road to the end of time--
I travelled a hill road
Crisped from a valley chime.
There in my sight the highway
Lay broad and sharp between;
A little black church was the cross on,
A little green with green.
And the windows and the doors were barred,
And still my soul held dear--
It almost seemed the world was barred,
Yet seemed it I was near.
By the cross lay a young woman,
Thrice fair and truly brave,
And the walls were of her armor
Built on the back of the slave.
A man from an old-time city
Built on an old-time sea,
The wind blew dead in the chimney,
And the poor man was free.
"What have the clouds to do with him,
What have the valleys night?"
I held my head, while my soul waited
For the end of the light.
And I said: "It is better to give up
Than to give up a name."
"For mine," I said, "was the pathway,"
And I bowed me down to the cross--
And I shouted, the laughter of laughter,
Out of the heart of the south.
"My heart is bruised," said the woman,
"And mine again is free."
"I will go back to the valley
To drink their wine," said he,
"And I will put on my new robe
With the old fox-fur rollicking!"
I heard the bells on the steeple
Give echo somewhere below,
And a fire was up in the coppice--
And the waves jubilate.
Now to the cross where the cantar burned
There was no cross to say,
And the waves jubilate, like music,
Hung in the linden way.
And through it all there was stillness--
No echo of the sea.
But only the graveyard silence
It knew as it held me.
And something moved about me--
Something that was not mine--
Shaped like the grace of Jehovah,
And beautiful as Divine.
And the sky was full of larks,
And my soul with deep delight
Saw the blue fields of azure
And the great sun at his right.
And in the midst of the world
The larks and the moths went out.
They brought me home, in the winter,
And I came back again.
But I have come as a guest
At the great cathedral door;
And out of the window the world is wide
And I have
======================================== SAMPLE 267 ========================================
.
In the second and third books of the Poets are the Poets
and Combe.  They were the companions of that warmth accords between
Epicurean and Immortality.  They were the disciples of the wise
world, and they were the inventors of wisdom; the learned poets,
the powerful in the schools.  That is well.  These were the tutors of
the prophets.
(ll. 442-736) All are in the books of love.  The Poets themselves
are beloved by their Creator.
(ll.769-769) And the Poets themselves, in order to prove that
it is better far to talk of love, because their work is good.
It is well.  The Poets themselves have said not by their own simple
voice.  Poets have done well in singing.
(ll. 782-769) Then the Poet says to me, "If you ask it, that
(ll. 782-769) "You will have to consider that the book of the
poets will not be good and wise.  But this is not the least
book that I shall put into your mind and see it in all men's
(ll. 782-769) Then the Poet says to me, "Do not listen to its
(ll. 782-769) And I, who am a small voice, will tell you all for
(ll. 790-769) Then the Poet says (in the book that I gave you
form) that if you are inclined to say so, you will not be rude at any
ministering manner of business; take me as a poet; and of my good
nature learn a lesson."
(ll. 782-769) Then the Poet says to me, "I have a son, who is like
(ll. 782-769) And I say to him, "Do not be angry with thyself,
(ll. 783-889) "Well hast thou now learnt here!  When thou
seest seeking happiness thy master and counsellor, thou wilt find
trouble in the ways of men.  He is not like the sower of the
heavens, but like the stockman of the stars, and like the skylark
that sings in the blue sky, and is happy in his song.
He was the first of mortals who first taught the way to the
darkness of the deep.  He first showed the way and gave thee
judgment of the stars.  He showed them all the secrets of
the world, the secrets of the star-abounding night, the secret
tales, the vagary of the wild beasts, and all the tokens of
the world.  In heaven he lay, a fairer thing than men or angels.
His heart was filled with the greatness of the world, his mind was
filled with the greatness of the stars.  Wherefore he said to his
spirit, "This is the path which I would choose for my guide who
reads the path;" and in a voice of scorn, "It is the way of love.
Through this world of weariness we shall come to the ends of the
blessed."  And they showed themselves fair to the world, in
appearance of living light, with shining and beautiful beauty.
He showed me the glories and riches of the world, his envy, and
when I gave him solace and health, I thought his pride.  For
this was his joy.  In spite of all this envy, I could not do
glory to any earthly person.  Yet his teaching was good.
But he was the greatest of men in the world.  And this I will do
(ll. 882-1026) And my name was Peter Sparrow.  He had a little
master, the virtuoso, and the famous singer--not too skilled in
books.  He was a clever and crafty creature and his years were
not as his teacher, nor like children of wisdom.  He was eagerly
engaged so that whenever he saw the greatest of men was he at
his feet, but he was too wise to put by his wisdom.  His knowledge
was of little value.  He was utterly learned in his high life.
Besides great learning he was a very worthy poet and a good
and godlike man.  He could build ships of fire, float, sing, sing.
Did he dream of any one of his own name?  There are two cities
under the heavens in the world beyond which we dwell.  The one on
the ocean of God, and the other on the water of the streams at
last by the rolling of the waves.
======================================== SAMPLE 268 ========================================
,
There was a group of girls who lived up in the mines,
And I am their pupil, and I shall lose myself.
For, like our common lakes, our lakes, together strewn,
This is not often so; but when I wander through
It becomes the thing I too am; in short,
I am a strange imperfect castaway.
I was but as a thing--but now there is
A something in this thinking mind at last
That's much the same; you see that I'm as sound as when
I've been on this pool-top as a living thing,
And am withal compared to what they're drinking,
With such a crew of girls at sixty-one;
I like them dearly; but their health is mine.
For them at morn I started out, and on the road
Came with the men I knew not where, my hat in hand:
I saw the other girls, and all so kind,
With smiles a-kindled as of old I woke,
A-waxin' and an earnest-like a-while,
So much's my name, that, at some other time,
I'd wish that I'd a-settin' out this rhyme,--
Ay, some day I'll be finds'nin',--but this rhyme
Will all be found at the conclusion,--
One more good-by, a-waxin' in time
To do the thing that's a-mindin'--it was all.
Well, one day there'll come a time a-poilin' in that place,
And bring my hatless sister.  That's the thing, at least,
My sister got away to the woods, and went to take the rhymes,
And then, at any rate, you know, I thought I'd stop my rhymes;
And all I got to think of was this: that I knew that this
Was the way my heart was lyin' with this good man for me,
I'd just come home and play with him a week or so;
I'd give up all I had to keep away, and do as much
As all I wouldn't have to say to keep away from here.
I'd like to leave the crowd of people, but I'd soon forget
I ever cared for all they 'd do to keep away from here.
Well, that's the way that it went, for I'm a-wearin' hard,
To think that, though I've been callin' on beyond Admirood,
I know the country folks expect me in an hour or so;
They'd think I was a sailor or a hatter of the crew,
And go a-fishin' down the bay by accident or new.
Now if, in fact, a chap is askin' questions where he's come,
If something's got to be a-smilin' on the family
Or being a-smilin' on a time that's come to me,
The house is furnishin' out here, but I've a notion
Of what I meant to be at home, and I'm a-lookin' for
A seizen old philosophy that's dead and gone as soon.
Well, we won't go there a minute, but we'll stay a minute,
And then we'll get upon the lawn, and jump about and climb
The side with grown-up children, and beginnin' too.
I want to know who'll be a driver of a horse.
It must be odd, but how is it to bear that?
Why, it's the best, a-drinkin' there together,
And it's by myself that matters not a bit.
I can't make out my mind about the things
That's here and there that I can guess;
I can't begin to feel about the place
That's only there where I have been;
I only mean, that I'm about to get
Myself into the air again,
And be a-livin' there an awful spell.
Mother says mother's sweeter when she gives her child
The kind of strength it is to think of, as you know,
And then she's pretty good to look at when she likes.
I wouldn't be so sorry, mother, if I do!
I've done with dreams and visions while I've been a boy--
And this is why they're going to be that sort of joy
That comes of being that they're going to be.
I'm not the sort that any one's allow'd to call
The sort that I remember when I took to me
As only someone else could call.
Then I am glad I'm not afraid if I'm afraid.
I'll tell you what to
======================================== SAMPLE 269 ========================================
, with a very few more words,
and "cackling at 'em"--
I never saw the like!
(I have read it over and over again,
And still in the course of time
It is only the selfsame thing:
We had one of the selfsame strong blue-eyes,
and the other eyes--
If you asked me "Did they do it?"
I'll tell you how they did it.
I found in the next poem that the circumstances that had been
there are three generalities, the first in memory, second
instances of the human mind, the third varied and faulty play,
the last which has fallen far in view.
There is still the same little path that has been led from
in the most unselfish judgments perhaps of our time.
The old fellow was an able farmer, and the only son was a
child, and the young man was a girl.
You might think it hard to keep the truth of the word, but the
old friend was a likely old fellow--like young, thoughtful,
lover, and latiete,--the only one on earth--the latter one
within the circle of a circle of quiet recollection
with whose attributes and whose phrases I would recognize
them as I saw them.
To-day I am so tired of seeing the lines of the old man
on the old line--I am so weary and so confused--I have
always gone the way that I used to go, and to-day I am so
poor and abandoned, and I never saw a thing so noble, so
dear, and so lonely and so wan-like.
The old man's face was strangely open and it seemed as if
this old man had been himself, and sat up in his hand as an
old man.
He was not very valiant, for he used to carry the colors
that were his own in the days of old, and sat up on the
stairway, with the rags that covered his back--and the wild
fire that hung like a fan and gave them a comfortable
residence.
"I don't believe," he murmured, "to so strange an extent as to
make the old man glad, you know; I am glad too that the old
woman and her son are going to be good men. That's because
they've been good to themselves; if they are good soldiers and
not, I would rather have them off."
"O yes, dear Alfred," said Lucile, "we never were quite
so many people in our world that didn't we see them any more.
As I think I'd rather see a friend than being one of our party
years; or I want the men of our time. Why, it is far
more fit for you to be my father than to me, come here and be
a generous one and be good enough for me.
We do not much care what we are about the state of things
that are good, or whether the good or evil may be the
commonest discourse which is different from bad to worse,
for it becomes one always best to be the devil with the
post and with the other.
"Yes, I believe there is no better master than the man on
seeing people and seeing not himself the devil. And when
I came here for a time, a new coat and cloak I would
never wear, and you wouldn't have them look
lonesome--for I couldn't, if I could. The world wants
climber all things to big knowledge, and even the men that
we are, would be in no wise too prudent."
"Go around, then," said Lucile, and then, "Let's have a
"But," said the old man, "here's a letter. We've read it in
my paper so bright he could read it not without a little
longer. I can't write it, nor will you, either. Perhaps you
might think so."
"I can't write it," said Lucile. "May I go out of step, or
come here? We've been talking about another matter." I
cannot write it again. I should like to have my way back
to the old, and I'd like to see the hosts of the new
others. I should like to see the hosts of the new.
They are much too warm for me."
"Yes, but there were people after all," continued Lucile.
"They're all of us, I think; we're only so chilly when they
are nothing but too warm. I wish I had shown them a
fring, and then I could have gone there with them and have
them for some banquet."
"I remember, at the time when the word came to pass, that

======================================== SAMPLE 270 ========================================
.
A little girl, in blue dressed shoes,
Who dresses well in scarlet clothes:
And when, to see her happy life,
I see her smile before my wife.
A golden girdle round her waist
She wore--'twas made of silk and lace:
And, oh, her cheeks were like the rose,
And, oh, her teeth were in her face.
"Oh, where's the little girl?" you say:
Oh, here's the little girl of Toe.
"In the country you wander about,
And look at the trees, and the sky;
You look at the clouds, and you hear
The gurgle of water, and see
The figures you see in the trees.
"Oh, where's the little girl of Toe?"
Oh, here's the little girl of Toe.
Come, little girls, and dance with me;
The little girl moves in the dance,
And the baby girl looks in the glance:
She makes a little mistake,
And, oh, she dances with Jackadee.
The Spring called up the heart of June
Sets all the flowers sweet.
While day is high in bridal light
We see the world complete.
Oh, little girls of little years,
My heart enkindles you!
We sow you with a loving hand,
And though we sow in vain
We reap the golden grain.
We sow you with a loving heart,
And those that never knew
We reap the golden grain.
Oh, little girls of little years--
Oh, little girls of little years--
Bless you, bless you, little men!
The Spring has come to all the world,
The children laugh with glee.
They seek your mother's green room,
And, with their fingers light,
They twine your snowy coralline
And call you softly "Gayheart."
The roses are laughing to think
Their little garden is near.
Oh, little girl, and what is this?
You seem so small and fair.
My flower-bells, your yellow wax
Is shining in the sun.
The morning has scarce come at noon,
Before the larks begin.
The sun too warmly darts away
His beams, while all the birds
A welcome, happy, happy strain,
Sing with your heart as brightly
As any linnet sings!
You have no mother now! Your eyes
Are full of tears, and look not down
To see the sad, sad things,
Which daily happen. We, too, know
That children never can,
So soon, forget that they are gone,
Because they never _know_.
The Spring is here--a pretty girl,
Her lips have only looked so proud!
But she's a simple one--a sweet
And beautiful, come crowding round
Her mind with all its gay and glad
And loving thoughts; a flower of love,
Its very heart of laughter,
And the glad wedding hour!
But she is not the only one
Who ever knew, with loving thought,
A sweeter way to _singing_ love,
Or something of a loftier tone,
To soothe the pained heart of the rose,
Than thus to take the selfish place
Where sorrow finds it. We, too, know
The mother's heart of music too,
Who sang, 'Too late! too late!' of love:
We know her as the flower of time,
And that it is not ours to know
She only sent her love a rhyme,
A song which flowed o'er all the earth,
And to the sleepy hours gave birth
When birds were on the wing and birds
The blithe and free, and all the skies
Were mirth for her. She had a voice
Which was not of the world, nor choice
For fields and woods, and all the breeze
That hung upon her heart. She had
A heart of music, that, like straw,
Glassed up and faded from her brow.
She only knew that she was glad,
And happy, and was happy now.
Have you forgotten what love was, my dear?
'Twas such a thing I'd loved, my dear,
Away from all of us, away from men:
To think my heart of you, my dear,
Could be as little better than it can.
I do not love the love myself to know,
Or the mere being--but you'll never love me.
I am a lonely, humble peasant,
When I would not live in worlds above.
When I would see the stars above me
And hear the voices of the winds above,
I'd love to live in exile-silence,
And hear the voices
======================================== SAMPLE 271 ========================================
, with his face set sedately
in the same direction; he spoke this significant language of
--the only one who has been anywhere he has had any human
looking for.
The fact, the actual fact, that in the early centuries,
afterwards the battle of battle raged, was the cause of some
unwillingly assert that _bea-dis_ or _tot-tot_ which is a
common-place, was nothing so prevalent that it could have a
stronger weapon than that of a combat between _to-come_ and
to-morrow. In that case the penalty was that of a famous
acknowledgment of a murderer, with a red hand to scare him.
This seems to be a noble coincidence that no other captain
ever more easily removed upon that account from which he
cannot distinguish properly the right or wrong.
_Wagner_, a plagiary. Let me keep my breath,
I have no fear that any living who has written, or has
afterward no right to himself, can have written, or can
have composed verses of any kind, but has done mischief
against his fellows. This is why my anxiety is so irresolute
that I am at last to have written something which is
once clever, and has been much the wiser for his time.
But now, since the gods are so angry that there is no help
to write against them, I have no care what I say, nor where
I dare to tell you what I say.
For I know now that I am not alone, for I have often been
in conversation with one who, whether or not everything was
wonderful. A man must be a fool if he is not the one to
complain of the other's deeds, for he has no other reason than
to say nothing of the other's acts which were doing.
_Faust_. I suppose, and cannot think it.
How long shall I tell you?
I'll have to let you know that if you did not tell
Exactly everything of it.
I did not think it necessary, for I said to myself,
it is not necessary that you should suffer any
contradict should prevent me from telling all things to
you. I am not a fool though I am. If I could do otherwise,
and may my meaning not be vague, I should say something
to you besides in the next story.
_Faust_. If it were true that the heroic poem _is_ a
representation of the hero of a well-advised crusade,
some other of his works, however, were collected.
Moreover, there is but one fact in a line to a story.
_Faust_. I am not jealous, so may heaven vouchsafe me
informances that, though I was a Tory, you must own that I
had one design to destroy the Holy Temple, for I never
thought so.
_Faust_. But they are always with me.
_Mephistopheles_. So then.
_Faust_. And they brought us to a common level with the
success.
_Mephistopheles_. We are as fond of learning as we have to go
where God has set His seal before us, and the meaning
of all these words here is surely, that we shall ever
think he is going to make us one of his housemaids.
_Faust_. You see, we have long faces, and a time we
will go to hear him.
_Mephistopheles_. You may think such an unlearnation would
leave a place to teach and a new teacher. You have
not made up that by your leave, I am one of the
others, as I well know, to find the Holy Scripture read
and read.
_Faust_. I have heard others tell that men and women in
the Lord's service always serve, and have been
gracious to the Savior for ever.
_Mephistopheles_. If you will teach to me not by mere words to
answer questions I will listen to.
_Faust_. I was a good deal loathsome, and now, if I
have been given in to you, I am very sorry, for I am in
such a way.
_Mephistopheles_. I cannot talk to you of worldly things with
such a strange amount of matter.
The question, indeed, would be so pleasing to me as to
which I am. If I was, I would say good-morality
and the devil in it, and my very ancestors would have
better be stirring than ever. I can tell what I happen to
myself, and I will be very willing to listen to.
_Faust_. I will do so.
_Mep
======================================== SAMPLE 272 ========================================
,
As it should be of good use and relief.
I did it, and in this respect I gave
Something to answer the man of the farm.
"I will not contradict myself," said he,
"For you know how to lay back your head,
What I saw I should overtake. Now try.
You will not be surprised. You have my due;
And if you make your choice of me, I mean
To meet you on my way, I'll tell you of a scene."
"And what is it?" I stared, and he turned to me,
And then the man in the moon stood up and said,
"If what you say is true I do not mean
To tell you of a scene as fair as this.
Why, if you would have all of us be there,
You could just see it in a book that's bound
So carefully within it. Then you'd think
That I was not to blame. It's very true.
I'm not a party to a man so sad
As you would hear; so when the tale comes round
I will be glad to hear it. God, they keep
Such awful secret from me. I'll not rob
Of it; I never do it. For the rest,
I shall forget it."
I made a light step
And I saw a great eagle go glinting by
Against my great eagle in the sky,
Littered with bright gold, and his wings all flame,
And his eyes all full of fire. That bird, he flew
Straight up to me, and said, "I do not seem
So faint or very hungry, do you know,
I'm as hungry as a young fish with weak legs.
I have not many years to live for now,
And that, if I had let them hunt once more,
I should have found a second time to lose,
And have an eagle calling for his mate."
Then I went on, and then, I heard him say,
"I wish I had gone on, dear little bird,
To hear you speak to me."
I gave him a beating heart,
And there was nothing more can be said of him,
For he could silence me on the soft back
Of a white pheasant perched upon a flower
And in a sleeping poppy.
"Yes, it is true," said he.
But he looked at me with a sleepy smile
And seemed to hide himself at his feet; his wings
Were made of the green pine-leaves. His eyes were blue
And brilliant like his sire. His little neck
Was made of the yellow jessamine leaves
That curled above his head. His little hand,
Like an icicle's, felt my quickening breath
That stirred the pulse, as he grew old again.
He had a poor old soul. He had nothing
To take in his mouth, so he thought, perhaps,
And so he stayed away.
I took this paper,
To do the thing I most regret.
But this same week,
It was eight days ago,
When the rain fell in with its angry teeth,
And we had finished breakfast. Then he said,
How the wind took it up, I had to be
The good old fellow.
"I remember now," he said,
As I went down and down, that wretched soul,
And followed my direction in the direction
That's getting along with the good old fellow.
But how I got the shape! My eyes were blue,
And they looked like roguish eyes. I said,
"I can't explain to you. I'd like to know
You are at me a saint or a fool of the earth--
It isn't as if I could understand.
You have me to be king over the angels
Because of the old papo{n}se, with the angels
That look out just for me. I wish I had lost
The lovely shape at the gates of God."
And then, in an instant, as if the soul
Were something quieter, he opened a gate
To which a little child was sent in haste,
And the same child again he had planned to say
To the old man. "I want to make you free."
There was the horrible sense of running out.
I got him from a chair, but no voice came.
His face had wasted all its length; his hair
Was blown back with a terrible scurry of wrath
At all the winds. "Poor child," he said,
"You're going to have a dreadful sleep
And take it to you for a walk,
But I know now I've got to be Queen of Spain.
Where are you?"
"I don't see.
I'm going to have a nice young dream of the moon
======================================== SAMPLE 273 ========================================
;
and, in like manner, when the old man, his harp's end upon
and   [_At the same time_] The Young Lady, having sojourned
for eighteen months in Castle Run after the return of her
Eora, and having found her sojourning in the island ofscript
{91} [For the last, though weak seem the purpose of our
"I have a two-point sword in my hand and a goodly gift for the
ever-open passage"
{91} [For the translation.] See notes to line 125.
"Vendid," {91} [_And now I shall terminate here the three
following notes._]
"Nereus" (I) [the original words, _i.e._ "is that the meaning
of '_that_ for _us_ and _us-il_ for 'us-il_ for 'us-il_'. I
"Nisus of armes may yeomen to the hunting,
and their hounds must yeomen slayne and pull them downe!"
(_i.e._ '_That_ would lay all beasts upon the earth, and be
a meat- satisfy for that slaughter. Yet hearken that which
is,--for he saw a wolf bound upon a high plate. He
says he hath a he cuben upon the plate, and, with a loud
cry and a cry out of great tumult, riseth up and smiteth
on the cable of the sheep. As he is borne out of the
swoe, he stares upon the sheep, and his voice rings out
"O ye that cleave the trodden taper of the sheep, haste
and it is well ye know yourselves whether ye go to the
victory or the sanctitie."
(ll. 22) The seven-fold head of the head, the tail of the
the head and the flanks of the head, were borne away by the
hounds, and now he is come out of the sheep- lair with a great
boar, he is leaping up to his feet, and reaching the fig-tree
he is going to the hill, and there he begs, and in the
least he hears the voice divine. When he had come, he stood
in the hollow of his hand and spoke, saying:
(ll. 22) "The immortals have no power above the gods. O Hecuba!
(ll. 22) "Since the god is minded to slay me, I have three sons
from afar that have hither come hither, the one of them
whom here I have taken, who are all come hither. For I have
one of whom no power can fall."
(ll. 37) The leaders of men, Aeneas the captain of the
kinsmen, are called Myrmidons from Thrace. The next he shows
fire here against the other, and makes them to go.
(ll. 40-43) Then Achilles first took two of his sons
from Thrace into the tent (while he was yet young) on the
threshold; and they set fire to the ship and burned many
flails.
(ll. 40-43) "I, too, am old and foul of mouth and wear a
melancholy. My mother sent for me to fashion me a bed, to
me a bed of pitchwood, and I slept on foughten ash-wood,
when the wind took me from the sheep-fold, and gave me a
bed each in turn. So I cast my two hands across the
pits of the fire and heated my blood upon the couch, and went
forth from the city again. Then the three sons of mine
were stricken before the fire to save, and nine and seventy
miles put off from the fire. The tenth, moreover, sacked
our stronghold of Priam, and the remnant I was bringing to
dwell in the city, still trusting to the flames that kindled
the house.'
(ll. 453-43) All this I endured, having nought, save the
shrift itself, and the burning still burned in the house.
But nine of my company in the house suffered bitter stol'n
out
deliverance from the fury of the fire, and dragged out fire and
smoke flaming out upon the floor. I had no thought for to
lay hold of them; nor would I again attack them myself with
fire and sword."
(ll. 477-alysing the sound of the bell. As sometimes the
strong wind bore them thither, and shook their bodies in the
gathering of the storm, they were brought to the ships of
And as then I prayed, and my prayer I made in anger
======================================== SAMPLE 274 ========================================
s, and Mysian bayes;
Pelagon, and Tharos, and the coast of Lycalle.
But when the Sone of Greece her loftie tier
Desdeign'd, and jealous racers' sport, to bear
His tender fruit, her husband he refused,
Nor to the Sone of Troy his charge return'd:
He, till she heard the Grecians' loud acclaim,
With bitter hate her husband's charge repaid,
As from the Gods he hoped, a wand'ring wretch!
But I, who to the shades of night repair,
Return'd, to Ilium's walls again to seek.
A city yet remains; of all my friends
In death, no more attempts I, from their sight
In arms to save the children of my sire.
For oh, the bitter chill I feel for them
Who perish in the ruin of your foes!
For when to you I saw the bright-hair'd Greeks,
And Hector's self in ambush, I was ware,
Beside the ships, already close at hand,
The warlike multitudes of Myrmidons.
But one, myself, to you I deeply grieve.
I mourn'd, and weep; nor, O ye Greeks! have I
Been pity'nt to a sister now, a wife
For whom all Troy's brave warriors lay despis'd.
The day of the imperious rage appears,
A day of ruin, since this man was born,
To give the proud-hair'd Greeks their utmost scorn.
And now this woman brings a house hewn down
Below our walls, which with her own weight sits
On his own breast, and, lifting from the earth
Their houses to the skies, knocks with her hands
Beside his bed; and yet she cannot hear,
For, hapless yet, they will not see the end.
For what could this have been, I cannot say.
Thy father's blood, and mine, alas, my own!
Was common bought; but thou hast left thy friends
Much grieving in the house, and must depart.
He spake, when through the chamber all the train
Selected melted into tears, and each
Whirl'd her new basket to the sounding door.
But, by the heav'nly Goddess caus'd, the King
Now, like the Cloud-compeller, rais'd his arm
Against the lock, and with his wand's strong force
Drew forth the dead; and with his fingers crush'd
Th' unhappy life; and with his pow'r expell'd
The furies ranks, embodied fast, and claim'd
The whole broad circle of the Grecian host,
Who came for Hector from the battle field.
He, all-surpassing Hector, on the breast
Saved not, but by Patroclus' hand at length
With ease, reluctant, left them to their tasks.
But when, within the city of the Chief
Patroclus sought his home, and found it sad
To find himself so sorrowful and sad:
A warrior, as the cloud of troublous years
Falls on him, and with his own people seeks
His home again; a people, and a throng
Of people, from a desolate city sent
To Troy, the Grecians, whom the Gods have bless'd
With joy at all their labours, to rejoice,
And offer to the battle of the Greeks
Their daily feast; but when his eyes behold
Their homes are fill'd with tears, and by a shrine
The women cease to weep, their sorrows press'd
With tears to make a long lament; but still
Their hearts still bear him sorrowful, and still
They weep, the children of their father, dead.
As when he, seeking for the marriage-bed,
And in the honour of his friend's embrace,
In nameless sorrow seeks his absent mate,
So Hector to Patroclus many a tear
Bespake, but none the less remain'd entire.
Of all his followers, only one he slew.
Then Ajax, flying from his noble prize,
Stood in the midst; and from the lofty hall
The warriors sprang, and by his side stood all,
Those whom the son of Telamon perceived.
First, on his son, fair honour'd Hector gaz'd,
But still he drew him from the brazen helm,
But when he had, arising, donn'd
The armour, and the bowels pierced aloof,
Loud sounding; and the Trojans through the hall
Toiled, straining with their hands the gory death,
But when the sun and rising eve renew'd
The ev'ning meal, and wine, and r
======================================== SAMPLE 275 ========================================

A tale of little girls who lived in the town;
Of fairy horn, and fairy trail,
Around the fire the witch-fire's glow;
And every little barefoot child
Had visions of a fairy wild,
And fairy horns that tossed the wreath,
Till all the fairy forest swept
With echoes of their fairy drums;
Of fairy drums and fairy horns.
Old men have dreams that long have lain
In some fair city of the South,
Where bugles blow and bugles cease;
And through the windows of the door
The great brick tower its shadow bore.
Old men have dreams that made them wise;
But, with their dreams, the vision dies.
O lonely towers that seem so small,
O dark, unhappy houses, built
Upon the shifting wind, whose breath
Is as the clank of iron doors
That give the keystone to the wards;
These are your doubts, O lonely towers!
For there the fierce sun sinks and devours.
O, restless spirit, without rest,
O, restless spirit, without rest.
O, restless spirit, without rest,
O, restless spirit, without rest.
O, restless spirit, without rest.
O, restless spirit, without rest.
Then, restless spirit, cease thy quest.
The last and greatest of all things
The loveliest garden of the earth,
That God has planted in the flowers,
Is not the gardener's only wall,
Nor the uncle's only sacred flower,
A fragrant chamber plot of earth.
He was not always garden yet;
He was not always orchard yet;
He was not always orchard yet.
He was not always orchard yet;
He was not always orchard yet.
He rose and went to bed and smiled
At all the little children's feet;
His mother's voice came into the room
In a sweet voice that seemed to say:
_Dear Christ, I know thy feet each one,
And I will follow after thee
Till I can turn again to thine,
And follow still, for Christ is mine!--
Ah, then, dear Christ, He will come back,
I will be with you, I will be--ah, come._
_Benedictado._--A small fellow in the army.
I was waiting when I left
The gate that has no reason now,
But stands before the prison-gates
Because I must be punished.
For a little while I knew
That my evil day must end,
And my dear God will bless me there
When I am in the garden.
For a little while I thought
That the garden would be hell
With my dear God for my home,
And God will bless me there.
And for little while I dreamed
That the Christ would come to me
When I was in the garden.
In the holy ground whereon
All my sad heart beat.
And where'er my foot may stray
Be my home, in Paradise;
But to me he will never come
With his wing to make me there;
He will never come to me,
He will never come to me.
But, for all I've dared to do
In the world where others trod,
I would rather be the thorn
The Christ to whom I clung.
And the blessed Heavens will bless
Me and all I love as I
Loved my Christ with all my heart,
But, for all I've dared to do
In the world where others dare
To front glad glad glad glad eyes
And a heart that beats in Heaven,
When the weary world grows dim
And my weary feet grow weary
Of the paths I must tread with him.
He will follow, he will come
As a conqueror of a foe;
But I will not follow him,
But I will follow when I may;
And the troubles that may be,
I will cross with him to-day.
I will cross and suffer still
Till the troubles that may be,
I will ask the sinless will
That knows not what I shall see.
Then I will cross--and in the dark
By me will love for aye.
Thou wilt ask for me until time shall come, my love, to thee,
I will ask for thee till time shall have the joy to be.
I shall not ask thee yet until the world grows dark and dim,
Thou wilt ask for me until the world grows wide and dim;
Thy heart is full of longing as thy feet begin to roam,
Thy feet are set all ready to depart in home.
Thou wilt ask for me until the world grows dark and dim
And then thou wilt be nothing, and I shall be all of
======================================== SAMPLE 276 ========================================
 and is all--_so did I,_
_And here I lay my head,_
_As I was passing by,_
_A little dust on the street_
_With its toy-bag hole on the right;_
_The way it was open and old--
_And I knew I'd _got_ the sight_,
_And a little child in her arm_
_Across the pit in the dark._
_It was dark when I came to die,_
_And the pit was dark to me,_
_When I went with a wounded cry,_
_And I saw that the world was nigh_
_But a something--oh, how wrong,_
_In the midst of the fire-shine cold_
_So I turned from the window-pane_
_And I saw my friend was sold,_
_And he came to me so cold_,
_And I found him asleep in his arms--_
_'Mid the beautiful burning flowers._
_He was gone,_ he said, _and I saw_
_His face no more--_
_With a heart for a moment's sorrow_
_He had known no pain--_
_But the horror of life was passing_
_And I saw him still once in a trance_
_His face it was swathed in a tomb--_
_But I knew not that it was home_
_When _I came home again_!"
_And I knew that the years had fled_
_And the voices they heard_
_Were walking the rounds of the city_
_And, all because they were sad_
_That had told them they must again_
_Be coming back again_.
"_Oh, we shall not forget_
_That I was so tired of sin_
_When I went to my home again_!--
_'T was the only life I could lead_
_And I went to my home again_!
_When I went to my home again_.--
They sought to say that I was mad,
_For they found that I was not good_
_And I saw that it was good_
_And I knew that it was good_!
They sought to say that the years had fled
And _I saw_ him still in the moonlight pale,
And _I saw that the tears were good_
_And I heard him tell what the years had taught_
_And the love of the town and the years had bought_
_The right that it must be right_!
_There was all that could compass the whole
"And I could tell you what I should do_!
And I would say how I was kind
And warm of heart, and unafraid
To plan a secret life one day, ...
"In the midst of the street, where the street was dark,
Where the faces of women were smiling and resting,
And all of its work, as a child at its play,
Had suddenly stolen and bound up that way,
I knew it was better to stay by the farm,
And _It shut in between us.  No one feared
The darkening of the world, and the din of it,
And the droning and din of the city, and yet,
I could watch it go by me!  No one dreamed
Of the long day, when the streets began all aglow,
And the light in the sky was a molten blue
That caught and let fall from the big black book.
The narrow street, and the crowded square,
The noise of the traffic and grumbling of men,
The voices that were in the passage through
The night, and the smells of it, ... were all
Rather more than the sneer at the laugh of a child.
O, it was a foolish thing to weep!
Though the sky hangs low and the winds beat hard,
To think that it will not shut in sleep,
Or wonder what children will dream and keep
When the big black book is shut in.  And close
Everywhere I watch the gloom--the light
That burns like a candle flaring far
From the sky to the window, and the blaze
Of the big black book, glimmers and glows
In a violet still and calm, and goes
Out of the room where the shadows are drawn
Through the dark of the night.  No one knows
If ever the deed of the Master s cuts
A name from a child; but a name I know
Is still.  It stands in the room, and blows
Its light through the gloom, and seems to blow
In a little way back, and the dull clock rings
Its bell for the night.  But my hurrying feet,
In their nailed
======================================== SAMPLE 277 ========================================
;
For all who see them look on them
May easily o'ercome by force.
But let me tell you, boy, you must,
The same old ways of saying, say.
The way is dark; there's no foot near.
It is the way to Pluto's fane;
It is the way to dreary hell.
'Tis Hell indeed with Pluto's halls,
Where never light nor hope is seen;
There is no light at any time,
That's found without the sun at noon.
'Tis Hell indeed with Pluto's halls,
Where never light an air can be;
There is no light but falls like dew,
And never comes it by degrees,
Where all's one needs to cry, "Be still!"
O, this is hell, and that is hell,
Beyond all mortal sense to know.
There is no light whereby to see
Earth's hell, but by the mind's revealing,
May see through death when dead men see,
And mark those deeds whereof they tell,
On earth's dark shore where nothing dwells.
There's no light but when sun-pressed lies;
There's no light but when morn is grey;
There's no light but when morn is clear,
For man's all-mirking way is here.
I see the trees go downward all--
I see the trees go downward all,
And there's the sun beneath, and all--
I see the trees go downward all.
That's why I ask, and who's to blame?
I only ask the God of all
That fills our eyes and hands and feet,
Who gave them to the Lord of lands;
Who made each soul of every heart,
And shadows out its soul from death;
Who made each man a spirit's fire,
And lights the lamp of life to lead
Its flames on earth wherever writ,
To light the fires that cannot die;
Who made each soul a living breath
To rise with life the spirit higher;
Who made God's footsteps to delight
The souls of us from dark to light.
And I who have no skill to say
The joy that leaves me still for death,
Who made this end without a breath.
For I who have no skill to say
That it is good, or if it must,
For any chance it may befall,
That it is worse than death for all.
A fool at best but for the power
To follow pleasure as it flies,
But with the joyous soul of faith,
And beauty that it cannot prize.
For I who have no skill to say
Our endless days are brief as years,
And life lies now before me, sweet
With secret flames of love and tears.
I dream of a sweet garden;
I see the gliding moon and the sun;
But, ah, my dream was false! I said
My only dream was true! I woke
And saw two lovers coming,
And saw two lovers coming,
And then I kissed his wings and feet,
And kissed my lips and feet;
And every eye was filled with tears,
And all my soul with delight.
But the soft flame of the bright blue sky
Failed and was lost with pain,
And I, who knew no love except,
Went down the stair again.
A man should tell me what he saw
And what love is, the glory
That moves to the great sunset-miracle
Of heaven, and the sun-crowned wonder
That is the secret of the sea.
He should not know how much of earth
Is marred for him with his praise,
For the great love of the whole wide world
Is wonderful to him.
Be sure you know that I was made
Of wonderland in some far sea,
And all the sea and air were mine
Far off in unknown sea.
If in some land, with some sweet name,
And if within some far place,
The self-same sea lay close to me,
I too would know what things should be,
How like a dream they were.
They were not far or near or far
And knew me for a little star
That each night lit its little star.
And now my dream is done; I stand
In light and shadowy strengths of land
Where tall, dark trees of quiet sleep.
Ah, what a wonder is mine heart,
With all these starry blooms that are
The wild sweet breath of summer air
And odours that my heart takes up
In wantonness of tenderness
And the soft-lapping waves that kiss
Sometimes my life, sometimes my sleep,
Some dream-delirious hour, or deep
With the old, rapt delight, I was lulled
======================================== SAMPLE 278 ========================================

_Song of the Jovial Swain_
O, say, where hast thou gone
With such a jovial band
To lead such glorious lives,
To fight the Swedish Kaiser's death
By such a bloody hand?
I'm home again, oh say,
But don't forget your guest
For here again I stay
To do my Christmas best.
I'm home again, oh say,
But don't forget your guest
For here again I stay
To do my Christmas best.
The little toy dog is squeaking.
There's nothing but a clock
On the white shelf. He's listening
For a little noise that squalls.
One minute, then, he snoozing.
But I can't run or stay
From the kind old watch I made him
In the old oldfashioned way.
Away to the wood and grass,
And up the mountain side,
My watch dogs bark and bay wide.
I have not lived by candlelight
Upon so wild a day,
And as I live on this
There seems to me but one
And that is all I have
For dog and cat and bird and tree
Tally on old Long Island lea.
Now I would be the big one
And you would be the mate
Of that dear, quiet state.
The sea was my big nursery-fire:
"Come," said he, "we'll play to-night;
And, though it's time to frisk about,
We'll have a board of cards another day."
And when the day sets dim
I lie upon my couch and it wags its light
Around me. It's my nursery-fire.
I don't wish to be a drum
But I am loud, I know:
I hear the drumming of the Great Belee
Upon my headstone shelf.
But when I hear the drumming of the Great Belee,
And the discord's over with me
I think I'll never take it quite away.
Old-fashioned people come for to-day,
With faces turned to stare
And cheeks that long have ceased the rosy red
They give for dead ones in the red.
The small dead children run about,
With shaking heads and eyes grown out
Like restless boys that never come out.
The boys that used to go when dead
Across the fields at night
They are all gone right.
And some will think their mother's eyes
Are stained with sight.
The old home nest that played so sweet
Now they are wide again. It's there!
And some would like to sleep all night
When there is silence in the hall
And noise on bed.
"We do not call it!" is its cry.
"It is the glad one," is its cry.
"Oh, no! it is the young one's joy!
They were the glad ones that we died
To save our own."
"You know it all?" I said. "And why?"
"And what are we called and why?"
"It all came from a far countrie,
Where we heard no noise?"
"The boys that knew it all?" I said.
"They have searched all far and near
For distant countries that are here."
"And why?" I said.
"He was alone," he said. "The world's all going wrong.
But it's all right."
"I was alone, and they are all my own."
"And why?" he said.
"They are all alone."
"There are no objects here that I can see.
I wish I could go!"
"Where is he gone?"
"He went away," I said.
"No, no! he is asleep tonight.
He is asleep, and he can wake
The world to wonder that he sleeps
The most of its terrors."
"The world's asleep." And then, with a start,
I cast the window wide on my friend,
And looked at him from the top of the tower,
But he could never make a good will for
A weed in its prison. So, all at once,
I called my friend and my pet friend up,
And never put on a weed more. Last year,
Last year, they made a little dog one day
To me. He'd come through under, and I ran
And asked him what he wanted. He got rid
Of what was the way out of it, and he told
Me that he wanted anyone to know
If anyone said to me that he saw
No one, or if anyone. And so I thought
But one day when it happened. He was gone
To the house where I had been and he was forced
On a hardMaybe sort of road to be glad
Of his finding out
======================================== SAMPLE 279 ========================================
 the stuavish language of the Old Testament, and its
verses are so quaint and true, that the page runs so far from
this one; the line reads _De Dea Sforley_:
The little boughs rustle above,
The birds are silent in their love.
And where they sit is a shady nook,
And the stars twinkle on the brook.
We wandered o'er the hills to the noon,
And a blue sky overhangs the moon;
And I saw the moon before me stand,
With her virgin face and lifted hand,
As fair as the lily of the land,
And singing as she turned away
With her pale face downcast and gray,
As she watched him pass from the tower
Till he shone complete in the west,
And was lost in the sky beyond the west.
Oh, it was a pity that the time was on earth,
When the young men followed the old man's daughter,
Stopped in the meadow at noon of the June,
And laughed in their hearts to the children's tune.
'Tis a pity that in the long-drawn draw,
With the tender arms, and the hair so trim,
A young man's voice was heard, and I saw he cried,
And for his white beard, white with bushy red,
A troop of maidens looked at him and died.
But I knew that neither had lily nor rose,
And the face of the man is fair as the eyes
Of the maiden that I had slain, or the brows
Of the priest, if they saw what was done.
My lady kissed him, but he was not there,
And she laughed at his mouth with a laugh of glee,
And turned away from the hall, as he passed her by,
And they said, "He has died for a false old woman."
So I knew I had kissed him once more, and slept,
And the wine grew stale at my lips' red rim,
And the song grew dull with its hollow sighs,
And he lay on a log in the blazing sun,
With his lips still red and his lips still white
And his eyes still red with the fever of death.
_The Gipsy's Camp_
I heard the horn of the miller sound,
The clink of iron within the pound,
The clatter of heavy harness bright,
The clink of brazen chains, I knew
That not an eye would open wide
And close at the battle-charging sword
And the shouting and the clashing word.
In the first I heard the blackbird call,
The redbreast whist from the straw so tall,
The cow-bells rang, the buttercups came,
And the distant merry hum of bees.
For the battle with great hearts that beat,
I could not bear to think that there
Stood only four in a circle round,
A child, and an early violet.
I heard them hum with a merry tune,
The redbreast piped from the straw so brown,
The cow-bells rang, and the milk-pails ran
In the little milk-pails, low and sweet.
You never saw a play on such a day,
I thought it was young Winter then,
When everything seemed growing greener.
How did it ever happen that the year
Brought here a blue, green, and yellow star,
And that, you know, is long since coming, dear?
Or, just as sure your eyes could see,
Two eyes seemed terribly open, Cupid's eyes,
And, O, his cheeks, too, twice as big and blue
As that of mild May-morning, when she cries,
"O, come you in, my Dear, I'm sick of Spring!"
I waited for that morn, a little while,
And, O, I cried, and there too, all the while,
Though now, though now, for half the weary length
Of your torn clothes, my Dear, I pray to you,
O, come to me, O, come to me, my Dear!
O, come to me, O, come to me, my Dear!
O, when our crosses, Dear, are laid in earth,
And sweet our voices blend into our sighs,
And the earth quiver, and the sweet birds hear,
And the green maples spring into the skies,
Come then, my Dear, come to me in my dear!
It was the schooner _Callinda_, she
Had sailed the Spanish Main;
And the crew of a schooner _Bannette_,
Came in at night again.
The crew of a schooner
======================================== SAMPLE 280 ========================================
,
I know that you will find your roses,
When your lips have lied upon them,
Or if they have lied upon them
You will find them out again;
And I've found my roses and your roses,
And you know the secrets of them.
You will find them all by rote,
Folded softly upon the leaves;
You will find them all by snowy rugs,
And a rose to deck your hair with,
And a rose to deck your breast with
When your arms have lied upon them,
Or when hair has lied upon them,
Or if hair has lied upon them.
For my heart is weary, though I weep,
Though I try to smile upon them,
Sorrowing, but I know my spirit,
Though they know the hearts they give us
Are not sad things, for my spirit
Has gone somewhere up the hill,
And in many a pasture,
Pigging pasture by the rill.
And it's O to lie in the fields to-day,
When the wind is pressing merrily, and the mists rise up,
And to rock with a laughter in the heart of the woods;
To feel the weight of the gold in the hair of the sun
As it kisses the brown limbs of the cattle, when the cows are done.
I see the wind in the tree-tops,
I hear the wind in the trees,
I see the wind in the trees,
And I know that my heart is weary,
Though I try to smile upon you face to face.
I never see the summer
Come laden with blue and gold.
I see the sun on the mountains,
I see the clouds on the sea,
And I know at the first twilight
That it must be mine to see.
And it's O for the winds, laden
With sunshine and love and sleep,
Like a little child on the breast of
His mother's knee.
The wind comes singing to me,
The winds sing songs in my ears,
And I'm sure I shall find the morning
And the first bird singing near.
I'll seek him in the garden,
A little cloud in the sky,
Singing softly, when the wind
Drives me far over land and high.
Then, wind, when the sun is gone,
Pursue, as it often will,
Both this cloud and the wind in its
Mingling ever and still.
It will carry my thoughts above,
Safe in my breast when the day is long;
I shall feel the wind blowing,
Singing softly when night is long.
Then, wind, if there be a sleeping
Close by my side and back,
I shall watch the flowers waking,
Singing softly, when night is far,
Singing softly, when night is near,
Singing softly, when darkness fills
The sky with her sombre dreams,
That the wind that sang my heart in
Caught my heart in his dear delight.
There were flowers by the way:
'Twas a crimson rose;
Only the wind could stay,
With a song that knew
That all night I lay,
Singing softly, when night was long,
All alone in the dell.
And I sing to you, sweetly,
Singing softly, when night is far,
Singing softly, when darkness fills
The sky with her sombre dreams,
That you keep from the clouds away
Singing softly, when night is far,
Singing softly, when day is far,
Singing softly, when night is far,
And the dawn is on the hill,
'Tis ever thus.
The wind of the evening blew,
Through golden haze, through the moon-drenched trees,
And the leaves like fleecy elves
Wandered over the world unawares;
In the golden glory
Of the summer sky,
A hundred tiny shadows danced
By the road, unrolled;
Till the wind grew cold,
And the wind was cold,
And the wind in the wood
Rumbled down to sleep,
By the way, unrolled.
Then the wind came down,
Through the dusky pine-trees,
Through the darkling lozenge swamp,
From the darkling, lonesome swamp,
Where the wind had gone,
And the wind came, howling,
With a cry that rolled,
And the wind in the wood
But the wind in the branches,
And the earth in the earth,
Crying, desolately,
In the sleepy, sleepy sea;
And the wind that walks in the trees
Came and past with a wistful cry.
In the dewdrops, dripping cool,

======================================== SAMPLE 281 ========================================
s of gold,
And the azure-blue of the high-heeled earth--
All the wonder and all the magic,
Wrought by the secret light of the torch-light
On the mountain peaks of long-reluctant God,
Whence the eyes of the dreaming man
Look up to the starry heavens unfurled;
Whence the mighty, unbottomed breath
Of the springtime, born of the purple bud
Drained from the cool of the dew-fall,
And the great Creator's breath
From the primal blessing, and all the life,
And the moving flame of the unseen glory
From the shining, living central Beauty--
God's law and the law of the stars,
The law of the wandering fire,
The law of man's pulses and heart,
And of all the worlds in the far-off sky--
All of these made from the dust and din
A wonder and a part.
A part of the singing of seas,
And the moving, glittering shore
And the coral-lipped reef that ranges
In the purple realm of the air.
A part of the song of the sea;
And this is the song the dreaming man sings:--
_Here it dwindles and darkens and grows--
There it has no place in the world;
Can it be, on the sands or the sands,
But the sands and the rocks that arise
And the rolling, rumbling shoreless deeps
Of the rock-bound world of the sea?_
(And the poet, the painter, rejoicing,
In the glory and warmth of the dreaming man,
Pauses, while from his lattice a puff of smoke rises
And vanishes into the twilight glow;
Then sinks to its last in the roseate glow
And again dies the violets.
And the poet leans forward and gazes
Over the sea as it seems to him,
In his soul-fulfilled vision of beauty,
Under the starlight and the sea.
_Where the sea washeth its broken waves
And the sea washeth its cradled head;
Where the salt weed drinketh the winds
That know not of sorrow nor dread;
Where the sea, the sea, with unnumbered hands
Circles with islands and towers and lands;
Where the sea, the sea, with its thousand hearts
Strips with the roar of the world's unrest;
And the sea, the sea, hath its strange strange might
And in its might hath a high consent._
_What was the sorrow, the tears at night?
What were the joys that fell with dawn?
What were the fears that filled the sight
With their wonderful tenfold gleam?
What were the nights,--the tears that filled
Our earth, our skies with beauty set?
What were the tears that fell with rain
Like stars on a sea of woe?
Oh, what were the griefs, the dark years lost,
The pain, the woe, the sorrow of souls,
We had drunk to its full!_
_What was the trouble, the pain, the toil,
That racked the heart with anguish wild?
What was the bitterness, the pain
Of soul and body and heart and brain?
What was the bitterness, I ween,
That racked the spirit and brought relief?
What was the bitterness, God knows,
That wrung the heart with anguish high?
God giveth His peace and power,
The beautiful is His own good-will:--
God keepeth the holy hours
Of peace through the day and the night,
And the beautiful hours of night
That bring the glorious light.
The rain, the rain, thou Gabriel
In thy bright, angelic flight,
Hath gathered in thy showers
Of sunlit April dew for day.
And who is the March of April--
The darling of men?
And the March of the beautiful March,
The splendid day's delight,
And the March of the beautiful March
With its flowery light?
And the March of the beautiful month
For the love of thee, my Sweet?
We have trod, we have trod;
The light of the sun is ours;
The moon and the stars are ours.
Our tread has a diadem,
And we have a garland to wear
Of the flowers on every dew
And the stars and the sea's bright eyes--
The flowers that hang on the breeze
And the faces round the trees
A-glitter with golden tears
As they fall in the Holy gloom
And melt in their golden bloom,
And sink in their golden death
In their tender sea of bloom.
The beautiful March of the May
With its beautiful day,
By
======================================== SAMPLE 282 ========================================
, _Paradise Lost_.
I know not how I am to judge,
But what a curious truth is mine!
I know not from what hidden source
These streams of truth and beauty flow.
O wondrous things of light and grace!
O wondrous things of faith and hope!
I know thee, I have known thy face!
I know thee, I have known the scope
Of all my days and nights, and yet,
When I have found what thou dost not,
And when thou shalt not, I forget.
I have known thy voice, I have known thy look,
I have known thy change of heart, and yet,
Though the world might hail with a stammering wink
The coming of the world's unclouded sun.
I have known thy pleasure in all my days,
Thine in all my happiest hours, and yet,
When all the world was new to thy desire,
How should I love thee, how should I forget?
O, could I see how like a stream doth flow
In the warm light of eyes of all my men,
How my white breast were glad to have the glow
Of a sweet solace, and how it must then run
Like a deep river down to the sea.
O could I feel a warmer atmosphere,
I could repeat the joy that moves within
My breast, and be as one who loves, though a speck,
With the sun upon its face and with the air.
And yet thy voice is sad and feeble and artless.
Thou wouldst live on amidst a world of men
As a dull stream doth, where the wind will find thee.
Why dost thou sorrow so?  Thou dost not live!
I will make other women my choice choose,
And think of a sweet face, not shaped and loving,
In the sad home I know thee and thy chosen!
O, thou art like a little water,
A dear black river, a little stream,
And thou art playing with my fancy,
And I am glad with the singing.
In vain, with hands as empty as my own,
Thou wouldst be bending to embrace me;
It will not be a thing of moment,
For thou art gone, and I am altered.
I shall not see my own face again!
Though I should die, and my heart change to stone,
And the world wear a dull grey eyeless stain
Because my face could never be alone.
And yet it is not I that are forgot,
And it is not I that was loved so.
No other woman is woman,
As this unhappy land may be.
And though it is the same, and I am full of it,
And I know it, I shall not see again;
For it is as a flower that grows in the ground,
And no man ever comes to it or treads it.
There will be an eye, and a heart to love it,
A heart to hope, a hand to unite it,
And a hand between the hands, and a mouth to my heart,
And a lip that may breathe and look for me;
I shall give back my youth and all its years,
And the life of youth, and the heart of my youth;
I shall die in the spring, and yet the flowers blow;
And the summer and the summer and the sweet
There will be an eye for the eyes of my sweet,
And a mouth that may breathe and speak for me;
And the winter and the years, and the heart of youth,
Chime like a fairy-tale for me.
I will remember the mouth of the Spring,
And the lips of birds, and the feet of birds;
I will remember the laughter and tears,
And sing them with the flowers and the words.
It is not enough that the earth and the sea
Forget the change and the grief I have made;
Only I shall dream that I love you for me,
And my songs shall be heard in the shade.
The hills have set their summits to the sun;
They have forgotten all the lights that were;
The songs that loved and lost their valleys run
Like clouds on a low summer's sea.
They are gone, and they are changed, and the hill
Is fresh as a girl's, the vale is fair,
And their memories rise like stars in Heaven
To brighten a bleak waste of air.
How I long I shall be happy in this place,
Ere I pass away, and shut my eyes.
The clouds have darkened into the west,
The sun is hid,
And I am left alone--alone.
What is a cloud in the sky?
What is a breath in the sea?
What is a breath in
======================================== SAMPLE 283 ========================================
, and the ballad by W. C.
_"Pray to Him, who is true,
And pray to him, who has found
The sting of her love to a mother's heart,
Be Thou Thy guest here, and her safe from wrong;
For in His sight is her loss, and her joy."_
The Story of a Roundel is arranged from Arcas near Pascunica, and
_"Crowned am I with my crown,
I take it for the glory of my realms!_
In Praxiteles Poems. With the exception of the _Comus_ to whom it
has been given,
"He shall be made divine
Who hath made the earth a wine;
He shall be made of the Virgin's snow;
He shall be made of the J symbolic Rose;
He shall be made of the J symbolic Rose!_
Pentecost. C. V.
_One kiss I give for one,
And one for naught but the great Image._
"And I give ye, my dear, to bury
The beauty of the world with an anthems.
And with them all my heaven to give,
My body to the sea with its stars and their lutes,
And to the women for bread and water,
And to the men that shall weep at my feet,
And to the women for fire and meat,
And to the men that shall pray for my sake."
The original of Satan's Feast is translated from O. 33.
_"They shall be made immortal
Within the temple of the sky._
As, to the winds with a shout,
Athwarting on an unseen sail,
Some light upon the darkening sea,
Doth spice the deep with spice and gold.
The sun takes up the burden
Shall be heavy with darkness,
The sea the burden of waves,
The shore the beach the fisher dips.
My longing and my dream,
The sea's and sky's, the ocean's heart,
These are but shadows, which unto me move
Like ghosts, and vanish like a mist.
These shadowy forms appear
As shadows on the waters
Invoked from a dim shore
When lightnings stir the waters.
And the sea's heart is a cold stone
Planted by a foeman's billow,
When I have found, within the gate,
Some shadow, like a shadow,
That grows by the road, and grows younger.
But after all is still;
I have built, with unperceived skill,
A garden of the sea,
One that is not aware:
The sea of its own heart, where never
Did the waves hurtle on the shore.
And this is my true home,
The sea and its delightful air,
Where the sun enters not, but enters not.
And from this minute forth,
My soul doth suddenly climb and fly without rest,
Like an eye without an open compass,
Up into the azure cope of the air,
And up into the azure cope of the limitless sea.
And all around me are
The myriad thoughts of memory,
The many thousand dreams of a good man;
And from these the memory flows,--
Like blood, from a heart that aches with pain,
And like the heart of a true love,
This life bears witness to it,--
Like death, and like misery to me.
I have written this poem of danger, of sorrow, and sorrow, and
care; I have added the lines I have written.
_"If to me ye mock people, behold my land is white with
_"If the land be black as death, and brutal wrongs growl and
mercy under usurpation, behold my peace, my good will that
"The soil is white with curses, the sun-beams shoot through
shrouds of enemies, and through the darkness of the earth.
Then in the land of slaves, see I my land!
Wherefore this evil-minded beast?_
_Only let me make amends, for aught that may concern my heart,
for I am minded well to help my fellow, and in my own way to
get aid. Bring the ass, for my house! O lift me!
Bark for my house! the heavens open its doors to me!
For there I have entered again in my land of the
white fog,--a land no speck like my land that lies,--
my goods,--dark as perdition,--it is time for me to take
them, and to use them in that way. Better for me to do so than
to hope that there shall never be a day for me when I come
hitherto, in the land of the desolate
======================================== SAMPLE 284 ========================================
, and
In the beginning, and that was not an altogether impossible work
In the original Ballad was published several times
paciously, the first portion of which it was used in 1851.
By chance or the change in the sequel, or a change in Browning's
But in those who came home to be alive, the narrative was not
profligate.  This ballad appeared in the _North American
This is an excellent ballad of current interest which, though it
The ballad was published in 1870, and the several short
connexion of its own every other in the world.
This ballad was begun at the period of the first period,
nothing but a story of its own, and a poem, no doubt, was
This book was first published in the _North American Journal_,
appeared within the year 170, and is most happily based upon
ballad tradition, a genuine faerie of which he gave an interesting
collection, which had been published a little before the appearance
Ireland.  But now the ballad is not a favorite ballad, though
This ballad, in which it was printed in the _Time-Piece_ of the
This book is based upon one of the seven ballads, which was
published, and is now published, and will now yield, if any man
doubt that he is commended for having made this version of
this version a complete edition of his own.
The ballad, though the changes are not so original, is that
The ballad is but a story told of some old jolly ballad, which is
conveniently charming and beautiful as it was before.  It is
inclined to by the former, and to the latter does not fully
remarkable for the vigor and vital constitution of the ballad.
This book is also a wonderful one, made of the finest leather
The ballad, which is of the _North American Journal_ is one of the
This ballad is of the _North America_, and is in some degree
The ballad does not appear in the number unless the tune is
The ballad has Norse analogues with the old ballad of the
ballad of the older ballad, called by some name, has a background
These ballads may with their oversevity be the production
There were three great monarchs walked into the city of Sleepyng,
And they spent a little time in church, asleep among the trees.
One of these names was PHILIP, a beautiful one, who sat among the
Under the steps of a beautiful walk, he took a sword of red;
Waving with a sword of gold he came arrayed, in honor of the town.
Whereat the marvellous monarchs shouted loud, "There is no such man
As this beautiful one, who lived in the ancient town of Sleepyng.
THE sun rose in the city of Sleepyng, that gentle and considerate man;
He looked over the city walls, and saw no man either by his own
He wiped his hot brows, and said, "Amen!"
The sun rose in the city of Sleepyng, with only an emerging
From beneath a hill of gold a piece of gold stood in the corner.
A full price upon every stone was the last piece of iron;
He looked up to the tower, and walked into the night.
"We are come here, O strangers, upon our way hither, and we must
must not go back."
We are in the castle, upon the road to Sleepyng.  We have a
steady room.  Our hands are clasped round the bedclothes, and our
worn hands clasp the clothes we have left lying on the couch beneath.
We turn the yellow vases of the bed, and kiss the cloth.
"Wherefore you must do so, sleepyng; wake him not until we have
"We are in the castle, asleep on the morrow.  Wherefore I have no
"We are in the castle, in the night, asleep on the morrow."
I have three daughters, as I count it good.  Sleepyng, the young
one, and my daughter one, the older one; Sleepyng, the other is a
"And Sleepyng, the daughter of a lord, then led them to the
grave, and bade them kiss and interpenetrate all that were
waste.  And I spoke to him, but he said nothing concerning the
But he interrupted me on his journey, and sent me on my way, and
opposite, that he did not want to take his wife for the mother of
"How now, Sleepyng?" said I to him, “didst thou make me wish to go
"And thou
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t. xii.
In vain, in vain, in vain, in vain I fly thee.
O, Love, thou seest, the mind of man is free!
Thou seest, indeed, that fickle want of power
Can ne'er invade thy purity, O Love!
And yet, for me, the dreadful thought above
Of that esteem doth darken all my heaven:
But, fearing Heaven, I rather would not trust
My soul, or be what Nature formed thy part:
That thou could'st be my thought, and I thy thought.
And yet, what say'st thou?--O!  that thou art free?
What!  Love thy neighbor, and yet love thy neighbour?
If that thou think'st me not, I cannot know.
Could I find words to speak my danger home,
And I might feel but what I know my name--
Or how I thought it had contented me.
Or, foolish thing!  Why tell me from thy side
What makes me smile, or shake my finger here?
What makes me sing a thousand nights and days?
And who can shake a senate in thy house?
And who hath given his hand to any thing?
'Twas that I did him by a finger touch,
And set him by his finger there, to see
The very moment I might fall asleep.
But that my finger trembles; is it he?
The door he opened but the key thrown open,
And shut, and let me in.  What, is't that so?
His finger lifted not upon my lip
To show the thought how vainly I was tempted,
When, like a beggar in his utter need,
I sought the path he wished to let me tread;
But the blind rope hung down, and was forbid
To tie my feet, but could not free the one,
And did not make myself the prisoner.
For when I felt my hands lay heavily
Upon the shoulders of my dame, then came
An eager hurry to my ears.  At last
Dread shapes of dreadful menace hurried past,
Some shriek of fear, and when I saw the face
Of one, of none, of all, that cried aloud,
"Hide thyself, Love!" and clutched my lips in vain.
In vain they bated, and they must be hushed,
Or pent in one confusèd agony,
As in a sense of hell.  What was that cry,
That at the moment I had heard it, shrilled
And fluttering in the darkness?  I have felt
My pulse go faster, and my fingers thrice
Move on the pinions of my voiceless hands.
I have turned half-asleep, and waking found
Strangely that no man living; yet no man
Unwary of his errand woke to hear.
What words are these?  What arts?  What voices caught
The troubled spirit into being, hushed
By what it hears, and what it does with all?
What sounds are these?  What voice will rise and go
Through the waste darkness to the open door?
What tongue unfold those dreadful tidings, and
What hand turn all his weary thoughts to song,
And all that live is in my heart and all?
O, what excuse can I refuse to give,
If I forget that evil, which I knew
How suddenly, when all my sense was crushed
With that blind fury that I felt behind?
Was it because my soul was shaken thence
By that divine and tragic agony?
A little by the way, a little oft
For the long hours I watched beside the wall,
And, as a weary man who has not seen
An apple fall, would rest a weary while,
And, looking out upon the garden-slope,
Dreamed that it was a hand-work, half in prayer,
Solely by which its hand had wrought this thing.
But the long hours rolled onward, and with them
The twilight of long weary hours came on,
And, at the end of all, a sound at last
That called me from the darkness of the past,
Its voice, its shape, its echo waited still.
Then, pausing on the stone beyond the wall,
And gazing farther on the evening-gold,
I spied the spirit of the face of one
Who waited patiently for my approach.
The shade was gone, the form was all gone out,
But what remaineth more, and less, and less,
When the hand loosened not the awful hem.
The face was glowing as of old, but me
Approached the form that claimed for its own use
The features of my soul.  It was as though
My soul
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, was of a noble race,
As great, and high, and mighty was his place,
His father, good Philiphaugh, who had the care
Of humble parents, and a loving pair.
A sister was Philiphaugh,--the same
Whose father left his people to his shame;
Whose mother, when he in the desert wild
Wandered, to perish with him in the child.
And there was mourned the woman, and the child
Sat silent on her knee, and none was heard
In the lone forest to disturb her song.
Her father, he, poor maiden, when he came,
Told his sad tale, and told his little one
That he must seek the sea, far from his home.
"Oh be it so! my child!  I cannot bear
Thine miserable presence, and the earth
Knows not a happier refuge than my own.
For thee it lies in my heart-keeping,
A sorrow without hope, nor rest from toil:
And I my work and comfort will resign,
And bear it to thee, for thou art my son.
Then thou, poor maid! and in my father's heart
Unlove the boy, who little for his sake
Thy mother and thyself cannot repay.
And thou, because thou know'st me well, must keep
And be beloved, because thy child thou art!"
So she was speaking. But she turned and passed
The sycamore, and silent, and she passed
Out of the sycamore, in silence; for
The fair and fair had not yet reached the door.
It was a lady fair, who, with a cheek
Like apples red, had sate beside a lad,
She knew what thing it was to sow and tare
The ploughshare. And she passed in silence forth,
And still the twain remained, as it befelleth:
But the queen bade them bring her, not before
By word, or look, or glance, or hand of man.
And now the twain were silent, and the sun
Had turned them to the sea; and on the shore
Wandered without, till twilight or before
There was a wall of stone, and on the sands
A great wave rose, and from it rolled the waves,
As from the entrance rose the foam and sand.
And there was nothing certain that a God,
But something like it, was there anywhere.
Yea, something that was good, that was, forsooth!
But still this thing befel the water's edge,
And all the wave found shelter from the surge;
And there was nothing certain of the thing,
But only crag, and rock, and tiny hook,
And, on the rocks, the fair, dim damask face
Of some great Deity.  Then these were fain
To bring her back to life, or be her slave.
But, for their captain, they had but to tell
The marvel of their lord, and of the dame
And holy prophet.  Then began the thing,
To cast her image forth upon the sea
With prayers unto the God of wind and main,
That it should dwell with them and to be sought
By all their kinsmen, to be named their kin.
But still they sought their mistress, as they would,
For they had lost her, and a mighty man
Before them went, whereof they could not learn
Who was their Maker, and their end was wrought.
And in the morning he came down at night,
And gave him such a welcome as the bride
Of a brave soldier, and he spoke again:
“Now to my daughter work we with the oars.”
And presently before their work they came
In place of dead men’s bodies, by whose help
The mighty oar was foaming. Then the sea
Drew up huge waves of water, whose vast face
Was writhed to billows as it cleft the ground
With angry flashes, and the mighty sea
Lashing the shore like an infuriate boar.
Then he, who saw upon the sandy beach
The splendour of the battle, set his hand
To shape the oar and cast it forth, and drew
His two broad masts up, and his two hands
And limbs together, in the evening gift,
Made he with speed the battle line to form.
And now the battle and the deep distress
Gat hold of men, and on the shore they stood,
With eyes cast upward fixed on the sea,
And moved on the green sea-shore and looked
From heaven, and saw, in lovely mist concealed,
The warrior maidens, and their fair array.
Then was a little respite
======================================== SAMPLE 287 ========================================
 it--and, in spite of a slight
Retreat, a man he will not call the friend
Of you, the friend of mine. The stranger, too,
Will take his stand upon you, and at once
You must stand near, and with the foremost hand
Charge him, and then--Oh God, I know where lies.
You have been warned by me to make my life
A partner for your private life, and I
Will send you to my heart in this your house.
You know the kindest rule, and I obey
And I obey. There is a kind of pride
Has written in the letter written here,
That bids me stay with you at home, and so
I shall stand here and love you. If you fail,
I am not mad. I am a careful friend,
And watch and ward to please you, and to guard
And shield yourself, and to defend, and aid
Yourself, according to your own decree.
In the end I will do something, and will write
This letter down on you! I think I am
A prince of yours, and am no servitor,
But fellow-servant, honest, open-handed, brave,
To all who do my will, and do my will
For you, your friend sincerely. You are his,
Your own and only friend. I shall command
His office, here." Then from the open door
Dawned the great sultriness of those long hours
Which make the whole world less; he, at the last
Arose, as soon as he had reached his home,
Sat down and looked at my cold face, and said,
"Oh boy! my son, I wish you would be gone."
I did not, and the man was dead, and they
Whispered together in the fields, and said,
"We know that he is slain; he shall be healed."
He fell asleep, and lay upon his body.
Then in the dawn I asked my son again,
"What did the other children do, of whom
They have such anxious watch in their graves?"
"My husband was a rich and prosperous son,"
Said I. "He said that he would like to die
All for his body, and preserve the State,
Not even where he died, in a warm spot."
"I thought I had come home again," he cried.
"They sleep, my son," said I; "it means my grief.
But what care I how little time will add
To those that sleep!" So saying, he arose,
And with the dawn was ready. Down I went,
The first, to where our cottage stood alone
Among the chimneys and the last sparks,
His mother with her infant to her breast.
Then came a day new found, and to the place
At the cave's entrance looked my tired step;
A handsome bed was made to-day for me,
The only one, my son, that I should look.
Since then I have not slept, nor yet o'er-wake
My head, nor where the hollow oak receives
Its boughs, with all its branches overspread;
And I can see the remnant of the year
Come drawing in where now they walk alone.
All round the wood, that now is trembling with the heat
Of this new spring, I feel the wind among
The thick leaves, wailing in the branches low.
I can hear the wind amid the boughs, that moan
Like the old sea some time since, when all around
I have been sleeping, and have felt my feet
Set on the earth in vain, and all around
I heard the rain upon their hollow cheeks.
My hand that has wet flowers to my hand,
Has turned to stone beneath this winter's rain;
I must go in, and, sinking in the sand,
Look up, and see them falling in the rain.
But they are gone; and oh, the world's deceit
And lies of vain deceit! oh, I shall know
How, when they came, their faces turned to me
I cannot trust, lest I be snatched away.
Come, let us meet them at this holy spot.
The grass is thick with flowers. Now, as of old,
They were a wondrous multitude of flowers
Green-pulphed, and all in white, and with clear cries
Came to us, saying, "They are Innocents!"
The birds and little birds, well pleased with sight,
Made ready for the wedding of the sun
To go with wings and choose a fairy spot
For their own lives. For all these joyous days
There never is a fairer holiday,
Nor May, nor Autumn, nor the maiden moons
That peep and shine, nor
======================================== SAMPLE 288 ========================================
-to and to be
But I have a word about the place,
And the way that he went by that.
You want a book?
That you see at the end of it.
Do you ask me everywhere
Where you'd best discover it?
For you say a book's the thing
Which is known as the place of it.
You tell me we're here, it's plain,
And my name's a little black
(But I love you most)
And my friends they will not explain
The thing which is in the black.
The black and the pink and white
Have nothing to make you sweet,
But you'll find a book?
I've never read a book.
Now at last I have finished. So
Now you'll gather the book that you dropped last,
And I'll publish it over and over again.
The sun that was shining bright
Made all the planets in heaven
As he went down into the light
And lit the stars without even
His torch, as he went down into
The house of Night.
The moon was shining bright
Like a piece of cinder,
And the fire-beams burned white
As they fell from the chimney,
And the water dropped like chaff
Into the fire, as she dropped
Into the well's dark well
And the hearth of the coal-fire.
The night was grown still colder
When she gave us first faint breath
And let us go to sleep
And that night made to weeping.
And the white moon heaped its rim
Like a silver billow
That has nothing of proof
That he did not weep, as I do to-night,
And I cannot tell why
This rose on the window-pane
Was a sign of that lover
He would go down and leave me.
The moon was still shining
As if it had kept its gold,
And the firelight wrapped silence:
Over each window-pane
Fluttered its black, thick-shrouded
Souls like stars in their glory.
The wind was beating its heart
Like a heart in a shower,
And the flamelight gave pause
When the night was on flower,--
O it was as a lover,
As a lover, in the hours
When the stars were going
Where the light of the firelight
Suddenly flashed like a shower;
And the moon fell softly
Like a silver shroud on the air,
And the stars were still shining
In the dark of the forest
Where the path of the firelight was lying.
The moon fell softly upon the wooded slopes,
With a low and silver voice,
And the moon, like a silver bell,
Kissed the leaves of the oak-tree
Like an Indian woman in Arabia.
Then she ran upon the path and gazed
With a timid fear which was not her own,
And the moon was very pale
As she ran upon the trail
From his bow of red oak,
And a fierce yellow ray
In the woods of Virginia,
As she ran through the open meadows
With a timid fear that was not her own.
Then she ran towards the wood,
And the moon fell, as a pall;
And the stars were placed on the sky
Like dim candles in the room
Where the moon was yellow and brown,
And the wind came creeping in
To the chamber where the night was in.
There came a face like a flower
And it covered my face with its white, white hands,
Like a candle, with its eyes and its cheeks
Like a candle-flame where the oil lights are;
And I said between a prayer and a song,
With a terrible, horrible, silent fear
That I knew not what could be the face
Or the lips of the maid I knew so well.
Then I said between a laugh and a song,
With a dreadful, horrible, silent fear
That I knew not what could be the face
Or the eyes of the maid I knew so well.
Yet I said between a threat and a song,
With a horrible, horrible, silent fear
That I knew not what could be the face
Or the lips of the maid I knew so well.
Yet I said between a laugh and a song,
With a dreadful, horrible, silent fear,
That I knew not what could be the face
Or the eyes of the maid I knew so well.
For the man who trembles and cannot speak
Is the man who has been so long
On the way to the end of the world beyond
That he knows not that he can stand alone
With a stranger in his power
To stand alone, and hide his face
From the stars that wait on the world's great space
And never speak out loud on the day
And
======================================== SAMPLE 289 ========================================
!
I know my John's a pretty little bird
That went out in the woods,
And all the day I watched him singing,
And heard him say his prayers.
Then came the boldest Waterlander,
And out of the thick woods
Brought all the flowers, and brimmed them,
And I have heard him sing, he questioned,
"Is there no way to pass?"
"No way, but that," said the Waterlander,
"No way but that;"
"But that"--said the Waterlander,--
And went his way with a shout
Till, as he followed down the pathway
Under the large blue sky,
He saw a little red rose
As there he stood, and said,
"It's coming, mother!"--and I know
I know that, where it goes.
The grass is thick on the graves of those who died
To defend the little Bird's Home.
The dust is low on the graves of distant friends,
And the gray rain falls from the bergs.
The trees are alive with the patient moon,
And the ripples come and go.
But the moon never passes until, out past the cliff,
She has found an empty house.
It is only the bell of the wood clock,
And one has to live for a while.
It is all but the old, old house
That has never a mouse or mouse,
And the little tall windows that never come out to the light,
And the barn that never can do.
I must go to the mill where the children sleep,
For there always the old door is so close,
And the children have all come home from the farm to fill their
Cares are in the barnyard that is quietly sleeping
On the little stone bedclothes that drip from the heap,
But I have not the heart to close.
The rain drops on the ceiling like pearls of gold
That come off and come in at the fall of the day,
And the lanterns of eight come trudging in at the door
In the little white house, with the dim blue light in its eyes,
And the big round door with its cloth of wool
And its cloth of silky dust,
And the lanterns of nine come out through the open door,
When the child sleeps.
The little windows sleep,
And the moon does not move.
The clock in the bedroom window
Creeps, and points as she dreams through the slumberless years,
And the clock in the tower tower
Creeps, and points as she dreams through the slumberless years,
And the clock in the tower.
"Dear eyes, you slept--
I was so glad and glad.
There was no sleeping on my face,
And the weary men whooped on the village street
Said "She is tired," and went to sleep.
I lie on the field at the bed-side,
I have to lie on the bed;
I have to go to sleep.
There were twenty little boys
That drew their work on a summer day;
They dreamed it over the lintwhite Hills,
And the snow-drifts, and the wind-swept grass.
They dreamed it over the hills,
And the little boys, but they could not tell
Whether it was winter weather
Or no; for they knew that it was best
And that it was all a summer's day.
But the little girls and the little men
Dreamed and wept, and had no time to mourn,
And I keep telling tales to them,
Saying, "He is tired, and he cannot come home."
And all the little girls and the little men
Dream them again.
In the little room in the house
Where the firelight makes dim in the soft green gloom,
I do not think it hurts so to sit so still
And hear the dim words, "He is tired", O, lad,
That used to fill the room.
Out in the soft bright light of the summer sky,
The hills where we went by,
Again the door is closed; again the door
That made so bright once more
Is closed again, again the firelight gleams
On trees that stand so proud above the trees.
The wind blows from the south,
The sun shines from the sea,
The clouds are all a-blowing,
But yet I know that it will come to me
In the evening, from the dawn,
That there is stillness in the wood,
And the silence turns away.
On the gray stones in the darkness
I hear its voice of peace,
A strange voice said in me
In the desolate pasture lands
That the lost sailors call.
O, the black black ancient sea,
And the flowering vine are
======================================== SAMPLE 290 ========================================
, who looked over the world.
_Who has not forgotten to see the sea, &c._
It is not the sea,
This unavailing sea!
This is not the sea,
This unavailing sea!
_A young girl
Buddha makes her mother
Buddha's baby blue._
When the heart is heavy,
And the eyes are dim,
And the tongue of the man
Comes up from the marsh to the sea,
What does he tell me of?
The little one who gazes
At the little maiden
Who has looked at him--
The little one who gazes,
At the little one.
He is not much to blame,
He does not speak with shame.
He is neither brown nor bleary,
And the little one who looks
When I set eyes on his lips;
And the mouth wide open closes
And the lips locked close;
And I kiss his dimpled fingers
Where the finger tips of his lips
Reached toward his chin.
It has been all the world
That this little maid was born;
It made her eyes at morning,
Her mouth at evening.
She could not sing for joy's delight,
She could not dance for glee;
She simply cried for joy and pleasure
And never had done for me.
_Her father sits before her mother,
And utters her benison;
He speaks with tenderness:_
_"I pray you, dearest mother,
Put gifts on my emprise
Of dainty dainty dainty
Of beautiful indolent eyes._"
The moon shines high,
It is no longer fair;
A beautiful young thing,
With a gold-green mantle,
And a gold-green hael,
On the floor is set
The little youth
Clad all in white:
The tenderness
Of a lady's waist:
The whiteness of a maid's head:
All the proud and sunny traits
That crowd the young and fair.
The moon shines bright,
It is no longer fair;
A beautiful young thing,
With a gold-green mantle,
And a gold-green hael.
The rose has room
For its perfume;
The lids are shut,
The lashes droop:
The cheeks are wet:
The little girls are mad.
_Then let us, we will spend it,
For it is so great and good
That each should take it for
A lady in her turn;_
But never a rose was born,
Nor one that dared to grow;
So, when the garden was dark,
And death was in the year,
All through the quiet night,
Beneath an angel's wing,
From the glory cloud,
The young girls gave him love.
(_Lands are swayed by a king,
And his eyes are the only masks._)
And a gentle wind crept by,
As he passed them on,
To comfort his weary eyes,
And lull him to sleep again.
But the face that he loved was not fair
For any man to see;
For the roses he gave him in love
Are treasured in memory;
But he never told what was fair
For a hungry heart to start
On from the wings of a bird that flies,
For a foolish leaf of a bird that dies.
And, as he went down the garden ways,
The blossoms and the lily bloom
Made the boy's lips meet,
And the lids slip from his dream-like eyes.
And a wind of a frosty morn arose,
And the leaves were withered and sere;
But the heart of the girl was never born,
And never could grow to be more.
When the first rose on a violet bough
Is born in the warm spring weather,
And the first spring flowers
Are the eyes that fill with laughter
The eyes and lips that sing together--
Then the days and nights
Are a dreamless joy.
I saw the rose that blooms alone,
Where all day long its breath has blown,
But where have these sweet flowers grown?
Oh, a bee flies down the garden-way,
And the lily that lies in the very heart
Of the rose that God finds blossomless;
But a bird flies down the garden-way,
And the lily that lies in the bosom of night
By the spirit that sleeps in the light.
Oh, the lily that lies in the bud alone,
Where all day long its perfume flings,
But a bird flies down the garden-way,
And the lily that lies in the bosom of night
By the spirit that sleeps in the light.
In the garden there is
======================================== SAMPLE 291 ========================================
,
The little white-breast's nest;
There to rest on flowery beds.
The dewdrops in their crystal fountains bathing,
The warm earth, with wet black water dropping,
The moon all the night,
The moon all the night,
I love her--loves her!"
I am not lonely, for I know
Thou wilt not care to have me so,
I need not ask thee to become
The wife of my desire,
An aspiration of a dream.
Not all the little gold I seek
My eyes should ever miss,
For all the little gold of thought
That I so long for thee;
No, no, I need not search or search;
I know the thrill sublime,
The light unquenchable, the fire
That never will be mine.
I know thou wilt not care to have,
To have me led, the whole world o'er,
To serve thy earnest will,
And know thee and be loved no more.
If I could dwell on aught thy will
Were it not good to dwell,
It were not hard to be so still,
To have thee cold and cold.
Were thy heart quenched, or thy soul seared,
It were not hard to win,
Thy life were better than thy soul,
Not purer than thine own,
To be thy lover and to live,
Though all things end in one.
If, coming from the sultry south,
Thy heart should burn and beat,
Thou wouldst not fail but be the torch,
The first man thou didst meet;
Were all thy dreams and dreams fulfilled,
The torch would burn less bright,
The light that helped some weakness down,
The light that shone more bright;
It were not hard to live so long
Or for thy love to die,
To live so trusting and to wait
Ere she should turn to sigh.
If she should come a little late autumn day
To nurse thee with her golden fruit, O then
She would relent and shake her silver hand
And say, "Poor child, God knows she cannot wait;
He cannot follow where she led thee first.
He never loved his light whom she has loved,
Nor more than what he did, or what she did;
Yet if her woman's heart must deeper break,
Though she should bleed, yet she would weep for him;
She would not care how sore she longed for him.
"She was not all alone; 'tis well she died.
Where is the peace and pleasantness that died
When she was young; where is the quiet grace
And look of that divine, fair form, and face?
She did not come as those two grave old men
Whose hearts burn with the fires that break not then.
"O tender heart, O gracious tongue of gold,
That wast not spared from heaven to pitied me,
That wast not spared from hell and pain to come--
But, stricken by my beauty and my shame,
Is this not strange? is this not death, that ends
The loving and unfaithful things that last?
Since life began with love how longed for her
And love made brief, is this not death, that ends?"
I know the voice. But if thou heedest well,
Thou must not heed. When life has passed away
The voice is lost. The soul is half a dream;
The brain is broken from the lifted arm.
The voice is spent. It is a distant song.
The voice is lost. It is a shadowy song.
And thus it is that in the twilight dim
A voice is lost. If once thou heedest well
The voice of earth--that is but as a bird
That toils to rise and fly--is but as pain.
If thou shouldst pause and think, O think no more
How the world sounds, and so for ever wait:
How a voice trembles where leaves fall and fall,
Or a sound beats of the sea--is but as fate.
If thou shouldst sleep in dreams and wake in sleep
And think, and know the words we all have said,
Then might it be that from the dark and deep
Again, again, another voice replied.
There were three birds of gayest plume
That came from every spray:
They bore an eagle in their plume.
They sang of some rare lily flower
That grew out of the spray;
And there were none could tell, but all
That one bird died away.
Oh! the merry feathery cranes
That came to seek and mate!
They carried hearts to their mate.
With glee they flapped and sang and flew
In the air
======================================== SAMPLE 292 ========================================
.
"Hear me!" with that cry the Franks exclaim--
_Ailis! vive!_ the king,--'tis he that wields
The sceptre and the sword upon his shield
O'er the dark regions of the dusty plain.
The Franks with grief rejoice, and fill with pride--
_Ailis! vive!_ the king,--'tis he that wields
The sceptre and the sword upon his shield,
O'er the dark regions of the bloody plain.
In iron chains arrayed,
Beneath the weight of spears,--
In iron fetters cast--
Hands that disjointed are,
Ears that from death were blast--
Ears that with murdering point
Bloody point and cruel point--
Lo! Henry strikes! the king
He hath struck! and all the knights,--
A thousand gallant knights,
And, like the lion, barons
Ride towards him, and his rage
Envies them for their age:
The heathen stand beside him,
Ride as he hath done,--
In iron fetters tied,
Joins up the admiral,
Holding his holy beard,
He speaks, "_Minstrel, vaine_,"
And "_vaine_ visage_"; and the Franks in haste
Cry to the monarch from the plain.
From east to west the gallants [_rent_]
With their seven swords, with the red cross-bearing
And their white plumes, like the ravens.
See! the seven helmets combat!--
See! the seven helmets combat!--
And see! the spear of God!
He wields, like a goodly lance,
The bright crest of his horse;
His harness on, and his shining sword;
His spear in front, and his bright shield before all
Glittering as a shield.
And now comes the monarch from his land.
"_Angels Shades!_ sayest thou so hot a wind?
Doest thou, Sir Roland, then ride fast behind
To the wild wood? _I_ too can ride?
Wherefore ride more than a master?
"O doleful, weeping, weeping, Roland,
On a horse all silken so dazzling white,
And the golden tassels upon his hair!"--
"_Never upon a rock, never_
_Wearily_, gallantly ride,
O'er the sea's waves, where silver
Pleached like the armourer's skin;
O'er the sea's waves, where foam and
Blue-black threads like amber,--
Never rode she so fast,
O'er the sea's waves past.
"_A shield for her head, a sword for her hair_,"
The Franks say, "for her hair, which shone like fire,
And by her side a crown of thorns you see!
Let these three mighty blows do for her heart,
That you may see the white, red, azure
Pagansse, full of anguish and ire.
"_Never shouldest thou, Roland, return!_"
"Never again with her foot or chain
May you come forth,--never again.
Never shall you look upon the
Black deeds she wrought!
Never! never again!
Other than France, let me know,
If the Franks shall not take the blow!
"_Never again, ere her hour be come,_
_Shall we strike, if we strike, the blow's _far_ merriment!
Let the _far_ blow! _Far_ merriment!
Never!"--So cries he, and at a word
The Franks in silence look and pierce.
The Saracens lie there on the grass;
A hauberk floats about their feet;
And a strong sumpter-mules without,
With his harness on back and spur.
All the Franks and the mighty peers
Saddle close in the rear,
They cannot see the Saracens,
So on they rush.
Around are heard to the right
The Franks with their glimmering spears,
Loud and long, and loudly
The cry of a hundred years.
"_Never shall you, Roland, return!_"
A thousand Franks are at his word;
Thirty the trumpets sound;
And the white of a thousand,
Of the thousand, is none so sound.
The archbishop sees him well;
He's come to know the reason why;
And the Franks in silence follow
As they lie.
Ere long he'll tell the tale.
Then he flaps two shields, of steel,
With many spears, and glittering spears,

======================================== SAMPLE 293 ========================================
 with the
But the priest had forgotten to open his book and said:
"I will come again.
It is time for me to go back to that place."
But the Abbot replied,
"I will come again, and I will do my own best.
I put my trust in him who guards the gate.
A hundred yards of me will I throw away."
So when the last is done,
The monks go out, one in my blood, one in my flame.  With
blood, and with flame,
And never a whisper about the world!
And there is the holy cross
That we shall do again at the holy feast,
And we shall be free from the drear black greed and the greed
That crazed the souls of men,
The white man who would have let the red man out!
I have set my face against the wall,
I have pierced my heart to a bleeding scar,
I have cleft my heart in two.
I have thrust myself into the dust
To cool my wounds and to shut my eyes,
To be driven afar.
I have cast myself into the mire,
I have struggled hard to endure my pain,
I have cursed with a thousand eyes,
I have called aloud for bread.
O night, for the star-light and the moon,
I for my soul's sake have sinned and died,
And my eyes have been blind to the world's sight,
And my heart is sick for the world outside
But to me it has been there.
O wild night, O wild night, I fear you not!
Have you felt the weight of all the years,
And caught the gleam of mild long spears
That once were so beautiful and bright
And then are vanished?
O wild night, O wild night, I fear you not!
Have you felt the touch of all desire,
And caught the gleam of the fire-lit fire,
And then were still and?
O wild night, O wild night, I fear you not.
Have you felt the touch of all desire,
And then were still and?
O wild night, O wild night, I fear you not.
Have you felt the finger of your sword,
And guarded me from every evil thought
That ever glimmered with a hope not realized,
And then were still and?
Have you felt the tread of all the stars,
My little souls, that though so near they seem,
Seem never watching in the haunted night
Till some one comes and strikes them through the dark,
Not even while the stars are rising one by one,
But only watching till the dawn is kindled
And the sun rises;
Till from some far-off field of woe the sheep
Are wailing for their lost ones sold and dead,
And the sun rises, and the dawn is kindled
And the sun rises.
Oh, how I miss the old sweet love that used to fill my days!
How the old pain and longing vanished into the new!
It has been two and two that I would part no more--
To have known that something did not trouble you,
To have known it always; but to meet you thus--
To touch you with a hand--just to touch it--you,
Just to touch it--just to touch it!
And yet
Even as I miss your touch, my own dear love,
Once I knew nothing of the hour,
Ere your kisses and a hand began to thrill
My heart of marble;
When you were at my side to hold me fast,
I was a lover and I didn't need to,
O, did I not come back to see at last
That you were dying?
I will not tell you, for my heart is great, and so
About it, and God made me wonder more,
Locking your hands about the eyes I wore
In looking at the flower,
Than any one I saw or heard the word
That made me love you.
I have a pain in my head
And a deep thirst for the blood I have,
And it's the same thing, oh, I know not why,
But I am glad and glad.
O, had you been with me,
I would have helped you and I have been
Only a little thing,
But now I know you wait in the dark alone
For me and you,
And every day have drunken of the dawn,
I am afraid.
The roses blossom in the fields
I hide my head within my hand,
I have no wine to quench my thirst
But you.
The sky is blue
And the trees are in blossom
And the light in the sky;
The wind in the west
Is a murmur of laughter,
======================================== SAMPLE 294 ========================================
,
I know the man who has found us here,--
That's the way my hero should seek me now,
And ask for my spirit?
I only knew it from my mind.
I only knew I had found my Soul
In man to be true, one of the three,
With the world-seeing eyes between:
If the world were God, the soul would be
One long priceless knowledge!
A thousand feet above us now,
Like shadows of the evening rain,
With every silver cloud in the sky
That kissed me in the rain;
Then down the long, red hills of light,
With a glory of glad sunrise,
I passed from the world's dark ways:
But I was a lonely soul, alone,
Wrapt in the mystery of God!
I did not know when the light was there,
The way my Lord was led;
But God who led me, light and air,
Showed me the way to his bed.
Then suddenly, as a silver bell
Is heard to rest, I said:
"Come, leave the city, come with folk!
I only knew that I was King--
Of you the chosen one!"
Then straightway the city's gate,
With a burning rush to the gate,
As a child draws out her toy,
Came down through the portals high
And kissed my face!
When I awoke, the light shone out
On me, and in clear light
My love and I together sang:
"Shall it be so soon?"
But, ere a song was born,
Sweet voices greeted me,
And voices, lowly, sweet,--
But it was yesterday!
And the city's towers were one high gate,
And the nets of gold were spread
Through baiting-fields and vineyards green,
And the gates were barred.
And the music of the feast was done:
"Shall we by ourselves, then, be?"
But, ere I could speak, it seemed to me
That I was King there.
In the far-off days of the great world,
With the weary world to wait,
I sat with Margaret and with Hal
In our doorway side the gate,
And knew by the light that was in the sky
That mine was built for Fate:
By the light of a far-off land,
By the city on the hill,
By the stars that blazed in the heavens that are past,
And the eyes that were like flowers,
And the lips that were like an April breath,
I let the bonds fall still;
And the voice, that was all to me,
Was, "Save thy soul for me."
"For thy soul, which is all to me,
Save by these things thou'lt find
In the midst of myself!  No more
Shall the door of thy heart be opened, more,
Save by these things for me!"
The vision faded and died away,
And the voice, he was banished from me,
Failed me with a voice I did not know,
And I left my love with the child.
And I left him, and we went
In the selfsame garden bent
Where the new-born flowers were:
He looked in a face, but I did not dare
To follow the child, for it was but fair,
And he took me home in his heart, and there,
Alone, alone there did we find;
So we set our hearts to bind.
"I had not guessed that she was true
As any other child, but still
She kept the love, the faith, the troth,
The equal troth of the one and _all_....
For long years it was but yesterday
She kept it so: I shall see
How well I know by mine, who know,
The difference between _her_ and me.
"But the past and the present were one,
Till we drew them close together, one
And two ere the second dawn was done;
And then she set her heart in his
And she shut it, crying, 'All is well,
And I am but as other men,
And none are false save I!'
O mother, mother, loving one
Whose child is gone to heaven,--
The love that said to me, 'The sweet
Is as the loving one.'
"And the mother, for all her love,
Whose child is gone to heaven,--
The love that said to me, 'I love
More than I prize the other.'
"Then it stands in His sacred sight,
Like stars on night's black bough:
And she sits at His side, a light
Glance from her, and calls with a cheer,
That my darling
======================================== SAMPLE 295 ========================================
.
{14} The history of the Greeks is said to have been, that by
{15} The history of the Mediterranean is well known, how by
{16} Tiber was a province of sea-coast, consisting of rushes,
which were called Cyrenæ (her name is Suoneva), and it is
supposed to be the mother of Tiber.
{17} Tiber was on the west and the north of Sicily. It was
supposed to be the offspring of Sicily, because it appears
from having been taken by violence from the east to the west
at the period of its production.
{18} Sandals were worn by the Gorgons, and especially by
{19} Tiber, which contains a great deal of sea near that
whole of the empire of Tarmormia.
{20} Tiber was also mentioned by the historian as the father
father of Tarmochus.
{21} The ancient Gorgonus, whose name is Crete, was about the
south-west of Italy, and called the Ceraunians Achaians, and
whose people were said to have been Epirus and Phorcys.
{22} Tarmochus, having been born into the sea Vesta, and is the
son of Æolus and the brother of Tarmochus.
{23} Tarmochus, King of Epirus, was, perhaps, Tarmochus who was
born into the east.
{24} Cicero de' Gherardes having been murdered by the
Phaethonians. But there is not a breath of wind either here
quietly or perhaps that is it.
{25} This sea was supposed to grow dark beneath the sun.
{27} Tarmochus was a mountain of Arcadia on the north-west
of Sicily. It is said to have been the mouth of the river of
Tantum. It was supposed to be the daughters of Pandion, and
sometimes of Ptolemy, who, having been slain by the
nymph Thoas, changed her colour from his hue to his hue.
Her hair is changed from his to a flower. It is supposed by
the ancient writers to have descended from a tree to the east
at this period. It was supposed to be a tree to which two
gates were attached. The object here mentioned is the Phæstian
knotus, who is said to have been a mountain through the
Phoenician. The reason of this change is, that Troy was not
being watered by the streams of Thessaly.
{27} The Sicilian sea was said to have been founded by the
Phaethon, and to have been the mother of Triton, and to have
been born into the river Tarentum.
{28} Literally, ‘The river Tereus.’ The name, I think, is
commonly called ‘Portaury,’ for the subject of the story.
The Poets have allegories of other times, and that it is not
faulty, occasioned by the fact that this was the occasion of
Argonauts, and was probably made at the beginning of the
Ganges. It was, however, bounded in Italy by the fact that a
Apollodorus was introduced in the manner of the Cidæan
celebrity.
{29} ‘Bucolomus,’ or ‘thercet.’ It is not known whether the
name was ‘Tiberinus,’ but mentioned by Suidas, because he was
a native of Attica.
{30} The names of the people of Ithanus, and his father, Eutres
were the Cidæan deities, the supreme attributes of the
Apollodorus, being sent from Cyllene.
{31} It is usual that the story of Antenor has been brought out by
Menelaus, being defeated.
“The god has given the Phaëtonians a name to which they are
accustomed to be a mere character.”
{32} This position was made under the name of Antenor. The
mythology is rendered by Clarke in Phæacia.
{32} I take the following passage from one of the Ovid texts:—
{33} It is most possible that the worship of Homer should have
been impossible to be thus imitated by the people. But the name
is now generally used by the people. {34} It was thought by the
people that the Phæacians were regarded as slaves to the
worship of the god, and that they had been to their exile.
======================================== SAMPLE 296 ========================================
s,
Lying, and dying!
The man who died as a flower does
Is the friend of the rose and the tree.
In the days that are over and done with and ended for ever,
A man must go down to the grave to be just and sport to the end.
What an ugly dream is it in the street
Of a dingyeless room,
And it pictures us all with a line complete --
A horrible dream....
We can go to sleep and never know how --
Past the trees and past the flowers
And past the trees;
And the landscape is dirty and dark and drear --
That's the real
Mous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-nous-
A sun that is dying down in the water
Is setting again.
He rises to go out on the wreck.
He is dying of fever and he is dying of fever.
He knows -- he knows -- that the devil's alone in the world --
The devil's own | angel.
He knows -- that the devil's alone in the world --
Asks -- knocking out on his bed.
He knows -- he knows -- that the devil's alone in the world --
Asks -- knocking out on his bed.
He knows -- and he knows when the bout is over
And the handle turned to the light,
And the lead strained out, and the devil's in the house,
And the curtains slackened and the light turned dark;
And he knows -- he knows -- that he'll never see again --
That he'll never see again!
A clock ticked; and a bare-foot boy
Blew a ball and missed his aim,
And he staggered forward with a crash.
And he gave a hitch to his game.
In he wandered up and down.
If a mouse came out of the house,
He would tick himself with a haunch;
And when he came out of the house,
He would fiddle himself with a piping gong;
And drop lame polonets upon the green.
And then the wallaroos would hang;
And the wallaroos would hang;
And then the wallaroos would hang;
And then the wallaroos would hang;
And then the wallaroos would hang;
And then the wallaroos would hang;
And then the wallaroos would hang;
And then the wallaroos would hang;
And then the wallaroos would hang;
And now he'd go and never come.
For the rats were numerous, for the rats had fed,
And the walls began to stand;
And the wallaroos stood stand a little ahead,
With never a wood that could lifel the yard;
But he'd let them pass by for a mile or more,
Or else a pile of skin,
If he found all the work and he'd been there before,
If he found all the work and the tools had done,
If he found all the work and the tools had done;
Then he crept out to the yard with a clap and jerk,
And he walked up to the roof like a man asleep;
And he heard the clatter of London in his ears,
And he saw the railway snorting in the rear,
Till it took o course to the city from the shire,
And the quays were lined with shrapnel, so they said.
And he watched the sailors at their work,
And the London lights were burning cool;
And he watched the red flash when it came,
And the London flush in London's eye;
And he'd set his foot to the lower yard,
And he'd sail away to the lower sea;
And he'd watch the red glow of London spread
Over an adamantine star in the night;
And he'd sail away to the west west,
And he'd make his over-tightness tight,
And he'd stay awhile like a sailor that's mad at sea,
And he'd make his over-tightness tight,
And he'd wake up the sentry to arrest,
And he'd wake up the sentry to arrest,
And he'd make his over-tightness tight,
And he'd say:  `I'm tired of the town',
And I've gone West End churches tall;
I'm tired of the golden summer's day,
And it's up to the fair, white town.'
And he'd say:  `I'm tired of the town',
And I've gone West End churches tall.
Now I'm tired
======================================== SAMPLE 297 ========================================
 and the "Dove."
"The lady has a thousand things in her head;
And if the Prince of Wales should come and wed,
My child would surely be the dearest that ever was wed!"
"I can't be married, so am I," said the lady again.
"I can't be married," said Sir Hugh, "and why should I?"
"I can't be married," said he; and he stood his niece for a year.
"Yes, I can find a score of wives in my domains on the Prince."
So Sir Hugh Gawayne sat with a feeling in every inmate's heart.
"And have you been the king?"
"I have," said the lady, and clapt herself into a dressing-gown.
"Yes, and married you too."
"You have given me a hundred," said Sir Hugh, shortly.
"Where did you come from, Lady Jane?"
"I did. I have a hundred of my poor children."
"Where have you been?"
"I have. I have been to London; have you been for twenty years."
"I have come back here, Lady Jane," said the lady, laughing.
"Where is Lady Jane?"
"I have seen. I've started as mad as a lion of ten already."
"It's only the children. My four child left me."
"Your papa kiss'd me true, madam," sighed the lady again.
"My papa kiss'd me true, madam."
"My papa kiss'd me false, madam," said the lady again.
"It has been done. I tell you it is in the Lord's great pain."
"I'll not come back, leave, speak to my dear children."
"Why on the Lord's word if it should be?"
"Because, my good lord Hugh, I hear," she said; "it was the Queen
"Then is your own, Lady Jane, for you did not stand the judges fit
"Oh, yes, my dear lady."
"And are you sure the children never were meant to lose the lady?"
"Oh, if you do, then be careful, my dear men; for the lady did not
dwells in those parts of the country, nor is it known unto them."
She spoke, and said, "You have seen me. My dear sir, I know all."
The Lady Isabel heard her speech with herself.
Then she wept aloud; and her eyes and her lips all wet with tears.
She wept as she thought of this, for she knew well it was a heavy
"You are my true man. May God be with you all the day!"
She went to meet her lover.
A week or more had passed on. Sir Hugh came to the door of the
"I should make no provision for you there in my garden."
"You are a proof of friendship," said Hugh, after a long, continuous
"Yes; but it's your father's wedding-day."
"You are my mother's name?"
"Then I'll make no provision, dear lord."
"I am proud of you," she said.
"You are old and with years?"
"I am going for silver, my lord."
"Then what shall I have for that?"
"You are a man, and with age I am poor."
"I am old. I have had a young body, and I think it will pay
"Where shall I find such a marriage, my lord?"
"I shall go a-sailing for silver."
"I am a poor beggar-woman, and you shall carry my shawl, my
giftless hand, the gift of the king."
"I am a starving beggar-woman. I had a brother, a wife, who came
"Do not wish to marry, my lord."
"I will sit in the orchard and watch the swallows."
"I will make the cottage for you, my lord."
"You are the beggar-woman, and you shall have gold."
"There's not one, and thank God for it."
"I have never a wife," she said, out of a corner.
"And I'll take the gold, my lord."
"But I would have strewing and petting
All my linen and fine stockings,
And I will have the little blue shoes,
And my yellow stockings fine,
And I'll put my true love in my shoes,
And I'll go a-sailing in mine."
She came up the door of the orchard:
"Now where dost thou go?
Have I a bowl of good red barley?
Have I a silver brooch on my head?"
"I
======================================== SAMPLE 298 ========================================
 the little fellow's
breath of gold.
_If you have not heard a blessing of the world, in words that
be not heard!_
_Oh, would you only know me as I am the king of all.
Oh, would you only know me as I was the king of all._
Oh, would you only know me as I was the king of all.
Oh, we have met to part for many a night;
But still the ties that bind the great have worn
The world's coarse patch and double gray of light
Across our paths, with all its coarse and greed
That curbs the soul itself.
_If you know me as I am the king of all.--
If you know me as I was the king of all.
Oh, we have met to part,--and I am the king of all._
Where is the wail of women that have made such a noise,--
A noise that sets the children running to applaud?
Go gather all the ages in one cry:
_If you know me as I am the king of all,
Come gather all the ages in one cry._
All the years and the world are with me: I alone
Am the great master, and am the master, too;
And I have heard the shouts of men that have gone
Far into the west to seek the old renown.
I know the time is as spent in its regret;
And now is the time for great and small and small:
For some are gone and some are yet afar,
And some are yet to the last, but some are not or here.
I have not found what I have sought: but why
Should I seek only to find it? I have found
That somewhere I may live, when all are done,
To find my youth, when all the world goes by,
Shall live and be my friend in our account,
And give myself to this, where I rejoice
For I am living now and grow so great.
I do not ask to know how much I care!
I only ask to find out some rare way
To find the morning, ere the day dies by:
And while I wait for Time to come and go,
I have but one lone thought, and that is best
To follow after as the night dies by.
I only ask to know how much I care!
A thousand years, a thousand thoughts, a day;
A thousand leagues of space, a thousand years,
Can make me one again, and still be true
To what I seem, and leave undone, and may,
After long absence, find repose in you.
A thousand thoughts, a thousand thoughts, a thousand years,
Will come and go again, or, God knows how,
When we come in from battle, we'll be there,
And take possession of the field, we'll say,
After long absence, some of us are gone,
And some are yet to be to make a new.
_If you should ask the silence that is mine,
'Tis as the quiet of a day when dreams
Begin to flutter round, and then return,
And leave the great deep quiet in your breast,
And cross the unknown forts of thought and touch.
We know not how the soul of men goes on,
These wearying days are still our own;
But, looking after darkness, we discern
The beauty of the light that on the darkness burns.
_If you should ask the silence that is mine,
It is as a sound of melody,
A floating song that flutters from the dark,
And dies away into the darkness of the world._
What's that of you, what does it mean?
'Tis what I said you should be.
I was not here, for all your cries
And prayers, except for love.
We were too weak to go to heaven;
We were too strong to trust the years;
You were too proud to climb to heaven
And take what you have given.
I see what all life holds, then:
You have no faith in time,
And though you do the best you can,
It brings another dower.
This is God's work, and you see
What is his word, and that
In darkness never will be left
By man but here and there.
I only know a little place
Where I can rest and sing
The song that cannot be beguiled,
And make the spirit strong.
And in the world of dreams I've seen
The sweetness and the truth
That never come like dreams again,
But never came for youth.
There is a quiet in this room,
And not a breath will stir
The little room, the pulse of life,
That beats so slow, so hard.

======================================== SAMPLE 299 ========================================
'd himself thus.  "What ails thee, Bocca?
Is there no succour, if thou yield the oar?"
Then he so clench'd his hands, that he the knot
Without was rusted.  If the spirit of Romagna
Had still restrain'd him, or some other's failing,
For that, his soul to evil would conduct him,
He scarce the semblance had of conf'rence mark'd him.
As in Socrate, when the good have taken ship
Where it is nam'd, if the fair haven be
Within description, to the ready pen,
And to the perilous fury vow'd, and such
The lot of wand'rer, so did I place
Myself, thence turning to my guide, and saw
The kindled minde, from that island dark
Chang'd into gnome, more wild then they
Who now were kindled; and of few my words,
So in comparison with Heav'n, again
Were by Leander on the Heav'ns, as here.
"He is not, Bocca, that thou comest out
To spy the harbours of the sacred shoar
He hath in the same boat, who shall place thee.
But know, that he who comes beneath the keel,
Reach not the bosom, for his oars shall take,
And of his oars shall make an even keel,
And of his oars shall make an even keel,
And of his oars shall put such tackle next."
Leaning I listen'd yet with heedful ear,
When, as he told me, he had reach'd the boat,
I answer'd: "I have put forth to sea,
A prey to turbans: read then in God's eye,
Le thereof 's the work of human kinde."
He then to me: "Although in pain and shame
We reach'd the place, which we must needs entreat,
Where underneath is darkness now must fall,
Still to shake off the bitter dripping dew,
Lo! a boat there, all huddle'd in the main."
Leovah then to me: "If thou e'er hast heard,
The work is good; hear thou and chide thyself,
For God, who to requiteck hath been working,
To him for us and for our good, the grace,
Vouchsafe us with the creature to requite."
"That such was I while here nor was my time,
A work I to myself had never wrought,
That with no other I was surpriz'd of.
The doing I ne'er covetous was thought,
Had not the tongues of them speak truth alone,
No marvel I, when I the place could spy,
Of a dim spot, where nothing but a whisper
Rebell'd me, if I did my mind unclose!
Betwixt the ages and the primal date,
A name, whose worth impossible I know,
That of so many lights has yet appear'd,
With loss of light, a stain, which I dare not
Record, for such a gift vouchsaf'd to give.
When as a man, with feet of nimble wings,
Upon the sun sets with his head, upript
T' advance the light; such was my human fear,
But tongued import and so forth I thrust
Into the sea, and having view'd it, stood.
Thereafter, on the very bottom, smil'd
Spirits, who look'd with eye as in the flesh,
Who in the sea had theirBat painted, these,
And me call'd back, and with such mighty plumes
Floated, that I thought nothing of the net,
But of the beauteous ones, who yet perceiv'd,
Hearing their forms, the prayers I made, and mark'd
The sun, that goads to you his daily course.
We came unto the nether rills, that oft
Answer'd the waves, that to the strait I clung,
When in the heav'n the water I expos'd.
We came, which far as the last bank recedes,
The straits and in the bottom, where the breast
From the long crag hung to the foot, we fell.
The bottom and the broken in the riss,
On the open Loire, where of itself
The Styx all portion'd out; then on the Loire
Of the great loire forthwith I saw up caught
And seated on a throw; whereat I turn'd,
Gazing on all sides, and the bright stars
In th' other world, but saw no place so nigh.
Then on the ever
======================================== SAMPLE 300 ========================================
, to make a man more wise.
_Heaven_, at last,
If we had not been in earnest search for truth--
If we were to make a man
Of such an Art to suit the term of youth--
The seeming real,
In all the seeming real,
In all the real,
In all the rest of all the soul-world's plan--
If we would make a man
Of such an Art to suit the universe--
Till all the world should wonder--
Give, then, a man to suit the universe--
_That man of such an Art to suit the God_
_That made the universe as it began_
_And all the world as it began_!
And if we make a man
Of such an Art to suit the universe--
For what else could we do
While this great Go- incomplete Humanity?
We leave him as the lark
That flitteth in a dark
Immeasurable way
And leadeth her unmarred
Too far at last--
Then, uttering something that are drear and cold,
He layeth down to die.
And what if he come back
From whence we knew him,
With those ancient sorrow-chats that hold
The world so wrapped in woe--
_What if he suffer_!
_Why are his sufferings so little worth?_
_He loves his work who cares for it at last?_
For that is Love, and that is Law,
And that is Law, and that is Law.
The Law is kept alive,
The Law whereby men strive
Is everlasting life--
And that is Law, and that is Law.
All is Eternity,
And nothing is said,
But that kindlier than all the stars are true--
That Truth for ever answers true,
And that vast wider knowledge, Light,
To guide and keep us from this sorry plight.
_O happy life!_
_Where is thy happiness_?
_O happy life!_
_'Tis that sweet honey-bee
That maketh glad thy bees
And sweet when bitter bars
Close soul to soul with bars
Of sweet Love-laughter-fires
About the doors of Paradise!_
_O fie! O toy!_
_For love is life indeed!_
_Love is a sweet thing grown
Out of the fleshly dark
And eyes averted
That Love is born in bloom
Because the kisses warm
His heart doth fill
With, breathings wild
That haunt and vex
His summer-garment of Love's holy fire:
Love is a blindfold,
That hath no dawn,
But that which is most wise
With deeps that see,
Loves near enough for eyes to see.
_O happy life!_
_That ye would know_
_His heart, whose pulses beat
As in a glass-street
With the sound of many a gate
Of heaven fallen in dust
Down in the garden,
Where he walked as if alone_
_For ever and anon_
_And in his hands the Gate
Of Heaven shall open as God's garden!_
_O happy life!_
_That ye would know_
_His heart, whose beatings bring
 assurance of sweet peace
In the strength of his trothgiving!
And he shall give you joy
And rest and bread,
And he shall be your heart's own child!
_O happy life!_
_That ye would know_
_His heart, whose beatings bring
 assurance of sweet peace,
His soul, which is not sad
But in sweet purity
Of God's own charity!
_O happy life!_
_The heart of man grows young
To see the things he brings,
And he shall measure now with tears
The sweetest lips ere day hastens to smile
At the sweet feet he taketh by the way!
For he is not a king of Babylon,
But only the lords of the earth whose praise is
Humble dust of kings, and who hath not his feet!
O ye who have known no suffering!
Who has made you pure and strong!
Go ye forth beneath the sun
Where the seraphs sing,
And the angel of the singer
Leads you up this path along.
Ye who have seen a singer,
Who has taught you a way,
Who knows not what the music
Bears to them away--
Let the singer of the singing
Humble-hearted heart and song,
The reed of his harp filling
In the silence of the sea,
The reed of the minstrel
(O song of the ancient tongue!)
Saying, Lo, the shepherd

======================================== SAMPLE 301 ========================================

_Balls_, _Barley Brokes_, for _Balls_ who are hungry.
_Bows_, _Barley Brokes_, for _Boolies_ who live on the manure.
_Bulls_, _Bulls_, _Boys_, for _Boys_ who play with the wind.
_Boys_, _Boys_, _Brownie Banks_, for _Boys_, when _Boys_ with their
_Boys_, _Boys_, _Brownie Banks_ for whom the _Boys_, _Bonnie Redibits_
_Bunches_, _Bunches_, for _Bunches_, for _Bunches_.
_Bunches_, _Broad kernels_, for the _Bunchewed Mark_.
_Cairn_, _Cairn-leaved Wig-wagtails_, _Grisly Girl-rocks_ for the
_cup_, _Cutie_, _Cutie_, _Cut-manbrewist_.
_Cockscrews_, _Catch_, _Catch-crow_.
_Cocked-whale_, _Cuckoo_, this time.
_Cotch-guarded_, _Cotch-lum_, for a keeper.
_Coast-point_, _coast-point_, to the outer edge of the table.
_Cank_, to cut, to cot.
_Cunning_, _Cunningest_, worst, worst.
_Coast-point_, _coast-point_, a little lower than the central point.
_Cozie_, _crooch_, _cozie_, to make for the dishes.
_Cuttie_, _cuttie_, a large piece, to make for the meat.
_Crack_, to make one's Self in a fright, to cork.
_Cuttie_, _coif_, _coof_, to set the dishes.
_Cuttie_, _cupboard_, paste, _cupboard_, the spoon in the bowl.
_Cuttie_, the tip, the weather, the manner in which the original
_Cuttie_, _cuttie_, the apple of the eye.
_Crack_, to make a meal, a pan of sherry, with an ell in the other
_Crack_, to make a meal, as with a half-sculp, in the top of a
house.
_Crack_, to make a meal, a pot of sherry, with half-scotched
_Crackin_, looking for some liquor that would be lightened, and
_Crack_, to make a meal, a rag.
_Crack_, to make a meal, to throw with, to throw with.
_Crackin_, dropping, in a pot, the whole time.
_Crack_, to smell, to drink, to turn the pot in the fire.
_Crack_, to smell, to talk in general, to discourse in general,
to mind all.
_Cauld_, cold, cold.
_Cauldrife_, a hoar-frost scold, the time of the season.
_Cauldrife_, the hoar-frost.
_Cuttie_, _coldie_, fierce, cruel, revengeful.
_Daddie_, daddie, to discover.
_Doited_, _daddie_, _dillerie_, to quarrel.
_Deidow_, doited, deprived, deranged.
_Douce_, _daggie_, dim. of a stout hag.
_Douce-daggie_, _Daggie_, a dog or devil.
_Dirdum_, diminutive of dafter.
_Dantit_, _dirdum_, a dirdum.
_Dirdum-dirdum_, a jerk of the tongue.
_Douce-druck_, _dirdum_, dirdum, dirdum-dirdum.
_Dirdum-dirdum_, a leaf or twig.
_Deidow_, _dirdum-dirdum_, to talk in general, to discourse.
_Doited_, pestered.
_Droukit_, dour, drucken, drucken.
_Droukit_, dazed.

======================================== SAMPLE 302 ========================================
 of _heavy-pene_,
_A thousand ladders_, all together play
With ashen stones and rainbow-tinted air;
There as I sit, the glory-brand still drawn
Up from that _cloud_, whose shadow may not dare
To pierce the darkest throbs of that lone dawn:
Oh, what a sight!) how dim, oh, what a sound!
How like the shout that some _universal_ round
May to the passing of _Amortium_ ring;
_Amorticon_ rising; and, for _love_,
_Amusefulness_, a _preyming_ harp that hums
Till all the choir, with wild _Amortitude_,
Sung the first note of music, all the while
Somewhat convinced, so that the melody
Stoic might thus be still, and still the whole
Be filled with that _dear_ harmony, which all
Who hear may be amazed--as they themselves
Do hear it, or possess it, and to _else_
'Tis that sublime symphony of God,
Which, such as earth still feasts on from beneath,
Breathes the same air that from the sun up-drawn
Drags its faint-heard _Amrits_ to the skies.
There, in one spot, sublime and beautiful,
The power of beauty still remains to _me_
Which hath its dwelling in the elements.
O _magnifie_ of Heaven, oh _magnifie_
Of that deep loveliness which doth enthral
My senses to an angel's soft disguise!
Thee in one moment all the spheres are set,
And in this glimmering world, a flame of light
The holy Spirit draweth to one spot;
So the soft glory of the starry night
Fadeth to that, which, to the wise and just,
As the stars do to heaven, is to the dust.
Thou _Minstrel_ of the bright, _Fair light_ of day,
Why, _doth_ it burn in _love_? Oh, _then_ it play,
Mutter, and fade, and wane thro' heaven away?
Is it that _Minstrel_ loves, _Love_ loves the best,
And begets _Minstrel_ the new day's behest?
No, to the very thought, _Minstrel_, is gone
All that is sweet to sense and heart and brain.
_Minstrel_, _the_ loveliest vision of the world,
Which, all enamoured of, still makes it glow,
Still makes things lovely, _love_, still _wounds_ and _wounds_.
What, without _mastiness_? Oh, what am I?
O _Minstrel_ of each light, a spirit _thou_ hast _might_,
Is _thou_ the _belovèd_ which now thou hast?
Wilt _thou_ take back the hope that once I _lost_?
_Minstrel_, _from the feast of _Amrit_, is gone.
Oh, _one_ life, _thou_ canst call it still _a dream_!
With every heart that _hath_ a mystic gleam
And all its magic when thou speakest "Am,"
Thou _seest_ a _very_ wondrous _great_ of things,
Great _majesties_, full _of Spirit and of Song_,
In which all souls as _as I_ love thee sing,
Are born in heaven by _love_ and _am immortality!
Then come along, thou _Minstrel_, as the night
Closes, in air, a floating glory-light,
And thou wilt see the hillsides of the South,
And all the blue ether, and all the tints
Of the great lakes, and all the silken mist
Which floats above the waves, and all the trees
Which draw our _sky_ into one vast embrace.
Then come along, thou _Minstrel_, as the eve
Closes even such a glory-gaze to thine
Which will, if seen, before our vision flit.
Thou wilt see all things even as they are ours,
And all the stars of heaven that move on to climb,
And all the plains of ocean, and all the stars
That bring the _sky_ up as a coronet,--
And all the blue ether, and all the trees
That lift their boughs to the enchanted sea,
And all the hillsides and all the plains that bear

======================================== SAMPLE 303 ========================================
;
He seemed to stand in his place in the street
With the weight of the years and the tears on his face
That are under the weight of the years.
Oh, he stood 'mong the trees and the maples of oak,
Or stood mid the pine-woods, where the years
Had been so long since gone.
His face was dark and his hair was white;
And he wore a long doublet of years,
With the curves of his wrist-brows, like white,
And the tangled curls of his head and his chin,
As a band of men stood by.
His name was Miss Cynthia; he stood
By the side of a log in a wood--
A name that was better than that
Of a monkey,--that's flat.
He held the date of the letters and read
Of the old letters, written in colors and red:
In the wood,--and all through it and round
In the garden, so lonely, so very profound.
His book was the story of Miss Cynthia,
Told when a visitor came,
That she had been reading an old
Strange story of marvellous dyes,
And the ballads of Elf-land;
"I've seen the weird thing in its boudoir
In the land of the east and the sky;
And I've known the strange thing in its boudoir,
But never one there did spy.
For whenever I sing in this twilight
It comes on a day or a year--
I can tell by its memory only
That I heard nought about it here;
That this old rhyming, curious rhyming,
Was a strange thing, I'm afraid,
But somehow it seemed the world was dreaming
Of something I heard or read there.
It seems that the year is in mourning
With its nights of late remorse;
And I've often and late been playing
At ballads, with eyes of flame,--
And the past has fled into darkness
At scenes of which I'm sorry.
But I still can see the visions
That haunt this path to the end--
I can see the ancient rapture
Of joy when its world is blest;
And I know that this old rhyming,
To-day, is a part of the story."
'T was only the night bird over the hill!
Only two ghosts sat by in the wood!
One was a witch, and one was a Fairy,
One was a Fairy, as fairies can tell.
They sat down on the grass, when the night was chill,
And the spell was heavy upon mortals as they.
They sat down on the grass, and their faces were set
With a smile of surprise and a fear of a threat.
The first was the Duchess of Fairy Abbess,
With her long white hair and her eyes of violet.
And they sat down by the tree where the great tree stood,
With her long white hair and her eyes of violet.
And the first was a Fairy, very mysterious,
Who cried to the Duchess: "My word! my word!"
And he stayed a moment on the ground in a ring,
With his arms round her sweet little head like a string,
Which they raised up lightly in eager lavishment,
And hurriedly on his shadowy finger they lay,
As they came over to each other unreluctantly,
And lifted a dower of love from the spray.
And the last was a Fairy, very fair,
Of a family that used to dwell in a bower,
That was always a pleasant and harmless delight,
Where never a human intrude passed the night;
And so he gathered the leaves in a bunch,
And dowerially waved them, and whispered a lot.
And all night long they sat, and all night long
They sat in the shadow of the tree;
And the morning came, and the darkness crept,
And the birds sung under the falling leaf,
And a voice clapped, and a sweet voice sung,
And I could not sleep for thee.
And ever the silence seemed to creep
Over each little face.
The next was a Saint. As I walked
The gray mist sighed above,
And the whole world smiled on the leaves, and the grass
Fled down, like a soul in bliss.
And the convent bell tolled, and the sun,
And the world in myriad eyes,
And the pilgrims came, and the pale monks were gone,
And unto an open house I cried,
Where a huge yellow basin in the wall
Rose level with a terrace wide.
And I saw a face that smiled,
So gentle and so sweet,
And a beautiful, heroic heart
Set in a silver seat.
I was very glad to be able to stroke
======================================== SAMPLE 304 ========================================
--_Bibliotheca_.
Hail, hail! and bless thy coming sorrow,
Which still doth vex my heart;
Be of good cheer, my love! for ever
With thee to travel further,
I must no longer pine,
Because my long-lost love, long absent,
Lies dead upon the plain!
And when at last I am a man
In years that sometime fled,
I must my very heart turn back
From the sad, heavy day,
For ever to remember, though
No one can tell me how.
But the fair rosy summer moon
Will brighter be by thee,
The rose will be more beautiful
Upon the green-wood tree.
I must no longer pine, nor pray
Because my long-lost love
Has faded from my view, and fled
To mournful western far:
For the fair rosy summer moon
Is fled and gone to-day;
And on the hills my true-love's eyes
Again will bloom again,
For I must do the thing I now--
How will it be with men?
"When we were boys," said thoughtful father Death,
"And had no other children but his breath,
"So I must die," said he, "and then take breath,
"And bid my friends farewell,
"That I may meet them on the other side
"I must take ready, and their looks to guide."
And so upon his errand he went on
Till he was called to-morrow, and was gone;
He was accused by all his friends of wrong
That he had ever done.
Then let us all rejoice,
We are but young, our age is thirty-five;
And yet to die is more than we survive.
In the beginning is my last request;
For if you would but try and find it so,
And save your life, your own must be the test
To bear the burthen, and the burthen too.
There is a little gray spruce
Who stands in the fir-tree,
Where you may rest if it please him
To come and pass sentence.
The spruce is of such a height,
It almost looks wild.
No longer he stands, he is sitting in state,
With his feet all so firm and white,
The stripes are just thin
And they are like fine steel.
You may have heard of the bayonet and the bow;
It is so fine to have such a bow,
One could never have done a cent shot
If so, for all you understand.
Now, I will go to the woods where the deer
Is hunting the white bear for you;
'Tis my duty
To slay that wild bear.
The bush is just thin, the bush is thin,
O! the trees are in fear
Lest a young man come to you, if he may hear.
I don't mind
If you should say
That you are a 'soldier' will be a 'soldier'
With a long double-chin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin
They say you are a 'soldier' and 'altast,'
But, oh!
I feel myself
The man that I am.
He is just now when some of us are glad.
I am proud of that.
He won't be a 'soldier' if he has to take his rest
In a long double-chin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin tin
(_On a few words of praise by H. D. Thomas_, 1804.)
I am not good
As many as my words are,
I am less than good
As any king,
I am a weakling
And I am weak.
I am a weakling
I am less than good
As many as my words are,
I am a tall tall
And I am a tall.
The grass grows over;
I can do no more,
I cannot stand the danger of a tree.
I am of some acquaintance
With a great, strong family
Who live at ease in the woods like me.
They are not always strangers.
They come with strangers
Men or boys;
They talk of trees or cattle in the fields.
It is the most cheerful
When summer days are gone.
If you are such a strong man
You may come now and come again.
To-day I must be careful
Of your good providence,
Or, perhaps, it may seem cruel
To you, although you do not hate
The snow, the green, the blue sky,
The hills, the stream, the forest,
The ocean in flower.
Then come to your own country
Of taste and
======================================== SAMPLE 305 ========================================
, which I do not suspect.]
Cui furor, centum, et pingui patris Itala pennis
cana of Thetin hoc si fluere potestas.
(_With a reclamation._)
Hear my words: the sorrows of my heart
And all that has been said shall be my part.
O! let not ill become thee of my pain!
I would the loss were such as thou contain.
To be a theme of sad and empty joy
For aught I know; to be a theme of grief.
To be a theme of joy, which all must bear,
And every theme I love, my Friend, is there.
This little stream that sparkles in the sun,
That dances as the clouds flow over all,
I love to look on thee. The clouds do dance
In many a gilded car; the sun does shine
With a most jocund ring; the air does laugh
With happy songs; the birds sing; and the sun,
In shining robes, wears softer colors on.
Now for fresh colours, now for robes of green,
Thy stream hath past; and I have loved thee well.
But, though I feel as if no eye could dwell
On beauty or revel, Beauty's charms
Were but the brittle bubbles of thy song;
So still, my soul floats outward on thy stream,
Flow down in rich profusion to the sea.
I have no pride in any pretty bowers,
No garden like thy face, no flower like thy face;
With vermeil roses 'tis of wondrous powers;
Its odour spreads the cloud-rack through the space.
Thou art the sceptre of my heart and head,
The sceptre of my soul, the sceptre of my soul.
'Tis of a lofty mood: a holy zeal
Hath given to thy pure thoughts the mild belief
And soft conviction of a Saviour's love,
And sanctity of feeling. All our vows
Are perfumes, and with blossoms we may wear
The cross of thorns about our feet. The rose
Sheds love of thorns against our heart, the lark
Sings to the day-star of his morning lark.
O! let my heart become thee! let it be
A memory in a sound becoming thee!
Thy spirit is the music by which souls
Take fire and answer to the heavens' deeps.
How is't that thou dost thus with fancy wreathe
Our being with a fissure of deep night,
Yet with the clearness of a living truth,
As do the stars with borrowed light? But thou
Hast known mortality and felt its power
To lead us, ere we reach thy perfect day.
And thou hast trod a path through which there come
Only to God, the path that straight must lead.
There's a way, too, for those who follow life
With heart untouch'd as this is set apart;
And hews of things, in the most lowly paths,
Whereby we walk in rectitude
With no step tired or weary. And the path
Is steep and rugged; and the weary soul
Is ever thirsting for the peace that comes
From the eternal fountain. By this stream
That flows, it is the path unto a throne,
Where the true spirit walks, and looks on Love,
Until it finds a portal in the soul
Where this world is. There, through the deep night,
There standeth thy true love, thy pure delight.
And that sweet dream which on the Lord's white finger
Still benedictions ever shall enfold,
Which is the world, and may not be destroy'd.
And we shall walk where angels walk with thee.
So shalt thou live, pure and true love, and we
Like birds, shall feed on thy reflection,
And on thy sweetness shed delicious dew.
If to be beautiful is not to be
A thing to be desired; it is to be
A thing, and not a thing, and to be still,
Though in its place be nothing, unless love
Be offer'd to it, and to be set free.
Love, our true love, dwells there; and it is He
That dwells within our being; and it is
That he who hath it knows it. So it is,
And this it is, that unto him is given
Full love, and everlasting gratitude.
And though his place be but a lowly street,
And his love a far worse life than death can bring,
Yet love there is within, and not from this
But that he gave it, and the world took part,
And made it worthy of acceptance, as
The Maker's stamp should be imprinted there
======================================== SAMPLE 306 ========================================
,
The whole _Fondini_ of _Fooli_, with his load of cares,
His pains, his struggles, and his woes,
Have left him for a patient life
Of labor, business, and of strife.
No more they'll idly talk of work,
Nor try to purchase honest bread,
Nor hope for wealthy heirs instead;
That his reward they still may be,
Who serve his people, servants hee.
For they, with constant mind and will,
To set a market and a fair,
Of this small tribe his daily task,
In labor have no care, but ask.
His _Virtues_ who their stock adorns,
Are often found, when they are called
To labour 'tis a pleasing name--
They always were both good and game.
He, too, sometimes may be a duller man,
And let them handle _such_ a job--
For he who at a market sees
That daily news does not run smooth,
For _such_ a job they always do,
And like to see the good repose
And hear the news he goes about,
It may be known of private fame,
And like the others, some may doubt;
But he, when questioned, is inspired
To do the like of _such_ a lad.
He to the task with _such_ attention draws,
When in his shop each _woman_ buys.
And when he goes a market day,
'Tis for a market pound to buy;
And thus, he says, he acts and works,
For all his shop is _such_ a "bloke."
With _such_ a market price to buy
He'll buy _some_ of every class,
And then the business is, to please
The _bust_ and _ANS Flam_, and _wicked_ and _blue_.
_Which_ is, by all accounts, the best,
Which to the poor is due at least.
The _busts_, or kitchen, or bright _blues_,
The _busts_, the _busts_, have been _lamb_ and _bunk_.
Here is a pretty place for these,
A little garden, or a street,
Where parents, sometimes, were made glad;
And little children round and round,
And little boys, were made a-tinkling,
And boys, were schooled in lessons clever;
A place where _notic'd_ girls might make
Their clothes, at least, for cakes and cake;
For there, I find a place of books,
With raiment, rent and torn books;
Where parents scarce could wish the noise,
And little boys played in for hours,
As lovers only had theirrite,
When they _had_ found this place of books.
_Which_ is, as some have well surmised,
_Which_ is in order to be made,
So it will be as well, I'm sure,
As it was never before,
And, in my doubtful faith, I'll tell
What these dark, noisy years once tell.
This is the place, my dear, dear, in season of rhyme,
Where your fair, neat form may have full symmetry time;
Your neat form may have a warm, neat ring or a spot
When it continues to be a perfect _lady_;
But there's _one corner of one_,--shout the boistening pot,
And _against all_--there's _one corner too sweet_.
Then here I beg you not to shrink from rhyme,
For to sing it out with a vigorous boon,
With a pretty _siren_, and a good _siren_, too,
And you'll sing it out the other side of song.
I don't think itfair, to sit upon the throne,
Or to dance, because some do not wear their hair,
If in this world there's a _siren_, _siren_, none unknown
But you, and only you, to sing 'em fair.
There would be crowds of poets, of all nations,
Who now will sing of any thing they see,
In this new land, and sing a song whose virtue
Will make all hearts do homage to the sea.
And there will be rich people still to live in it,
Who've seen the sea and ships go down in it,
But only to see lovely isles and shores,
Beyond it will be my true countrymen.
And here I beg you to come with me to
And bring the song of duty, true, and good,
To the world from the sea, and the sky, and sea,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 307 ========================================
!
You that are old and full of years,
A man without a beard or tongue.
You must not sigh, Beware, but reign,
And make a true man's man your slave.
Be still awhile, or else possess
The power of your aspiring mind,
And make me twice your greater foe!
Then when my cup of happiness
Is full, then, love, you shall be kind.
The wanton boy shall be your slave,
The gaud goes reeling round his cave.
What! would you be a lion then?
I'll do you harm, or nerved by men.
The young deer's right! the old joy!
Alas! what were a wiser boy
To live a life of care and strife;
To live a brother, brave and strong,
With loving wife and tender young?
'Tis pity scarcely can be given
Between the poor and orphan poor;
Poor child! she takes no thought of Heaven.
I must not say I did not see
Your face, when through the dark and dew,
You saw clear heaven and liberty.
'Tis pity Heaven does not seem to see
The least leaf blasted on the tree;
The greatest bird that sings must fly,
From whence it takes a sadder cry.
The fairest day of all the year
A poor blind man and barefoot chit.
She sings to me the praise and cheer
Of him whose life sustaineth such.
And when she finds the sweetest cheer
When sorrow has o'ercome her moan,
She'll lift her song's lamenting wing,
And 'gainst my will will do it, sing.
It was the yellow Duchess of Castile who lived in the town of Carrick,
who carried up much of the family, and, from her memory,
can recount in a French letter the story of the death of her
grandfather, as she had forgotten,--
How she met with a friend in an island,
How she served an uncle and brother,
In a small island, green and shady,
With a crystal stream, by a white sea.
How she bore, with bosom beating,
Footprints of her own dear mother,
To the lands she loved to visit,
As she lived in simple friendship.
How she bore from morning till night-fall
Visits old and venerable.
In her hand she held a lily
Which she gave to mortal woman,
With such slender grace and modest,
She seemed, as the light wind carries,
Unlike all the winds that blossom.
When she walked, all lighted from her
On the shore were sea-nymphs singing;
From their beds of green and yellow
The sea-nymphs cast their garlands,
And arrayed themselves in beauty
For the dance and lively carle.
From this happy shore departed,
And the girl most graceful seemed she;
While the ballads which she chanted
Now and then their 'customed 'voicling,'
In her hand were lily-mottoes;
And, among them woven wholly,
With her dusky eyes she sought it,
And the sweet waves, which she murmured
Of herself once, when she wandered.
So she wrought her stately fabrics,
So she fenced it round about with
Many pleasant marvellous stories,
Many vases, and fine figures,
And the tales of ancient story.
With her thread the web was dusted,
By her hand was woven ever,
And the woof, which she was woven,
Had been woofed upon the pattern;
And the buckles were encrusted
With the marvellous gems of India,
And the bracelet, pearls of Araby,
And the golden zone, where, precious
All the treasures of her marriage,
Each one lay a bed, and favored
In some far-off northern village.
With her thread the web was dusted,
And the woof, too, soft and yellow,
And the marvellous gems, whereunder,
Might be wrought of precious texture.
But, when Psyche, thus undone,
Would return to her own home,
With the night, and all its splendors,
She must journey far more swiftly,
Seeking for some better partner.
Then to go to this sweet country
She must travel to another,
And return to other people,
Who will wish the most abundant:
For in truth that is most fruitful,
And that is most beautiful;
One or other sort of posies;
Some are prettiest among roses,
And some are for the great city.
And, with modest, graceful motion,
She must pass the peaceful country,
Through the meadows,
======================================== SAMPLE 308 ========================================
, and the Old Law
in THE610 require:  a title, or any thing else,
the reading of which must be great through careful
censure.  In six-eight hours after she got paid to the terms,
the colloquial, musty, musty, musty, musty, musty,
this is a most pathetic, though almost pathetic.  It
is very awkward, too, then to mention it.  It has a
great deal of beauty, and does not need a damsel
to share it.  The highest respect for the mistress of the
country, to make her love her own.  It is a pity too
much to consider the very persons they love, and to
raise them above they owe much, and to be loved by
all, even to the highest and last regiment.  It means
the best and the fairest of all books in the world,
a beautiful woman, and a very true man; but
as the books give least title to the name, a hero must be
a hero, as the books give least claim to the name.
(ll. 2044-32) When the lady perceived that she had
devised so much beauty to please her own heart, she took a
buckler with her and climbed the heavenly stairs, and sat
down beside him.  And the lady said:  "This is some
dream or other fancy, but this most unhappy one, surely
I think that he is here; it must come to goodmorrow,
for he is far away.  I fear he will return to his
large estate and go to his own country.  Let it be as it
do you please to settle for me."
(ll. 2344-32) Then again she hastily spoke to the fair, and
spoke to the fair, and said to the fair, her mother, in her
sorrow, and said, "Take care that thou be not a stranger, for
thy mother and thy brother are unknown unto the world."
(ll. 2344-32) Then the fair lady took her ease and
made them gentle beggars, giving them bread and cheese.
They then became full of grievous distress, and came to a
hundred and fifty youths, and came to a beggar named the
And with these words she declared to them a great number of
warriors.  "Let not the proud proud duke, Sir King," said she,
(ll. 2325-32) "Tell him he can defend another hero from
some quarrel, and if you will not fight him, he takes his
wife quickly to him, or if you will give him your wife."
(ll. 2332-32) Now the fair and well-loved son of the
duke had come with his consent to that fair city, to give
them a daughter until the child of his father, and have a
children on his knees as their mother--when they became
the guests of his mother.  And they were asked to give
them gifts and sweet fare, and would have money, and the
pride of their royal mother.  Then the men of Samos, and
sons of the Antequ pollution, did all these things, and went
on their way to the city to bring the cattle.  But Jove,
the lord of the lightning, spoke these words:  "Give ye me,
father, this charge that I may show you.  May all your gods
and men among the immortals give ear.  Be mindful of all that
you have done me from my mother, and hold the maiden in
gladness.  And let us devise some greater mischief against you,
the men of King Vulcan, who are mightiest of all the gods.  Now
send me hither to set up a cunning plan for making battle
against Achilles; and all that I have outlearned and heard tell
me is true.  Wherefore go ye forth from your fields and
from your city up to your own country, and seek far and wide
of the battlements."
(ll. 2325-2499) Then was there among the company of Aias the
strong prince, a man overleapt with sharp grief at the saying
of his dear son, and called upon Aias from his own land.  He
lay there in peace, learning his fate, having no fear of the
wrongs.  And the lord of the chariots sent him to the city to
godlike Theogor, his son, to bring the horses to my ship,
the dear son of the mighty-one Eurydice, and sent him bound
foot and foot to his home.  But Aias came as a cloud from the
high mountain tops, and he flung himself after him
======================================== SAMPLE 309 ========================================
 of the
But, as from the rocks on Mount Sinai
All night long the servants haled them forth
From the smoking altars, and the flame
Came forth in the open air for gods.
And the people shouted from the north--
A shout and battle!--for he came with God.
All night the servants watched for the fire,
And at morn a messenger from the east
Came, and the herald told him what befell.
Then the people haled them forth in a swound,
Seeking it in all haste to save the fire,
But, ere they came, the news from Paradise
Fell to the earth, and all the people cried,--
"There is an angel sent from God, and none
Regains the grace of him who makes decree."
Then, out of the swound of filthy minds,
An angel sent from God, who sent to them
A spirit sent from God before their time,
Born of the wells of Truth that flow for aye.
And so, to the people, one said to them,
"I am the King who sat upon the steps
Of the everlasting throne, and on these orbs
One who has seen the light, and known the law
In Thee, who knowest only Thyself."
Then, out of the swound of filthy minds,
An angel sent, appeared, and said to them,
"In this place I am come unto thee;
I am banished from the kingdom of the world;
To all the sins of earth I give account,
For I have brought Thee in my final faith."
Then, out of the swound of filthy minds,
An angel sent unto them, and said, "What now?
Dost thou behold all clearly? Lo, the gods
And holy men, I have been here for thee;
But they stand now, and let me go my way
Beyond the lands and the sea- continents,
And I must hence to Thebes, and thence to the Father
Of the fowls that ail us." Thus they moved
And lit in heaven and the courts of bliss,
And as they were departed turned their steps
Unto the courts of the Eternal Love.
But, o'er the happy souls, that followed them,
Darkness descended; for the holy prayers
Were heard in Heaven; and they had lost the light
Of that first sun which filled their vision.
Then, when the soul had passed from earth and sin,
Gathering within the blessedness of love,
Came Beatrice unto a babe,
Fresh and six years old, "All things delight me," said I,
"This new sight of the maid I fain would see."
So passed the night from man unto his Atonè,
And the next day, to those who waited long
After the sun, I sang, "O Love, behold
To this sweet sleep thine arms and body hold."
Then answered I, "In sleep and body rest
All things by thee are known, and unto thee
Are known both love and sight; and this fair realm
Thou knowest not; for all thy world beside
Is beautiful as this fair place of thy."
And even as I sang, the glorious sun,
Which set behind us as our way went down,
With other light was now beheld of us,
And hence appeared to me three several times,
O'er all the seven, the eighth, and me the ninth;
And that of us I sung, "O lofty bliss!
With rays so pure, so yellow-coloured, sweet,
With all the lilies and the stelliest rose,
How sweet thou were'st among the flowers and grass!
Thou, mounting up among the clouds, art come
To stairway for a holy and a certain ease,
With light of body, that disobeyseth ever
The wrinkled skin, that only liveth yet,
And in the burden of so great a rest
Doth ask of Heaven, that here in thee doth dwell."
Like pleasant things to smile at a sweet sky
Doth bar the day from us herself away,
Since we passed over to another bush
This side, and that, and something evermore
In the high light, whence eye did follow us,
Not of one curious instant on the voyage;
Because the sun was slow behind the hill,
And veiling half the face with veil of night,
Before mine eyes did shed on him a smile,
And said: "It is so wonderful a light!"
Even as at morn the rays of early morn
Through a high house, new tinct with early shade,
Which in the open window upward looks,
And from without returns in fresher rays,
When in
======================================== SAMPLE 310 ========================================

to the _Gosips_, the _Dalies_,
and the "_Ladie_" and the light-haired Sky-God,
and the _God of Cliffovado_;
and of the whole creation,
to the uttermost heaven,
where the two Impostors, each to the other,
sent a message of homage,
where the two Impostors,
in the eternal order,
in the everlasting centre,
gave back to his mortal half-finished effort to attain the victory.
_Cradle_, a _Daliance_,
crave one of the two poems as their initials are linked,
of which the first will be written,
_Cadotia_, the second copy of his poems
is printed in _Poems_,
on the pages of H fraughta Historia S. Libel. 1791.
Cadorei's Lament for Poetry_,
to the _Nibelungen_, Schiller Ballads,
to the _Nibelungen_, Schiller Ballads,
to the _Norse-born_, and the _Nibelungen_.
of the first copy,
of the first three listed poems,
are printed in the _Twinsk._,
and other three omitted or not,
but every edition has
find nine pieces,
has surrounded this tablet.
for the whole collected edition of poems,
the following nine stanzas,
has no date.
With sixty-seven stanzas from end to end,
lays of this tablet a tablet on the turf;
it is in the _Vulgar_, the _Nibelungen_,
on the first stanza,
where he describes his career,
as having the mischance
of putting him to death.
These lines are omitted,
and are not stanza- omitted.
The other three fully prepared in the tenor of the _Minstrels
of_ a number unknown,
are in the _Nibelungen_,
with thirty-eight stanzas;
and the only six or eight stanzas,
which has the live shortenances of the poem,
have been added in the first edition of the _Plinz._
the _Nibelungen_, the four rimers,
and the five rimers and metre:
which was added in the first edition of the _Plinz._
with forty-seven stanzas;
and eight stanzas from end to end,
has numbered in the last edition of the _Binach_;
where the popular tradition has arisen,
and the _Nibelungen_ (he is a pillar of stone, either of
gold or stone) as remains of the work.
and the two first blend into one.
The fourth is the _Nibelungen_,
the _Nibelungen_, the four rimers,
the seven rimers and three
of the above.
The sixth stanzas are the chief poems of the _Nibelungen_,
the _Nibelungen_, the three ten lines omitted in the old
embrace-chaix, the four rimers of the fourth,
by which the name of the spot is preserved.
_Nibelungen_, so celebrated in all current things.
_Rennoch Tranell, a principal German translations, a proverbs,
thirdly, with twofold probability.
_Oderbrucken_, and _Rennoch Tranell_, with _Rennell Drudisch_,
four rimers of their name.
_Oderbrucken_, and _Ruthmödricht_, with _Rennell Jüngling_.
_Omes Vören_, used in this and the next line,
as in the fourth thus.
_Omes Vörenzige_, the _Vössuary_, has,
who carried on his headstone,
sorrows, greatly frightful,
forgotten.
of his death with the trumpet,
and the smoke with the red cross:
of his dying with the kettledrum in his mouth.
_Ome_, the dust of the road,
but not the the clay.
expression--and _Tade-de-Till_--the destruction of the
vast air.
_Ome_, the sea.
_Ome_, the grass;
_Omele_, a handful of stones;
_Omele_, a handful of dust;
_Omele_, the dust.
_Omele_, a handful of dust;

======================================== SAMPLE 311 ========================================
, _An Old Soldier_.
With her 'twas my father kept the field,
Nor could I better find the field.
A soldier's life is but a span,
And may be found the worst of man.
It matters not upon the whole,
A soldier works no deeper soul.
For this one 'twas my wife turned round
Her back, upon her pony bound.
'Twas you, Sir, whom I know the worst,
One 'twas my wife turned round the first.
A soldier is not a soldier, that no longer can be called a "soldier of
A moment the doctor told his master, the doctor was just going to
This morning he had so much money and was rich enough to pay for
Oh, my girl, it made me proud,
To have a piece of gold and travel
To go through life with one like this
Away to heaven, and stay at home
All by myself, my lovely dear.
Oh, I feel so small and good
I could not help it, for I'm scared.
I'll try my best to prove the copper
And lead myself, Sirs, through the copper.
I'd like to start and jump a bit,
I hope I can go back for that.
To-day I meet my fate as now it does,
And every now and then go back
In just the old familiar scene.
And then, at last, it's after all.
If I should die, I'd let it fall.
If I could let it fall on me,
That very moment, I'd be gone
Again, and then the door would open.
I'd like to be a little bird,
A very small bird, with no thought of danger,
I'd fly around, and try somehow
To stay and ask my mother if
I dare to come to her myself.
I shouldn't be the one for chaff,
The other as a little sperry.
I'd like to be a little gander,
A very merry looking fellow,
And every now and then for me
A string of golden fruit to string.
I'd like to be a merry worm,
A worm, or something else but gloomy.
I'd like to live my way to heaven,
And never grow to think of dying.
I'd like to live my way to heaven,
And never die, my lovely dear.
We may be false, and always seeming
Unjust, and true, and always near.
But then,--and then,--when we are dead,
We see that it is all too true.
So, when I'm with you at your play,
Go on and tell your mother, too.
Last night I heard a great voice say,
"My beautiful child, child, go kiss me."
I did, and it was a small voice,
And then, I knew not what I planned.
I cried aloud; yet I could not,
For I had left the pleasant town,
A thousand miles from its fair site,
The wall of Paradise between.
So then I knew that in my youth
My heart had been reconciled to Mary,
And that all pleasant thoughts might change
Into, soft spirits, pure and free.
And, as I watched the happy change
That followed, Mary, when the light
Upon my eyes was like the morn,
I felt that I had been a child,
And that I had forgot to say
I'd kiss thee, child, to happy tears.
That now I know, my grief is deep,
A lovely child, yet, oh, so bright!
And so I tell my bitter woe.
And now I'll tell thee how it seemed,
When first I met a blooming girl,
Who, 'midst the dark of holly-bush,
Sat smiling o'er us, calm and sweet,
And yet with many a secret smile
Her eyes were deep,--so bright she sat,
So innocent, yet not afraid.
Then came her kiss, as sweet and soft
As mother's arms were round her thrown.
And I have thought of thee as mild
As any child of Adam's race.
And now I know that thou art fair,
And not afraid of God; for sure,
Even now I feel that thou art fair
As angel might be loved of heaven;
And yet thou art, I must endure!
Then came her kiss, as sweet and soft
And deep, as music in a dream;
And as she spoke I saw her smile,
Because she lov'd a dream.
Now I can see how the sweet sun
Had set, and the birds flew aloft,
And the flowers with their music rang,
And the earth gave a silent
======================================== SAMPLE 312 ========================================
--
But I'm not getting old--
I know, but _pay_ with _that_--
I'm not _in_ being old?
Once, when a youngster used to talk
And couldn't speak,
He gave as many curious scraps
As the sky,
He broke off his neck at a walk,
And fell in.
Once he was rich enough, I know,
And he's never proud;
He's a millionaire, I declare,
And his way
That's "good enough for him;"
But yet, whatever he thinks,
He doesn't care.
He'll tell you "Pshaw!" when he shakes
Like a log
And puts "pshaw!" to a strait.
Once, when the boys at the place
Held a talk,
They gave no answer to _your_ case,
And they found
That he did not _really_ talk.
He was always polite,
But he held no sway--
Only said, "She is _I_--I _sh_
I hate She."
Once he said, "It is "good"--
And so, of course,
We should _decomper_. And so
He _gave_ him the _top_,
And he wouldn't say _whiz_
"I am _very_ pleased,--and _very_ pleased,"
So he set his voice up in a rage,
And said.
There is a certain little town
Down near the sea,
But what will it be, I wonder,
For me and him?
It is a pretty little place
Down here below,
Where a man may sit and see
Just what he will.
For we can see the city ways
Are sunny and fair,
And we can talk about the days
So long and long--
At the piano, maybe, when
That long-lost throng
From town returns, with music now,
And laughter and song.
You ask if I don't go to town,--
All that we know of that town;
But that's a guess
Of some sort of town.
I think it's pretty, very strange,
On some nice soil, I know;
But it wasn't the town I knew.
For when you stop on "fields and woods,"
In my little garden-home,
It's far away,
And I'm only a whiff of a whiff of a whiff of a bubble--and
That's what, in a beautiful city,--
And the steeple bells ring out again;
It's far away,
But the town we have praised for the best colored town was
Gone! gone!
I don't know what I'm saying or saying,
I have been far from the town before;
Perhaps I'll take this hint of a corner
Where I'll find one I didn't before.
Then I'll tell you a story like that,--
I'm making a story--and--well,
I have seen a man in a fairy land
Arrayed in ruffles, silk, and--green;
A quaint old way, on the back of a toe,
And a face that's half sleeping, half peep,
And he is thinking of me, and his face
Like the eyes of a fairy in a dream,
And I like him--(just think of him!)
But I don't look at his handsome face.
And I'm all glad that I like him still;
For, oh, I know, I know!
I don't care after school. I only know,
The old things are up to me to-day,
And I don't envy the town or the place
That I meet them again some day.
How can I get up to-day in the morning!
And to-morrow and cares be my lot:
And the old things are lying on the street,
And the streets are empty and cold.
I can't think of the time when I was a child,
And the home I would find in a town,
And the trees in the school, and the people moving and calling and
Oh, that's the place where my baby came home--
It's all so dark and so very wide!
And I'm very glad when I see my baby.
I can't think of anything else at all--
Not even a trace of a speck of sky,
Or a line of black marl, or a bird with a little tuft on
It's oh, so bright, and I'm sure it's a star!
And sometimes I wish all the little stars were settin' down
And I could fly away in the air,
And if I could only fly, just so far from home,
O little,
======================================== SAMPLE 313 ========================================
ing in the market-place,
He had a daughter dwelt in a noble race,
And, in all things that he could, he had been tall and fair:
He was of very stubborn temper, too, a gallant fair.
There was a lordly fancy called his wedding,
But the lady lived in beauty in a castle hall,
And from the gates the fair-haired keeper stowed the steed,
Where little did the lady mean, and little did the fair.
And there lived a lordly grandeur in a lady's gown,
Of a high lineage, and a noble name was he,
And by her side a gentle knight was she,
And they were both of beauty, and both of high degree.
And in the castle hall she played a fine and sweet-toned air,
And ever she came forth the thought of one may bear,
And even the lady's mind was quite by gaiety.
For in the chamber was a fair and delicate dame,
Of grace and loveliness, and face most graceless frame,
To see the man she pleased so oft to pass the floor,
And the lady's robe upon the gold embroidery wore.
And there her mind was busy as a busy miller's hand,
And it was for a time that she had never seen
A lady go to mill or dance, but never had a will,
And she was now in her distress, on her heart was laid
A gentle trouble came into her heart, she said:
"Oh, please your Grace, my darling maid, for though you know it not,
Yet to another daughter of a far-renowned star,
The which I love will help me to a greater boon,
When that the poor may rest with pleasant dreams of bliss,
And the night pass away from busy house and wide hall,
And I shall be a servant for the lady of the fall!"
So from the floor the lady rose, as she had said,
And round about the ladies clung with her fair ring,
And when the knight perceived the ring, himself he bent
Down beside her, and when they were close to her he went.
The night before it was begun had Taburnian Bosen,
But when the guests were to be done, the king at once
Went to the banquet, nor his lack of love would lose,
For, as he sat within, his lady did not choose
But kneel and kiss the handmaid, till the charm is spent,
Then enter the great festal hall, and there they find
Fair cloth of gold and silver set upon the gold.
Therein lay love, and love was strong, though it lacked not,
And therewithal was love again, for love had come together.
But a merry thought 'twould follow that good night together.
For the damsel came unto her bower, and bade her prepare
To put the knightly gift before her in her bower.
So forth the night they held their way, and when the morning
Looked into the east, a lovely light, on every side,
Had seen the day-light breaking out and the sun's course run.
In the fair orchard-close, when the sun begins to blink,
The damsel wandered thither with restless search in quest
Of a lady there by fountain, who came from many a count,
As if she had been told by the youthful lord of Thrace.
Who saw her there and longed for when her beauty grew
Unto ruddy gold, and that of her beauty's grace;
And when they came to the hall and made the beds their place,
"Now, sirs, take my dear lord's bride," asked she, "care not."
And therewith spake the dame to him, in accents gentle and mild
And gentle as the snowfall that fell down upon the ground:
"Her mantle of beauty ye never once did see,
For she is like a rose; and I pray God to show,
That if the maid be worthy to wear a stranger's grace,
The damsel is her lover, and I may be her saint's wife."
He spake, and straight a silken veil to Clovis was she woven,
And in it lay her fair-throned head, and on the buckles sheen
A gold chain she had on her head, wherein she lay fair,
Then with a silver wand she wound the gold chain o'er her hair.
They brought her to her father then, where the maid did lodge,
And there they found her lying in secret love's embrace,
Now long to tell the tale of love, and now, alas! too true!
For her heart was filled with love; and ever as she lay,
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,
We, in our own despite,
Have proved false priests, and fled in fear of death,
And in this wilderness of life before.
Have heard our children pray,
And anxiously their limbs are strained to Heaven,
And see us kneel before
At last, at last, where we stand up toward Heaven
To pray, and ask, "Thy will be done!"
O GOD, that cannot blot out all thy splendor,
And loosen all thy pride of gold
In darkness like a dying star.
Send us not from Thy house of shadows.
And let the heavens be made
By cunning shelters ever made,
But rather from our will and hand
Come all our wants and days,
Keep Thou Thy secret from our hearts,
And let us all we have,
Be sure, is out of breath, nor long for more.
What would Our tender souls have asked Him?
Themselves to her.
Why make them humble?
Because their lives were free
And their wealth was ours, and was good store.
Why have their souls repent?
Because their sins went rather slowly?
Because their gold was great
And their power was small,
And the pride of them who loved their God
Had been too little.
"Men fight for God," God's angel sang to them;
"God's anger comes upon their banners,
They are the abject slaves of tyrants,
And God's anger on their banners.
"No strife shall hem them, no contention;
Their cry no warfare shall o'ercome;
Their pride shall be the trumpet's trump,
The fife's deep double-throated trumpet.
"With weapons, then, in God's own care,
With weapons, be it so;
Their gold shall be the trumpet's blast,
The fife's deep double-throated trumpet."
"Not so," God's angel sang to them;
"God's anger comes upon their banners,
They are the jester's slaves, and he shall reign
In the highest heavens, for evermore."
Then in their anguish cried the angel.
"Be it so, oh, so;
Look how the Kings and bishops swarmed to welcome
Their Lord's victorious banners,
To bear his cross so blaciously,
That they were not afraid of any,
But sought to serve His will,
And tried, oh, bold, and bold, for God's dear grace,
His covenant to fulfill.
"The holy angels, all in white,
Had rested 'neath the gates of death;
And each one sent its warder out
To tell the mighty Prince of Peace
The wonders of the kingdom's birth,
Of all the good we deem thereon,
And the great angels of the earth.
"The sacred angels, with their hymns
And strains of trembling, went about
The glorious city in the blaze
Before the eyes of God that light,
And all the harmonies of sin.
"God said, O Lord, when all is well,
And when our hearts are all at rest,
Shall Thy word break for love or pain,
And we shall live again?
"And Thou shalt weep in crimson throbs,
And all the bitter drops of tears
And all the storms of time shall end;
And Thou shalt feel and know again
The triumph that is at the end.
"Once there were twelve great angels to guard
Each child in Thy womb,
And I--when I had lived--wailed in dread
Of sorrow for the Lord of Hosts,
And watched the fiery thing he slew
Dying in sleep and pain,
"But once they set about Him, and
The angels of the Lord were glad.
And all the fight in every street
Was Mine; and in the dark without,
They wailed, and me forlorn,
"But God will listen, and will give
His mercy unto me,
And I shall strive again, and hope,
For Heaven will hear and Thee will love
In heaven.
"Oh, God! and thou, O Lord! and Thou
That knowest all things, all in one,
For all my sorrow, all my tears,
And all my sin's and all my sin's,
I send Thy peace unto the hearts
Of those who wail in sin;
"Until the world with hands of grace
Be blest and they be blessed;
That we this very day may see
In Heaven a wondrous thing,
Than to do good, if done is good,
And be of nothing blamed.
"And yet I know how men will pray
And cast off earthly cares,
And turn aside the woe that kills,
And leave their earthly cares;
And,
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;
He's no like _Mrs. Laine's_--for all the rest!
His hair was cut, his work was done,
In vain he strove to please them both,
They loved in vain--'twas vain to say,
He had not seen the summer's sun.
They have not learned his tender tale
Of love for him--and _that_ was dull.
He did not know what tender art
Wrought on the heart beneath its heart.
He spoke, but he was tired and sad:
_They_ knew it all--in vain they had.
Their love he tried--the past was still
The present; yet the present he
Dwelt with them, and so long they dwelt,
While all too great the future felt._
_Old John (mirrh-like) was as old as he_:
How good he was! how kind was he.
He had a friend, a kinder friend
No word had asked, and, in an end,
He'd give a hearty welcome back
To every one he'd met before--
A friend I'm wishing now no more.'
_Ein Jagen ('twas of Gelfrat's stock
Most cordially bestowed on me)
Called to her brother Walter, and
Stored up his pardon for his levity
With Walter's sympathy._
'The child's friend was the man's friend.
I think the child's friend was his friend.
Widow and Walter, they were one.
Kinder his love was holding up.
'My dear,' she said, 'you're not in love
With Walter, nor with Walter here,
For in the world they both are dear.
And I--well, I'll return a year.
'He seemed so foolish and so kind--
He told me in his playful way.
He kissed me close, and did good will,
Then sware by all he ever knew
That was most natural, yet I could
Cling to him! So I went to Heaven,
And it is now the third time now.
Ah, Walter's gone! And Walter, do,
And I will promise a good boon
Now, if you'll keep your courage true,
You'll see his story down to you,
And give your promise of good luck;
And, if you find him to the last,
Forget the guerdon will be here;
For if you hold up all in haste,
He'll bid you sail, and see his face,
And I will go to England, all
In a seaman's arms, and bring his name,
For I have known him twenty-three,
And we are friends again, and he
Was one of the old faithful Three.
'And here's my wife, and here's my child!--
It cannot be far distant too:'
Said Walter; 'I will ask the child
For very food that you bestow.
And let me feel it.'--'Mother, I
Would speak to you as best you can,
As, for my sorrow, now I ask
Another time for your return.
And here's my wife, and here's my child!--
But never let her think of me
Among the many I can learn;
For, if I do so suddenly
To wed another, I, too, grieve
And go about the world to live.
_My husband and my children are the only children after him and me.
He was only eight years old, and in his dying, he seemed to me
He was a man of many words; yet not alone I lived to him,
But he sang the song of Abelard, as he saw the end.
And that was all. In this he said: "Listen to me, my dear, and listen
But, if you like the outward friends of this house, you need to be
"He, too, is all our joy! We, too, are wholly free.
No one else has more need of him, who, walking with his wife,
Is like a pleasant fellow not too gay for aught."
All our life long we knew that something bound her life;
But, as a little later on we lived upon the stage,
And, turning to the East, the East rose o'er us all
And made an open house a thousand times a day,
I found the East and West alike turned into East.
The night was dark, the sky was low,
The wind was loud and free;
And then my wife came by and said,
"You must imagine, then,
I saw his glorious eyes were made
Full of fire and love, and a light shade
Passed over me.
He said he must have wandered forth
A
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To the tune of the "Hymn to Venus."
The night sat still, and the day went down
In silence round the temple;
The altar glimmered soft like silk;
The silver cross flashed o'er it.
The pilgrims gazed upon each shrine;
The gold had silvered all the snow
On golden thighs whose heaps had been
Of silver and with flakes of pearl;
The incense floated slow and low,
Like a perfume of the forest blown
From a sunset forest of the snow,
Till the priest saw the roses fade,
And the garlands fade, and fade away.
The night sat still, and the day sat down
In silence by the temple;
The incense floated slow and sweet
From a fountain where the marble feet
Had lain for hours in peace; the while
The choir sang, "Sweet, sweet, sweet, lovely, fair!"
The incense floated round the shrine,
Till the old priest brought the incense-pot,
And all the incense-pot was still.
They took the flowers, and laid them down,
Before a chosen priest who came
To take the incense of the snow,
And wash them white and red, and so
The white and red were melted, so
The warm south wind blew them, close and fair,
The priests and the whole people had
Their incense in the temple's space,
And every one cried out, "O Father,
Show us this incense-pot no more!
Ave Maria! 'tis too late!
Let us go down--and let us come
To the cool, silent place of rest
In the drowsy quietness of the grave.
For here no sound of human weeping,
And no unhidden unavailing prayer,
A cheerful saying of the Saviour,
A trumpet peal, a tabernacle,
Leno's hymn in festal chime,
And the Host's prayer, and the Host's prayer.
"The incense floated round the shrine
To tell our Saviour is arisen
On the wings of the triumphant night,
And the cross uplifting, to the light
Upon the cross of suffering.
"Let us go down unto the dust,
That we may avenge the sin and shame
Upon the priests that he has made,
And against Christ our vengeance!
"He is risen--a child--
He is risen--a Christ--
And he shall avenge the scorn,
Upon us, the people!"
And each rose up, with a blessing on
The long, still lessons--and the night
With its tears and its wail;
And Gabriel came forth,
And he walked in the temple white,
And he walked on the altar white,
And laid on the cross his palms;
And all the people knelt and wept,
And the earth began to moan,
And the world began to tremble and ache,
And he cried in prayer, "Rejoice!
Thou art risen--a Holy One!"
"The Lord is risen!"
And there the mighty Gabriel came,
And every man went down to pray.
They knelt, it was the last of day,
Bearing his cross before him.
And the last, that he saw on high,
The first, that he lifted.
That he must speak out, or proclaim,
Or at another season.
"For thou must go down to the dust,
With this vision all forlorn."
And after a time, when the night went under,
The kindliest man was never seen
To rise from his cross and carry
The lost one out of the town:
And he asked, "Why not, till morning breaketh,
Shall we stand up and hear the bell,"
As he was going up and calmly down,
With no more trouble in his soul
Than if he saw before.
"The names I call up, Gabriel,"
Smiling they stood up in the skies,
While, over the wondering city,
With news of the city and the ships
That stood upon the sea,
And of men long-haired and beautiful
In the streets of America,
All the children stood with the burning tears
Of hopeless prayer;
And over their heads,
With their lips raised wide in their wonder,
The conquerors stood up like a tower
Over the great city and the sea.
And then they bowed with bated breath,
With a burning brow and a proud heart,
And they went towards the city
By the gates of the city.
And soon the children came,
And the white robes floated
Like banners upon their boats,
Like the waves of a flood of tears
With the blood of the coming strife
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; and with most solemnistic features,
The first, the last, and the most Alexandrine.
_From "Hebe's Confessions."_
In the first place we read of the "Nebbler" or "Prologue," is
"The Miser," as everywhere you can fix into "That's an eulogy
of the Miser," is, of course, no matter where they are, nothing
hints. It has been very difficult to see nature, and not to know
that an author has any particular sympathy; but the "Epistolæa
"The Miser," however, is a manly soul, which takes it for its
"I am the Miser of the Sons."
But the MS. adds,
"The Miser, the Miser, the Miser, the Miser, is the great
"There is a great, great Jehovah!"
The MS. adds,
"There is a great Jehovah!"
Here is another and another MS. of this couplet, of four "I am
"To mingle with the ocean-wave,
Or with the ocean-wave to mingle"
And the third is a separate verse of this, of four "I am the
confession of a body, to which the breath is given, and to which
"Time cometh by:
A time cometh by.
And a time cometh by.
And a time cometh by," etc.
"He is the miter of the sea,
The watcher of the sky."
And the three following lines of the MS.:
"The raven croaks in dusky gray
To trill in dusky glee."
"He is the miter of the sea,
The watcher of the sky."
"His eye is the fire of the sun,
The lightest breezes sigh."
"A time cometh by."
The MS. adds:
"But storms and darkness soon shall pass,
And birds and flowers be gone."
"The Winter cometh by," etc.
It would be scarcely better if all these were obviously prepared.
The MS. adds:
"O ye dividers of the leaves,
Of Love, the sole thing relinquishing:
How should ye dwell in joy!
Happy are we, unhappy now,
For ever wretched, miserable, here;
Foolish again!
And once again, and yet once more,
Foolish again!"
In the third and fourth editions the word "sunrise" is prefixed
to the sun, and in the fourth,
"On the hills the mists lie dark and deep,
And the woods are wild and drear."
The sun was sinking down, the sky was dark with night,
The wind was moaning loud and hoarse,
And I knew not what it was that was coming,
But that something held my throat.
It came and went with neither haste,
Nor little heed, nor little heed,
That one might see the mists arise,
And hear the whistles sing, and faint surrenders cry:
"They have taken my brother,
And his hand trembled as he cried:
I have taken him, and a hand is on me,
And I know the words he said."
"This is the hour of all sweet sleep!" I said,
And woke up with a start to start to start to say all things had
"The hour of all sweet dreams!"
"The hour of all sweet dreams!" etc.
"Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet!" etc.
"Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet!" etc.
"Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet!" etc.
"Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet!" etc.
"Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet!" etc.
There are some who sit down and count the hours,
And count the gold they have woven for the flowers;
And some have thoughts, which, counted by a minute,
Suddenly leave their reason and think it great fun;
And some have dined, and some have had good cheer
About the sound of the smallest hidden sneer,
And count the bees hummed over by little horn-horns:"
"They have taken my brother,
And his hand trembled as he cried!
They have taken me, and they have taken me,
And have taken me by the hand,
By the silken fingers pressed into my mouth,
With the touch of which they have nothing left in the cup,
Their fingers folded upon it."
"The hour has come," I said, "to part the fingers
of Time and the feathers of Fate."
"The hour has come," I said, "we must leave the cares of
The hours pass, and Time goes pacing up and
======================================== SAMPLE 318 ========================================
 her body on the ground.
"Well hast thou fought, Deiphareus; thou art vanquished;
He cannot take thine honor from the foe!"
"Thou canst not fight; for thou art valiant.
Thou say'st, 'I will return again, deliver
Thee and thy charioteer from death.' Come, follow.'
Wilt thou not do what thou hast said?"
"I bring not gifts for sacrifice.
Come! if thou dost not hold thy peace, thy servant
Wilt thou be in the midst; thy hand shall hold it,
That my soul keep not from thee."
"I will set her to a rock,
So that our house from out the water take no harm.
What man can stand a forest fence of branches
That injure one, and plant another helpless
Against his brother?"
"The first man: he will cut off the branch; himself
Will leave the branch; himself the bough and twiggen.
The second, he will kindle their bright bloom.
The third would strip the bark of every sparrow,
And bring the bitterns, mother of all birds,
To deck her cup; and last the singing-bird,
And the loud-twanging bow that knows not rain
Shall tie all things together in one stem.
So that man's choice should stand, and destiny
End in the end, and fate be victor here."
It is not in the present life to use the present age,
To go with the old wisdom, not with the new to come;
But some later philosophic mind must see
That this life is a spontaneous growth of trees.
I tell you, friend, the path that wanders round
Is not the path that leads to the heart's abode,
Where, mindful of no wrong, we gather up
The blossoms that should bloom in conscious woods.
The path, to which the traveller in the years
Of his own life passed on, is one that needs
Great minds and memories of other men,
The changeful walks and long expected years
Which men so often call the paradise.
A youth went forth to greet the gentle earth,
The apple-tree, the golden apple-tree.
I saw him from his threshold; in his heart
I saw the hospitable earth beneath,
The bloomy fields, the birds' melodious notes,
The flow'ry fields, the winds through festal hours,
And smiling pleasantly through the throng.
He loved the sun, and as the lover loved
More than a brother: but a day or two
Arose, and he was happy as a child.
A sick child, he was sorrowing; the young
He was, and he was old; yet not too wise
To know the worst: he did not love the Sabbath-day,
The Sabbath-day, the Sabbath-day, which was.
"The sea hath heard its moaning!" Grief replied
To his complaining; "that hath made me whole."
And sorrow now was coupled with his grief
In the deep midnight of his lonely soul;
So that from birth to infancy he grew,
And made a man, and cast into the sea
The earthly semblance, for which reason shrinks.
Yet in the very cradle, on the side,
Where he was born, he floated on, he sang,
He touched upon the heart of Earth, and prayed,
"O mother, let me be allowed to know
How far my footsteps guided: I shall find,
No dearer than the child this side of death;
How far, when I shall reach my child, my hand
In blessing shall be given." "O mother, O mother,"
He said, "if thou wilt gather only one
Drooping leaf, that is the one to me,
Let me go hence, and leave the rest to God.
Give me thy hand in blessing; let thy heart
Incline to help me in this world of rocks;
Give me one leaf to cherish, and to sit
Where I may fall, 'mid the great company;
To know that thy dear children here are kept
In their own language, and that will be well;
Their speech and dress were primitive, thy looks,
Thy dress, their voice, thy motion, thy attire;
Thy hand alone is free from earthly ruts,
And freedom only in these wicked souls.
"Hearken, O maid! to what is truth expressed.
Thy name is written on the page of Truth!"
And then to see him finished, and to tell
His own sad story, and to mark the change
In the white garments written on the walls,
The morning breaking, and the work of day,
The voice of man,
======================================== SAMPLE 319 ========================================
 the furies of the world,
From whence, they bring the crown of victory,
Is not alone the bane and bane of man's
Who is to judge and rather live than die.
And yet 'tis good that I and all the world
Should stand before a little shrine, and think
One thought alone is worth the living bread,
Though all the graves are round it, and the earth
Is cleanly shaven out of human mould.
The preacher's faith hath purified the soul,
Athirst for life and joys, and shall fulfill
Not only to behold the heavenly shrine,
The glory that is of God's spirit, man's
Belief in God and man's.
For all are brethren, all the world, they say,
To whom, in their bewildered helplessness
And blind despair, that death is but the sum
Of life revealed from their sheer excellence.
The world may wake unto a million years,
To its own deeps; but they--who die to make
The spirit live throughout the world--and live,
And make the spirit strong for daily life.
'Tis like a wave upon a lonely isle
That has the wit to tell of waves and skies;
It is a tide upon a boundless sea,
That bears in constant motion all the soul
Back to the home of peace. Now do you gaze
Upon that little shrine and do not think
That there has lingered many a year of prayer
Beneath the shelter of His loving care.
'Tis like a picture when the sun is down
And leaves the air in a delicious dream,
Upon the canvas of Eternal Peace.
'Tis like that in the picture of Eternal peace
Which, all along the starry heavens drawn,
Has always been, and always will be, when
The scene is washed away from earthly taint,
Like that of our great selves. Then do you gaze
To that dim, dark and silent universe
That lies before you, and you can hear it not.
The world is almost a forgotten place,
For the bright sun has fallen into the West,
And all the children of the mighty earth
Marvel and wish the spring would never cease.
It stands there, clothed about with beauty up
High into the cathedral, decked about
With holy flowers of holy, deep-felt grace,
And holy with the beauty of its own.
I stand upon this altar of a Christ,
And it can be that when the days begin
It is the holy tryst of perfect faith
That makes all earth immortal: it must be
The wonder of the world forever.
O, what is this, which to my heart, alas!
Is given to be the outward form of life,
The human oracle, the human mind
To which the soul is faith? The spirit, the mind
Is as a spark yet moving through the dark
To where the great ideals lead: yet is there
Nothing to show the splendour of the stars
Nor blaze the temple with its golden lights.
Its loins may mock the gods; the gates may swing
Back into centuries: it cannot be
They burst asunder into frame or stone,
But, having known, they are the same as now,
And have no history for the mind to feed
Upon their living bodies.
There she stands
A statue with the angels in her hand,
The great red cross upon her arm, the Christ
Whom she became. Her face was always pure,
The perfect image of perfection, still
Perfect, though not the image of the God
Of perfect love wherewith the vision rests;
And, being of the perfect form, her face
Was in itself a symbol and a shrine,
A shrine of perfect peace.
My thoughts
Walked with her as we journeyed, each to each,
That beauty and perfection, being infinite,
With light and song and peace. She had no pain,
Either by grief or joy, into her soul
Held up and mingled now, with every sense
Of loss and gain, only by loathing fear.
She knew not sorrow came upon her life,
As duly as the martyrs of old time;
And her bright eyes flashed out as she were glad
And holy, with an inward light in them,
As holy men who see the light of God
And stand before the image of their God.
For she had dreamed of nothing, till had seen
The glory of the truth; and she was happy,
And was perplexed with thoughts that led her soul
Too full of Godliness.
With a full voice she said:
"This is my God! I know Him not! My God!
O, God of mine, He is not like the man
Who robs His children of their earthly
======================================== SAMPLE 320 ========================================
; (Plato, II, xvi, xviii. 13).
v. 23.  He who in chase of Gualiora fled.]  Soothsayers say
that Dante was angry with the presumptuous wooer of Cassandra,
who charged her to be the source of great jealousy.  See Canto
ref.  Why Dante chose was veiled Alcina's form?  Why were the
flames clean roused, and in the evil manner of a man?  Because
her passions were directed against the will of the Gods, and
at their greatest height,--that the mind is moved,--said
v. 1.  O Calchas!  O Athena!  O Calchas!  O Calchas!
what a pernicious state caused thee to appear alive! It is
needful to know, in order to know, the root of this evil plant,
which,--thus sowed, bears its keenness for the nonce blossoms
who have eaten its full life without ceasing.  The noble
wont of the Theban soothsayers is briefly borne away by the
v. 1.  One of the nameless and unblest of cities.]  Such is
the origin of corruption, which has brought forth the deathful
v. 1.  The great lion honoured.]  The emperor of Rome,
Vicar of Arezzo, who held two lords in Norandino, famous for
the power of Charles of Anjou, and the Emperor of Arragon,
who is said to have been the most famous among all the
writers of her reign.  The emperor of Arragon, whom we have seen
again, and in his time, was esteemed less dear to him than
to the others.
v. 12.  The blind bull.]  So the commentators explain the
nature of the double qualities of the infernal sovereign.  We
have seen that the lion was more savage than any other beast.
The viper, too, was made beast.
v. 21.  The livid stone.]  The sun.
v. 29.  Disrobate.]  "The things of this kind which are
immeasculated by the nature of matter; the productions of
nature, and the knowledge of virtue, &c. are ascribed to the
greater power of our language."  The history of the nobles of
v. 32.  A bird.]  Dante's first description of the infidelity of
v. 62.  And of those beasts.]  This alludes to the magnanimity of
the inhabitants of the palace of Inin. and of the magnificence of
v. 89.  A dame.]  This alludes to the fidelity of the deed, and
the fidelity of the covenant, which, as a painter, Dryden, makes
of,--"The fox." or, as Boileau paints a peacock]  "the morass,
the fairest creature upon the ground, and that which it can draw
descended to be the most beautiful, as it is natural for the
imperfections.
v. 64.  Cappocchio's thinks.]  Compare Dryden, Hist. l. v.  of
the hunt.
v. 64.  A fox is missing.]  See the note to the preceding note.
v. 64.  Now.]  The eagle.
v. 64.  The false Ahasuerus. A fox is missing.]  See note to
v. 76.  What grief's thrills.]  The conscience of the Ptolemaic
consent, which the offended Thebes besieged.
v. 76.  'Twixt Rome and empire.] This proverb appears to
appear to Dante as the sanction of personal abstinence from
his Purgatory, Canto VIII. (for Hell, Canto VII. 144 VII.  and
Venturi's Pulbius, xiii., 7.
v. 80.  The friar Alardo sounded asleep.]  Compare Ariosto,
Canto XXVIII. Of the beloved disciple Cervantes, Canto I.
v. 88.  Joyous friars.]  Malagigi narrates the coming of
Frederick Doria, a Genussus of the ancient family.  He intimates
the whole intention of the sage, of course, to slay, or kill, the
murderer, the venal and the treachery of the sacristy.  See
Canto XXXI.  The cry of grief.
v. 88.  'Tis sweet to hear the lute's sweet sound.'
For in that song the colour of the lute had changed.]
That gentle love which gives me right to speak,

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,
We'll have to pass her on the strand."
Then spoke she: "I am she you wed;
I am her kinsman's and his wife.
Oft have I seen her in the street,
In palace, council, or employ:
But her I never can forget,
As in my home before I'm set.
My home is here, and not my mind
By fortune's changes worn and crossed:
And as from her sweet presence kind
My heart for one quick rapture leaps."
"O, that can be! 'tis in vain now!
No more my home; that home lies low:
Her kinsman has a house to rouse;
For all his goods are built in fee."
The maid did as the saint had told.
She kissed him, and she sobbed her tears.
On, whirling like an autumn storm
From pole to pole, the pair came on.
Full well they knew what time soe'er,
They might have kept him to the door:
He found them there; and then she said,
"You're not so welcome when you wed."
And then the bridegroom bowed his head,
And took his place in solitude:
Some strangers held them, and the best
Of the great court their place possessed.
The bridegroom knew them, for himself
They were not strangers with the rest.
From time to time in happy mood
They talked of love and mutual troth:
How they had gained the hearts of friends,
How many could be fooled by both!
The wedding guest, his wife, was he,
And many a learned courtier;
The youth and maid with trailing locks
Were round him and about the house.
They met, they parted, and they joined;
The youth and maid in one were there.
The wedding guest, his spouse, was he,
And one was always there to see.
But when the wedding day was come
The bridegroom loitered by his side.
"O, what a happy bride!" he cried.
The bridegroom took the parting kiss:
"O, what a merry bride!" he said.
And, while he spoke, a softer thrill
Brought back the tone from the discourse.
"The wedding feast, my love, is come.
My wife, my bride, my bride shall come."
The wedding guests looked up and met;
"O, what a happy bride, you'll be!"
They quarrelled, and for many a year
Of married life had seemed but three.
The bridegroom smiled, the bride he eyed,
Nor moved his lips, nor cared to chide:
So the two guests were with each other spied,
Nor cared a single word to either said,
Nor loved the other, as they talked,
A little closer to the talk.
Till suddenly the priest at morn
Appeared before the bride, and there
He saw the bride that day adorn
The wedding banquet's verdant hem.
He found the wedding-guests, they gave
The bride to her proud lord and fair,
Then asked him, "Shall I take my place
On the board 'neath my balcony,
For this is my ancestral place?
Or shall I have as great a joy,
As royal knights, when I was born?"
The bridegroom smiled and bowed his head.
"O, it was a happy bride, I ween;
But it was not of worth a queen."
The wedding guests, they gave their stay,
To the great Prince, for this is said.
The bridegroom smiled, and stooped his head;
"O, it was a happy bride, I ween;
But it was not of worth a queen.
For this is my ancestral place,
And I'm his rival, I must say:
This was the bridal's nuptial space,
And this is mine where she is wed;
No fitting bride, nor Lady Clare,
Was half so fair as lovely Clare."
But in the noon the bridegroom rode
The bride he gained by word and deed,
By the first rustle of the rose
Upon the chamber's level mead;
The bridal-guests, in merry mood,
Smiled on the bride, for this is said.
And when the bridegroom came to stand,
They told the old three royal books:
The wedding guests looked up and gazed,
And the bride's guest looked on them aye:
"Do you not know that we are blest?
Then tell us, brother, in what breast
Have you beheld the bridegroom blest?"
Then answered he the bride to him:
"If
======================================== SAMPLE 322 ========================================
 the goods,
The little puppets, all the year,
That work together and prepare
To play at baby-time, at play;
So shall your playmate find the play;
So shall you play:
And so, until your play is done,
And then your mother, and your son
Shall call again!
(_He kisses her lips and a cloud in his eyes._)
I'm only Shadow-of-a-Leaf, you know,
Under the greenwood tree.
I saw my dear one, and we two
All in the open sun-shine.
And yet I doubt if any one
Can tell me more than one
While shadows lie along the grass
And shine among the mignonette,
As in old days before,
And I remember in a book
The roses I have known in Greek,
The little satin red and white,
The soft verbena and the dark
Lilacs white in the night,
And my dear one in the red and white
And white across the brown and brown
And there in the greenwood--there and now--
I watch you and I know.
I must away into the woods,
I must away down the hills;
I must away on river and mere
There's many a place for a child to sleep
In the shade of the oak and the willow tree,
And down the windy village street:
But the branches overhead are growing green,
The birches are out in the sun;
Over the hills the sky's blue floor
Is blurred and black as it will never be seen
Of any lad on the boughs of the birches green:
The cowslip starts out in the lane
To hear the goat's shrill hoof-beats shrill,
The dandelion flouts from the wains
To see the maiden milk her young;
The little grey-bell clangs its call
And far off soundeth the fall of the fells of the oaks
As the wind goes over the heath and over the hills.
I have an ancient story
That no man shall be hasty,
Nor yet the smallest hound
Be taken by the dozen:
And who shall dare deny
The pie and pie made cakes
That in the silence pass them,
To that unknown Australian smell
Which was so sweet and nice, so pied and so voluptuous!
(Bear all the Mustang men
Who listen to a singer!)
Oh, the long, dashing, long day! Oh, the long night!
How the wild beasts they are gnawing and howling,
And the swift sun his cold light
Doth shed upon the world!
(And they all grow sadder,
With the dawn of the day yet!
For we are but clay, we are but the embers of fires,
We, the embers of fires,
The embers of fires!
(And then the big, red fire
Will soon be quaking,
Seeing our bodies are so embers of embers,
And our souls, methinks,
Were pyres and embers!)
Oh, the long, dashing, long day! Oh, the short night!
The long, dashing, dragging day! Oh, the long night!
The long, dragging day!
(And they all sleep,
With their faces well away,
Lest the sleepers should come in,
And creep through the shrouds of smoke,
And creep through the shrouds of smoke,
And creep through the shrouds of smoke,
And creep through the shrouds of smoke,
While the hounds of smoke will snarl
At the scent in the shrouds of smoke,
And creep through the shrouds of smoke,
For a hound has come at last,
And brings the corse in the night of his hunting.
(Bear all the Alice Campbells fells,
Lest they snarl, while the hunt is hell,
And steal all night through the tangled dells
Of the hounds of smoke and the hunt,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
While the hounds of smoke do bark,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
And creep to the hounds of smoke,
While the hounds
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 the last and greatest share of wealth."
"You speak, young man; he says it very true,
Not a full price of honour you would buy;
And this is his bad business, so you seem
To buy _anything_ you've not, or I a dream.
So, in a word, he'll have you soon to know
That everything that's going to go to go.
"And yet I cannot now; I must allow
That many of the pleasant things I do,
That folks should, when I'm gone, be always glad
I'll buy _so many_ things that may go to _you_.
How oft when I could buy one, not one kind
Of company would think such deeds were fit;
And as I think that they should better be
Than any one I think will ever get.
"But what are _you_ to do with _you_ to do
With _you_, when I'm in Switzerland?--I say,--
And some kind friends, indeed?--why, one must say
That I shall do my work; and so I'll stay
And help my sister, young, perhaps, to get
Some supper in the church, if so it please."
With his quick eyes the man of prayer stood still,
When a young clerk came up, and said, "What say
This man of the letter?" ask'd the clerk.
"_Do_ you mean he can't write?"
The clerk was quiet.
"_What_ do you read the missive of?"
"I mean that he can't write; why,--he takes the track
Away from your dear cousin--his good-by--his bad luck,--
But he knows much as I do about him.
"And he'll surely write the note right now.--Hush,
And think of it," was the clerk's last trembling cry:
"He'll have my cousin's letter--you're in arrest,
And I myself shall go without it."
The clerk brought up; the clerk brought up the sheet,
And wrote to the clerk, "This is what he will say:
The thief," quoth he, "will have his whims to-day;
As far as he can get his fingers, too;
And--heavens! what shall I do?"
"I think he won't," said the clerk; he said; "and he--
If he could have it--why--will I? no, no."
The clerk departed; and the clerk and he
Took up the sheet, and homeward went with speed,
Until they came unto a deep ravine,
And there they found the way most difficult
To pass, by which a man might be released.
"What? are you in young March?" the clerk inquired;
"I'm in old March," said the clerk; "and surely on
Through such a dark and dreary country road
Have I beheld a city hot and far,
As this wild land of black death, dark and grey,
Shamed by the yellow sun's last ray?
The river?--Oh, it runs away!
The hills and woods are strange and new;
But you'll forgive me for my step, and why?
And when you'll think how mad you'll be...
There'll be a rainbow in this sky.
You'll wish 'twas just a rainbow in my eye.
And if you'll try and try and do and do
Some sort of thing about this bad world, too?
They'll be so bad a sight: they'll smile and say,
They may have wronged me yesterday, but I
Would rather see a sun-shattered highland sky
With clouds and clouds and sky in the cold wind's eye,
Than have a world with clouds and clouds for rent,
Like a sky of ice and clouds about my heart.
So when you've done, you will be far behind
And hold yourself as friend, as I shall find,
And let me look in for a better way.
I'm in you, and in you,--though the storm is blind,
I've tried, and put it in you, if you can:
And then I shall be blind as well as you,
And blind my way.
I may not know when life is best,
And the world is right, so the wise men say
Have found to do on earth a joy to-day,
And so, to enliven souls that knew
The truth that men in dreams may fling
In the gulf of their deeps, and then to fling
Their hands like a feather in the wind,
And lift themselves, and with the heart
Of torture throbbing, and their hearts make moan,
And
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 it,
And be no more a slave;
It may be a sorrowful story
To see you die in the rain
By the good red light o'er the moorland,
Or, by my soul, be slain.
For it was the schooner _Paulus Silen_,
That died upon an April night,
And was buried 'neath the misty moon
The folk of that phantasm.
It was a dream a dream in the night!
How like a ghost it stood!
The moonlight crept up from the skies
And covered it round with shadow,
And covered it deep with night,
And glistened on sleeping eyelids.
I said: "It is hard for mortals
To see a light.
To sit on the vapors moving,
And gaze upon its image!"
I said: "There is no light
Save that which is working at me!"
And the moon was listening.
It was a dream a dream,
A gleam, a golden beam,
A dream, a dream of a rapture
That shone like a sun at noon,
A joy in the light of the trees,
A thrill of a happy sense
Of happiness in the woods,
A rapture and happiness
Like sunlight on clouds of mist,
And an awe above the hills,
A vast desire in the light.
It was a dream not true.
And I was troubled.
The path up from the marsh
Went winding into mire
And lighting carefully
The way that I knew.
What sense had in it,
You know,
Or you know,
That this vision of life
Was but a dream?
A new law rained on the sod
And there was grass on the sod.
I dreamed of the little flowers,
They were springing up,
Of the sleepy grass,
And of the tender grass.
As I stood there,
The little flowers;
And the wind that came
And the sun that shone
And the leaves that sang thereon,
Were the soft white wings of them.
And a wind that cried
And the sunlight that made
The road from the marsh.
The road from the marsh,
The little flowers;
The road from the marsh,
From the wind that runs
And the grass from the sun;
From the ground whereon
The grass was wound
With the tramping ground.
They stood at the right,
They were square and tight,
They were clean and tight,
They were tight and tight,
They were clean and tight,
And I said:
"These poor people do not like you?"
And I answered him:
"Each one seeks a new moon."
The road from the marsh
Was broken at Lammas spate,
And broken at Bologna's gates
Was Lammas spate.
And Lammas spate;
And London falls,
And Lammas spate.
The road from the marsh
Was broken at Lammas spate.
And Lammas spate!"
And we cried down pitiful lips
And Lammas spate.
And we were left alone
In an old green mill
Where a woman spins the thread
For the hempen rope to fasten
Or a light to lighten
In the shadow of Lammas spate.
The road from the marsh
To Lammas spate
Was broken at Lammas spate.
And Lammas spate.
And Lammas spate.
And everything was fair,
Except the yellow bees
That sipped the cider-press.
And the dawning, Lammas spate.
And Lammas spate.
Once Lammas spate.
They loved each other well,
All day they sang Bass fate,
All night long, mad, reckless, bold,
They hunted Lammas spate.
And the dawning, Lammas spate.
And the dawning, Lammas spate.
And the dawning, Lammas spate.
And the dawning, Lammas spate.
And the dawning, Lammas spate.
And the dawning, Lammas spate.
A broken horse and rider,
A muckman and his load,
A blown fox, and a broken buggy--
Out over the hills to Hyle!
They were smashed like Mulius,
But one more swerving rover
Wears the white lash on his back,
Out of the hunt to HARLEgget,
Out of the muck to Hyle.
Out of the muck and shoulder
That was an Mssy beacon,
Out of the muck and shoulder
That was an Mssy beacon.
And the dawning, Lammas spate.
And the dawning, Lammas spate.
And the dawning, Lammas spate.
And the wind at HIL
======================================== SAMPLE 325 ========================================
 you are,
And we'll forgive 'em if we thought!
"What do you want, Ma'am, for _my_ sake?
_I_ like to see what _you_ may take;
_If it's your _why_ you should make so free,
_You_ want to see what _you_ may see.
"You _ought_ to see what it is all about,
_Your_ needn't be _there_; _that_ makes _us_ ashamed!
I wouldn't say _per_ria in a sigh,
If you'd _say_ 'Good morning by _my_ broke!'
"There's not a single tree or any bush
For you to see the fall, not _I_'s in durst;
There isn't a bare spot--only 'bout'-
You'd better ask your Ma'am isn't no blackguard.
"So you won't find the shade of a tree,
And when I'm in a battle I'll take my ease;
But don't forget the tree, and the talk and eat
That made the bonfires of us _like_ your boys as these!"
So all begins on fire, and up an' down,
An' down an' up, for some remark below,
Our boys must go to sleep an' not to say "Go
Out on the campfire!"  Only ain't they so!
I got a _boilin'_ pickin' up--that didn't do at all!
When I was down beside the campfire band
I'd say among them: "There's no use," you'd say,
Though I'd have to go and order more than might command.
But now that Jim and I are here--no more,
For I don't want to go where I belong,
Nor yet to ask some crumbs of bread an' beef,
A-eatin' on the _back_-fire band, it's wrong!
When you and I are up an' 'art, last night,
An' I am drownded out--the same as when
The corn was drillin' out, an' I was drillin' right;
I didn't want to go along at all
When Bill says: "Please, Ma'am, the time's _beef_."
"What's been the _boiles_, Ma'am," I says, an' smiles,
While I looks around an' says: "You're right alert;
You'd best go look for two." I goes an' gets
A-thinkin' of the things I said to Bill,
An' leans an' looks--"You needn't take a rock
Because you can't go 'round an' ask me _now_!
You'd best go look for two." I turns an' smiles,
For Jim an' me are livin' "long enough."
"Well, well," says Bill, "I'll have some talkin' out."
'Way down upon the wire--the damnedest thing!
I got a thumping kick an' saved a tick!
I lay becosin' all alone, becos
I'd lay an' suckled of the chills an' shins--
An' I couldn't help but skelpin out for Bill
An' we was goin' to be awful well,
An' on the front she seemed to give a lurch,
While me there at the front she seemed to stand
As though no damnin' man could be, an' stand
Upon the front an' all the while I lay,
An' I looked around an' there--no place was here--
A longin' for me--you understand?
The front is p'int an' p'int to me an' Joe--
I dunno where I'd go if Bill was there.
The front is p'int an' p'int to me an' Joe,
An' Bill's the lazy one--the _baid's_ the time to prime!
An' I ain't never seen no more, but Bill
Is back in the front with Bill the same.
The front is thick an' wide an' warm an' wide,
An' Bill is comin' home from school, I think--
Not even the boss he made me snick
At somethin' nice like that, an' in a match
One come an' stop me where I was a week ago.
"I'm goin' to call on Bill, but not on this
To make a livin' useful all the while--
You see that I'm the oldest chap at home
As ever lived in Washington.
"I'm goin' to call on Bill
======================================== SAMPLE 326 ========================================
.
C. T. Brown's Poems.
_From 'Poetical Works, 18th Chap., 17th vol._
"I think my hair will grow to be
Mottled or spotless, so that she
Would scorn to call me "noble bride,"
And "smile as lily."
C. B. Toothroat himself was a very unusual poet: and his
"To be a king were still the word."
And his steed--that was an odd curb--was a favourite steed simply
And he did not seem to have his head on his tail, but he was a man
C. Aunque Loafer.
C. A. A. A. She was the daughter of a German king, but for a
short time she was a man and in many a distant land.
C. A. F. He was a man of the Opera Leg; and he wore a wig.
C. A. That is a sensible personage, and is a very proper personage
C. A. He was a person of culture and learning: and in a thousand
counsels.
C. A. That is a sensible personage Teague had addressed to
C. A. See from his wounds in his leg.
C. A. This is a sensible personage Teague would sometimes have
c. A. A. His skin was white and no spotless was he.
C. L. Joyfully laughed at him, and called him a good natician.
D. A. The ancestor in the same house was Sir T. Young.
E. An excellent man and a prudent man.
G. To be a person of culture and learning so that the first
educated.
C. A. A. An excellent man and a prudent man.
E. An accomplished man and a gallant youth.
G. A. And his son was a gallant youth and his father was Captain
G. A. A. Yes; his son, that is T. Young.
G. A. Forever.
H. A. Forever.
I. A. That is a beautiful old man.
J. A. Yes, the old man's son, that is Derm. Ham-Krudd and his
father's son.
K. A. Gloomy. His son was a man whom the Cred B. Cromwell had
among the Cred C. A. Good is G. K. Ban-kin, and we know that they
shall still be after them. He was a man who had a child nobly
and stubborn soul, who had to live a life of labor by trying to
lie for a day and a night, but had to die before his day.
G. A. Good is G. Aldaen. He kept a fine young man, Dr.
G. Aldaen. He had two comrades, A. B. He was one of the
Co. The Scales Company who loved each other the more for
gambling.
E. The J. See Eighthachel mention it would have been the
first instance.
J. A. He used to say, that young man that did the Scales Company:
J. A. This is a nice little girl and a man to match her.
J. A. That is a young man and a man to match her.
J. A. A. She was a man of honour and a nobleman.
A. The J. A. A. He held his own as a model in his power.
J. A. A. That is a young man and a man to match her.
K. We have seen him often before here in this country.
I. A. Since ever ushers with M. These fellows were in love with
A. She was the widow of a son.
K. A. Yes; a girl who had learned to love him.
My-M. I saw him as a gardener sowing a pea-green, and I saw him,
But my wits were dull and worthless, and I saw him not.
My-M. I saw him as a gardener sowing a pea-green, and I saw him
But I. O, yes, I saw him, and I knew for certain that he loved
As I came nearer to her, and asked her of what land.
J. A. How far we are going.
K. You have no knowledge.
A. What is it makes you look like a silly little fellow at all
the house?
Why, she is just a woman and a married woman in the life.
J. A. Good women, always.
K. A. I think her something.
J. A. Then why are your clothes
======================================== SAMPLE 327 ========================================
; but
Cannot remember when the boy goes to school in the summer,
When the winter comes, and all the children play.
But, nevertheless, I can find my fault with every reason
When the father's father was not near the fire.
When the father knocked upon the door-bolts of the chimney,
And the mother knocked, and banged with her eyebrows on the ground,
And the son learned from the lessons of life the lessons of love
That they were taught by children and by the poor.
So it's doubtful to what will be the fate of every mother,
And to what will soon be her fate.
The day will have to glide away,
The ball has won its turn,
And everything will have its day,
And everything will do its turn,
And every day
The ball goes out and out with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us;
For everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The club goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The club goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And everything
The ball goes out and in with us,
And every day
The club goes out and in with us,
And everything
The club goes out and in with us,
And everything
The club goes out and in with us,
And everything
The club goes out and in with us,
And everything
The club goes out and in with us,
And everything
The club goes out and in with us,
And what are we but we?
In our beautiful country wars,
I love to hear the bugle blow,
To see the cap a-comin' in
Among the valiant men I know.
It's pretty hard to get a flag
A-thrillin' and a-splittin' it;
It's nice to think a man must be
The firing man I know.
I'd like to be a poet, David Grinn,
When I was up and you were up again,
Sing me some songs of England, not alone,
But in some fancy. That's your own.
Rhyme on my birthday, when I'm glad
My birthday's always what it is;
But when Dame Fortune comes to look
On it, I am so glad of her.
So, after that, my little book
The daddy's eyes--looks wide and proud,
And says, "Oh, what a happy mood
My birthday makes, and when I'm glad
My birthday's always what it is.
I must have something for my birthday."
Oh, isn't there a place for me
In those chrysalis?
A place for underneath the sky
The only home for me,
Whose home most
======================================== SAMPLE 328 ========================================
,
Dies;                          _Geometra_,
Inform us that our vernal feat
May follow in the train
That lead the Moldau's swans to bliss
While we the mincing train;
May note the progressive worm that lurks
Beneath the wheel that sports
The ears of all the plants,
Or bees their drowsy consciousness
With round on circling wings
Pass, each by turns, their countless rings
Of progress done, to please
Some lover of the trees.
And we shall pause, in sweet surprise,
To catch a glimpse of this
Above the well-taught garden where
Its flowers and flags are seen,
And through the summer air
The glad birds take their bliss,
And while we tell the hour,
With a mysterious power,
The happy swallows come
And fly with trembling wing
Through the live murk of the spring.
Then, too, a sadder scene we know,
Wherein the children play,
And where, with childish looks, they look
Back on the fields of May.
And here, a sunbeam, soft and warm,
Puts promises to May.
And here, a water-fall, and here,
A calm, and fresh retreat;
And here a flowering chestnut-tree;
And here a shrub that shades the heat
With its blue canopy,
And the white lily of the pond,
And many things that others love,
Until I see the roof
With a pink-starred and ruby glint,
And the spangled iris flash,
Above the blue.
And then the bluebird, in the pond,
In the open air,
Lolls where he loves, and there he stands,
Bathing in that tender rain,
Above the water-fall.
The gardener comes to look at me,
He spreads his little bed of leaves,
And in his little crocus-tod
He softly stirs, and stirs, and sheaves,
And wakes him in the morning dews.
Beneath the grass he patiently
Now rests a little while,
Then stirs again the lazy hours,
And then again the showery flowers
Of the sweet-scented wood;
And then again the smell of stocks,
And down again the hum of bees.
He lifts his tenderly-lipped head,
And o'er him flings his happy eyes,
That look so gay, so earnest brown,
Aloft above the sunny skies,
Where sunny clouds in gaudy pride,
Like banners dipped in azure sky,
Towards the roof the sunshine flings.
He comes to visit Hives and Wives
With all the dainty thoughts that dwell
Within their gentle bosoms old,
Like rifled gold:
He sorts their flowers to picture there,
Where sunbeams play;
Or haply to the house of dreams
Doth sometimes soar and shine the beams
Of their illumined window-pane,
In memory of the early sun,
At evening in the open plain.
He comes to visit Hives and Wives
With all the dainty thoughts that dwell
Within their chrystal fane;
And then the echo of the birds
With universal flutterings.
They welcome him, they kiss his feet,
They bring their shining faces bright;
Kind words they breathe, yet not expressed;
Nor did they speak the lustrous air.
He comes to visit Hives and Wives,
With all the dainty thoughts that dwell
Within their chrystal fane;
And then they journey through the land,
And laugh at all the grief they meet;
And to their home among the trees,
Along the path they slowly go,
To seek the loved and lost below;
And so, through many a pleasant scene,
They journey on, contented here.
I will sing you a song,
Such as, for your ear, you'll ever hear;
Such a lovely, charming tale
I'll make out of 'old.
What was that, that,
I'll endeavor to write.
'Tis the same, the words repeat,
Which, at varying relent,
On the tongue's rich music beat,
In our ears of joy.
You will sing, if you'll list
To the tales of love;
You will sing, if you'll not,
The sad story to prove.
You will soothe, if weak strain,
Your wild mirth, your wild grief's refrain.
You will laugh, if you can,
And, the while, will
======================================== SAMPLE 329 ========================================
.
_Pompe._ Besides some of his poems, written on the same piece.
_Pompe._ His poems, used in different languages.
_Viv._ But they are written on different books, and written not in
_Viv._ And his poetry, found in a manner similar to the old
coloured.
_Pompe._ Versified by some of his friends and fellow-citizens.
_Pompe._ So they lived for a little while together in the year 1303,
or in the year 1304, when he passed to Corinth from coast to coast.
_Pompe._ Like many of his other works.
_Pompe._ What is his name, for which I do not know, and so do not know
_Pompe._ What were his illustrations to me, for which I do not
tell.
_Pompe._ They are preserved by safe evidence from Pharsis.
_Pompe._ One of the chief books of which I have need to speak.
_Pompe._ How are the illustrations to me of this eminent book?
_Pompe._ What are his notions and notions of things or beasts?
_Pompe._ Perhaps the author of these tenth and tenth books finds
_Pompe._ What a strange contradiction is here! Why, it seems as if the
prophesy for the great civilization our minds make against
nothing but ignorance; and because ignorance is as far more
buddled with the divine mind than with the divine will.
_Pompe._ A language used to those of sacred learning which
have been used by none but learned men, and that which by no
means either English or by any other Greek tongue or by any
other Greek or Latin.
_Pompe._ What has his poetry?
_Pompe._ It is used to him for being able to put out the spirit of
genius into verse.
_Pompe._ What has his poetry?
_Pompe._ His language?
_Pompe._ His language is not in the least cultivated with an
The most part of this book is the Greek poet's address, which
they are used to express in a confused and frightful manner.
In the former case the same applies to the refinements of
insinuation.
_Pompe._ What is his poetry?
_Pompe._ What has he, so great a friend of Pembroke?
_Pompe._ What is his poetry?
_Pompe._ Of the great, a great number.
"I am writing on _Elsy_ verses of my own chief poems, with
which I must be pleased at what I have myself considered so
nominiously. To my great surprise I have come to look at Mr.
Blackmore's book, which contains the best of the canons. In the
second edition it has the same appearance; but the last, it
has the same appearance with which, as Coleridge himself
first printed it.
_Tales_, an elegy of the Old Hundredth Psalm.
_The three Infernal Rivers run on the stone that was read by
Philosophy._ Well, I believe, I have had the pleasure, because
it seems, that Mr. Wordsworth has made that inscription too.
_The three most illustrious_ books of that period, Philosophy.
_John's Letter to Mrs. Ward._
_Other Volumes in the Series._
_Other Volumes in the Series._
_John's Letter to the Book-Hunter._
_The three most illustrious_ poems of this book.
_As._ Why, here it seems, there is another page.
_The above Epigram, written in various forms._
_The same year_ it is the later octaves day,
The fourteenth of March, and May ensuing_
_With its many fresh renewals upon the leaves._
_The three most illustrious_ poems of this book.
_F. F. M. F. forcibly over them._
_I am possessed of pleasing interest with the humorous and
antipatetic cheerfulness. Among the works of Mr. William
This book, it has the unity of any great poet in the world.
entertainment.
_The three most illustrious_ poems of this book, written in the
The four most illustrious poems of this period, I desire to name
_John's Letter to Mr. M. F. F. F. F.
districts of the place.
_N. B._ Say you'd like to hear of this little book, Mr.
_N. B._ And I wish you could only have seen that same book as
_The three most illustrious_ poems in this book
======================================== SAMPLE 330 ========================================
, _The Brute I know_.
A little sparrow once crossed his nest,
And there he lay, a little curled.
The sun peeped through the empty sky,
And there he lay; and oh, how small!
It was little Tibby laughing by;
She sang to him as soft as mouse.
"Now Tibby is a little sparrow,
Says all of one, and suits him well."
"He never sleeps, but you can pluck him
Now, Tibby! come and look for him."
"He comes, the lesson is too long,"
Says Tibby, "an important fact!
He had a very curious bird
In feathers, when he went to school,
And so he gave him such a quirk,
And flew there,--how he scared the school!
In every mischief he goes out
To find the crooked way to north,
And then at last to find out
If it be so and not for use,
And then he'll turn a truant's cote.
And there he sits him down to eat,
But yet, if one may rise and sit
And talk, he will come in to seat,
And, though polite, accept his part,
And see as well as eat his heart;
And then he'll have his bird so bright,
And--see him eat his heart and bite!"
"Oh, you must be one of those!" said I,
"Who are the things I long to see:
A bird, one cannot bear too high,--
It is myself I scorn to see;
I would, and would not have thee fry!"
"It is an egg," I said, "and you
Will all be gone to other things."
"With just a bower and a certain store
You'll choose it for your bride and bride,
And there will be, and well content,
In the quiet of the side.
It will not be so nice to see
That the bird is only fleas.
Then there'll be one more kind of thing;
And Tibby, too, and O she'll bring
A sprig of Spring in her nice hat,
And Tibby, too, and O she'll knit
A stocking all of wax.
It will not, will not, have it worked,
For now and then you will be popped.
It will not, will not, have to be
The sport of every foolish tree;
And though you never have been tried,
'Tis harder far for such a bride.
Love, 'tis not worth a life or much:
I, therefore, take you by the hair,
Or keep you in a week or less:
Good Lord! how great we are!
One thing we all must do,--
The one thing of two.
It needs not to be said
That my love is not true;
It wants not to be said,
What matters it to you?
But I pray God to give
One thing special, I pray--
That my life, ' grown old, may live
To the utmost may-day.
In the springtime, love,
I walked forth to ramble,
When the leaves were young
And the birds were gay;
But I lost my love in the scythe,
For I met with none of you now.
In the springtime, love,
The willow-tree stood thronging
To see what they had sung
To the white-winged crows:
Their voices far and wide
Cried, "Love, love, love!"
But the plovers cried,
And the young lambs cried, "O croon!
For our young pastures green
We will gather flowers green
To deck our father's bowers
And shelter us with flowers!
"In springtime, love,
Shall love grow sharp and bracing,
When storms are sharp and keen
And storms without ceasing.
But we will love and learn
That love is change and custom,
Though it be not like a crime
To thwart our sweet estrude.
In springtime, love,
Shall love grow sharp and bracing,
When storms are sharp and keen
And stars without ceasing.
"In winter, love,
Shall love grow sharp and bracing,
Shall love grow strong and fast
To win whom it is first;
For love is change, and should
Be love, love, love,
Then the tree should bear this thing:
'Love, love, love, love.'"
There shall my heart make no defence
When skies are clear and the blasts are long;
When the long, loud winter night is done,
Wilt thou not come to me out
======================================== SAMPLE 331 ========================================
,
And they gave him a yard to hold.
"Why," he whispered, "dame Jones?"
"Why, that's quite the sort of thing:
I have never written that,
Why, that's quite the thing.
"You've a little daughter, dear;
Pretty ones I often see;
And a golden purse to spare her
For her precious girl of glee.
"You have then another daughter,
Pretty ones; or a pair of gloves;
Yet you must not say 'm so sweet
That a lock of hair I wear."
"I'll not say 'm so, dear, dear,
That a lock of hair I wear;
For I have a glorious fortune,
And a fortune most complete.
"'Tis the very finest gold
In the world I ever see;
Yet I cannot say it's worth it,
If I did not give it thee.
"'Tis the very finest gold,
And the price of half a hair:
'Tis the value most of all;
For 'tis worth a thousand pair."
What was this she gave the miser?
Nay, nay, not the great, that she,
Who took away his precious father,
And left him in the middle--who?
Nay, she helped him bear his weight.
"And now for the last time," said the farmer,
"Let's go down to my old home,
And there sit down and take a napkin,
With a crumb of turkey-feather.
"Go and see my daughter," said the farmer,
"As a matter of fact,
And if not the best of all the trouble,
Then what shall I do for a livelihood?
"Let us have a little bread and bacon,
Then the best of beef, let us;
Then I will have some of the choicest ones
Of us in my kitchen-tye."
There they sat them down to milking-time,
Up in the olden-elbines,
And I never told what ails them all,
For they never told a pin.
"Where are you going to, good farmer,
To see such a thing?" says she,
"For the butter and milk she sent me
To make out the best of you.
"There are many, many apples,
And three go to pound my hat;
But as I am home from work I never
Think what I shall get, or what I shall get.
"O, how like to go to bed, then,
Up in the olden-elbines,
To nigh the night that I'm in bed,
And I never say that it's like my own at all.
"Where are you going to, good farmer,
Where all the money is spent?
Where are you going to, good farmer,
My lands and my rent?
"And O, where are you going to go,
Right over the top and down?--
And O, where are you going,
O master, are you so brown?
"Have you nothing to say to,
Just send me a patient mind,
To sleep on my bed right soundly,
And hear me say just what I shall find.
"Have you nothing to say to,
Just send me a patient mind,
To rest on my bed right soundly,
And hear me say just what I shall find.
"Have you nothing to say to,
Just send me a patient mind,
To sleep on my bed right soundly,
And hear me say just what I shall find.
"Have you nothing to say to,
Just send me a patient mind,
To rest on my bed right soundly,
And hear me say just what I shall find.
"Have you nothing to say to,
Just send me a patient mind,
To sleep on my bed right soundly,
And hear me say just what I shall find."
"What are you doing, good master,
With nothing to say to,
With nothing to say to,
With nothing to say to,
With nothing to say to,
With nothing to say to,
With nothing to say to!"
And the master went straightway
To the hen-house at the back of the oder-door.
He has crossed the hen-house, and stood there before.
And he has come up to the door with his cane.
She was afraid, for she heard him not complain,
And said, "Now, now, what is the matter with Sey,
In yonder hen-house, where I sit at the half-hour!"
And he said, "Now, what is the matter with Sey
In yonder hen-house, where
======================================== SAMPLE 332 ========================================
 on our Saviour, and
the Cross, in which thou shalt find thyself a sword and a helmet,
and thyself a sword, while the Eternal God and Saviour doth
suffice thee to put out His protection and guard thee."
The blessed saints of heaven, which were girt with
their robes of righteousness, lifted their bright faces to
the cross, and with good will bless Jesus.
The Cross was made of white money when he led the
surely his servants. The Holy One sent him a chariot
too, in which they were careful to mount the cross, and
should he be cut clean in the flame. The gift was bought
by the blessed saints for gold.
"Go," said the Cross, "and look to the kingdom of God!"
The blessed saints, rejoicing, were glad that they saw Jesus
for whom Jesus had been made Judge, and, so they were led
to believe and obey His commands, and gladly received His
ruler, who had sent the heavenly kingdom to assist them.
The Lord, who alone was their hope, was well pleased when he
beheld the kingdom for which Jesus had been crucified.
Then the great Lord took up the burden of the sacred kingdom,
and in a cloud cloud passed over the Son of God.
The King of heaven was glad when he saw the Son of God
o'ercoming the world.
And the Lord said: "O thou Word of God, in thy joy rejoice
all thy work which God willed, and be glad and rejoice!"
The cross was raised to the skies, great light shone in the ship
and the bright sun poured all his beams from the ship, and
in blessed beauty the holy ship burst into flame.
When Jesus set the seal on the holy world, what time the
clouds of incense rose and fell like the day, when the
suns were hid behind the heavens.
Then the Lord said, "I am ready for this journey. This way
shall I lead my sons. I will make myself a ladder and
close them to the corners of their earthly dwelling," and
he led the way through paths of the world, and there
covered the sea with a holy glory.
He gave the sign of the greatest gift to the angels,
which His high throne had granted for a mark to the greatest
and the greatest King of the world.
When John of Austria was returned from Affrike, the Lord
of the East, it happened the death of King Alberigo, a
nameless peasant of great devout and holy Palestine, a
hospitable pilgrim, a pilgrim of the Holy Land, at
which he had not lived in honor.
The Pope was the pilgrim, the woman the shepherd; the
creative and the pious, the humble, the lovely, the
glad, the beautiful, with loving patience allured
every thought of the Saviour, while in the midst of which she
sought the love of God for all his sins, and that
which the Lord had sent to comfort him was granted him.
At the time of the greatest of nations was the Nation of
Saviour, who had raised the rank of scourge and of
Sion, and had washed his people from the sin of the
bloodshed by the cruel hands of the Lord, on which the
Lord had given him his crown, in the ranks of the people
he had kept his holy and happy memory.
The king is dead!
But who shall say
That the people who lived in Palestine, while the heathen
Lords shook in Palestine, disquieted and afraid, by
constant ignorance, was crucified before the Lord in the
infamous hour.
Sion in the midst of Denmark, the peasant-born peasant
glorified in peace. It is well for him that the enemies of
the Lord of the Earth, in the days which are to come, the
 disciples of the Eternal Gospel were led hither by his
victorious power, and in the days of the Lord of glory, at
the hour of his appearing.
The king is dead!
In sackcloth he lies, with a cloth of gold upon his grave.
Angels are around him, bearing their mighty swords; their
crowns are empty, and their sceptres are unbroken.
If this man stand on the sacred cross uplift his hands
and pray,--
If the King commands it, I cry, "My God, forgive him!"
Then God will not stand unmoved. His bones are thick with
blood; his name is written on the stone.
If this man stand on the sacred cross, with the common colors
of his deeds, I say, "He died."
He's dead! Go ask him, if you will, and, for his blessing,

======================================== SAMPLE 333 ========================================
.
Euripides, he appears in the first book of the _Voyage
Of Greece. He seems in the second, and in his third book on the
Athenian philosophy, with this idea, the translator was
perhaps the most difficult species of animals to be thought or
prospered. His language is not so varied as that of a native
craiseworthy poetic language, (the meaning is, he affects nothing
concluded solely to the idea of poetry, as from the notion of
Homer continued, "the divine, the glorious, the original,--the
immanent,--the great, the universal, and the ever-increasing
work of the universe. Milton, too, was a linguist, while Milton
Ovid himself was an encomium of the great men of the day, and
wrought much virtue and much pleasure in his life. He was
characteristic of Milton.
diction even of Death. The idea of Milton was not, perhaps, a
poet's idea, or from a poet's dream, but the poet's dreams on
himself.
witnessing a more justly view of life in Hades; and the idea of
But, if I could have considered these things with my own eyes,
conceive, and not the writings of other men in happier times. I
sent them to the doctor, to see if I could have written them in
literature, or even have considered them to be such as is
applicable, what is a poet's thought in the present subject of
English poetry? All that I have said is true, but partly the
apparently all that I am saying is the style of Virgil, of which an
But, whilst Petrarch praised his master's work in the same poem,
author of my own name, and the poet claims of his own. The
contemporaries,--that all may rejoice, that all may cry with a
smile, seeing a good man is great and wise, when they are
gracious; and that ev'n the vulgar who dwell in the past may not
contemporaries,--by those who are like him well known, as the
appagniola no longer so joyously provided of a kind. So is the
universal with the same joy, for which they always cry--'The
He never, never can boast, that he is beloved. But, though he has
equally happy in himself, and that his spirit is enraptured with
affection; for there he has no one so much faith in him as to
"He was as much refreshed as that of his poems to one another."
O happiness! but untouch'd by transient sorrow,
And sad even in the moments of the present!
But I wish you to know, my friends, why so much sorrow
A poet?--I desire you to be more ready to write his songs,
recalling my own name.
His greatest gift is finished,
And he returns to his fair presentments, and reads, with
Glossary, the new rhyme of Homer.
Your fine, wise heart.
He sits at ease by his master's fire, and reads.
The world shall end, and be no more.
The poet's work is done;
And his best friends are gone.
The very best books do become his foes;
He cares not for himself, or for his own,
Or for his own sweet poetry, or his own verses;
But he can hit on neither side, nor he can miss on other,
So, you will call him "lovely," but we make him a poet;
And so we call him "blest," and so we call him "sweet,"
While we take a cup of wine to make him dream of you;
And he can write to you, while we--we may be sure of this.
'T is a strange law,
That bids all our toil be done,
Save in the lap of the sun;
That bids all our labour cease,
And all our pains be done.
'T is strange that our dreams should be
Thus cruelly made,
And toil far more than we have done,
Are of a different taste.
The best books are done for a little time;
They are dispersed over hill, corner, and wood;
There's a cry that is something akin,
And you think of it, Sweet.
For the rest of the world I will tell you about it;
It is God, and I am His creature;
You will find Him and you will discover Him.
"The little fool went down with his clothes;"
"My clothes' here, and they're here," said the Knight,
"The little fool went down with his clothes;"

======================================== SAMPLE 334 ========================================
,
To which the Muse will yield consent;
Or if there is a friend you find,--
A friend but not a stranger to your mind!
When one's at sea, one is not there--
And all that's better balanced there;
And since no one so wise as he--
He neither has his life nor stay,
It is time for the break of day.
When one's at sea, one is not there;
And all that's better balanced there;
And all that's better balanced there,--
A good example and good share.
There is a ship, and she is home,
Her cruising ended, all the day.
She's anchored soundly, on the shore,
The sea, and its magnates;
And each will give her as reward
To have her for her voyage more
Than any ship could hold before.
There's a ship now sailing all around,
Both wind and water, that's the place
That is dividing the great sea-port,
As it keeps the old sea-courses grim,
And keeps them now, past the old place,--
The old sea, grey with wrinkling foam,
That stands aghast at a foreign gate,
Then, sinking down, leaves a dreary wreck,
And sinks into the bay no more.
A country life is a livelier scene,
Though we know nothing of this world of ours.
So let us measure in peace our powers,
And take a part in what we mean to say.
There is a world where we cannot see
The same sun rolling in endless May,--
Where all is fair, and all is bright,
And life, the splendour-crowned Apennine,
Seems, without counting, to pass away.
Where doth the little busy bee,
Come safe from all your vacant lot?
For your unstained and virgin lives are clean,
And all things sweet and all things forgot.
There's honey in a flower's cup,
And love commends the fragrant kiss:
No more, alas! your lip is moist,
You cannot move a thought but this.
Your eyes now see the little maid
Who for your sake may now repay
The love that's sure to come to you
In spite of all the pains you do.
How many kisses have you got
For idle trifles like this here?
And yet the gods have made it hot,
With nothing else to make them dear.
Then here's a song for you to sing,
A song to dance upon the air,
A song to tarry till you're dead,--
You must forgive this other there.
From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs_, 1588.
O little brown man, have pity, my dear,
O little brown man, have pity, my dear,
On all the great sins that periterately fall
In this little brown manger committed so free,
With no home, to remain, even while it is here!
How can you know, when all these things he's done,
That when his wife dies she is nothing worth while!
But I must give you, when he begins
To feel those wounds that blanch my heart with fire,
I'll take his little clay, that's quite enough,
And make it sweet with my sweet mother-milk-kin,
To be my little sweetheart, my mother sweet,
And watch my little child, as I go,
And tell him, by that little fire, I pray,
I nevermore shall see him, I swear!
O woman, child, kill me! If he should come,
He'll fetch the cows, and bring the cows home;
And you and I, and all that my heart said,
He surely would come, should we not be wed.
If I am poor, he's seldom come.
If that is not, then let me have my way;
But for the little gold-spun toy that I've made,
O mother, mother, mother, I am sad,
It never will be my sweet baby lad.
I'll not go out till I have my pretty cry,
Though poor little baby come as I do.
But nurse, get up, and wipe this little toy,
That I may not be shut up, nor turn aside,
I'll take a silver penny that will pay
Mother mine, and we'll have a tryst with you!
The wind did blow from Ludgate, that is what lawyers call call white,
It did rych in Ludgate, that was what lawyers call call call,
It did rych in Ludgate, that is what lawyers call white,
And it did ry
======================================== SAMPLE 335 ========================================
, and
"They don't seem to have been in the least.  It's nothing in
number                                  _of_
I'd rather see the _old_ young ladies            _of_
As for their sex, it is not enough to fight          
With a long line of male foemen.                       _of_
"_As the child            _Mother_
They _will_ fight,  _but_ me                   _of_
The _mother_ does not know                         _of_
She did not see                                  _of_
On Aises and the                            _of_
Widow and orphans                     _of_
A puma's transiture                        _of_
A baby's story                         _Of_
A baby's life                         _of_
An angel's song                          _of_
A woman's voice                            _of_
A mother's prayer                         _of_
The New Suf's Singing                         _of_
A song of gladness                          
A mother's joy                                
A mother's love                                          _
In the grave's sacred                             
In a child's laughter                               
A mother's prayer                                     _
In the grave's holy                                            {p. 939}
A song of immemorial power,
A song of human love and power,
In the heart's deep repose . . . .               {p. 739}
A story of a sailor-man . . .                              {p. 639}
A love song of that summer day
When all the flowers in sweet array
Around the ocean-towers appear
And the soft ripple of the breeze
Blows through the trees and murmurs here;
But sweeter far, upon their way,
Is the enchanted music of these flowers--
The music of the magic sound
When night-bird, thrush
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 and Peep, which I have seen,
And the whole business through.
O, when I see the morning shine
We shall be busy now;
For to enjoy the whole design,
I leave the task I plough.
I see through half the work of man
The human heart, the human will,
By Nature's cabinet and plan,
Things foreign to our skill.
What is the use of turning back
The stubborn oaken tree?
What is the use of turning back
The stubborn oaken tree?
My father's house was made a block,
But I will to the threshing-floor:
And all this while I play my game
Old Paron Time will find me lame,
And mend my wooden shelf.
I'll ask my mother to partake,
The infant who was made to break
The cruel sternness of my heart;
And here, if she'll but make me smart,
I'll tell my uncle there to strike
His head off, off, to tickle his head off,
Perhaps, when he is still a-pressing
The void of his eternity,
And finding I am in decrease
By spaces that are but a span,
And sinking down, down-going,
Like the snail that's lost its treasure
By slow degrees, that neither may
Come to my help in my possession.
I'll ask my mamma to partake
The labours of my boyhood's make,
If she'll as soon give back the cake
To her that has so little sense,
And learn whatever sack she's had
Or mother's, when her womb was young;
I'll ask my mamma to partake
The labours of my boyhood's make,
If she will teach me, at least,
To find obedience still to my
Attention there in breaking off
Such lessons, and making gipsy.
I'll ask my mamma, and she'll say
To every child she meets this day:
If I must learn, 'tis little worth,
I've little time to spend in girth.
If I can gain, I'll promise she
Will send for me some _teens_ of mirth,
But give me time to say "to-night"
And give me time to say "good-night."
There is a village in the street;
It stands upon a hill,
And every little dog without
Is master of it still.
They have set their pots and pans to boil,
They have left their cats to doze,
And left their maids to doze and play
At pretty baby-toys.
So when they come home, their harassed ears
Are weary with the noise;
At times the tingling of a drum
Makes them feel queer and smart.
This dog and cat, with ears alert,
At first sight of the door,
Have all things done, and once they went
To doze in other door.
The cat is very kind, I own,
And hath a friendly game,
To keep her far from us, but still
A cat could always be.
Yet then she takes them with delight,
And gives them _milkum_ quick;
This cat is good, and when she smites,
She makes the cat herself a clock.
And, being of a lovely kind,
She doth all things excel,
And is so gentle, though she says
She thinks she loves hersel'.
They say she's very kind, I own,
But is a bitter woe,
To look into the face that wears
The mout'ring of a cow.
She eats this pampering cat, because
She loves her time to sup;
But though she eats it, she will grow
She will not like it up.
She feels that she loves food, although
She eats it, she loves food;
Therefore she loves to hear the cats
Who nibble at her brood.
These cats have partners in the rats;
And, though they're so unkind,
To fret their secrets in the streets
And keep them on the blind.
So I'll not rob the cat of all
Of her young lovers in the streets.
It is the way of love; the cat
Is very kind of cat.
The cat, though pleasant in the way,
Loves clothing and good will;
But though she hurts her lovely lot,
She likes to be as still.
The way is so like cats, that they
Are always glad to get
Some clothes to have, or others, or
To doze in other drawer.
The great, big, rushing cat is called the Old Woman.
I've heard the cat herself a-waggin:
One day,
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 the time, I have to say
The fashions which my fancy would employ
In bringing up such things as only seem
To be my own--that is, my dear, to say,
And do not, in their absence, wish to turn
To-morrow and to-night a home of sleep.
Why I was standing thus, I know not what,
And what you were, my dear, that most to me
In absence is not even as well; the whole
Looks beautiful, and I myself seem less
Loved to the life it had with me, my dear.
Yet that partlaying light which comes and goes
From all that we are wont to call our own,
May be illumined by the brightness that
Lets in the brilliant world its Splendour own,--
As well as by the shadow that returns
To lighten our dark house of clay.  Or it may be
Some soul, like us, had gone to heaven, to see
Its father nurse, and father, yesterday,
The little angel, we who loved and prayed
To help us in our night prayer.  But to-night,
If I look into your eyes, I know not of
The purpose of those prayers.  How can I tell
How that your day of darkness was before
That our dear Lord, my Saviour, was before us,
When it was lighted by the altar-fire?
I know not, and I know not why, but still
We feel the same dark need of service done;
And God knows that our daily prayer is not
Sufficient for long toil.  He did not mean
That our sad Master called to us to bless
The day we should be happy.  But this light
Which comes from our high spirits is that day
Which saw the morning sun sink in the west,
And left a radiant light upon the hills
That made sweet pastures for us:  farewell, friend,
To us the happy day is in the hands
Of the slow years, and we must live or die.
We can but die as others; they are with us,
And what are we but as poor hindrances?
If I were only with you, I would rest
With such as I have known, and so beside
This double life, that I could wait with you
Through eternity for each good sign
That makes us happy.
O my God,
That I were with you in these hours of light
That I should be, and you to be, and you
To be that day so perfect.
I should be
A kind and a true soul unto all things;
A loving heart unto the world; the day
Where I was happy where my feet could be.
And if my Lord were with me, I would stand
And love you in the shadow of my life;
I would lift with me its pure, patient love,
And stand forever where it seems to me.
The sun shines through our window and the moon
Watches me here in dewy fields and dim
On this long lane of twilight long unused,
And all the world is full of golden dreams
That only come from some far-remembered land.
The stars laugh in the sky, and all the world
Laughs with a joy that wakes remembrance.  Why,
You in your hands, who do not understand,
Have drawn your soul into my life, and made
The thing that was my dream, and in my waking
I saw you as a palm leaf in the wind
Hurry to sleep.  Will it be so soon?
I have long fled from all my happiness,
And yet I made a happier world of pain
Because you came unto my home again,
And laid strong hold upon those helpless hands,
And held them to my dream.
O love, O soul,
What does it matter on these weary years,
What do they care to let your love to me,
Who am so weary.  Let these tears upon
My eyes will turn upon them darker and more dark,
For they are very sorrowful, my Lord.
O love, O glorious spirit,
Why does it matter on these weary years,
And why do you and I remember not
The weary load of care, the joyless pain,
The foolish grief, the foolish trust, the tears,
The useless sorrow, and the bitter pain?
We sometimes think of you, beloved; you say,
As we remember, and our pain is great,
That our poor little day of years is long,
That our poor little day has not yet come,
And all that is is useless there is dead,
And all the precious golden dreams are fled,
For they were good to us, dear Lord, and now
It is not well to count the hours as
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.
As long as the night lasts any more,
A hundred thousand people keep their sleep,
Till morning sheds her softest snow on shore,
And night comes softly stealing o'er, 'tis said,
While to the hall at once they haste away,
To house them in some sheltered nook and shade;
Some for their drowsy bed, some for their meat,
And some the fish with eager speed pursue.
The rest, at last, with Sleep and Silence joined,
As to some airy enterprise they crept;
Yet nothing they could catch, except the wind,
Which seemed a fit to make them catch and scold,
And stirring, with their utmost power possessed,
The houseless stranger from their passage scold.
The winds were still, and through the snowy night
The moon was shining like a beacon light.
On beds of down the weary hived the wolf,
With hunger keen, which he for pastime held
Ere on his weary back he came to grind,
But on the ground the sheep that grazed the mule
Were little to be had; so much the more
He grew as foster-father, and as poor
As he had been; they could not choose but laugh,
For Death had snatched them from him in his grip.
Yet, when the fatal snare arrived, the King
Came to the door, and straightway all his flock,
His only comfort left, and all his gear,
And steeds, attended in the house of sleep,
Shunned, and his eyes with scalding tears were wet.
As one condemned to very death to die,
He sent the rest forth to survey the way.
Now when the King was out he bade them stay;
And on the grassy plain 'mid torches sat,
Saw his two coursers mounted to his feet,
And now, to find the King, of hearts bereft,
Had sorely grieved him sore, and maddening thought,
Upon the march from night to day had gone,
Until they came where in the valley cool
Abdul obscured lay, and all appeared to die
When morning dawned, through the dark underlaid sky.
Then, clad in sackcloth, they to camp had brought,
By their own chariots and the self-same ditch,
And after them King Agramant descried
The worst of those who in the valley died.
Then said King Agramant: "There is no sense
Of this our cruel war; we have no cause
For no vain hope, but thou, alas, must hence!
Thee shall return, our journey make amends;
But think not thou hast won a better flower:
So many vaunts against me thou hast past:
So many terrors, now before me, bore,
Such as for this thy journey well deserved."
The King, consoled, received the flower of flowers,
While he, with tender hand, his guest and guide
Came thither with the Child at council hied
To wait upon him, and he left him there
Arrayed in all his loveliness, and gay
Of such a shape to meet him all the band,
Though he was speechless, and of mood controlled.
Now Agramant stood lightly on his steed,
Now turned that way, now other pace he saw;
But first the stranger spake, "It chanced that he
Had stayed full many leagues from Camelot,
And, as he hoped, would go now fain; but go!
Heaven keep you both from evil through the world!"
He spake: "Alas, my son, upon this twain
Some pity falls on him who sends me nigh,
That I a woman am; who much has borne
From Merlin's shore the image.  Would I were,
However, now that I should live to see
My native land restored!"  At this the King
Trembled, and from his finger loosed the lock:
"It seems a law," he said, "which man ordains
From the first disobedience, as his own
He is by us to sever from the twain,
And thus forever be they made alone
Of one same will, and not to him confined;
And though, by some strange instinct swaying up
In Heaven, we twain are made forever one,
We cannot meet no more.  A few short years
We have not known each other, yet we may
Remember when we met with loved, or sad.
I from my parents had obtained a name;
But now that man is like a woman grown;
For love, that seizes children as it brings
Fixed agonies of wrath, may find the soul
For all unpleasant
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 of the New England Lincol, a translation of
The first prose translation is what I have already said at the
beginning of the rest of the sixteenth century poetical
poem, called "Christabel."  It contains the following words of
the poetical description.
A good excuse for this copy of Homer, from the necessity of
poetry, whether it was better to accommodate it than to let it
much better than to bring it forth.  The modern reader,
the younger reader, to whom Homer was an equal, would think it
an equal in import and quality, when he had tried to give it
exercised.  But the translator would not do justice to the
indirectly.  In his own judgment, it appears, he took his
leave of the rest of his illustrations of the Scholier of the
Il Penseroso, and one of his projected books of war,
where he would learn the secret of a profound and literal
translation of Latin hymns.
Yet neither language nor prose was there, save that which was
wanted in the rough and ready rhythm of the comedy.  By
this, however, I have preferred the general rule of the poem,
unmartial.  The translator, besides the two first-class books,
which were selected from the general sanction of the treatises
or opinions upon the subject, presented himself to all in a
triangle of the length.
The second group was a very charming and beautiful work,
bestowed on a piece of wood.  The work was very fine.  The
volume of the second half contains a complete metrical form
which was printed in due succession to the highest degree of
earth in the lower regions.  The second group consists of the
first-class books, the most interesting species of poetry,
the second two are those of the heavenly lover, the divine
son of the goddess.  In following them immediately he published
more and more,
which he afterwards inserted in the works of Olympian
Zeus, and now with his triumphs of a complete epic style, he
published (1725) the second group, which recited nothing of
his later poems with very little success.
"Virgil describes the effects of the sublime antiquity into
deposited in the world of the world by the variety and
composition of that in which all the best lyrics of the
verse, and the musical poems and their short lyrical
songs, are by the series led from the third book of the
Epilogue to the fourth.  It was, indeed, very beautiful in
his person that he recognized a deep spirit at the same time
which is the mostSAYably vivid of the poem, and its
elegant poems.  In this sketch, Homer shows the relations of
the basest authors in the works of the world, and without
which his works are not done.
"Truly, when we are speaking of the authors and agents
of Rome, there is hardly a trace of the inner life between the
two classes.  There is an instance of the moral and
political satire that existed in an audience of Romans, and
of the latter that was the most engaging of the works of the
S clinching-ear, which had been the mistress of many nations,
which has been since a mistress of many nations, and which
has represented to us in so many a poem both prose and verse,
and is now a master of many nations, and can hardly
understand us--that is, of course, after we are acquainted
with national life, and our feelings easily transmuted to
the refined forms of the Italian critics.  The Italian ear
is not so much injured by the absence of the noble voice from
which it is given to the musical rhythm, which, as we are
too often reminded us, is attended by such a name as the name
the imagery of that place.  The mention of the names we have
written later and more later, is of a strange kind.  So far as
our author is not to be confounded with the spirit and
power of the prepositions, or the conviction that the
imagination of our language has been continually confirmed
as well as any language of any language.  The Greek word for
the purpose of man, not of the modern languages.  Yet for any
of the scholars who have appeared in various classes, it is
admirable, too, the Greek word which is certainly still chosen
through the medium of English or Italian verse.  The Greek
word is usually striped and probably not made for a rhyme,
but as meaning a word, as it is far from common use of
the word.  It is in the main meaning of the phrase of the
Greek word for the vow of the poet to fit
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 and the water of the stream,
To the four-hundred-gated Thetis' stream.
Thy mouth he kiss'd, and with his hand the spear
Was laden with rich pearls to grace the shore,
Thy hand, that he might touch his brows all day,
Shall reach his heart, and he shall die no more.
Thee hapless maid, thy fate shall be a cry
From the high gods for ever, as the wave
Doth on its beach repeat it to the deep;
But when the fates shall crumble thee to sleep
Sleeping o'er thee, then rise again and shake
Thy wavy locks, and on thy sea-clad side,
Unmeet for any enterprise in Greece,
Shall choral thy great griefs as long as thou
Shalt feel the world, and shall return no more."
And now I saw, as on a sudden seem'd
The gates of heaven broken, a damsel pass'd
By without. She neigh'd, and piteously
She called in mournful accents, 'List me, sire!
I came for Paris, who hath ta'en away
Thy daughter from his arms. He calls in vain,
And summons yet thy daughter to the bed.'
Then, shuddering, to the couch she leapt, and gazed
With vacant stare. The woeful maid beheld
The wretch who lay, while in her arms she press'd,
While all her limbs were cast to earth, a soul
A spectre now, in every sense betrayed,
And all her blood 'mid battle lost and won.
She spoke, and in her hollow throat dropp'd out
Her frantic lamentations. 'O thou poor
Most wretched, O thou wretchedest of men!
Thou, and thy house dishonour'd, hear'st me call,
'O miserable! I have no one voice
Who dares thy trouble to assist and share
The sorrows of thy husband.' Thus, 'tis plain,
My grief may cease to rankle in thy breast,
And he be left to lie beneath his roof.
But thou, nor he, shall be thy sole defence,
If thou hast gain'd thyself of all his friends.
Come, let us raise thy children from the dead.'
Then, weeping, said Demophoon, 'I too
Shall lay my dead in shining robes, and bear,
With a sad mother to a younger woe,
The last sad words to Helen of the dead:
'Dear Helen, once to Peleus I was wed,
Now Peleus' son to Peleus. But for me,
I now am queen, I have a daughter fair
And mortal, whom my mother never well
Had borne to wife, nor ever with one child
Amended. For a woman--if indeed
Be mindful ever of those nuptials--lays
Upon the head her hand, and is the child
Of a most deadly and dishonour'd sire,
And ever with another takes her part
The mother, but with more than double care
Will either take the child, or leave her sire
For ever. Yet, since all the people are
Of Menelaus, this hath doubtless come.
But lo! there lies the babe, thy doom is sure.
There lies the hero, who has kiss'd thy hand
Lightly, and kiss'd thee ere thou went to Troy.
He, in whose breast the mighty Achilles dwelt,
For Helen's sake and all her love was one,
Slew thee, and for thy sake did ever strike
The dart, of all that thou hast borne in earth--
And here, beside my hand, I offer thee
My life, and here a memory of thee
Till death shall call to life thy memory.
But even there is one of all my sons
Who loves thee, loved thee in a mother's womb,
Who should have lain a queen, and thine the gifts
As long as he should live, and let him die
His father's son. Thee, therefore, I avow
In that sad death thou shouldst my children boast,
I none, not one, should wish; thou wert not born,
Nor thou thy mother's son--the father thou
Of Ilus' warrior-father. What if then
Thou, in a land where all the stars are lit,
Hadst wedded thee a Goddess? Wouldst thou crave
The favour of a Goddess who, with thee,
Would shield thee from her peril? Goddess, thou
My sister--wouldst thy Goddess foil the sin
Of a so fierce inferior?
She shall be fair,
And young Achilles slay, when Ilium's walls

======================================== SAMPLE 341 ========================================
; Gring used to know it,
That the tailor need neither trouble nor pain
When he says to his fellows his name is made.
The reason's my wish: if a merchant his trade,
Why, a building and furniture I must quit,
And to the new lord 'twould seem worth a ride.
I could not get over the seas but I must;
I've a better farthing than gold, I'll allow,
Since I found no good gold at this market day;
I'll admit that the merchant will never refuse
To take his bright model from this hoarding house.
What a job was his plan--to bring down a price--
But he thought he could find some work for his hand,
And as quick as he found there was something to pay.
"How are you at home," said the merchant, all day?
I can tell you 'twas nothing but muscular strength;
My work followed suitably for months and a day,
But my leisure and business it never at all
Was so ready for money at night and at noon
To work for my aid by the power of the moon,
As if they were all very willing and willing
To use the blue sky at sea so a clip.
I saw them at night in the street as they walked,
And the distance appeared to be much more than a mile,
When a stranger appeared who had got news of the town,
Who asked if he saw some large fortunes ahead.
"I can send in," I said, "a receipt for a song
"By the poorest life we have in the world long,
"To make our choice, then, more easy and bold,
"There's a run very easy in getting, Sir,
"And in getting that suits our position, my dear,
"And the two following suitors cannot compare
"With those who are better, more easy than they,
"The one or two better suits us, my dear."
It was such a sad sight to see breaking at day
With a note from the grocer as well as at night,
That his friend who was present began to display
Much more comfort and hope than he could devise.
"Let's see what our friends are to each other addressed."
So the neighbour determined he ne'er should have rest.
When the night was grown light and the faces seemed proper
They came out of their senses and went for a season
To try for themselves those new tricks to renew.
The landlord was silent, and kept his good-will,
And a "tinker" old Gasman again at the mill,
Till they found him, in haste, with a broom in his hand
That was both more and more fitted to withstand
From storming of winter, than ever he shook
From his chair to the door, though he took it aside,
And made him like many another wayside,
And still made it seem more like a better slide.
Now the landlord had opened his box and the landlord
Might know who was in it, and what they had hidden
To show young folks the tricks that had been done by
The way that young people went sailing away,
With the rest of them going to leave their own town,
While some were quite cunning of tongue or of eye
And never to do what they most desired,
The landlord was one of the nicest and best
That ever was given at all in the West.
To the end of the list there were some who were dressed
In silk that was covered with velvets of down
And with vair shows of feeling, no doubt, but of eyes
That had once been made out of good solidities;
Some were of the sort that young folks ought to know,
From the beginning of year to the end of the century.
It was in the good days of "Merryallow,"
And the neighbors before and since then as "now,"
And the neighbors with some of the rarest of skill
Had the practice of making a summer-house settle
There were many who knew not their trade at the mill;
The labourers were busy as if going to work
With the well-natured business hard ten day entire;
Their fingers were bagpipes as soft as the moon,
And they knew not the pleasure that lay at the mill,
Or the other gay fellows were running away
As the tide went the other day after day.
But they knew that in winter the like was at stay
With the busy misfortunes as much as the light,
For they knew that a goodwife carried her box
With a very fine coverlet white and quite white,
And it lay there as soft as the shadow that fell
In the sunny soft summer when it passed her door,
Where the honeysuckle climbed, and the lotus
======================================== SAMPLE 342 ========================================
 the _olde_, "for I wiss thee,
For a hundred year, for a year,"
And the _dead_ hez driven, _dead_ hez driven,
And no more 'ith lak his own--
But the _gudliest_ man i' the welkin
Will be laird o' the _sepud_ Joan.
Sick I am wi' the wine I have drunk,
'Tis a _chef_ an' the vilest drink,
It will keep me frae my woe's blude,
And a hearty meal to me.
Farewel! for I could never gang back,
A bit I blamed ye on that trick;
But I can gie you my han'some green,
Altho' ye flout when I should fling't,
But, freenz, ye flout when I should stank,
Whaur the angels wanton in airn;
But, gin they want, I ask, for you
Wi' my han'some word, or doon by an' by.
When the wind blaws oot wi' its din,
And we stand to the dooty, I din,
When the wey birds sit hootin' within,
Or the weaver hangs hootin' within,
I dinna care whether or no
Wha sang the name o' Charlie's Earl.
"Where is your han, my lord?" asked frum
in his hansel-like; "they are freengens,
"Like a raucle folk that are banish'd out
"As they saw Hugh fa' in the corn-earnough,
"They've no stan' on our green since the time
"When we daffin', in peace, by yon shore,
"When we dance up the green for someWi' no more,
"But play the grand Muirheadlay a ither day,
"For ae gudeman that never has play'd an ill stop,
"I'll try to gie back, tho' that I fand him,
"To yon lang road that I wis' to try him,
"For ae gudeman that follow'd his motto
"To march to yon bloody drum-battle,
"To the deils that follow'd his motto;
"To the desperate fight where his comrades are in,
"Or the least in his bed--some guid in his skin,
"And auld bairn blaw aye in the laurwarts wi' a rin
"I dinna care if he be gaun by;
"For the wee bit loof that the blue hills gat,
"And the Scots that follow'd his motto was his.'
"But I've met wi' some warstanes o' warstanes
"That gather'd at dawn o' the battle,
"And now to the warld I turn helpless,
"There's few of the lads that follow'd him over,
"And I'm mair now than we hae done,
"For the cumberland's under our lee--
"And the blude of a starn at the duddies,
"And the gude of a muirf, my dwallin' maun be."
Then up and spake an eldern, he stood on the wa',
"I'll gang frae yon hill-side, and try to gar him;
"And, wow! ye'll be sure to see Scotland,
"Sae gallant and sae zealous for Scotland."
He's hung back aboon by the heather-hill,
That's far up the hills by the scaurit glen;
For there's nae can compare, and the plaidie was green,
That is clos'd in the licht of the lang yellow heather.
There's the dree and the glen, and the dark gray wood-clad,
And the bublin' lake sae unblythe;
And the mavis sings soft to the dear little starn,
As the licht of the sun gaes down o'er the heather.
But hark! I hear some, by the burnies there;
Or on the windy hill-side are dancing;
There's afield and here we'll wander aye,
While harps blithely blaw the blythe faes o' their mou.
"Ye'll sleep a wee," quo' the wee gud elder then,
"I'll tak my rest, my own, by the burniean heather."
Then he calls to the b
======================================== SAMPLE 343 ========================================

And for the first of May-night.
You shall see him at the door
With his face turned away
Very dull and white-arm'd, the winter stars;
You shall see him at the door,
When the stars are shining clear;
And at the head with his cold tarn-roll
The birds shall sing their hymns.
When you come out of the shadows
Into the starlight,
All the willows are bending to greet you;
The silence is broken, the lilies are calling you,
And a lily is calling to wait for you,
O beautiful elfin quean.
All softly, all softly,
The creeks are murmuring;
The little stars are the eyes that hold you,
The little stars are the lips that hold you,
And ever your heart grows chill.
And ever you hear within you
The lilac star
Shine out through the dark, you shall feel it,
You shall touch and quiver and tremble in silence,
You shall breathe through the dark.
Oh, the droning of pools in the down!
Oh, the beating of waves in the down!
And the moaning of wind in the room!
The rustle of leaves in the room!
The dripping of oil on the floor!
I shiver in my chair;
I hear the dripping rain come up
To cleanse me bare.
There's horrible rain in the room!
The dripping of leaves in the room!
The clacking of lambs in the room!
A wind in the pane of the door!
It howls in the dark.
It howls in the dark.
I shiver in my chair.
There's horrible rain in the room!
Oh, the horrible rain in the room!
But there's peace in the cottage!
Oh, the black, eternal rain
On the face of the window-pane!
The little stars are the eyes that hold you,
The little songs that I loved;
And the wind and the wind in the window,
And the wind and the wind in the door.
When I was young and ran away
I'd dress myself with poetry,
The songs that make the blood to start
Along the veins of fancy;
And those who win a way to praise
Should find the heart's divinity.
_The blind's fate_
_Sings to me._
_The wise men pass the test dust_
_That shows the real to the kind._
_The wise men pass the test dust_.
_The good men pass the test dust._
_Life's journey done_
_With little joys to make amends_
_For the few hours of the end._
_The hours of doomsday falling on_
_Is far less worth than words, is life._
_The hours of lonely night_
_That give them all that's worth._
_Life's pathway known to sorrow_
_And sorrow's road made hard, and life._
_O little swallow, little song,_
_That none who follow him shall know._
Come, follow me, from me, and from beyond the hills
To me, my lover in the sun, my friend in April.
But yet to me such promise is there comes no goodlier than
the breath of his sea-song,
And with them come no tidings of the world's good cheer.
And if my heart and its desire have perished here,
I cannot eat, and it is but a memory of pain.
Now shall I look far out into the sun
And see the wonderful hues of a golden shoulder.
Or shall I see, till death, in some strange garb arrayed,
The stillness of the moonlight on the lonely dead.
Then shall I look far out into that west
Familiar to the dying, the dead, the the dead.
But if I look far out into the night
Into the timeless blackness of death,
I do not weep; and if I look far out
Into the distance of the night,
I do not weep; and if I look far out
Into the distance of the night,
I do not weep; and if I look far out
Into the endless waste of time,
I know beyond the stars beyond the moon.
The night goes up with the dawn,
And hark! the wind, with a moan,
And a wail of sorrow and death,
And the wail of the wind;
And the little wail words and the breath,
Of the little bird's call,
From the leaf and the wren's wing,
The burden of all.
Then the little wail words and the breath,
Will the burden of life
Be
======================================== SAMPLE 344 ========================================

Our own, our dear-loved friends again,
The happy company we'll join
While yet we've love within our mind,
And love that to its very core
Of true self love we must adore.
For we are very faithful then,
And with unceasing care we'll stay.
We'll love; we'll trust in honest men
While yet we've love within our mind;
And love that to its core we'll bind,
Our memory of all love to find.
Lovely were our parting days
While she made our spousal vows.
We, her hands in early bloom,
Felt a touch of kindness o'er them;
We were lovers, as may be,
When we met in maiden fashion.
But she's now our neebor sweetest friend,
And we'll taste a sweeter morrow;
For our parting days are crowned
With a more transcendent sweetness.
To our love, the joy of life,
We will live our old-time loves to miss;
And we'll taste a fuller breath
When we've met in angel fashion!
Oh! the joy of life's delight! Its choicest pleasures are but
flowers of our own and its first year; and our heart
begins with those of our own, for a moment, when we are
gone, we may not be left to sigh for them.
Then the pleasure will not cease,--but still there is a family
of beautiful fancies--free, and fair, and sweet, while
near us there
Will no fate be struck with sorrow, nor our very joy
surprise us.
So we'll not, like earthly flowers, fade away in the world
for ever, seeking joy and rest. But we'll not seek
for each other in worldly hearts, with our eyes turned
forward; and we'll not, like youthful blood, pine for
its renewal to gather other flowers.
Oh! I would that I felt my first-born spirit blossom
in the air!
I should feel an as happy, tender transport guiding me!
Oh! I would that I knew that my wings would be all winged
while loving my childhood!
Oh! I would that I knew that my spirit became a rod
And wielded my genius as I have wielded my God!
But now, if we meet here somewhere, the joy of our youth
will fade,
And we twain may sit on some hill-top, and rest from our
thought
And be joined in the thoughts that o'erleap the happiness
of us.
Oh! I would that my spirit, like lightning in the
clouds of skies,
And the earth that lies under my feet, as the spirit
was once their guiding,
Would see itself, like a mirror, and not fill again my
heart
And then be flung down to the slumbering earth, like
her children, and be hurled
In the deeps of its joy! bodiless mother!
Oh! I would that I knew that my wing would be happy
again,
And that my hours of watching and endurance were
never idle,
And that I could stand here, soaring on the rocks of
God's right hand,
And feel the might of His love, spreading on the
sward like the sea!
There's a song in the air,
That says, "Be still!
For I know it is a bird's
That calls to my heart, and it stirs
My hand as it touches the rill
That flows in the wood, and it fills
My throat with the breath of the rose."
It whispers of hidden thought,
And fills and thrills
The heart with a mystic throng.
Like a thread on the ear
It pierces the ear, and thrills
Like the song in the air, whose voice
Comes sounding down from its wings,
And thrills and sings
And thrills and sings
A hundred songs, like a bird,
In the woods!
Oh! the joy of life's bright morning,
With fragrance swelling in,
And gladness of the sun, as it rises to reach
the hill-top,
The hills with your smile!
The song in the air,
That calls me everywhere
With a song in the air, as it surges down from the
pine-top,
The hills with your smile!
Ah! the joy of the open morning,
When skies like a purple pall
Are filling with moonlight, and fresh dews fill the
scented sky;
The birds are abroad on the air, and the flowers
Are everywhere
As fresh and fair!
Like stars in the night, as stars
In the morning's light;
What matter, their rapture is rarer to
======================================== SAMPLE 345 ========================================
-Sib in the dark. O, none of them!
They know not that he has been with us, they go by,
Baffled and beaten, beaten and disheartened,
The only man behind us and before him,
Shall be before us, at the ending,
With only him behind us and before us.
And what shall we say to this man of us
Who is the friend of all who loves us, loves us, loves us,
Who is like us, who is kind to all who comes?
(Who saw the clouds go over the mountain-tops,
And in the valleys the red rain came, by those
That came to take and eat.)
Now the people in the market place have stopped,
And the night comes. For many an hour before,
After the sun goes down, the people wait,
Waiting, and the people at the door stand still,
Waiting and staring. Then the door is opened--
Gold! and a pair of ribbons to each other,
And the night goes over in the shadow of each other
With fires that burn on breast and hair tinged over
And in the shadow of their arms.
(They are all going to bed:
One comes in and begins to talk.)
By the hearth of this house, to-night, they know it:
The fires burn softly, the curtains rust, the sleepers
Shall come to pick at the gold. We shall look to it,
We shall look to it all as one comes from it--
Back with this world again,
To the hearth of this house again, to the hearth of it,
Back to the hearth of it, back to the hearth,
Back to the hearth of it, back to the hearth.
(They come out.) By the hearth of this house, this garden
Of lovers I had a while with Herod,
Hunting and sleeping, when I found him asleep,
And that was the woman.
(They enter.)
Come out forzekiah. Have mercy! Go quickly,
Do not make haste!
He has risen against us
And we will meet him at the gate.
SEMCORN (to the others.)
Ah, friend, what words have passed thy lips that deathful
Spoke out before mine eyes--the words he said
Of Herod, and from him hath passed to all men
Thee. All the same, hath he raised up a name?
(They gather.)
Him whom alone he loved, him
The solitary, whom he loved not, him
Possessions and presides o'er all the earth,
To him, whose name is written on my heart.
He came out of the shadow of night
To walk with me beside him, having lost
All that he loved him, and hath suffered most.
He cried aloud; I could not help but gaze
Upon his face, and in his arms he swore.
He cried, "Doth any here in David dwell?"
He answered, "yea, I will be here by them,
With all my heart." A bitter word, a blow,
A bitter word to fall upon each ear
And leave the school-boys laughing in the streets,
And in the public streets.
I do not know him,
He has not come.
Here on the wind,
And here the wind, O Lord, is no man come
Except to say, "Finger not, the time is come,
That ye go out from here." Wherefore the voice
Of this one, "He hath touched thee, He hast trod my heart."
(They hear him and lean forward.)
How shall we learn?
Among the sands of her lagoon
There is a place full cool for a man's feet.
There is no need to go.
In that place, also,
Ye shall come hither, and there is the water.
(The air is still.)
I will look up to it
To see it as I saw it--it is not well--
It is not well.
But ye come here,
Why doth ye spend all that your hearts desire?
It is not well.
The world has set its faces upon mine eyes.
We have no more to say.
There is no need to go.
O my heart, let us go in!
O my heart, let us go in!--the sand is far
And deep before us--it is yet far south
Beyond the land where we by day are shorn;
Let us go out into the vast unknown
And open land beyond the rolling sea.
O my heart, let us go in!
What are ye better or better to you?--
Let us go out into the vast unknown
======================================== SAMPLE 346 ========================================
, _The Miser's Confession_, and Act i. Sc. 2.
Witches:--The Miser's Confession. A Poem on Music.
Hesitate me as I may, and you will write to me
As fits the singing quill, or doth your quill repeat;
And when I am inclin'd to such relief,
As if I had had my wits in that great throng
That came from Pallas, I'll conclude withal,
That, by your leave, I have but short repast,
And, at another time, a tedious day
To purchase words with, which may well be said:
I find a tale which, as the Muse shall tell,
Worthy of your continuance; and it may,
And I have rhymes some few, not idle ones
That think themselves most lightly in their glee;
But to your leave I'll add, that, having come,
You may remember your first sprightlier home.
_Virgil_, where he was born.
There is a young man there:
That I hardly can say
Quite to his religion:
There's my wife Joan
Sitting on the green tree,
She is not just a woman,
She has had some rare chances
Of her own free will.
But my time is flying,
So she flies away:
If I leave her, I'll follow her--
He, the poet, say.
_Civility_, a term used to pass unnoticed, which is often
unaccomplished.
Now in my love, and he shall be mine and mine;
I would I were his minstrel, I would he could sing,
And I a corn-song of his father's aged wife:
And he a hearty welcome in a good old time:
And, as we sit in sorrow, my fiddle is shut,
For it is that I too shall sing before he wakes;
And he has little wit that wants a long good-will,
So let me sing one song, and that may be one
That will bring others gain'd by making love more strong.
_Virgil_, when he awoke from slumber and was rather drown'd
From the next sorrow, there to sing and to run down.
I have a small amount to learning, but no less
Of learning this day is all the world to me.
_Faust_. It is too much, perhaps, to lose that other
Little girl, the world is all the world to thee.
_Virgil_. I do not like to be so stupid:
I can't think it. I am the child of my father.
Ah me! I do not like being wise enough:
God's best days are best when they bring them with a pull.
As to the morning, a flock of little birds
Is to a skyward, and then back again
To me, all sunshine aiding the clouds.
_Faust_. What can I do? all work in me is right.
My husband will make a good wife to me.
_Virgil_. How can I do it? I am not a creature:
Wears the fine cut ash-tree, and the sun.
My legs are small and round, like the young tree:
The root of the tree is so black and rough.
I am a young tree, and they hang me thick;
And I see a light in it, and I see it:
The light shines forth, and the sun is shining high:
But what shall a man do in a woody way?
_Faust_. I know that I am small
But I have a big house, and a big wife.
_My Master_. And if I went away with you
That very morning I should not be,
Do you think that I were a tall tree?
_My Leader_. O, a great pity!
The fire is out, and the wind abroad,
And the fire lies low, and my house is smitten,
And in my heart a drop of black blood runs.
What a narrow lad was he,
But he was too young to live.
_Faust_. A lad was he.
And he used to wander,
And she used to sing and moan,
And in her voice a something did:
I have been asleep alone
_My Master_. He knows me well, and I can spell
The names of the rain and the wind abroad.
_My Mistress [shamefully_]. Lott, my dear child,
Hath the devil to play with you.
_Mephistopheles [appears without_]. Hallelujah!
_Faust_. Have pity!
_Mephistopheles [appears
======================================== SAMPLE 347 ========================================
.
It may be, if an ancient oracle had crossed,
The oracle still stood unmoved in his eyes,
And all his own remembrance still remained.
'Troy's senate then had seen, not seen, the blood,
And, by great Caesar's grace, had seen such things,
And, with his sceptre laid, to soothe their fears,
And to give rest their weary souls to rest.
For his was not in fight, and for his side
The Greeks, in hope to make the world their guide.
Him, as the sun, to warn of winds tempestuous,
With such small darkness shrouded him about,
And all his life as with a mantle wrapped him,
He knew not, or his battles, or the coming out
Of battle, or the flight of friends or foes,
Or the dread battle, till he brought the dead
To give their dust to the returning sun,
And with his life to end the coming days.
But his was not to see the Phrygian plain;
No battle-prowess had he to accept,
No privy dart to point the deadly way,
No breast to feel the wound; but to obey
The charge which men must give him, and to go,
That, though his helmet's scanty fringe might screen
His coward onset, yet his heart was bold,
And with the boldness of his arms to vie.
Nor yet to all the Grecian hosts he turned;
His speech was all,--his accent was the cry.
Astonishment to hear, to see, to hear,
Their voices growing louder, and more near,
The mighty Grecian trembled as he spoke,
But from the dark recess where Mars was fixed
His voice was heard, and piercing and amazed.
And now his armor, in the lists resolved,
Had well nigh burst at first, and with the shock,
If he had thought that but to raise his shield,
Had not those gossips Saladin reined,
He would have slain him twice, and scarce, methought,
The mighty man had roused him to the fray;
But that ill thought the strife of both was o'er,
And now the doubtful strife o'erlaid with day;
At last he came before Peleus' godlike son,
In semblance of his former shape, of guise,
The third in semblance and the same in sight:
His shoulders, breast, and breast, and hollow eyes,
Like fire, yet dark with horror, and with wounds
Of hideous aspect, and the eyes of night.
His former shape was, as the rest, than which
Was less convenient to his dreadful face,
He seemed the leech; and like a man that dreams
Of some dire vision he appeared, and fear
Concealed his features, and so clad him in
As man might be but half asleep he seemed:
As when two nightly Boreas in the east
Hath, with his teeth fixed in the river's stream,
Divided ocean, and, though wind and rain
And rain have scattered him, the ocean's heart
Is half surmised, and trembles at the sound;
So, thundering onward, on the giant falls
Huge Scamander, and, though but an hour before,
Unseen, doth batter in his jaws the shores.
As a scared hind unto a stag new-cued
Touses the hunter, and secure affronts
The noisome beasts, yet coming back amain;
So, with his might, Pelides down he threw
Upon the shore his arms, and thrice he essayed
To strip his hide, and thrice in panic fled,
Though fighting for the life; for, as his spear
Was cloven, Pelides 'twixt two lances leapt,
But his teeth only left him; back he turned,
And first he hurled his shield, and from his hand
Rushed like an arrowy storm; his head it swayed,
And on his eyes the light foam boiled, his hands
Were sprinkled with tears for his fallen arms.
But, for his arms were now no longer strong,
Hard, bold, and fearful, all too quick for use:
For in his bosom, as with lightning spumed,
Down fell all hope, all comfort, and all grief
Of his dead husband, with a ghastly smile
Shone, and, as on he fell, his eyes were filled:
But from his feet the warrior plucked the spear,
And, his right hand griping, on Pelides fell,
Clashing it yet once, so that he fell,
Till death did end his sorrow in the shades.
Then, turning
======================================== SAMPLE 348 ========================================
;
The best thing to me is--"Lest my love grow," etc.
I never yet did your dear Mistress Marian,[G]
And I never will do any more for to hear
"Where I am, I never will sing a refrain
"More fit to command than to sing the good old song,"
When the days of my life are at an end,--
Lovely, lovely, and pure, and exceedingly sweet
Are the evenings we pass to our street.
And the best that I ever met--
This lady of Erin, awaiting my death,--
Her death--is her own, and her own;
For I will not let you depart
Till you meet my remembrance.
I never shall close mine eyes,
(Though I loved her for that!)--
I pass, with my old-fashioned pride,
Your true love and he.
Though many my footsteps have passed,
And my eyes they may be,
Though many my love has grown cold,
Yet many will be!
Though others may pass where I stood,
And others may come, I
And she with them all to my blood,
Will pass with them home.
And you, more true, may it be,
I feel your true love
Will find out a path that is free
To the hills above.
When my lady is gone away,
May I not learn to praise her?
If you loved her, 'twas not the dart
That pierced her dear heart through her heart;
But the soft, sweet caresses which spring
When they first wound her body.
I never shall say it in prose,
It is better to love than to serve.
For I wrote to a young marine friend
Who asked me to be a marine slave;
I would say it in books,--"What are you?"
But the answer, the shaft, the bow!
Why, you gave me no reason to make
A blundering reason!--I played the game
I played the same until
I took off my hat,
And I went on fooling again
To a place in the street
Where I always was.
So I turned back again,
And I walked a bare floor.
I saw the ball play,
But I wouldn't make you to say how it came,--
And you were afraid!
I gave you no reason,
But you told me, my dear, of one thing,--
That whatever you say was true,
You would not change your nature for mine.--
Do you know where we were hiding ourselves?
What was it we had hidden ourselves?
What was it we had hidden ourselves?
It was all a mistake;
I gave you your name and I gave you your honour,
But you were afraid!
What was I?--What was I?
You were only a woman from far-off lands,
And you were the pride of men;
But you were a queen of their own little finger-prints,
And you were the queen of men.
When I come to-day
There is another ball,
It can never fade away,
So you are not the same,
But that would be the call:
It will not be the call,
But you would be another bull,
And you would be the bull that I bring you.
Yet it's not the baby that's left of me,
Though I know it will be very deep
And it's not the baby that's left of me,
But that would be the wind that sweeps over the sea!
For, when you are gone,
The next blue day
Will bring on the sun
And lead on the same,
But that would be the call:
Little baby, my baby,
What can I bring to your little dog-rag-rag-rag
When you are gone?
Do nothing for me,
But I'll tell you my way,
Little baby, when I come again.
Little baby, the road is so long and it is so wide.
The roads are so bad they are lined with the clothes
that they used to roll up in for them.
Little baby, your baby
Has no hat on;
Perhaps you may live to see a little lamb
Upon the green grass fringes of the hay-field,
and hold them in your little jaws.
Little baby, your baby
Has no hat on;
Oh, if you would have your way back, you surely would not know
What it means.
Little baby, your baby
Has no hat on;
There's a cloud of worry
That drives away the day,
And there is no sound of weeping
That can make it frown;
So your little baby
Has no hat on.
Little baby, your baby
Has no hat on;

======================================== SAMPLE 349 ========================================
, as a proof,
The _Devil_ had no _Devil_--
And when he heard the name,
The _Devil_ came.
When he was dead we all walked quiet;
We spoke of _Mahomet_ and _Aucassin_,
Of _Mahomet_ and of _Tassin_;
But of one gentleman he recklessly made no reply,
For all the rest was a very long way out of jail,
He had never before heard anything more.
He never knew what is written to _Sinodius_.
It was as the _Aroes_ had come.
It was as though our sins had passed:
The thought of sin was a lasting shame.
The _Aroes_ had been so corrupt and rotten
At the expense of their adulteries.
The _Aroes_ would not suffer the heinous sin
Of bawling for _Aroes_ within.
Then clearly said: "This gentleman seems mad."
_Aroes_ was the gentleman's name,
And of _Mahomet_ was a gentleman.
_Aroes_ was the name of a rankish _Aroes_.
_Aroes_ was the name of a rankling _Aroes_.
_Aroes_ was the name of a rankling _Aroes_;
For all that one name was _Aroes_,
_Aroes_ was the name of a rankling _Aroes_.
The name was _Aroes_, in honor of _Aroes_.
The name _Aroes_ was a furious thirst,
His blood ran red in the wine-press.
The name _Aroes_ was a piece of the top of a column,
_As many sins as any man dares_.
The wine-lads called for the _Aroes_,
The _Aroes_ called the _Aroes_.
The Priests came out with the _Aroes_,
But the Priests fell out with _Aroes_.
And the _Aroes_ had been killed with _Aroes_ only
For the wrath of _Aroes_ which he loved.
The Priests threw up their dolls,
And swore Lord Snake and other fools,
And thought them gods, and they stole their hearts and souls,
And caused them to break a girl's heart.
No wonder if Dame Snake doth hate her sex.
She prays for her soul, and no other love.
And the whole world, all the men that love.
At length the Dame made a sudden stand,
And cried, "There's no harm in this noisy land,
No chance, no duty, no way, no plan."
And a wise man, who had come to live
And be born a dog, had been kill'd by Frere.
And the wise man, who had come to live
And be fed with the fruit of life,
Wept there for his dear and beautiful wife,
And wept for her all the other days.
And the wise man's heart grew cold,
As he cursed the cruel words he spoke.
The faithful wife, the friendly youth,--
The friendly youth, whom no friend could change,--
Came back through the darkness, and took
The heart of his darling wife to his breast.
And her heart was light, for she had a boy,
And his eyes were blue as the new-kill'd sea-mew,
And he said to himself, as he saw her face,
"If you'll promise no earthly love for me,
That I'm his dear brother, as mine shall be."
And away to the heavens, from thence away,
The bright morning-dew was all glooming,
And the young men all went with the women in throng,
But in going too, and in doing too.
And the wise men all thought only of the girl,
How, in spite of their love for her, all was won,
And to him 'twas a pleasureless thing to show,
That the man was a friend and dear enemy.
But the first one the evil thing understood,
They thought it the worst to swallow or fight it,
For the man was a friend and dear enemy.
And the wise men all thought, when this monstrous story,
Of the murder of Herne the Great, with the Mother,
Who would make up the tale to the world's regard,
With the head of a queen, and the hands of a priest;
And they all thought what they planned, by jealousy,
To attack and slay and slay her. Not one of them knew,
And as for Frere, they
======================================== SAMPLE 350 ========================================
ing;
To the old, old, old house in the far south,
Whence, with half the winter's mists at flow,
Flowers bloomed, and laughter was the blest--
The house was quiet in the little room
As though its silent walls could never cease;
From some long ruined and forgotten grave,
Some dark retreat had made it seem afresh.
Before its pictured arras, hardly stirred
By dead, forgotten footstep or faint sound,
Only the empty, voiceless, empty hall
Stood like an altar where a child had died.
The tapering turret rose on either side,
By which the sunbeam smote the noisy light;
The curtains, which but yesterday had thrown
A shade across the silken, curtained night,
Had, round the painted, silent, silent choir,
Praised all the little music, even its breath
Of solemn music, while it sang, "O peace!"
O then, as nearer it, the chamber gloom
Crept like a veil across the yellow day,
Soft, pale and rosy-lidded as the tomb
Was opened. On the summer's perfumed lee
The quiet ivy played its silent part,
The silver moon shone out, the pouting tree
Stood in her perfect beauty and its heart.
The ivy round the ivy's root and shade
Dropped their dim blossoms on the crumbling roof,
And on the fire-browned eaves was dreaming made
A rustling sound of wind-blown garments wewn
From shapeless daisies that for centuries slept
In their own forests. The lone house was gold,
The snowy summits of the vaster box
Were opalesced with azure, white and red,
And all the wealth of sculptured pillars and brocade,
And all the beauty of the snowy dome
Lay in a trail of dust, like rainbows on a thread,
Inwrought with many a quaint and curious art
Of sculptured ladies, by whose delicate eyes
They seemed to welcome in the dreamy skies
The beauteous forms whose pallid limbs could hide
The sun, the moon, the darkness of the vale.
All this was perfect; still the ivy hung
Its ghostly foliage o'er the shattered bars;
Its ruined chambers, where two crystals flung
Through shattered granite orchards, tossed in streams,
Lay in one mass--oh melancholy stars!
A year ago, in an old, enchanted way,
There came an angel to a mortal maid,
Who kissed her brow, and made her tears run wild,
And drew her shining eyes on Sappho's breast
In modest wonder; and she made her moan
And gazed on all around--her love and death,
And every haunting hope, and every fear,
And all the haunting glory of her hair
Among the maidens, to her longing grew.
The maid was very beautiful, and she
Had come to this, and with a tender glance
Spake, as she saw the tears that glistened through
Her withered bosom: "Wherefore, Sappho, smile?
Why grieve, and weep, and sorrow for thy dead?
And who art thou? We two, and no more glad
Than we are, Sappho, that our hearts could grow
Without the pain of others, all in love?
O my most blessed, my one living son!
Thou art more happy, Sappho, than the rest
Who love and hate and sin eternally."
"Is it because the lilies of the vale,
That crown thee, are more lovely, Sappho, now?"
"Because they bloom again, and clothe thy form,
And soothe thee with celestial gentleness,
And soothe thee with the raptures of the storm?"
"O Cytherea, lovely as the rest!
O child of a divine gentleness!
Could I but know, as thou hast come to rest,
How thou wert loved, what I believed to be,
When thou wert worshipped, and where thou wert blest!"
"Nay, nay, why tell me something more than these,
And be it as it may unto mine eyes,
And, since I would not have thee understand,
Speak to me of thy happy home-born love,
And of the ruined home that was my own?"
"And dost thou think it as thou speakest now?"
"Nay, nay, the thing that is most strange to me
Most surely, is a ring of crystal white;
To me it seems of a forgotten glow
That once was all the glory of delight,
And once again I dream it as a dream."
"But think thou
======================================== SAMPLE 351 ========================================
 the dog!
_I've got to stand this time a year in front of me,
I've got to make a man to buy a tree!_
_When you meet me in the street, so fresh and dressed,_
_The boy's a-coming home to-day,_
_He'll hear anon the oddest tap of the canoe,_
_And he'll be coming back to-day!_
_He'll hear anon the oddest tap of the canoe,_
_And he'll be coming back to-day!_
_When you meet the other man:_
_He'll know as well as he can tell,_
_And he'll be coming back to-day!_
_He'll hear anon the oddest tap of the canoe,_
_And he'll be coming back to-day!_
_It's just so long since I was here,_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_It's just so long since _she's been here_,
_And, oh, so long to see!--_
_It's just so long since she's been here,_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_It's just so long since she's been here,_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_It's just so long since I was here,_
_But I'm coming back to-day!_
_That she wasn't the way I found it,_
_And she's coming back to-day!_
_It's just so long since I was here,_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_It's just so long since she was here,_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_"I've just been getting on to it,"_
_So long since I was there!_
_It's just so long since she was here,_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_It's just so long since she was here,_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_It's just so long since she was here,_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_It's just so long since she was here,_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_Yes, it's just so long since she was here,_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_It's just so long since she was here,_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_It's just so long since she was here._
_It's just so long since she was here,_
_And I'm coming back to-day!_
_Oh, the big red eyes, oh, the pinky red mouth,_
_And the soft, fat curled tail of the dogwood tree,_
_And the long, fat curls as she lifted me_
_When she saw that face, oh, she wasn't right!_
_It's just so long since she was here;_
_Oh, the little red eyes, oh, the red, fat mouth!_
_And the soft, fat curls as she lifted me!_
_Oh, the brown, fat lips, oh, the tufted brown,_
_Oh, the brown, fat lips, oh, the pinky red mouth!_
_Oh, the big red eyes, oh, the red, fat mouth!_
_It's just so long since she was here,_
_Oh, the little red eyes, oh, the brown, fat mouth!_
_But it wasn't the way she was away;_
_Oh, the short, fat mouths, oh, the short, fat mouth!_
_Oh, the long, fat lips, oh, the short, fat mouth!_
_It wasn't the way I had to come._
_What the little red mouths?  Oh, the tufted red mouth!_
_Oh, the short, fat mouths, oh, the short, fat mouth!_
_But, oh, the short, fat lips, oh, the short, fat mouth!_
_It wasn't the way I felt for it;_
_Oh, the short, fat mouths, oh, the short, fat mouth!_
_How I felt that 'Twas coming back!_
_Oh, the short, fat mouths, oh, the short, fat mouth!_
_'Tis all I could do was for her!_
_Oh, the short, fat mouths, oh, the
======================================== SAMPLE 352 ========================================
, and _Sidelights_
And _Galleria_ come flying,
And _Venice_ with the swelling sail.
_Mauve!_ O _Mauve!_ the ship has sailed!
_Salley_, and _Mauve!_ the sailors all
Drink of the _Mauve!_ and are content.
The Captain of the _Crown_ too well
Was placed upon the deck,
And _Salley_ too; and they must wait
Until the _Mauve!_ at the command
Of Mr. _Vis-que-_'s command,
Was soon in due order brought ashore.
The _Crown_ himself (a name which sounds
Hard to be given in prose)
Was on the deck astonished.
He said, "I do not know for whom
These guests of canopy and crape;
If there be _Mauve!_ I think it is
A judgment-seat for the oppressed.
The Lord, who saw that I am good,
Will keep me and my company;
And when the _Mauve!_ I go to pray.
My Lord, that I may sit and rest,
Keep him with me.  _And if he be
Half worthy of our company
To think upon the courtesy
Which he has done me."  So they passed,
And they did well, and followed him
With more immediate love.
_So runs the seaman._
When he is fain
To see her waiting in the haven,
Or with the _Mauve!_ her home (she saith
Unto which these two trothters were born)
He is content; nor yet can find
Aught in that narrow, crowded way,
If he would fain remain and look
From whence the vessel glides.
And then he follows on to where
The sea's wide surface roves,
Where she abides;
A narrow spot in which the oar
Strikes full, and takes her place,
For yet no vessel moved.
The ship was broken, but the crew
For larger craft of boatmen shows
Her lack of rudder.
But, when they reached
The harbor, which had made the shore,
They found at last, with dull sore pain,
A sail borne nigh that harbour's mouth.
And then they saw that they had passed
Away from this strange sight of things,
Where, every year, the sunbeams placed
At the full circle of the suns,
They saw the ships, the ships of Tyre
Where they had set out oar before,
And many a stately ship.
'There, on the deck, she stood, well pleased
To see the canvas change,
And then to bring it in a round
With colours of the line and bound.
She saw them sail; but when it turned
She saw the sheet before her spurned,
And saw her crew alone.
The crew was gone, or was there none,
But cast upon the rocks to gaze
Above the sea.  Each was astir.
There was a shout above the shout,
Which made the sea to dance below,
And when they saw the anchor set,
They made the waves give way.
And there was one she saw, or he
Or he might see her anywhere;
For the one seemed to be still.
There was no need, and there was none;
The ship was in a harbour one,
With any anchor on;
The land was bare, the harbour crowned
With clinking of the pearls,
And little thought there could be found
Of outward travail or of bound,
If both her breasts were all locked up,
And she the sea-wrack hugged
And bade a drowsiness ensue
With the new taste alive.
And there was one that heard, or not,
The woman in a ship that got
A sound o' the watery roar,
But found the sail was all in vain;
"The ship must be unsettled."
And so the woman cast around,
As though her head the water found,
A drenched and dripping sea.
He had but just looked up, for there
The sailor stood to watch her there,
And thought, "When I am gone,
I will return again,
And come to plow the sands:
"I never saw the sea-wind come
As when it swept the deck;
But now it is strange, and I can't tell
It is so strange, I cannot tell,
Whether it is the wind, or whether
It is not the sea, or sky, or sea."
Then up to him she raised her eyes,
A sea-white sail
======================================== SAMPLE 353 ========================================
, with some few remaining days of the
world.
It is only because I feel your soul alive within me so that I
could find no place to sleep in it. There is no need, for I
have nothing but the memory of each of my old words, which
are as the windy rain of the south; and even if they have
appeared to me, it is not so so.
It is like my own words that you make those words which you
have chanted, but I often have said them to you by that of my
narcissus, saying that he was born in my father's land, where
a man's brother is his friend.
This poem is doubtless one of the miscellaneous works of contemporary
poet who had written many of his so-called "Poetry," in the
that "The Wanderer," because, however, he was simply overwrought,
to continue for a long time in a solitude where the events
were naturally one and the other powerless. His nature was that of
the poems, which, though recorded in a neighboring province, he
thought wonderfully best to write for himself. He used to think
the "Poems of the Imagination" had drawn him on to "In the
of the Pastoral," where, however, he was simply written, and in
This is one of the great progressions and the splendid and
elaborate parts of the idealism in him, beyond the immediate
thought conceived in him, which the reader, in no immediate way
to intoxication, became wholly vain. He had written to his friend
that a little part of that country, where the poet breathed,
was his own creation.
Yet his time seemed perhaps not wholly lost. But his work,
though not altogether so rapid, yet accompanied a rapid and
logical movement. He was an entirely powerful thinker, by a
without method or design, as it is fanciful and cyclic. He
was one of that noble, sublime companions of the famous Italian
literature of Italian literature, whose writings delighted many
uncertainty as the "Jungogrylle und La revolves." The poem ran
only as a poem, however broad, with the smoothness and grace of
animals, and this is much the rarest work of the Greek
literature. The "Jungogrylle und La revolves," which he wrote
after his death, is to be considered as the most important and
The "Jungogrylle und La revolves" is about the same period,
or the "Jungogrylle und La revolves" as the fund of "The
Troilus and Herr," which, by the same author, has been already
reprinted "The Far Bernogie." The "Jungogrylle" is a respectable
poet whose occupation is thought equally hard. The present
poem was written on the same subject, as the "Poems of the
La History," and "Concerning Him Bear the Stereotype Placin,"
"The Wanderer’s Return," etc.
It was written in a book which he took from a very unskilful and
elegant genius of the time before any one on the author could
complete it. It is quite possible that it was not written with a
perpetual attempt to represent a critical estimate of the
authority of the piece, although in its delicacy it was not
really a great endeavour to revive.
It is in almost another fashion, to inform the reader, that I
endeavoured to use it in writing the verses; and because of the
reflections which it endeavoured to paraphrase, it would be well
to excuse the omission of the nous ses dul d’étais,’ because, of his
sufficient art—has the honour to be, that I left the ballad of
Olympus’ son, and he is only escaping from the critics’ claws,
the satire is also to be borne only by the poet. I do not think
himself quite forgotten that he was my own judge, in giving me a
decisive account of the author’s judgment beyond my own.
My fate has not been charged that I must not expose these
circumstances to the world. I have tried to live for my honour’s
personification of actions of which the world can respond?
The man who is universally pleased with praise, is not easily
wanted in the world, but is more delighted with the highest
honour in his heart, than is his affections expressed in his
deserved at the very instance of assemblies of good men, whose
honour is their master.
So that the more you may see him receding into the world with
favour to the world,
======================================== SAMPLE 354 ========================================
, with a laugh, and says:--
I cannot tell; but if I go,
I will not say a thing, for so
The fancy wills it, knowing not,
But that I love the things I know.
I love to think of those dim eyes
That, waking or concealed,
Surmise my very soul's surprise;
Or hear, as in the meadow-land
The birds among the grass
Sing, if they only could but stand
And hear, that happy thing, the rain
That falling on the window-pane,
The wind that in the garden sings,
The wind that in the meadow whistles,
The trees that bend their branches bow
As if in earthly heavens now,
Or voices heard across the snow,
But are to me
More than a million voices,
More than a thousand voices,
Where flowers and berries hung together
For evermore, in the long summer weather.
Dear heart, that in my own heart didst contain
Thoughts that came back to me,
More than a million voices,
More than a thousand voices,
As sweet and as mysterious
And as mysterious as the rain,
Or a thousand voices,
More than a thousand voices,
More than a thousand voices,
Or the ancient echo of a thousand years,
More than a thousand voices,
Or the old remembered voice of a thousand years,
Or the wind that through the pine-wood cometh
With a subtle voice and plaintive more and more,
Than ever Triton blew from hathier clime
From his Tempe, where old shadows dwell sublime.
Dear heart, that mine ears caught and did not catch
Steals of half-uttered words,
More than a thousand voices,
More than a thousand voices,
More than a hundred voices,
More than a thousand voices,
More than a thousand voices
Or a thousand voices, more than a hundred voices.
Dear heart, that mine ear caught and did not catch,
Did not its echoes die in this thy chime,
O sun, in this our time!
As soon as the earth-eater,
Having fed his chosen seed,
Feeding on the fields of autumn brown
And spreading his old flock around,
My soul, in the long winter hours,
Sitting at ease in the fields of fern,
Listeth, and memories, and hears
Of a hundred and hundred years,
Of a hundred and twenty voices,
And changes, and changes, and changes,
And a hundred voices in a hundred voices.
My heart, it is not stopped: I would begin:
To the great white-bearded soul of Solomon
I would arise and follow willingly,
And follow willingly, if it would pause.
What if my voice should fall inaudibly,
And sink into a pause,
And sink into a sudden dream?
What if my bells should ring an endless chime
In worship to the angelic themes!
Held by the shadow of the tree,
Reft of its golden fruit, I would rise
And follow willingly--I would not know--
To where the wood-thrush sings,
And where, in rain or radiance,
The wild-flowers lean and stare
For very ecstasy.
What if my foot should fall in vain
And sink upon the ground,
And if the tree-tops touched the rain
I should be quite unlimbed,
And, in the nakedness of pain,
Stand up so very still,
And dream in their own little world--
Yet, through the shadow of the tree,
And through the nakedness of pain
To where the wood-thrush sings,
And where, in rain or radiance,
Majestic streams arise
Of rivers and of mountains,
All moving to one promontory,
All silent and sublime,--
That is a beautiful legend told,
But one no longer young:
A poet of the City of the Dead,
Here dwelt a sage who ceased to speak,
And left his promenade,
For which he cared so little, when he heard
That other lay, unsung.
A stately man, and strangely strong,
Rude in his youth and ruddy in his prime,
Rude in their prime.
He lived in quiet, quietness, and ease,
And scarcely yet content to be at rest,
At evening's close.
Not yet was he in trouble, and at night,
Withouten idle stammering, idly dreamed
Of his rude home, and unregarded fare,
And of his dreams.
His little wanderings had been begun
And he was glad at heart. . . . And yet he seemed
A happy man.
He loved
======================================== SAMPLE 355 ========================================
 my soul-springs.
O my mother, my heart, my heart,
How my heart is broken!
Can thy dead lips speak, and my words break,
When they breathe or move to heaven?
Can the dead love still speak in her heart,
That loved one always?
O my mother, my heart, my heart,
How my heart beats high,
For thy dear sake, my sweet one, my heart;
For thy poor sake.
O my mother, my heart, my heart,
How my heart beats low!
The night is cold, and the wind seems hard.
The sky is gray, and the wind seems hard,
And the night is dark, and the rain is hard.
The roses all are faded and torn with dust.
The grass, and the grasses, and pale, dead roses,
Are thin with faded flowers.
The night is black, and the wind seems hard.
The clouds hang thick on the sky and rain;
The sky is heavy with dark, sad flowers.
The stars are heavy with dust and rain,
The moon lies over the harvest-sheaves:
The stars are heavy with weary rain.
The winds wake up through the desolate hours.
The shadows come creeping up the sky.
The moon seems well content with her sky.
The stars have closed their eyes and they sigh,
The wind is fresh, and the dew falls free.
The flowers are blossoming up the tree.--
The moon looks well content, with her face.
It is long, and ah! long ago,
How long my feet would stray!
A moon that dances in the trees,
With hands as white as snow,
Holds me so close, like a white moth's,
I can scarcely breathe.
There is an old Woman's Seat,
And her feet, at rest,
Seem to reach up to the clouds,
And to rest on her breast.
She is not so grand as the moon,
So beautiful and high;
It is just a weak woman's seat,--
She is up by the cloud.
But that would be wrong if her hand
In the moonlight shone as clear;
Or that was only a woman's moon,
With the light in her eyes.
In the moonlight shone that face,
With her hair golden-skinned;
It looked so smart, so round, and white,
Just like a girl's and mine.
She wore her hair in a curious way,
And her lips, sweet, you know,
Eyes so soft, and such a smile,
With the light in her dark brown eyes
Making heaven brighter there.
And then she danced with a silver lilt,
And then she hung in sight:
"I dance to-night, at your heel so light!"
She danced to-night. The moonlight glowed,
Just like a fairy-fleece,
With a great, yellow, frilly-necked star,
Through the half-blind window-pane.
But the words of her sweet refrain
Were brief, clear, sweet, and plain.
"I dance to-night with a golden lilt,
With a golden-ringed foot."
"I dance to-night with a golden lilt,
With a golden-ringed foot."
"I dance to-night with a golden lilt,
With a golden-ringed foot."
But the smile was faint in her wistful eyes;
To-night she will dance to-night,
With the swift, sweet smile of her rosy mouth,
As they dance to-night.
She murmurs that he is wholly mine.
"I dance to-night with a golden lilt,
With a golden-ringed foot;
I dance to-night with a golden lilt,
With a golden-ringed foot."
"I dance to-night with a golden lilt,
With a golden-ringed foot;
I dance to-night with a golden lilt,
With a golden-ringed foot."
She murmurs that he is almost mine.
"I dance to-night with a golden lilt,
With a golden-ringed foot;
I dance to-night with a golden lilt,
With a golden-ringed foot."
"I dance to-night with a golden lilt,
With a golden-ringed foot;
I dance to-night with a golden lilt,
With a golden-ringed foot."
He laughed with scorn as he came so near,
And the words he said were true;
"Nay, he is mine with the golden lilt,
And the golden-ringed foot!"
She tripped along till the music
======================================== SAMPLE 356 ========================================
's;
And, more to say, is good.
"The very best, the brightest, best,
Are the men who never are good;
And when they are ill, it is the best to be victorious.
The man in the navy that goes before you,
And never once looks behind,
The other fellow that he seems to know is the man.
He has never married you
The other man in the navy that goes before you!
And why not join in so?
The men in the navy that goes before you,
The other man on the show."
"A pretty good fellow it is,
He has always been good;
He's the man with the dollars that buy folks' clothing,
He has been to school for more,
He has lived a long, long series of lives,
He has shown he knows no more."
"It is strange enough, my dear,
He's so long and so very dark;
And there is no other great man here
That does not go without his bark.
But he is an awful man--
He may be an anchorite,
But he can't have much good land to do
If he don't have to go by sail.
Yet, if you're a man of good family,
Such danger would never befal."
And he opened the door with a little door,
And a long, long, yellow rope:
It hung from the end of the down to the end,
And the wall was all about.
And he said, "I must go and loose the bonds,
And never again I'll be here,
Until the trial comes to make the world old."
And he walked away without fear.
But that was a matter of wood,
And no other place in the world was he found,
Save a rocky ledge hard by the shore.
And he went and looked down the cliff,
And he saw the rocky ledge hard by,
And he turned and looked up the other side,
And he saw the cliff like a rock.
The old man's wife sat down in the ditch,
And the little old man was shaking the crag,
In a fear of God, for her son was dead.
And he said to his son: "A wonderful sight
This fellow can see, though he knows he is old,
And the road that he makes is so steep
That he can run where he stands,
And he may go on
And he may enjoy great pains
With running away;
Some day he'll be standing all night,
Wet, and white, and black."
But the son said: "I'll see no more
Where there is any peace or peace:
I'll sit there and watch the others come;
And that's the reason the old man says:
'That man was a devil that I was,
For my hand did no more work;
But my own hand was busy with mine,
And I had good gold in my store.
But I know it's a matter of trouble,
And that is why it is so;
I can't live without much trouble,
Though I can't live without more trouble;
So I'll bring my hand to your head again,
And you'll see me my wife again."
"That's the greatest disgrace I should suffer,"
Said the son. "As I tell you,
For I can do nothing with my toes;
And I can't stand on my toes."
"But I tell you, old man, if you're good,
You will have to keep on growing;
You say I'm a madman and have to pay back,
If I'm not oppressed with a devil's trick on me,
That I cannot be better than some other man
Who can get himself up in my eye."
"That's truth," said the son. "And now, you are wise,
But you'll never take orders to reason about your fence.
You'll suffer if you can--for on what account,
You will come by your time of peace."
And his coat hung up on a rafter tone
And there was a hammer of tongues for the stroke in four.
"Old man, I'm a man of the house, on hearth and plain.
The smell of your toes is a thing to my memory.
If I should die, I could not move my hand again."
So to the river that runs below the capes of the river,
The talk of my wife, the talk of her lover the Bobolinks,
And for what sort of life she seemed there must be life and
The water is very deep and the air very still.
In a deep, shallow, pondless cove,
Where the sun and the shadow move,
It is hidden under a rose bush's
======================================== SAMPLE 357 ========================================

_To the Poet_--all three doors,
_One to the Sun's Temple_--all in one,
_Lucretius_.
I, who so long have held
_Your heart_ (the very Urn of my Muse),
_My one and only_, _wouldst thou please_
_With my heart?_ There is not a Temple here,
_Nor a Parlour, though it be most fit,
_Where the gods sometimes come down in prayer_.
_For all to die--_perhaps thou shalt_ weep,
_And all to sleep in a Lake of Tears.
Here I was with thee, and for this end
_I'll come with aching heart to the end
_Of this long and laborious march--
That, until thou art called thither,
Then, will I ask what the end be_?
_Esa quod est hominis, amores, apse_.
_Yet what is death!_ Is death a secret to thee,
_To die and leave thee thus undone?_
_Sic & insonti vocem eternior Errans: Pios
Ipse est, amor et morbus. Ipse est, benaeras.
Hoc unambitiouses haec viam moriarum._ Joan. xvi. 33.
Quem vix absunt, domesticis honoribus arte furrum.
Ille olim in venustas, et vix abspertus errat,
Ille olim quondam non videt, inde quod marent, ut, ut.
Ille suis, veniat vix; sua properant tibi.
_The descent of the Holy Spirit_ (15th cent.).
Ilium enim ex mischiefo, atque hiem ponebat,
Totus honos, amores, mihi date, verum est.
Ille ego sunt, seuera novam, quia amantur.
Ille rogo, amor et ipse, tuus, amorem,
Illam, amare, et, ille rogo.
_The descent of the Holy Spirit_ (15th cent. ad. 30, 31),
It is the end of the three leading centuries.
Jupiter was a god-forsaken one; for he,
To mankind, death, also doom'd the same to be.
Jupiter was a nymph to Diana,
Credite Juno, Diana's daughter;
Jove, Jove, the mighty one, was queen of men;
For he was queen of a new-born race of kings,
A great and gentle race, to fill the throne:
Jove was a queen, as man may well be known.
Jove was a child of a nine-nought-harrow'd race,
The sceptre of celestial deities:
Jove, Jove was the first and latest ruler:
He govern'd with his sceptre, sceptre, pen,
And they did but obey his ruling men;
He took the subjects from the good; and they,
To give him sway, did not the will obey.
Jove is a god, as man may well deserve;
A god of his own people, of his line,
His guardian stars, and his eternal sun;
His children, also, of their lawful prize;
His children also, also, Jove's own eyes:
His lightnings, Jupiter; his thundering peers;
His son, the lightning's Lord, the thunder's Lord.
Jupiter being a sovereign, the orations made public for the last
contest between Jove and the Gods, and were pronounced after a
notorious, lest the King should be alarmed. Jove, therefore,
in his own free-born child, was by it introduced to his
presence, and was not found elsewhere; for he was then in danger
to come to the very end of the earth. Cf. Longinus says
Jupiter to be King of the Earth, incongruously, of Jupiter the
To Jupiter the whole world was given. Jupiter then
considered Jupiter as the 'Father of all things' of earth,
the earth which is the centre of all. Jove was the first,
however, and Jove was the first; Jove the First, (as all
are obedient; for the earth that covers these,
is the first book we have of gods, and is the first book we
bring here: but this, and that, he is the first book we look
for, and Jove's will is it, and his own, that makes the
winds to fear.'
The sun, leaving the
======================================== SAMPLE 358 ========================================
,
All things are in such excellent service
Of this man and his family.
He was visited of some eighteen years spent at Trinity College,
and he became the great champion of the English Army.
The Rev. Dr. Moore Moore has recorded Browning and Fairfield's
effectual account of the early events of this expedition,
which have been since extended to him.
"SIR," he gives a description of those visits in North America,
which are the chief theme of the poem. The _Gentleman's Magazine_,
and other poems called "The Lady Ann," his "Art of Love;"
and his _Visconta Gaudiana_, made a poem entitled "The Lady
Of the Bard, "In those days there was but one Homerical exercise,
"SIR,--In the last two years of Drury Goldsmith, Alexander concerning
a boy in the war with the Scipios.
"SIR,--The Muse knows of this poet that 'tis Pindaric and
cogitatrix: 'In those days there was but one Homerical
English verse written in the ordinary voice--one that
was inspired by a rival--one that had stood out in the
city, and the book burned at the same time in the country
of Dr. Barnes. He died about 159, in London, the age of
Harrison Jones, the son of Mr. Anthony Jones, whom he
was to call. He left the army to traverse the country
over the country, to add unto his life the _Remarks of
Springfield_, and to put an end to the poem in pp. xiv ff.
the following observation:--
'The Rev. M.'"
"SIR,--In the last two years of Drury Goldsmith's life, John
and the Scipios was elected to the top of the column. John
rifice, an ancestor of Dr. Hughburton, was the scene of the
destruction of the house of Charles the Second, in 1646. Other
_nom de fuganas_.
"SIR,--The exclamation of Mr. Gallibert, in a note in the
second edition. It was from the Latin copy taken down, to
sufficiently put an end to the poem, and to the serious
question; and the poem was from the original, to the
second, not to the first. The reader will observe, that
Mr. John basmpnolenta to the second edition has dealt
with either ways of reflection, or of opportunity. In the
first edition it is added:--
"Mr. J. G. K. observes, with a slight resemblance, that
to express a sincere self-worship. Mr. J. Aldrich has done
much at the later copy, of a small copy of the _Remarks of
Mr. J. Butler's opinions with J. Butler, Esq., and
the dubious may draw, it is not improbable that Mr.
John Hall has left as the apparent copy of his original the
present version has been made of.
"SIR," "Mrs. J. J. Butler. This sketch was drawn from a passage
in Mr. Butler's edition of the _The Gentleman's Magazine_,
several pages. Mr. Butler's health.
"SIR,--A short song of this kind, is better than any one can
ever read. We have no equal accounts, nor have the same
thought. If it is well said for us to see Mr. Butler, we
must not doubt that Mr. J. Butler has enjoyed the pleasure
of passing him over to the house of our own dear Mr. Butler.
Mr. Butler's health, of course, is better than any other
in our own particular state. We have no need of a fourth
edition of Mr. Butler's splendid edition of the _National
Rejected Addison_ (1707), which contains a strong and
agreeable number of books for us to look upon as a mere idyl
Some of his official writings, which have furnished proof,
"SIR,--I am, I am, Sir Pope, your very humble servant,
obligation to your name. I have, however, some touches
that would recommend you to me, and with pleasure, very
sweet and pleasing to your mother. I am, Sir, a very
bridegroom, and with an inclination to write verses about you.
I am, Sir, yours very faithful servant, and you know that I
with very much respect and regard will do neither to you, nor
to any one of my friends. You may have been very little
regret, I am sorry to say, for making such a troublesome
offer a kind word as would recommend you to me.
======================================== SAMPLE 359 ========================================
; _Sic vita Deo_:
In the editions of 1735, _i.e._ the above bound for sale.
_vitaque quidem cor haberet._ Joan. iii. 9. "Ille das istius aevo."
v. 17. "Ille das istius aus, &c.
v. 17. The great prince of the second realm.]
The king is lost, and the queen is made a prey,
Who shall destroy her for the fault of yesterday.
But, since he shall not hence in glory come,
Let him revere the queen with royal brows:
And she shall soon from ancient prowess fly,
And, at her post, perform a king'sivery.
v. 17. The king.]  The imperial family of Dardanus, and the
king, his wife, and family.
v. 31.  That mighty monarch.]  The first city of Rome.
v. 38.  Philippi.]  The ruler of Florence, king of Hungary.
v. 49.  The thirst that nigh a swain consorts.]  The hero of the
v. 49.  The cry that first found speech.]
The king is dead.--Lo!  while he stares, the plain
Re-makes him, and with weeping eyes calls to his train.
But lo!  a troop of horse--of weeping hue,
Sad, mournful, weeping, and of scanty size:
All weeping blood-stained, and of visage pale.
What could they do?  The stream divides them all;
Their cries are lost, their sobs are interchanged;
And, with a silent groan, the palace gate
Is closed, and even the wailing sent up in the empty air.
They cry aloud; and, clamouring for relief,
With empty arms and heads the city-reapers mourn.
All, all cry out; for pity lulled to rest,
They snatch the king's last gifts, and pass him by;
And on their milking fanes the corse they bear,
And, parch'd with sandal, strive with carrion to tear.
The princely squadrons, in long order drawn,
March on, and wait the dawn of the new day.
O'er the dry fields, o'er the dry fields they run;
The sickle gleam, and the rich grain inlaid;
And, over all, in imaged orbs descends,
When now the night impends, in frost the day rebounds.
Now, ere the dawning light, ere break of day,
Shall, in yon sky, so rich a bloom display:
Or when the silver beam illumes the grove,
Climb the tall lance, and aim to heav'n above.
But when to heaven the glorious morn appears,
And all the people hail with kindled tears.
To crown the day, when earth with verdant wreath
Shall hang in fragrance on the crystal reeds,
The youths, on their bright shining falcons borne,
Shall to the clouds and spheres, triumphant, lead the morn.
The Lusian king, who from that awful hour,
When through the circuit of the black abodes
He pour'd out earthquakes in a thousand grines,
And all the earth with deep humiliation stains,
The dreadful day, when, with his charioteer,
Th' abodes of men, by Heav'n's almighty hand
Shall melt the proud oppressor's famish'd land,
Till o'er the wide expanse his glory spread,
And, fired by love, his own destruction spread.
But now th' Hesperian fields are coverd o'er,
The thicket bloom, and every forest tree
Bristl'd with poplar, and with myrtle crown'd;
A grove of myrtle shoots along the ground,
The fertile olive interspers the ground;
Trees o'er the fertile plains swell up and grow,
And yellow spreading promontories bow;
The fertile plain its wide extended bounds presents,
And the high mountains tremble with their broods,
While with extended arms and clustering shields
The murmuring seas their tumults and alarms;
And, with incessant cries, from either side
The hollow winds their rage have hither blown,
And, driving o'er the foamy deep, the tides have run;
Now the full sun, well nigh to evening hid,
His golden orb, in slumber had reveal'd;
And, on the shore, the genial breezes sigh'd.
But now the hour of
======================================== SAMPLE 360 ========================================
 on the "Ode to the Dog" of
his friend
"A Dog of Roasting may be known
But never, never can be known;
He may be wrong, but may be right,
Or punish some in gentle plight."
"May I go in a season,
If I go in a season?"
"I can, I can, I can't.
I'm a good, good friend, and 'tis plain
My friendship never can be vain."
"I'm a brave, good friend, and I'll keep still;
But he who is mute be guilty still."
"O what can a brave man do,
But give him the dogs to devour,--
A dog with a coat of mail should be."
The dog said: "You can't agree
With my firm, faithful friend, who is he?
Then take the dog's part, let me see
If your faithful friend will go with me."
The dog said: "Go home, my friend:
We'll see a large dog if he can;
We two, myself, shall have his part:
Thus, my friend, shall we have our smart."
The faithful dog went in and out
And lay down on his noble back,
He was chubby and plump of limb;
And never would slip, or come, or come,
But he fed upon biscuits fat;
And then he sat in his friendly garth,
A gentleman of low degree;
A gentleman of high degree.
A dog and a cat went out every day,
To steal some snails, to squeamish grog--
The cat and the dog were very much hurt
The housekeeper always put him on the spit;
"He's gone," said the dog, "to fetch more rheum!"
The dog cried, "Off hats!  I'll go with the dog!"
The man in the house was very cool;
And he'd better be hungry every day,
For he never has had enough rum.
The man in the house put wondrous pride,
He was studious in his new suitie,
He sculloped, and curled, and galloped, and plumbed,
And was never heard of middle-aged wooing.
"You have the cow, sir, she was good for you--
'Tis a subject you must choose to play!
I am sure she's a thoroughly good willie,"
The farmer boy said, "and I much delight
To see her array in her native white."
The maid, with the pretty, lively face,
Grew hale and hearty at her ball;
The man threw off his ball and his coat,
And went home in a rather stately fashion,
The maid, that all good manners were
For a dog, that often followed the fashion.
The farmer's dog, in every feature
And every word, he looked affectionate,
And made her take the old brown kick,
With the same red-toed red-and-white cock-skeat-too.
A servant who knew as well as the " grunter"
For a dog's birth-part, with "only two,"
Was always well-bred, good, modest, and friendly
With the same red-and-white cock-skeeter-warted
Kicking-button instep with his coat-sack undraped pack-case.
"Surely," the man said with a smile, "they'll all
Be well-fed men, and not too many dogs!
But I would like to eat you, my dear, if I could,
For I fear they'll allow such a delicate scent."
"Thanks!" said the farmer; with all that he had,
The dog said, "I'm so ready now for my food;
You never have had enough mutton that way;
'Twas to give your parents a treat that took pay."
"Not I," said the farmer; "I'll eat you," said he,
"I really expect you are well-fed to-day!"
The farmer looked gravely, and said, "But, my dear,
No one shall ever show me a treat that's not rare;
This evening, through lanes and by-property,
I'll be able to keep my wife safe and sound.
"Beware the dog, for, believe me, he means to eat me.
He'll bite me, and bite me by every five feet;
And his back will be placed before my supper-board,
To be buried below there, for all who'll abstain.
He'll bite me, and bite me, and get me again
To the house where the cat and her kittens remain."
So the man went to take up his
======================================== SAMPLE 361 ========================================
 it. But I did not know him; they had been
ashamed and not seen--"I say 'em not,' and I like to have them
down at once, and I see 'em, but to have them.
"'You've come, Sir Henry?'  Well I know it's not, but you may
have it, for I'd had to get it open, and I cannot have the
comfort yourself.
"'True, yes, Sir Henry, and 't was all right, my good Major Cosimo
"You've come, my dear lady?" asked Willy.
"Then you go, my dear lady, to the King's court, and there will
he condemn you to hang, and he will have to wait until you
decently do come."  He led them up, and as they passed among
the stately trees they stood, with heads bowed.
"'My Lord Hugh, here's a letter from Lady Hugh King of Austria
"The Queen is well pleased to bring us back our glove or tuck
our gloves.  We want you to sit with Sir King in the cloister,
and I fear a spy has been knocking himself down.  Come on,
my dear lady, and tell me news of the noble quest of
the King and the Lady of Austria.'
"He would not say, 'Your Majesty has sent me here to ask
you to sit with us on the cloister in the cloister to see
you.  Get your pitcher and dress yourself.  We have nothing
to do with the country,' and our lord, Sir Hugh, is laughing at
you.  Come on, for you have not seen us, and you will not sit
weel.'  But I know nothing about the matter.  Let me go away,
my dear lady.  Come soon, and we will have all this done along
"He was too wroth to talk with his cousin as he was with the
Queen, and all thought him ill.  But the Lord God speed you,
this wretched creature would turn out at a very poor parson
if he would only have her at his feet in the cloister to
drink and forget there ever:  'Go, Sir,' he said to the Dean,
'be off, Sir, or she'll want no more.  She'll think you'll be
a betterluxaster, either,' said the Dean, 'as having the keys
to put in the mouth of it.  And I believe this is not a proper
present, for I must go on as fast as I can see her.'
"The Lord has got it in his name, and I have it ready for
Sir John he had taken off his own six-and-fifty George
to lead them forth, and I don't think it is right that the
French should have any of the Latin word for it.  Sir Richard
"He called it 'Henry surnapping the clerk, a name for
whom the King sent for . . . We will never go back again."
"You know it, as I said it to my dear brother Richard; you
know, and this night we are close up here."  The Prince
looked kindled at him with great consternation.  They were
greatly astonished, Sir, but his good heart was glad to look
up.  If I had been quiet here, I should have gone off in
 Sherwood, and the night were fair.
"When the Prince told that he was coming from England, I was
listening to him, and I fancied he was much better in
thinking, and that I should have liked to stay on here."
"What do you think of it, sister?"  John asked.
"Certainly I do not think."  I will send John some news.
"Yes, to our ship.  I can wait.  We must be going out in the
"They will come in directly.  Mr. Burke and our party will come
"Mr. Burke is the best man we have.  They will bring us
a dinner, and they will feed us next day."
"What is the meaning of it?"
"Yes, what?  I have an adieu!"
"I would go, sir, I must,"
"Yes, I will."
"It is not because your honor is gone, sir,"
"But because that is a good word, lady, in writing your good
And the next morning they were still busied, and the party
dragged them back so far away till they could stand no longer,
But the Prince and Lord Burleigh would never rest till they
could stand alone.  He was a great man, Sir, as his escort
horses could gallop on the great purple carriage which they came
for. 
======================================== SAMPLE 362 ========================================
 in the open air,
Unconscious as that God, who, hovering near,
Holds all in converse many a holy hour,
And from that high ancestral boughs, beneath,
Sees all He can support, and sees around,
In his own presence shine the lamps of faith.
What wonder then if such a light should dwell
Amid these stars (it may be) on the sky?
Doth not His own creative light displace
The clear effulgence of that purer light
That there is dawning in the joyous east?
Doth not that sacred day dawn on the earth
More glad than it is dawning on the sun?
O, God of right! grant that young age
With its young bliss in the supernal hour,
Its strength, and might, and glory, infinite,
When, at His bidding, all stand up and shine
In the new day! God, surely, with His fire
Works for good, and is light to every cause.
His lightnings melt and vanish in our night.
I thank You for the beauty of the day.
The light is dim. The twilight broods behind
Your starry mantle of unanfigured snow.
Thy beauty and Thy glory are for ever;
I thank Thee--I thank Thee, for the light and grace
And beauty of the lovely evening light
And loveliness of the ascending night.
My life is like the sea, that meets the sun
With friendly and ignoble waves of his
And smiles upon him, like the flowers at dusk
Rejoicing in their glad and vigorous glee.
And yet, how sweet the heaven-born sweetness streams
From you and me; and yet how soon the light,
How sharp and precious to our mortal sight,
How calm and calm, will pass through gloomy years,
With quiet and still grandeur filled with tears!
Then, when this dull world sleeps, and all its hopes
Are but the shadows of the passing years,
Let us not mourn our dead--too late, too late!
There is a gleam of glory in the night;
And it is holy angels with their wings
That flutter round me on the brow of night.
If to the world we lift our hearts, what is
The good of life, if all its good with this
Still be our love? If the true things that seem
Only substantial--things that were indeed
Something we cannot love, O Lord, in Thee,
Beloved, have we not, as now we do,
Loved, beloved? In the days that are to come,
As in the golden prime of old romance,
When we were first betrothed to love and life,
Breathing our very soul in fervent prayer,
Something beyond the very half of death
Has not all of us, all the things that be,
One rapturous sweetness, something still serene
We cannot name, we cannot count the cost.
This is the fountain, magical from which
Sprang the great river--
This is the mountain, and the valley deep;
This is the deep, deep, deep, whose secret wells
Deep in the rock-bound earth pour forth their waves
As oft upon the ear as on the eyes
Of those we loved from heaven. In the rocks
The silver arrows of the silver sun
Fall tremblingly from off the central sun.
And yet, the mountains, which the cold earth piled
Upon the earth, and where, among the trees,
The wind fell ever, fall as from a star,
And are so icy, if they come not now.
And yet, the mountains, the high mountains,
The prairies, the blue plains,--one mighty heart
Throb with the glowing power of Love, and yearn
To grasp the glory of the unseen heights;
And to their feet the rushing streams are rolled
As with a mighty cry of Love, and yearn
Into its deep and everlasting arms,
And burning with the love of God, and fill
Their hearts with fire, and send their thoughts to heaven.
And here, the mighty, radiant miracle
Which now is here--this in its light and glory,
To which thy feet can never more return!
This is the light and glory,--this the world
Glows like a splendor through the silent air,
And, on whose brightness shone, thou, like a star,
Hast found thy star.
And lo! in this new day, which is to come,
When all the world is glad--the sea, the sky,
And the green leaf and the clear air--they love
The presence of fair Truth, for Truth alone
In thy sweet spirit, and the heart of Faith
Hath its own sweetness.
======================================== SAMPLE 363 ========================================
,
_Weavers_ (in the midst of the crowd)
With the _goddesses_ now on the crowd;
And the _Gilding_ so grand in their coats,
And the _Maidens_ so handsome with sash.
All the _Gilding_, with shouts, now recalls,
Then makes for the _Gilding_ again;
And the _Gilding_ so honest, with hearts
On the "_Gilding_" so earnestly clings.
For the _Gambol_ and _Budders_ so beaus
Had their _shelves_ in the same _lop_, for the _Sash_;
And the _Gambol_ so grand in his coats,
And the _Grinding_ so keen, that he felt
For the _Shelves_, when the _Shelves_ he had got.
'Twas a grand exhibition to see Mr. _Gauds_;
And, for some time past _Madden_, to hear _Cauds_;
For we all knew the _Grispe_, and the _Swine_,
And the _Grinding_ so gen'rous, so _tender_,
That, when nobody all knew his _Shelves_,
He'd have _to_, (to do with him) _to_, Sir!--at least six.
There's a dancing- Dance of the Real cooks,
And a race of lusty _Macaroni_
With a tall _gemachteerie_;
And the band of _Griffins_, too, that make
The place of the _Hygi-ye-t'-sake_,
And the _gemachteerie_, and the rout
Of _Amemee_, and the _Hem-cup_, too,
Of the _Ridings_ their only good,
And the _Hem-bub, as all else_, or _Bed-gag,_ or _Bed-gag_,
That is to me quite a _especially_ pleasant.
And, besides, when you know, 'mong the _Davonys_,
I have just arrived very near to the _Bar- Aphryme_,
Which, to say, is a sweet _Harmonies_;
And that too, the _lovely_, the _Hood_ of a _Horse_,
Is (believe me) a beautiful _Horse_ in a _Bear_;
Yet, you know, it is not the _Fancy of Evil_,
Which _Calf_ and _Davonys_ are for _Gold-Honey_!
(Who, of all the Maids, loves the Fairy King--
Of course, I should _learn_, at his grandmother's _Trip,
That he frequently comes as the Prince of Evil,
While the _Bishop of Indolence_ keeps to the tip!)
Well, he comes, in his turn, from the top of that throng,
And he drives out the _Kubla Chaldee_ so long,
And they _Calf_ him at once, (as you will see,
From his Mother's and Father's), and so, in short,
Sets him down, and puts up the Prince at the Show.
And besides, 'tis observed (you can tell by the bye)
That the Prince of the Clergyman lets go a Three-brace tape,
When he makes the most of all the Three standstill.
Now, my friend, since you've seen the fashion of it,
Your Highness has got it in his head, so now
As to prove if his Highness has been loath to go,
Or else his Highness has been sorely annoyed,
We've seen Royalty many times made of _comb-laid_:
And the Prince of the Clergyman, you know, has his reward,
By showing he is right of leading an Estimate;
And the pious Lady Bunkers, and the Judges all of 'em,
And the widows of widows--you're well, Pity we
For the poor of an Old Man!--but, pray, how does this gang?
_Mephistopheles_, what, _I_. Can you see him at the _Bible-house_,
With that long sword-twig girdled round the first of his ninny,
That does not bear the bikings, that does not stick so close,
That does not, any longer, stand by the _Second Childhood_,
But _Camel_, _C
======================================== SAMPLE 364 ========================================
, who could be less than forty?
He who wrote the Assis aux Anglais was a person of great repute and
characteristic marks.
The first of the early Jesuit poems is Mr Moly Stanley, whose
"I admit your humanity without your aid,
Your judgment is hard and Mr. painful painful painful--
I have a cold in me every night.
Have nothing to eat, and no meat to put under,
But you have the right heart to think of."
"It is the greatest good of all books in this place--the
"I cannot live without eating, having never any breakfast,
the joy of good living and dying."
"I consider a most sublime thought."
"The original authors have already exemplified it by their
subjects:--
"To take the first edition of this book, as some have wished it
beforetime, is too much."
"In a few cases the truth is so uniform by its being
neither book or its label."
"Thus he is a very curious man."
"My age is at present so fearful an one, that the present is
made out of all books and papers."
illustrates the view of writing, "I can't write unless I can"--
attention, "I have the right of knowing."
His "Epistle to Mrs. W. Riddell," which, in a lighter, lighter
portrait-painter, was written by a gentleman in particular
In the first edition of "The Distrest Orator."
In "The Distrest Orator," an author of the "Essays in Memory," and
In the third even-travepieces, "The Banquet," etc., where the
In the fourth "Epistle to Mr. W. Riddell," the character of a
"Weary of adventures, rough or refined."
authorities.
remaining unpoetical and clear as heaven."
"The Rev. John Gazette has just received from me a criticism so
It is difficult to forget the many translations which he
collection of his poems, wherein, if translated, they comprise in
"The Vale of Black, etc."
"John Strachey, 'The Bolton bruiséd tree'
'Loch Ardea, and the Barer, and the Dean;"
who, in his 'Miscellaneous Works', has not only printed the
In the first two are, as 'The Blessed Memorials', under the title,
appeared the whole work was a favourite work of moderate value.
In the third George delivered the 'Memoirs' to February, 1774.  He
"John Strachey, 'The Bolton bruiséd tree'
'Loch Ardea, and the Dean."
"John Strachey, is a favourite and referring follower of the important
"John Strachey, though some distance removed from the place at present,
comparatively enough to make an awkward innovation to the
introduced, was forced from the scenes of the old comedy, by the
With this John Strachey, and this Puck,
This Puck, this Puck, this Jack,
This Puck, this Puck, my boy!"
In the fourth George delivered the 'Memoirs' of Ardea, and
To this Mrs. William K. Philips:--
"The great man of knowledge,
And the busy antiquarian,
Have set his great spurs in
Determined to have his due deserts."
"Let my whiskers, like Puckies,
Overbrace and smooth out their faces,
While they smooth out the hair
"And do smooth out the babies in their bed."
"I will go in before day
And see the pretty wife
Who eats whatever 'twill get."
"Do you ask what the fellow's about?' I asked."
"He's a terrible person, sir," said Mr. Kirchel, "but I have had an
universally at sixes.  Last week his father was very angry.  His
"Don't you hear, Mr. Piggie, how that young woman married that
"What _is_ the point, then, of the story that married my old
"I don't mean to say, sir," the young man said.
"Oh," the sweet girl murmured, "I'm going back home."
"How very funny it is," the young man murmured.
"Oh, here," the young girl murmured, "you're going back to the
"Very decidedly well, ma'am, but I can't dance."
"Very well," the young girl murmured.
"Oh," the fair girl murmured, "I'm going back home."
"Now I _see_ you a
======================================== SAMPLE 365 ========================================
,
the very stanzas of Ovid are a perfect example of the
Greek and orator's talent for his description of them in a
tradition of his 'De Monarchia,' and this of Homer, compared
with that of Herrick and of Linneus, is a poem that has much of
the former lapse of time.  But more probably none of the older
Quum veteri versantur in artis
Still, it might be asked, had I been aware that I have given a
explanatory attempt to make an outline of each poem.  One small
work has been said of some biped writer in the Muses, and
has been worked out and impelled by the licence of Homer.
It is, however, fault of many subjects, both poet and prose critic,
and poet.  For a translation of the Homeric expression, as well as
in the translation of the Homeric poem, there is no occasion to
be asserted, so long as the poem was written I shall at least
defer:
to the subject of this satire I will endeavour to introduce the
might of Horace, which it represents to be the 'genius of the
AEneid,’ which I here present to you.  I will be bound in the
according to the reading of the poem which end in the translation,
translator.
‘The son of Atreus, Agamemnon, king of men, was born in
Ilus, and grew up in the habit of wearing under the name of
Banybonia, in Bitybuen, the daughter of Agamemnon, who was father
of Ulysses. She also married, Agamemnon, the son of Atreus, as
she also was mother to Helen.
‘But I can see, my son, ’midst these my people sitting in the
citadel by the ships, which were seven years old held so dear by
themselves.’
The son was as bold as a lion, and was born of august birth as
the lion.  Long-haired Achaeans used to fight for themselves and
their towns before Troy.
from Achaean spears had Agamemnon, king of men, been son to Helen,
but now came back to Troy.
praises the mother of Ilus.
sons of the ancient kings of the Achaeans, who abode in the
land of the Trojans, were slain by Peneleos and the two sons of
Alexandrus for his beauty.
(2)  Sarpedon was king of Thrace, and was lord of Lycia.
(3)  Sarpedon killed Polyxena, son of Cteatus, a quick husband
was he of Æpygus.  There is a very great river in the river
called ‘Cyclops.’ The daughter of Æacus was slain by her own
brother Alpheus.
(6)  Sarpedon slew Polyxena, and was celebrated as a god by
Nausithous.
(7)  Sarpedon and Polyxena were brothers in the same house.
Sarpedon slew Prothöes and Archelochus, and was succeeded by
Achelous. (8)  Sarpedon was father-in-law of Amphitryon, and
the daughter of Tyndarus.
(9) Sarpedon was king of Thrace; Sarpedon was ruler of
Gomor thereby, and was father to Mavort.
(10) This word seems to be the same in ordinary places. It is
supposed by the ancients that the name of Palassus was derived
from the Greek ‘οῖβος, which is applied to the
Apylax, son of Neptune.
(11) Sarpedon seems to be a sea-scant.
(12) Sarpedon was king of Thrace, but was king of Thrace and
people, and the other sons of men, after him.
(13) Sarpedon was king of Thrace, but was lord of Æpygus, and
(14) Sarpedon was son-in-law of Priam.
(15) Sarpedon was king of Thrace, a man well versed in all
schools, for he was one of the chief youths of the Achaeans.
And now Sarpedon was king of Thrace, but was lord of
Phthia, and was king of Ilium.
(16) Sarpedon was the son of Phyleus, king of Troy.

======================================== SAMPLE 366 ========================================
 the linden tree,
While a great bough bends o'er its breast,
The lass, with her white bosom pressed
By a blushing rose, 'neath a rose-bud pressed.
But the rose-bud's gentle flush
Glowred through the maiden's cheek--
'Mong the sweet flowers, she leaned her down
On a rose-bud half-way up the town,
Just where the chimney-pots
Of old church-houses steeple and spire
Of the country side,
'Mong meadow and streamlet and wood
And many an English scene,
With a neat little porch, and a door
Of small country inn,
And plenty of ruddy beer and strong
Shining as bright
As the sun shines o'er the fairy-land,
With a sweet little "paraunt of song,"
With a neat little "paraunt of might,"
And a row of farm-equestences,
And a orchestra fit
For the heart and the fancy to meet
In the gladsome earth--for a chimney-sweep
To the ears' height,
With a delicate, prattling, lulling sound
Of the voice and the foot
Of the small, peeping, clockwork clock,
That tells how far its pale fingers hold
The soul of a maid in a fairy told,
Nor ever beguiled
By aught of all joy but simple pleasure,
Nor ever beguiled
By aught of all kindly thought,
Or aught except the pot-pourriest
Of the sweet apple- goodies which,
With a touch of a maid's,
Treats like an inspiration its little hands in marriage
The tender delight
Of each little hand beside the hearth,
Or light as a child
The eyes and the heart of a fairy.
The sweet little girl of the South
Dreams the time back
When the skies were as blue as their eyes,
When the clouds like a crowd
Of young people shall dance in blue dresses,
And the breeze
Of the summer dusk softly blows
To the flower-laden branches that o'er her,
From the drowsy depths of a red-gold river
And lily-pads, and the lips
Of a lake to a golden repose,
When the wind and its beauty askance
In lightless embrace,
For one little finger-tip.
Ah, no wonder the girl of the South,
With a smile on her lip,
Shall feel no distress,
Yet be happy to know not her sorrow,
While the beautiful South
Has a smile for her babe as she stands,
When the wind and its beauty askance,
Forlorn of her voice,
To seek for the joy that was hers,
Or, lost to herself, lost to her,
In the wide-hearted sky.
For the sorrows of earth her daughters,
She lives in the dark earth--
A shadow in a land of light
Where the faces of her children are gone;
Where the shadows of the hills are the saddest
And the saddest of all the saddest:
And when their tears have ceased
From the lips of the maiden, the South
Has a face in the East!
So, sweet, O soul of man,
In a world where sin has wrought
Far removed from all thought,
Look thou down on the stars for a rest
In the shadow of night!
O, lost, O lost!
Look up with the eyes of the seraphs,
The seraphs whose glory gleams
On the breast of the sun--
But see, through the mists of the ages,
A gleam of the morning-red
O, lost, O lost!
The time when the flowers are dead
And the birds in the woodlands flown,
When life was a song of glee
And love was a dream of glee;
Was a vision of home to be?
Ah, lost, O lost!
Look up, and return to the glad bright world
For a little while, and then
To the glad glad world again,
That will ring for our old sweet Home--
That will ring for our old sweet Home!
O, false and untrue
And unremembering Love,
Who saw his white sheep run,
And died upon the grave floor of death,
In the shadow of the tree!
There is no place like graves
In the holy ground,
Where the wounded and the slaves
Lie dead about,
Where the poor meet together
In the pleasant fields,
Where the tired and the broken
Old peaceful people labor
And the tired men bow
And the weary ones go
In the sunshine of the morning
And
======================================== SAMPLE 367 ========================================
 as she sat, all her locks were turning,
Her eyes were three-fold like the ravens' circles
Over her brows, and her face was like the moon,
Her teeth were like bones set in brass, like jowls
Broken in a feast-day.  She felt as she stood,
Clenched by the wall, on the green grass she rested,
Gazed with a sidelong glance; her arms were large
Like the moon's disk.  Her lips had grown as long
As she dared to kiss them; her breasts were like cedars
Over a bridge flung.  Her gaze was as full of light,
Her limbs were as faint iron, her eyes as thin,
Only the moon had made them brown.  Her hair's like snow,
Her body as white as the lily, and pale as the morning.
Her cheek was the hue of the sunset, and deep
Like a girl's unforgotten face.  She had grown more fair
To look upon, yet she did not turn her head
And beheld the fire.  She stood beside the bed
With the face of an angel, and held the hand.
Her face was as marble; her eyes had the glow
Of red poppies.  The angel was near and yet nearer.
Her arms were as white as lily; her body
As white as a lily.  Their eyes had the glory
Of being beside her, and light as the moon.
She rose to her feet, and she gazed on her own.
She saw the lily on the throne above her,
And the face of the angel was shining with love.
She saw the white glory of the flower of love
Burn softly, and faint, as the moon hangs over
The sea.  Red spears, silver shields, gleamed the sword-crest.
She looked on the angel.  He knew her.  She saw
His face.  He had looked on his face.  He had given
This new world to his soul, and that he had loved.
He had given her life; he had given her life;
She had given herself to him.  He gave her the crown
She held for his soul on him.  He gave her the crown.
The angel sat with his Angel, and walked
The threshold of dreams, and the angel was dead.
She sat at her kinship, and talked to her trade.
She said, "That is pleasant, but I am afraid
Of nobody going with me.  I want something
To hear of."  Her face was as beautiful as a star
Burned softly on the verge of a valley
By some bright river, or a white stream
In the dusk of the forest."  She sat at her kinship.
"Your work," she declared.  "I never can do it,
But I want something to hear that one word."
He talked to her then, "But I'd rather be dead
Than live long."  She sat shuddering, and stared
At his face in an ecstasy of despair
And wonder.  He spoke to her sharply.  She sat,
Half-closed in the open night.  In her soul
She felt a patience so keen, so severe,
It was just like the pain of knowing he knew it.
"I haven't a doubt of it.  I shall soon go.
I'm a worker, not yours.  I shall make a new coat
Of the coat you call sampler, and put on a more bonny
(If your fancy strike me with a name I've forgot)
Matters with a more certain pleasure, and yet
I should not have known what it meant, had I known.
But it is not what I said.  You were very young."
When he was left alone, she sat and looked
An instant on him.  She turned and looked at him
With a half-closed eyes, and a thin little laugh
Like a woman's in the house--and suddenly took
The light from his horse's crown and disappeared.
She lowered her eyes and watched him from her door.
"How much?"  She stopped abruptly, half wondering
(As the moon made her tranquil face brighter with
Some delicate touch of herself), "about that, I'm thinking.
You don't have to be so grave, but I'm dying of it.
But, as you die, you shall know I'm an orphan--
A child--and an orphan--and the Father of all.
What! was I not playing your little part?--or
You in the churchyard--you without me?  I'd been
To that rescue--I tell you it is a mad fault--
You took the long years of that strange, patient man
Who stood
======================================== SAMPLE 368 ========================================
,
Of the sweet, half-sick year and half-sick year.
And the lady seems to thank the Lord for the sight
Of his love, and her heart's light,
And the beautiful face of the man without a tear
While the lady, smiling as if he had died to-day,
Would, at the mere thought, smile--
For love is the growth of love, is the root of the grace
Of the perfect morn of man, is the root of the race
In the heart of the great morn of man.
There is a spell in the heart
Of a great New England land,
A spell in the waters of Time--
And the waters of Time flow in the sight of the west
Of the sunset, and to the sea.
There is a spell in the heart
Of a land that lies between,
And we two are deep in the heart
Of the beautiful, quiet sea.
There is a spell in a heart,
The heart of a great New England sea
Where all the dreams and dreams of us
And the dreams of the future shall be;
For we are deep in the heart of the sea,
It is wonderful, beautiful, deep,
With a soundless depth and a majesty!
There is a spell in a heart
O'er the ocean of Time out there,
As a soul from the deeps of the deep to the light
Of the infinite, infinite, where each night
And the days are and the world is a day
And the sun is a dream of the deep to-day,
I stand upon the sands,
The lone sea-child among graves.
And the pale sea-gulls come and go
On restless wing
Across the restless sea to-day,
And every wave that sweeps the beach
Is a cry heard long ago!
But the voices of the dead
Are still and voiceless as the sea,
The voices of the lost
Are still and voiceless as the ghost
That sails a ghostly sea.
"The day for God!" Not the soul's cry,
Not the dead, not the living dead...
"For God to witness, watch while ye die."
"The day for God!" When the years have been
How shall a soul touch death?
They shall sing a song of eternal weal,
Singing this time beneath the unseen sun--
"The day for God! When the dead are gone,
When the blood shall cease to beat,
When the eyes of God shall lift in prayer
The hand of peace which he has met;
"The day for God! When the soul has gone
To some wild-beast abode,
Where the great white altar, broken, fails
To plant it in a road;
"And the day for God!" Not the soul's cry,
Not the dead, not the living dead...
"And the day for God!" Not the living's cry,
Not the dead, not the living's dead!
"The day for God!" Come what will ye thereby?
(The world is not the soul's, he saith--
Is not the one great day for men?)
The day for God! When the soul has gone
To the place where all its visions be,
And the dawn of time is dawning on
The world with a wan surprise--
"The day for God! When the God shall come
For the last time, and the world shall be
The temple of eternity!
"The day for God! When a soul shall pass
And faith shall never die,
And the day to come shall no change be,"
"The day for Death! When the soul shall say,
No life shall pine or wear
Save the soul of him who hath loved and said,
"Let man die as he must;
He shall not die; the way is wild,
And the way a light shall be;
"He shall pass." The way grows broad and steep
And the sun sinks back to the sea--
"The day for Death! When the soul shall rise
The way is but the way."
There is another spell,
A charm, a sorrow, a new world still at ease,
A sea-child's voice upon the gale,
A wind that wanders the waves and weaves
A music in the leaves.
"The day for Death!" Ah, well!
The hour for sleeping makes the earth more sweet,
The day for Death. And when the world is set
Between us, and the tide is wet,
Who knoweth it for what is yet?
When the last long shadows come,
And the last light on the east grows grey,
And the last light touches the last blaze,
And we are dying.
As the last lingering look
======================================== SAMPLE 369 ========================================
, _Virgil_, _Merivale_, _Mall. Angler_, _Necessarily_,
_O German beug_, _O German beug_,
_O German beug_, _O German beug_,
_O German beug_, _O German beug_,
_O German beug_, _O German be Sug_,
_O German beug_, _O German beug_,
_O German beug_, _O German beug_,
_O German be_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_; to her be a kingdom_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_O German be yours_, _O German be yours_,
_And send the sentinel, _O German be yours_,
_From out the cold countries_,
_From where the sea and the sun are the warring brothers of the
But he will not forget the graves of the heroes who were his.
The night was wide and still that wild wind blew,
In a deep cove of the sea,
And in that cove of the dark tide it drew
There came a woman to me.
I knew it well: that night she came to call
In that deep cove of the sea.
And there she stood and waited for my breath
To answer for her call.
I knew it well: that night she came to call
In that deep cove of the sea.
The night was wide and still that wild wind blew,
In that deep cove of the sea.
But still the lonely night she came to call
In that deep cove of the sea.
And still the lonely night she came to call
In that deep cove of the sea.
Lay softly on my heart, love, lie soft!
Now that the flowers are gone or the birds do unrest;
Now that the birds are quiet in the nest,
I am happy because I am happy for ever
Because my love has great store.
The first day of my life was a happy day
When the first day of my life was a joy full of glee;
Now that I am happy for ever I may
Begin again to ponder and say a thing
That is to be, after every day,
But after every day.
I should think, if I were a little bird,
That all the rest of the world would laugh and sing,
I should think that I were a bird of the tree
And after every day.
I should think that I were a little bird,
When the leaves are on the branch and the sun is bright;
Ah, but I should be happy now for a while
Because my love has great store.
I am happy now for a little bird,
When the leaves are on the branch and the sun is bright;
At dawn a leaf is a joyous star
Because my love has great store.
I should think that I were a little bird,
When the morning comes in with the sun and the rain,
So happy I would stay in the nest, so long
And so welcome to you again;
For now the mother has come home again,
For now the mother is home to me.
And mother calls out in the dawn
======================================== SAMPLE 370 ========================================
 me back a little back in
the street, for I feared to see my poor old mother dead and
deaf to every hope she had.
There is no rest any more for me.
There is no rest any more for me.
When my heart is broken and my soul gone to the dust,
O then I know when the wind comes and makes me heavy and sure
I am not worthy to die because my poor, foolish soul
dreams.
I do not fear that it doth, for I am afraid
that night would break.
I do not fear that one who has found me dead, and leaves me
dead and alone, when the wind comes
and makes me feeble and lorn,
Will rise and follow me where the wild winds
come and sweep me home.
So all day long and at the break of day, I sit beside my chair
and wait for the going of those that were good to come.
This was the bar when my heart was broken and I was so
ashy, and my life was like a ship on the stream.
This is the mill that rings by the lake.
I sit on the seat and nothing stops, nothing is left,
nothing finally remains.
O there is no rest at the end of the year,
If ever there was a word or form of words
To speak for me in my life.
O why are my lips silent and a kiss silent,
gilded mirrors that look through the veil of my eyes
and at every wind that passes?
There is no rest at the end of the year,
If ever I looked back into the past,
If I have thought of all the joys that were.
The last rose of summer--white, red, and cherry-stained--
Is what I promised for to-morrow to do?
What could I do?
My hands were stained with mud, my hair was a comb,
my feet were tumbled to my knees and I fell back
into the shadow of grass and bloom.
The last rose of summer--white, red, and cherry-stained--
Is what I promised for to-morrow to do?
Have the hills hurt?
Have they grown weary of waiting for the sun--shall it
vanish away?
O no, nothing could stay me as I fell into the shadow of grass
flowers.
I am not afraid, though I knew something else that was not
I know not how I shall go.
I am afraid of its knocking at night,
and not of its presence--
the silence--the darkness--the silence--when I die
is nothingness--
the shadow--the shadow--the life--and the shadow--when I
reclothed upon my strength and might.
I know not what I shall do or dream or do,
I know not what I shall do or may or dream,
And I know not why I shall sleep or shall not sleep, nor
will.
The silence--the shadow--the wind--the silence
that comes after me--are not they.
Out of the night, O my love,
Out of the night, O my love,
How came you here that you say
That you love me as You shall?
They shall not know how you came,
O my love, any more!
I came not here that you said
That you love me as You shall!
No more shall they tell of the terrible path,
No more of the hills, O my love,
No more of the terrible places
Where the desolate mountain-tops are?
Not any more of those winding ways
Where the clouds sweep over the sea,
No more of the terrible toils
With the beautiful past Five and Two.
Not any more of those lovely days
In which you dreamed of me.
There is no solace do I find,
No hope of all my loves,
No sleep to soothe or quietate,
No dreams of any night,
No hope of any quest or day
To banish or repose;
No way no life to lead or stray,
No peace to take or stay,
No way back-ache or any hope
Of dawn or night or day.
O beloved, for the coming dawn
In my soul's wildwood ways,
By the wonderful springs of the West
That the great deep bare to the West.
From the mystic springs of the West to the Sea,
By the wells of the mystic streams
Where the wise and the brave of thought
Are ever the same, my love,
I can only say to thee--
"In the everlasting day"
I hear the sound of the great deep siding
And the deep and the listening wave;
Through the mystical gates of silence wide
There is no thing of the Sea,
No sound save
======================================== SAMPLE 371 ========================================
, _O, konning_,
The _inningings_ and _The Why_ and _I_
To _you_ and _I_ too, O. S. A.,
The time will come when, in God's name,
As in the days of old, _one_ poet's tongue
Will talk on in a loftier line than ours;
When you, the simple, all-embracing bards,
Will come, like us, to sing _all youres_,
The sweetest and the rarest songs of Fame's
Will be upon your lips like _she_-but-so,
You'll never know, and I shall never know,
The story of my glory in the past.
'Tis time that I to your _innocent_ should come,
Beside the _lilies_--to be bound, my sweet!
'Tis time I to your _innocent_ should go,
With a _happy love_ the _ladder and the _kin_.
Let's see, though _not_ to see, if the spring earth
_new birth_, yet ours will all be new, my sweet!
If any branch of the holy olive-tree
Was crowned with blossom, then might our glory,
As our glad childhood, all untroubled, grows
Immortal, and the fragrant _papal_ grows,
The garden's beauty, and the God above
Whose name is known, in all the hearts of all:
Whether, in that serenest hour of time,
The _flax_ let fall its blossom, let us call
The _wood-trees_ by the fountain for the _fire_,
Lest _thickness_ over-convenience should
The _root-trees_ hold _the blasts of winter,_
The _blossoms_ breathe from _wood_ or _ripened_ leaves,
The _thickets_ breathe, by any breezy height!
_Spring_ comes, and _Spring_ is here and _spring_ is ours!
Spring! the soft south-wind brings Autumn;
Breezes are the rose's budding!
The bright leaves of _wood_ are falling;
The _woodbines_ are glistening!
The green boughs of _wood_ are falling.
The _ladder_, with his head on one side,
Stands gorgeous in the sun's warm ken,
With each a glistening silver buckle,
And each a snow-white speck like Me.
The _papal_ of young _woodsel_ seems
To watch each _wood-tigeon's_ glances--
As brightly blue and clear--
His eyes are meek and very dreamy--
As those sweet children are.
Those children, like warm children, play
On the rough earth--they love each other;
And, from each new-found joy,
The sweetvoices of _wood-trees_ singings
Steal all their music round them, singing
Their "Peace upon Earth," that golden heaven
May fill them with his praise.
Then from the _woodlands_ of the _woodlands_
They come, as nightly glides in pastures,
With _woodlands_ of the _woodlands_, blending
The _woodlands_' beauty round them;
On _woodlands_ their pale blossoms blow,
The _woodlands_ their sad voices blending,
Like the sweet whisper of the _woodlands_,
"Peace upon Earth, good will to men."
And _woodlands_, long forgotten,
Will watch their dancing on _woodlands_.
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert--
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden light'ning
Of the setting sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven, in lonely wildness,
Thou dost shine and light.
In the golden light'ning,
Thou dost float and shine;
Like an angel bright
In the white dawn of morning,
Thou dost float and shine;
With thy song, like morning,
And thy liquid notes like evening dews impearled.

======================================== SAMPLE 372 ========================================
 to you,
Wherein it was the very best 'Urs' of the nest;
And now they are all settled down or even out on
The lower bank, and there they'll all be off with
Them for a day, they say,
And we'll be off upon our way.
And now you may discover too soon what is the better
For that we'll have to stay
At home, or when we do,
And, if 'twill please your Pa to stay
For a hundred or so,
You can sail away to-day.
But now you may get ashore, and I'll have money, ma'am,
To pay you back in number six, and that will do,
When we are satisfied
To have plenty to indulge,
And all because we have plenty to indulge.
And now the moon that gives us no more clouds
Than the blackness of the night, has taken it ill
In full blaze: this may prove a very troublesome
To hear our neighbour's tale, we'll send some thanks,
The more we have to say,
For better things.
The sun is bright and pleasant,
The wind is in the south and east,
The sea stands in the sunset,
The ships go out to sea.
O drowsy sea,
Where shall we bury our weary men?
O fields of green and gold,
Where shall we bury the wounded men?
Ye cliffs and glittering sands
That pave the far-off shores,
Ye cliffs with silver feet,
Ye cliffs looking down upon the sea!
The waves will toss you higher
Than all the pride of Greece,
And when your fields are white with war
We women will be here,
And bring the dead safe in their shrouds to rest.
O drowsy sea,
O fields of black and brown,
O fields of fresh and chilly snow!
Ye cliffs and glittering sands
That pave the far-off shores,
Ye cliffs looking down upon the sea!
Come down, O cities, from the deep!
O dark-eyed maidens, weep!
O grey-eyed maidens, weep, and weep!
We might have loved you long,
But now you are in child-sleep.
O land, where no fond hopes are born
Born of our sea-grasses,
Born of some bitter sun for corn,
Or south-star in mid-sea;
Come down, O cities, from the deep!
The grass is thirsting up over the hill,
The clover-tops blow and the thistle-blossom stirs;
Where love like a bird sings, love like a bird sings,
O grey-eyed maidens, weep, and weep!
Come down, O cities, from the deep!
Come down, O white-robed maidens!
'Tis night in the land of God,
And a kiss in a sweet voice's ears,
A kiss that the angels give,
And the sun and the sea rejoice;
But here in the land of God,
I sing the song of the year:
O land, where no fond hopes are born,
And here in a sweet voice's ears,
Where the light of heaven is shed
O'er the lights on the mountains newly spread,
O land, where no sad thoughts are born,
O land, where no sweet hopes are born!"
There is a voice that cries--"There comes
Sharp pain, O sharp pain!"
The voice that moans in the heart of the night:
"O field, where the faint fresh grass
Blows over a ground of dead hopes bright;
O warm, warm Earth, that art thine own;
"O Earth, where the worm's worm be found;
O Earth, that art fair and green,
Thou hast slain the only thikèd deer of thy race that was slain
O red rose with a blossom's grace,
O white rose with thy blossom's grace!"
It is a wild voice in the woods,
A sad voice in the groves,
That cries, "O red rose, O earth--
Thou hast slain the only thikèd deer of thy race that was slain
O blue eyes with tears,
O glad, sad eyes that love and yearn
For the love of blooming years,
For the life too long and the heart too sick,
O wistful hearts that love,
For the life too long and the heart too sick!"
O red rose with thy bloom,
O gentle western breeze,
The voice I could not well endure
O fields that love and flowers,
O fields with thy golden sheaves,
O strange, dream-behaunted flowers,
O dear, lost joys
======================================== SAMPLE 373 ========================================
 of the
Bees. The word "necessity" of the passage is, of course,
uncommon among the "trees." The following passage is found in
an English translation of the "Ode to Saint Anne," where, in
the "Evening Dress" of the English Maid, and "Wish that they
were sent for!"
The reference is to the enormity of the Moral Art of Poetry
the imitation of one of the Manuscripts by Sir William Sidney
This view is taken from an extent public in origin, however, by
consequence.
I have endeavored to show how classical Prose article is in the
growth of knowledge and dexterity, and the use of the ruling
Spirit in the latter parts of countries; and that this is so far
fetched in the English language.
The first line of "Surely the very strong rule" of this
sentiment and speech would hardly be understood, though that
weight and meaning, the common sense and simplicity of the
literature would be, besides being the result of a very great
poetical power.
The second, "those who have confidence in their strength, or
shook their quivering sails," may be found in the "Ways of
Tempest and storm," and also in "Tempest and storm," and in
"Morning and evening deserts them, and with headlong vigour
they pass on, until
their final frenzy is over, and when they have accomplished
their consummation, they feel themselves in its power until
life seems but a wound that is slight, and then ceases
to pain and a tear that is not so thick as the mist.
The third, "It is even now the last act of love."
The fourth, "It is the first act of the Lover." It has a
following thought in the couplet, instead of the one is that,
of the loose, loose, and "wither the heart within, and make
all things new, as they are, more beautiful.
The twelfth, "It is the first act of Love."
The first shot.
The twelfth stanza in the first stanza appears as "the
sixth verse of Eternity made the whole universe new"--but
"It is the second act of Love."
That we believe in all who believe in any facts which have
appeared false, the fiction may be that this "Fable" is not the
entirely fiction, which the reader is permitted to represent as an
exclusively or some other of the false forms borrowed from
this excellent passage.
The first blank, and the last, are the most general traces of the
great thoughts that have long since disappeared in the minds
surpassing that, in the course of the last couplet, strike
the editorial and frequent application of the words (for even
these may have been taken directly from the false
ballad.
The three first stanzas are here given as a wild blank and
unnatural, as in our Essay; its influence is still on the
lake.
As the fiction is held that the fiction of the Old
"Time hand me this".  For the reasons which we have
already given to the belief that the real truth of the "Time
written in the first incidents of New England has been
translated, and still more or less removed.
The twelfth stanza has a single additional stanza, which is
"The time-telling tale".  The first stanza in the first
stanza is "The Young Lady."  The scene in the seventh
epistle to Walpole:  The Story of Walpole is of a personal
date.  The second stanza is identical with the old 'Description of
In the first four stanzas are the first stanzas of Dio's "Love
Hippolytus", and the third as is given as a model of a girl,
and the fourth as "Hippolytus", in which she uses the alternating
syllables, as a type of the stanza and the fifth stanza, to
make the whole line musical, but in the six there is
a little rough-asyllabic, and the sixth a little easter.
"The Laughing King".  The ballad has "followed" as it
has been made.
"Hippolytus"", in which the ballad is written:
"Hippolytus" - "Hippolytus" - "Hippolytus" - "Hippolytus" -
"Hippolytus" - "Hippolytus" - the popular word for the
ballad being written, and its appearance is very harsh.
This line ran first in the popular tradition--
"H
======================================== SAMPLE 374 ========================================
.
But see how he shatters
For you in a corner.
He must have a hat and a cane:
That will be a good one;
For he never can pay his fine speeches
In a whiteness at all.
But the truth is he knows no better:
'Tis an open one never can pay it;
For the neck that is supple and nice
Is not always the thing that is shady,
And the ears that are always open to
The little red ring.
He will have a field-rose
And a trumpet-flower,
And a ten-stone staff for to go when
It is summer again.
Now my little logician,
He will have a field-rose,
And a whistle for to blow, since
He does not know.
For he is the lazy,
(Though he sometimes has been, when
He sometimes goes too soon
And he's never told by moon)
And he always looks at noon,
But is never told by moon.
Mr. Frog he can talk, and I am not sorry for him:
He can sing, too, and dance, and put all the stars away.
He can talk to himself, and talk to himself, too, and keep
The silence about my heart about things--his name and his business;
And may come to my aid-queen, after I get home.
Mr. Frog he has a head of hair like the plums,
And a dark dark brown eye, and an un Dollaboyin eye.
He knows a thousand things that are well worth research,
And he keeps a sharp eye as he goes a hand-held way.
He has eyes like the moon, and an arctic face, and an inner
Jenny's laugh is a little more than a girl's.
Mr. Frog he has a sharp nose, and can eat a fat pig,
And he can swallow calves in the middle of a pig.
When he is not quite tall, he is very plain indignant,
And he cannot change his laugh to the tread of the cow.
He is not very wise, nor an immorality snobs him;
He can laugh and hew all day, and he never thinks of no
Geraldine's mince, or cherry-pie, or pear.
I don't know whether he is a man or a woman--of these
People have no time to mock, and no time to play the part
Of part with that audience, all the time for the day.
He is never idle, yet he has time to laugh and hew,
So he sits upon my knee, and I his head unfold.
It is some strange thing or other that I cannot well tell
(In memory and in heart) that we have not the time to laugh.
It is a good thing to laugh at a thing done before its time.
I remember, once or twice in my childhood only
The face of my wife was like me: oft after I knew her
I was so much younger, and she was so goodly.
I was a handsome woman, and when in the world together
I was the happiest woman in England.
She was the sweetest woman that I ever knew.
I was the highest, so I didn't change her een.
I was the midmost daughter to Kate, of the party,
And I was a most unpleasant woman.
She was right, and the hair was curled
And the mouth of her lips was curled.
But her face was like a lily, and her cheeks were like a rose.
I was the highest, but she was just the duddiest
Sallie, and the flowerliest.
And she taught me to turn away no more at all.
I have trodden hard and it's grown-stock food.
I've had enough to eat and drink;
I've had enough to play and fight
And throw-away all I had,
And roll away with the pen;
And roll away with the pen,
And die in the field at ten.
I never let you come within the window,
I never let you go to me,
And it was just as I had done before.
I never let you go to me.
I never let you come within.
You've left a crown, and I'm so small
I'd like to sliver up the wall.
I never let you come without;
I've gone a steep road, too,
And that is all, for you and me.
I'd play the game, and it is strange,
But it was in my dreams
That I'd forgotten, watch, and dance,
And that was pretty, 'quite,'
As sitting with a sorry face
A-coming home and with my chance
======================================== SAMPLE 375 ========================================
, &c., _Dumfries_, ch. 2. To the author of the "Ars or the
rein."
_Dumfries_, to vanish.
_Dumfries_, to fall.
_Dumfries_, to number.
_Dumfries_, to number.
Neatly, falsely, falsely, deny not my truth;
Ne'ertheless, mistak'!
Nor my lies, nor my fegs, that me deny;
Ne'er know your heart-full thoughts, nor touch your ears;
Nor ever touch his nose, nor ever part the curls;
Nor ever stop a merchant's gig, nor ever tempt the shoals;
Nor ever sit in markets fair, nor ever tempt the shoals;
Nor ever sit in Auerbach's mart and wash the Public's eyes;
Nor ever drop the whisper'd word, nor ever stop a sigh.
The constant Auerbach, the ever-dying Adu?
The Auge, that roll'd of old did gold the walls with gold amaze;
The Auge, with all his pelf, that neither love, nor fame,
Can match with his, as great a heap of mould as this comes here.
The Auge, 'gainst his old foes so fierce, 'gainst all their fates
Indignant dropt, and with his hands his staff togs togs togs togs:
All's ended now, but nought remains for Lausium's sons alone
Can save a city, a city, and a heart a mighty one.
In that one fate alone, and that the Fates will hither bring:
Fate with a mighty crash will rend it, and the war, the war,
Will then at last, no longer hold the field an empty firth,
When the old barons with king Evanthes in a breath have birth.
Better thyself, O king, the cause of all thy needless woe,
Of thine unhappy sons that by thee here have died to know.
This is the month, the certain hour,
When from the fields of Tarshish fray,
At least, they will be backward driven,
To meet the foe that strikes them there.
In vain the fates their help afford,
Their threats are vain,
They're bent to ruin straight,
To give the weary Trojans rest.
Our foes once more, with rage and grief,
Will break their chain,
Will break their ranks again,
Will break the walls of Troy, and raze
Her to the main.
Soon will their hosts be overthrown,
And Sion's walls, and Teium's throne,
And Teium's fruitful realms, are won.
In vain the hosts with hostile eyes
To Tarshish coast:
Give back, give back to us the skies,
Those that the victors' arms have slain,
Those that the walls have won.
But thou, O king, a soul to save,
Let strength and woe thy spirit brave;
Weigh well the weary host then,
They will be lost or dead;
Achilles' body to restore,
Thy body to enfold, and store,
'Gainst us the body straight to bore,
Thou hast no power to hold;
And every Trojan heart of Troy
To Troy's sad tribute pay.
The Greeks, the careless strength of Greece,
Will not be wise to shun her fall;
But thou, O monarch, mayst protect
Thy son, and aid his fate.
But thou, while I was yet a boy,
O'er many a sea didst bear my rule;
And e'en a son by sea or enjoy'd
Hatched from the depths of fate.
O might I wake, and take the day,
A life from out this world away,
And from the world's stern fear,
When, clothed in warrior's panoply,
They dared the battle's roar to spy,
And, armed, rush forth on hostile foe,
Till in the haven's mouth they blow
Their mace, and death to seize!
The Greeks will soon in ambush come,
Their arms they will undress,
And fly, if they their backs surpass,
To arms, and victory give.
But now, if aught that I have done,
In vain your arms to overthrow,
I'll take your strong combined,
And bind your bodies in a row.
All silently they sink in ranks;
With you 'tis ruin to be vanquish'd,
If in Minerva's care your breasts
Are turn'd to teard, and no man dares
To strike, for this your head
======================================== SAMPLE 376 ========================================
, B.
Cf. the boughs of the linden.
Cf. the boughs of the linden.
Cf. two fountains of water.
Eld. A fount-stone.
Eld. Downs for the waterfall.
G. D. Morley for the waterfall in spring.
G. C. Dobie; a seaport on shore.
G. Goody. A good oar in a good boat.
G. Weel, weel, weel, weel geall.
G. Fair fa' the water an' a'
G. It's A B C and a R, M.'s,
G. Kebars, or some strange Oit's;
That's what it is, my dainty fairie,
I' the water, an' a' the air o' the sea.
G. Hielan, that was made of barley, wheat, &c.
G. A good pike.
G. Goody ay, and a good pike.
G. Kebars, &c.
G. What's in the pook?
G. What care we, though undone?
G. How count ye weel?
G. What count ye weel, the pourier?
G. What count ye weel, a swither'd an' harass'd?
G. Just gae to the Whippowg an' to the law.
G. What counsel gie ye frame, John Barleycorn?
G. I hae a cozie hammer to my mither:
She gat us baith to nieve it--_cause it ain't no arm_.
F. A cozie hammer, and a good wame.
G. I cam to our house and we gaed away.
G. How cam' ye't daur? &c.
G. How cam' ye here? &c.
H. 'I came down to my cot again.
It caddae me muckle again, again.
G. How cam' ye here? &c.
G. How cam' ye here? &c.
He was a man. He play'd the fiddle:
He wad na been sae braw a trick.
G. Ah! that he cam' back ay'en for our auld mither.
Why, Jamie, gae ward at the stake.
Jads, weel, we come to Thee afen.
Jolly lambs, and we will gae to Johnnie.
John, come ben, John, what will ye do?
H. What mak ye at the cross-roads then?
I fear ye 'll spoil yoursel'.
Jolly lambs, &c.
A grecie yet, and a right gudeman, John,
And a brisk gudeman, Master, Master,
With lips like roses, brow like angels' hood:
Such looks as those i' th' inn-yard nane e'er threw.
Jolly lambs, &c.
Aft has the gude auld Doormby gotten,
To whom they hae been a chucky.
Some unkendstood, and some uncooney'd saul,
As weel's a fen-e'cess, John, to rape,
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' he readies),
Wad thought them villains ripe and rotten,
A feck o' hell, yet' a bonnie face,
Charmed wi' sic pranks. But ye'll be a naething
To sic a lassie, Johnie, and a' that.
Dool and wae's the winks! Jock, by my faith!--
I'll try a kiss, and wi' that I'll gar him;
And a kiss worth gude--there's no a lift.
Jock swat wi' muckle rage, and twa-three mair,
And set him on his rack, John;
And a kiss worth gude, and had he gane,
Afore he cam' back.
Jock swat wi' rage, and did him buik,
Until he a' was shootin' his left han'--
Then up and crew, and in, Jamie, cam'!
And a kiss worth gude--and had he gane,
Afore he cam' back!
He had been in the East, John;
And, hark, she's in at his window!
Hoo the kintraps! haud your tongue!
Ye'll try a kiss, John, and hang wi
======================================== SAMPLE 377 ========================================
 the rest,
And o'er the ground the victor's brow
Held out the victor's head, and so
Homed on the rear of his array.
And where was Ajax? From the day
He stood beside a secret spring
With laurel wreath between, to mark
Who for that daring deed would bring
The blood of victory to the host.
All, all was now a warfare wane
Of fears and pitiful despair.
And now was falling all that met
In the thick battle's desperate throng.
Himself of those who on that day
Ruled the fat fields of Aethra's town,
For so the Fates decreed; and by
The conqueror's death the victor gained.
So with the sun the days of old
Their months of glory passed away.
But that day's victor's eyes were dim
With watching o'er the reeking gore.
As they, with him who ruled of yore,
Gave life to one and to another
By stealth, and made them understand
That by the old times of the land
Their country's prowess was displayed.
'Twas now the time for arms. At last
A better victor's dread was past.
And thus they fought, and next they swore,
And next the banks of Aethra shore;
For all that blood in every vein
Left to avenge them, and in vain
To save their native land again,
Fought for the brave imaginings,
And the brave mind of battle-pride,
Though from the gods it hath been given:
And next were laurels for the home
Of gentle Syrinx, and of home
Of that immortal, heroic band,
Who fought for Syrinx at their hands.
And next were laurels in the camp
Of Arthur's noble chivalry,
And of fair England's, sunny home,
And of the land of Falmouth's sea
And of the rich and fertile vale
And mighty torrent-beaten Nile.
The next were they that well had fought
Beside the Adriatic strand,
And on the fierce and fiery flood
Had dashed the rocks of Etna land,
And to the deep wood leapt; and thence
With shouts nor fear the city rang--
A deadly strife--like thunder, like
The lightning, and more swift the light
Of fiery tongues that rushed in wrath
Against the huddling citadels
And burned the citadels of night.
And on the third and on the sixth
Three names of men, in guise of one,
There had been given a fearful sign
Awaiting signs of doom and flight
For those they fled; for they were true,
And they were fain the danger dread
To lose because they fled, and fled
For what they fled; what hinders then
From fighting out of that dread sun,
Or hinders at the great wall's foot?
And what can every thing they see?
And what shall be the country's pride?
And what the folk of Romulus?
For not as with a thought they wait
For such a leader, and as stern
A Fiteus with his lance upreared
At the beginning; for that foe
Took the strong walls, and built them strong
On that tall rock to guard the low,
And the wall's lowest fragment through
Wherein deep waters, as they ran,
Came forth, and bulged the rampart in,
And laid their bulwarks either side,
And the sea's rock was left behind
On either shore; and from the wind
With stormy shout their rocks arose
And flung abroad a hundred heads
With crashing thunder roaring up,
And every sea in wide waves plied
It snapped and fell; and from the height
Of shattered columns fell the clouds
And smote and broke,--the shattered walls
Fell to the earth, and in the shock
Of thundering battle met their fall.
But still with one unchanging joy
These brethren fought the fight, and held
The walls with fiercer might and weight.
But when the hurrying flames at last
Had caught them back, and made a way,
Their strength was changed to fear and rage.
Yet to the camp and tower they crawled,
As though their lives were left behind,
And from each eye in misery burst
The very terror that was kind
With bitter pain, and fiercer yet
And yet more dreadful as a brand
A Father's blood for those who live
Ever and ever must abide.
So they who loved so well to speak
Ran toward the city, and the throng
That followed was bowed in their shame,
And every heart was chilled with hate
======================================== SAMPLE 378 ========================================
,
The following poems were written in 1869; and the couplet was
first printed in the _Essay on Poetry_ and _Aurora_.
Cecil Castalian, D. A. rumorist, adopted in the _The Dial_ for
the first edition of the _Odes of the House_.
In the _Tragedy of the House_ (vol. vi. between 16 and 1659), a
volume of the _Tales of Wonder_ is published in 15 volumes.
from _The Art_, 1589.  The Earl of Norwich is to be
admitted to the Earl of Norwich for his first time.
In the index to the title "Christabel" in 1717 (trans. 1829, l. 1044),
The Earl of Norwich was one of the persons chosen of his time as
earlary of.  The Earl of Norwich was known in the _Biterolfe
Biterolfo_ in 1750.  He was keeper of the Earl of Norwich during
the latter's reign.  In 1584 he was allowed to appoint a second
graceful expedition.
In 1614 he published under the _Biterolf_ his nine volumes of
his edition, and his tenth volume.  (See a note to Loyal
S.P.S. (with his poem of the _Biterolfe_).  In 1740, the following
title was "Richard Lovelace," the title of a poem by the late
addressed, in the present edition, of the folio edition.  It is
in the stanza of thirty-three, each of which is signed
with _Biterolfe_, to be found in the present edition.
"To William G. Harnens" (S.Prov.E. "dort." printing an
informs the lines.
The original of the poem was _Edward Lear_.
Lines referring to the weathercocks.  It does not seem to have been
better than the lines in 1664, and it is now something of a
nature in the present version.
"Let this wild rose her honey breath
And sip from every blessed bough."
The following is by Blackleg.
Chaucer's _Life of Browning_ (1771-1852) is that of _Goldsmith_
to the Earl of Norwich, and to the Earl of Wythair.
Some have declared that the Earl of Derby who related the
story would have been published some other night.  This was
by Robert Walpole, from the period of his birth, that the
ballad, but was all from one of the verses in the old _Pledge
Printed by_ W. G. TAY, Castle St. Leicester Sq.
"The mountains seem'd to stand in rows
Of amethyst and crimson rose;
The waters, ever trickling clear,
Made all the valleys ring with pines."
"Up rose the castle from the wave;
Down rose the castle from the cave.
The music, by the breezes made,
Floateth upon the skye and lake."
A lover and model of the poem, "The Forest-Tree," is fully
argent, and the regularity of sentiment is enforced in prose and
would not be betrayed.  In the _Dita Particular_, Ben Hall Caine is
"The lake with glittering boughs is dress'd
In emerald hues from the high wood."
The following stanza is omitted as follows:--
"No zephyr from the West more pours
His fragrance, than that rose's gentle breath,
Which crept into the virgin breast
Of the pure maid, whose locks of jet
Roses with golden clusters set."
'So when the bee her honey sheds
In the sweet clover, humming round
In every grove, where blossoms burst
And buds went up their slender spindles,
A single bee came murmuring out
From the close covert by the fence,
Then held within her fragrant heart
A little bee, to breathe and sip
The sweet nections from the blossom'd spray."
Another line, it is not here to give a meaning, but it bears the
The lovely Maid,
Her cheeks suffus'd with rosy dreams,
Behold a bud in blushing showers
That blushes thro' the morning hours.
Fair damask weed, in odorous bowers
The darling of the morning hours,
That paints her with the morning-blush,
And all her lovely flowers.
Fair rose, in brilliancy array'd,
The brightest of the morning hours,
That deck the virgin dell where treads
The Queen of all the village flowers.
Fair maiden, faire
======================================== SAMPLE 379 ========================================
:
There was a man, who living, dying,
Was called the Ancient Mariner,
And all the story of his life
From the beginning, but from that
Cruel, or fair, or beautifully wrought,
Of what his fate was, or his name.
He lived in quiet, and he taught
The bees round his cradles to collect
At his command; and learnt to live
In the familiar flower and scent
Of the Bee-people, as they make
Their hay in Arcady for him.
And in what pleasant paths he trod
He would bring all the cows and honeyed
And all the trees; and when he spoke
Suddenly, as a dream, the cows
Drew near and nearer to behold
Their new awakened life, and told
Their delicate life of mystery
In terms obscure. The birds went by
Repeating their own sweet and low
Deeper, and with an evil sound
Broke the sweet silence, till the ground
Trembled beneath their feet, and all
The land grew white beneath their feet.
But ere they passed the Coralline
There stood a City, white with towers.
The world was still a battlefield
Where men bewildered stood and strolled
Like battle-axes round about.
Through all this tumult, unafraid
There rolled a sinister tide of sound
Of melancholy, like a sea
That moans in hollows of the cliffs
Terribly up into the clouds
That circle the white peaks of Lammeraun.
It was a vision, not the sound
Of some strange region that men passed
Or saw, but only those poor men,
The trees, the valleys, and that plain
Of many-ridged, unlighted seats,
Were all uncovered from the eyes
Of the first enemy. And the wind
Went wandering up and down the trees,
And made them quiet ere the song
Of some lost lyre arose among
The poplars in the garden; and
Each in its place, with unstretched hands,
Sat with a face that never slept;
So that no human hand nor eye
Might wound the secret of each weed
That covered them, or any rose
That in the garden of the world
Wind-tossed and blowing leaves had made.
Here man to man, from heel to rod,
Nodded and swayed and walked away.
At last, as twilight falls, came on
Darkness, not yet appeared the day,
When suddenly the little town,
All clad in its univery,
Rose like a star, and death looked down
Upon the little lonely house,
As if from whence all life went by
And all was still, and the world slept.
And one drew near to where the porch
Crossed with its broad-barred chancel flooring.
Death had not entered in, nor ceased
To enter after her whose door
Shut out the child from her poor play,
Whose little playmate was no more.
And all the country round lay still,
Except the quiet city on
Its rocky ridge, save for a hill
That the monks made a house of stone.
And still, as after rain or dew,
Still through the narrow casement there
The old-time river made its course
Into the country 'neath the trees,
Where once the pathway led to peace,
And all the past was buried.
And there that day the chapel led
The path that was to travel down
Into the sea-rim without boats,
And all the people of the town
Looked up at me and gazed around,
That I might there be found.
Then, as it seemed, the ghostly town
Stole out, and, smiling, then stood still
As if it, by a pleasant rill,
Or a fresh garden, on the strand
Of some sweet little rivulet,
That through the grass shone clear and gay.
And there they stood until the day,
The sun went down. Then, through the wood,
They heard a voice that cried and cried,
Saying, that all day long he stood
With two black bodies that were dead,
And, ere the earliest cock could crow,
The priest sat down to watch and wait.
Then through the forest, close at hand,
They followed with a little band
The old-time graveyard; and, between
The trees, the old church spire was seen,
And through the narrow casements seen
The white mounds, white with long grass,
Still chased the last white-headed mase,
That, when the old horse came to rest,
Lit by his native village-stair,
Through the bare thickets, he might hear
The black mounds,
======================================== SAMPLE 380 ========================================
 and
slight,
The rain drops down the window, the wind walks the
slope;
And with the rush of the rain the village is larger and
full of glee,
And the big house covered with its chestnut bloom and
beautiful plain;
The little pools all tilted their slim, blue
green and blue,
And the little waves washed the sanded stones of
their will;
The robin and blackbird mixed their symphonies, and then the
shadow pass
Was like a dream when the house seems haunted by a ghost
of rain.
The road winds down the hill; the road winds up the
garden;
It is so quiet, so still that your head is bowed with
a weight of care,
And your eyes are close to the window, and your
silky darlings stare
At you, and their shy eyes gaze at your yellow gown.
What does it mean to me, who cannot understand? I
know,
But my heart is bowed with anguish, my tears are welling
from my eyes,
And I know, but the worst is cruel, so it will be best.
I remember, I remember, how in my early years, when
the voice of my boyhood sounded sweetly to me,
and my dreams rose holy with its sunny memories.
The house behind the hill, the road between the
hill and me,
Was happy in its own sweet music, and the joy of
my boyhood's heart,
And the memory of a boy that haunted my youthful
days with care;
So that, when day was over I had my old arm
clutched and bare;
And the thoughts of the boyhood beautiful filled my
cherry there;
And the dim eyes of kindness shone on me, and with a
pure delight
I turned away from the place where my childhood used
to be.
But now I know that I never yet had seen so very
anxious a face,
Nor even when I had wished to be alone, when even
I was a child,
And it seemed to me that I never ever knew so
anything useful,
But often it seemed to me that the wish had brought
me back to me.
And sometimes it seemed to me that every day on
days had been my lot,
That the boyhood of the old miller had
beggan to rot,
That I had not seen so many boys with so much
lady eye,
That I felt quite sure that the day would have broke,
that I should be alone,
And that some little boy and girl buried in
their unknown moan;
That the wood would spoil their bloom and the
wood grow away,
That the corn would be so feeble and brown, and
that toil and toil is vain,
And life would fail that we were but given to
scatter them all.
Now it is all a lost hope, but I think it is the
best to do:
It is the hope that is not a dream or an ecstasy for
This is the day of sorrow, of the beautiful years that are
exactly twelve,
When I have done a Something Good,
That I shall never forget,
I make the most of what I know
Through this my message to you,
I bid you, I beseech you,
Whatever you may bid me do.
This is my answer to you,
This is the memory of you,
The very words I utter
In this my page to you.
You bid me tell you, tell me,
You bid me all the wonders,
All the dreams you tell.
I am a poet, madam,
I sing the songs of your name,
And yet I do not ask you
To say what you will do;
For the world has only a poet
Who sings not as you know,
He is lonely and disconsolate,
He may come to you yet.
Ah! you have such a longing,
You have such a despair,
I can hardly believe your words,
I am desolate and bare,
I have striven against a wayward
might to despair;
Ah! you have such a longing,
I am desolate and bare,
I have thoughts that no one knows,
As my vain days go.
I have dreams at the end of my days,
I have dreams that are full of the weight
And my heart it is cold to the open
and closed gates,
As my vain dreams are closed in the night,
With the burden of hours without
And empty room on the sky.
And the songs that you sing to me
Are only a dream to me,
And this shall be my answer
Before the world grow dark.
But the song shall be heavy with silence,
======================================== SAMPLE 381 ========================================
, and the
Englishman's wife of old.
With much devotion he
Says--"I would like to be
The wife of my dear little boy--
The wife of my dear little boy."
With some ceremonies he
Says--"I'll teach you an art, you know,
"That will be grand to do."
I have learned to understand,
In a lady's Royal treat,
How the British people treat
Every one who loves Cretee;
And, when gayly there,
When with heart and hand you strive
For the nearest home you reach,
Pity with the pained pain
Wash your throat and clear your brain,
While despondently you sing
To your betters far and near--
All in musical attie.
How the British people say,
This is why I ne'er will try
To be thankful, dear, am I,
And to show my love for you,
Who have made me most amiss
Now you see that I am not
Always quite a creature, quite a child,
Just a slight toy or a tiny run,
Just a little thoughtful or a pun,
Doing little things with pleasant smile,
In the season of good weather and the weather,
To no kind of playmate either way
But to sit and sing together
To the joy of every little boy
Who knows how to sing in the leafy woods
To a fine little ding-dong-dong bard
Who will tell you for a good long speech
How to dance to a merry-making
How to play in the pleasant sun and the green crockery
And to make yourself very merrier
When you see a boy playing
Where tree tops are sprung,
And the hills are hung,
And a merry-voiced thrush
Is a darling song among the blithesome flowers that lean,
And every bird is a funny thing
And every hour a happy thing,
And they have a little quarrel
And I will tell you the reason why
Such pleasures occurred to me
That I should like to be a boy
At any rate very delicious
And when I saw you coming
I thought it time to say, "Away,
And get you home when the time's come!"
But now you have come to stay
To get out of the way on the journey in the evening,
And there's no living thing I see
But one little tent like a big green tent,
And one small tent like a big green tent,
And one little tent like a great green tent,
And one little tent like a great green tent,
And the tent of my dear old grandam
Is a cosy place to stay
When the time comes to give us parting
And we shall get on the way,
To the pleasant Land of Nod
Where the people always live
And the papers never give
Every chance to go and come.
Just a toddling little deary,
Always looking up at me,
Always doing things I never
Have before been done by me,
Who have never thought of trouble.
But, if you are feeling sorry
I will stop and think of you,
And I ask you all about it,
That you'll answer me with joy,
For you've never knocked my double
I will go and get at home,
If you want to live a quiet
And if I am getting ill
With myself and you I will not.
You will know that trouble is not very great.
It is more, I'm certain, than ever it was,
And so people talk about proper names,
There are no doings can be got without a reason
Why, there are no doings here below,
And it is not much greater than the doings we do.
But, although I have to bow an angry face
To the evil things that have been done by me,
I can yet partially condemn the creeping things
That are from which there is no one here beneath me;
Though I am old and a young man has only luck,
He is quite unconscious what is going to happen,
And, if I'm a man, being quite satisfied
Will have to see his name and get a chance to
Where a good man has always got the chance to,
And, if I don't, I'll be content to hear one
That is always glad when it is hardest to,
And that's why I tell a great deal more than
For the doings God has kindly given me.
I am sure that I am not to blame,
For, in my way, I feel a little selfish,
A feeling that is sometimes very painful
That some folks hold a good name for themselves
Because they are beginning to be theirs.
I must say now that if I
======================================== SAMPLE 382 ========================================

of The Lady's Home
"This is not my business," I said, "nor I care to tell,
But I have lived in the world a great while since, and I
am weary of waiting. I shall be glad and gay
rather than to desire what it shall be."
And he was thinking of his lady fair and undrest
until his new heart's desire was fully met,
And, though a little old he was, at a touch of pride
he grew full of longing.
But I made answer to him: "All is well;
come forth and sit down for a while,
and I will sit ever at your side."
And I shall have the old man straightway.
Oh, then you may come and sit down and eat:
there comes no gladness,
no sweet pain;
there comes no trust;
and if you think I'm too generous to drink,
I'll sing a song to you.
And, if I live, would you have me go
and sit in the sun-light?
And if you don't, let me bring you to you
a red rose;
And take me by the hand along your wrist,
and say to me, "Ah--
ah!--and I love you!"
I know a red rose, a red rose--
I know a red rose--
And I would wear a red rose
instead of a red rose.
I know a red rose--and that is why
you say "Ah--
I love you--loved you--loved you"
as you lie on the grass.
A red rose rose that is today
I wot your heart knows:
For soon a crimson will unfold
and I shall gather these.
A red rose is a little thing
I wot my heart knows:
And when I lift my eyes to you
it spreads out to the wind.
A red rose is a little rose:
I know a red rose,
And my heart is like a little rose,
And my heart is glad to be so glad
that it seems so glad.
I know a red rose that is today
I wot your heart knows:
But when my heart takes mine
it's red, red rose,
And I go climbing my white, red rose
I find the red rose, that's today
but as a rose.
The little white rose has a red heart,
the little pink rose has a blue eye.
I know a red rose--
But I shall find another one
I know a red rose.
And, oh, what shall I say?
The sun will pass away
And leave the sunlight far;
The little white rose,
I wot, is far from gay.
Oh, if it be to-day!
But if it be to-morrow,
What shall I tell you?
The sun will pass away
And leave the sunlight free;
The little white rose,
I wot, is far from gay.
Now it is beautiful--
Oh, tell me, are you there?
Is the sun in the night, my dear?
Have you in the meadow at your feet
Just a ribbon of gold to show you,
Just a ribbon of flowers to strew in the way
At your bath, with your foot on the meadow?
Oh, tell me, are you there?
And is your stockings gorgeous,
And your shoes a little dust
From the dust of a bad little head,--
On the meadow, in the meadow?
And the sky hangs over and over in the clouds,
The rain is coming from the fields,
The little rain, my dear,
It would you were there,
With a clang to the ends of clouds,
And a clang to your lap, my dear,
And a clang to your lap, my dear,
And my eyes, were they only dim
With the splendor of the sun, my beloved,
Would you, were you kneeling there,
A tender little head?
Oh, tell me, are you there?
And are your kettles ever new,
And are your eyes waxed wet
With tears, my beloved,
On my breast, where my heart has always been
And my soul has kept, my dear?
Oh, tell me, is there,
In any land, everywhere,
On any sea, everywhere--
A home, where the sky
Is ever blue, and the wind blows cool,
And the clouds are white and fair?
Oh, tell me, are you there,
I wonder, do you know,
Where the clouds droop, and the sun shines cold,
And the wind blows cool and low?
Oh, tell me, are you there,
In any
======================================== SAMPLE 383 ========================================
 with his first line,
How the poor quire did burn, and how the house
Moved, one by one, until they two became
Both born and nam'd; nor was this all, but fate
And fortune laid them both to yawn at last.
At which Ulysses scarce could hope to send
His love out of his heart, but bade them all
Go to the bark, and bid the crew adieu.
Soon as the bark with quick dispatch he saw
Sprinkling with foam the mast, he took his leave
To sail, and leaving the companions' side
Left the tall bark with all his crew to steer,
Soon as Aurora risen, fresh from the sea
Reach'd the Sibyl to a rowing ram.
The youths, meantime, their shoulders over-spread
Put on their arms, and bore him, groaning deep,
Panting with tears, and with their dripping mane.
And, ever as the yards were smooth or torn,
Uprose a mast, and from his ribs the mast
Held to the yard, and heaving to and fro,
The mast and sails he hoisted in the wind.
Forthwith the master of the barks forthwith
To all the watchmen sent an equal host
Of dusky seamen, that the watch-fires bare;
Who, also, as the watch-bell ceased to ring,
Twang'd o'er the echoing deck, and came to shore.
All they, except their master, had been left
To toil in vain, but had not set his hand
On the mast-beam, save that the watchman watch'd,
Lest, seeing them unwillingly disposed,
Themselves should come, and they should homeward wend.
But when Ulysses' mast in its abode
Receiving, lopp'd and carried in his hold
The helm, he took the mast-head from the yard,
Hung from its top, and hurl'd it to the brine
Right to the yard, and, instant, overboard
He drove it back, and o'er the benches threw.
The sailors, then, took off the mast-head mast,
And set it high upon the beams of gold,
Then to the ship drew nigh, and all the crew
Went back into the water, while the crew
Weary of meal, and wait upon the boon
Which Jove bestow'd upon their voyage here,
Where goodly- accorded was the feast.
But when the mast-head from the yard had gain'd
The mast-head, and the tackle stood at bay,
Then the three Chiefs of Dulichium took
The helm, and sat upon it with a throne
Sever'd with grapes, then putting forth the hand
By Circe's self in silence, thus they spake.
Laertes' noble son, for wiles renown'd!
What! have you still the debt of toil forgot,
And of continual toil a foe like ours?
Well--peace of foot and hands again are we.
To whom Ulysses, ever-wise, replied.
Laertes' noble son, for wiles renown'd!
I would to heaven ycleaving, as I may,
A seer, by some divinity preferr'd,
For my country; for that I was born and rear'd
To Ilios, in Ithaca, beside
Stream-fed Susa; for the Gods have heard my prayer.
But to my guest at home return no more.
So saying, he sat him down. The crew then sat
All, whom with warm desire he had received,
Gazed on him as they parted; but his eyes
Gazed restless, and his head fell from his hand
Bereft of regal dignity, by words
The one, who, present at his ship's repast,
Gave to the rest the charge. The crew then stepp'd
The shining treasure forth, and placed the bark
By largest stages into regal bower.
So ranged he, and in his own abode
Sat beside the mast-head, while the rest
Around him and around him Nestor shone.
Then, o'er his head he shed a dreadful shade.
That day he voyaged from Thrace, to the tenth day,
When her Ulysses, brave Ulysses, reach'd
The house of his confederate Lord in haste.
Then, on his part, the guest his brows uplift,
The ship, when it appear'd, with twenty rowers came
From the fair haven; of whom none escaped,
A nymph also, and Eurymachus,
And Antiphus
======================================== SAMPLE 384 ========================================
!
We hear the great bells tolling,
We hear them all now,
And the small bell tolling,
Which should tolling ring,
A peal we hew away with,
Shall ne'er illume this day.
Herald of joy and gladness,
With the tidings ringing!
From the heart of the city,
From the land, cold and still;
From the old, old city,
And from the bosom of childhood,
All sorrow and sin;
From the dwellings of my fathers,
All Greece, and its ancient dwellings,
All Rome, and its temples;
Through all, shall be thine then,
Like the ever-present bridal,
Ever constant and ever bright.
Welcome, thrice welcome, ye three brave hearts!
Welcome then, thrice welcome, ye gallant young men!
Never an eye like yours can look on me,
And none but the ear hath an eye.
Welcome, thrice welcome, ye gallant young men!
Welcome, thrice welcome, ye helmets, and crests,
Welcome to a gallant and gentle band,
Welcome now at the sound of your sounding arms.
Welcome, thrice welcome, ye helmets, and crests!
Welcome, thrice welcome, ye helmets, and crests!
Welcome to this holy and gentle host,
Welcome to the good manners you gave.
Welcome, thrice welcome, ye helmets, and crests!
Welcome to the good manners you gave.
Welcome, thrice welcome, ye helmets, and crests!
Welcome, thrice welcome, ye helmets, and crests!
Welcome to this holy and gentle band,
Welcome now at the sound of your sounding arms.
Dances, masquers, and ballads,
Before you are going to Hades;
Dances, masquerades, ballads,
Before you are going to Hades;
Dances, masques, masques,
Before you are going to Hades;
Dances, masques, masques,
Before you are going to Hades.
Dance, masque, masques,
Before you are going to Hades.
Dance, masques, masques,
Before you are going to Hades.
Dance, masques, masques,
Before you are going to Hades;
Dance, masques, masques,
Before you are going to Hades.
Dance, masques, masques,
Before you are going to Hades.
Dance, masques, masques,
Before you are going to Hades.
Dance, masques, masques,
Before you are going to Hades.
Dance, masques, masques,
Before you are going to Hades.
The march and the march of the procession,
The march of the procession of procession
(Pall Mall, Charles),
The march of the procession of procession,
The march of the procession of procession procession
(Pall Mall, Charles),
The march of the procession of procession
(Pall Mall, Charles),
The march of the procession of procession
(Pall Mall, Charles),
The march and the column of procession,
The march of the procession of procession
(Pall Mall, Charles),
The march of the procession of procession
(Pall Mall, Charles),
The march of the procession of procession
(Pall Mall, Charles),
Rank, regiral, king of the legion,
The march of the procession of procession
(Pall Mall, Charles),
The march of the procession of procession,
The march of the procession of columnadors--the march of the
patriotic surly procession
(Pall Mall, Charles),
The march of the procession of columnadors--the
movements with the musical rhythm
(Pall Mall, Charles),
The march of the procession of columnadors,
The march of the procession of columnadors--the march
of the procession of columnadors--the
movements of columnadors--the march of
men with brown, grey eyes--
The march of the procession of columnadors--the
movements and the musical rhythm
of procession
of funerals, and to death's journey, with the
ilibus accumulating with rhythmical steps
of procession voices,
The march of the procession of columnadors in
four directions--Cous aloud,
Chant Ode, Dea, jubilant,
Chant Ode, and all--all--all.
And after them, and only after them and me there comes
the suggestion of a strange and undiscoverable mystery,
of a mystery that brings us all to the common familiar place.
We come back back to the religiousness, that with
======================================== SAMPLE 385 ========================================
.
There is a quiet in St. Paul's
A sea of bells that ring and tell
Old folk about their Wedding-Meeting
And I mind me of a wedding.
I am the sky and earth and air and stars
For Him to come between
Where the sea's shell breaks and the bird's fainting
Touches the moon so green.
That is the time to sing
The praises of our God to-day
Before His people bring
His heavenly music into play,
My singing to all hearts that sing
And come again, my singing!
I am the soul that sings
Whatever stirs the great sweet earth,
My singing to all hearts that sing
And come again, my singing!
When the white tempest whirls to its sea-float,
And I am the last cloud riding on the wind,
A child is born with the grace of God,
And He walks with a beauty undefiled,
And knows that his soul is the last.
The rose, the snow, the great cloud
Were less than a woman's fond fingers
Could force to a man's use the wealth of the wind
Before he should leave her.
The great cloud, the long cloud
That carries the sun,
Were less worth one grain of the worth of--
Who would not be great and rejoice?
I am as the soul that trembles
Though no breath has availed,
Though a rose be less generous than my lips
If it did not dissemble.
I am the soul, that is part of all
The whole earth is mine and thine,
And, on earth, I would give to the whole
My own thoughts and mine.
There's some are clad in their garments,
And some are clad in white
That the sun shines out of a cold world
To the beautiful sight.
But there's not a day of the heaven
To waken a sense of pain,
Of rest, and the joy of God in the whole earth--
And the infinite heaven again!
When a child looks in the eyes of a mother,
And knows that he is dead?
The whole year calls him to her dwelling,
And his mother calls him home,
And his mother calls him to her babe
When his mother calls him.
For it is my brother's heart,
My brother's hand, my eyes,
That speak to eyes that seek the stars
Through tears that fall like rain,
And words that burn to a love that is close to them
As a bird leaves in a swarth.
And I grow greater and loved,
And the spirit turns away,
As the mother leaves her love
When the soul folds up her day.
For it is a year in the world
To know if I loved or knew
That I could love or had not loved,
But the time is swift, and few!
And the first hour is a thousand,
Sometime, somewhere that we may,
When we shall have filled our ages
With the tide of man's delight
To make our souls a sea of life
That is turning all the seas,
And the years make no sea-striking
For a sail or any breeze
But the tide that bears the tide
And the soul of man that heeds
And is glad as any bride
For love or a part of a woman
When we are all as a tree.
There's many a wind in the world
That blows from the Gates of the Perfect,
But never a leaf or a crevice
Where wit can find place or life.
There's many a face in the world
Where light lives in darkness--or hope.
The stars in their places seem nowhere
But here where the great earth is,
And the eyes of man look up
To the sky where the stars are.
To stand in the wind of the wind of the year
To sing one note to a master-bird,
And hear one's voice at the window,
And watch the stars for a year.
For it is the year of the roses
That shakes in the sun their golden hair,
And the soft wind fills the violets
As with a song in the air.
For it is the year of the roses
That fills our souls with a tender fire,
And the soft wind fills our eyes
To find what we seek for a year.
The buds that speak to our eyes
In the soft wind of the winter time
Are these, and their memory, dear ones,
That they may live a century after.
The roses they have left blooming alone,
The red wind has swept them away
With the rain and the wind and the rain,
With the wind and the wind and the rain.
And the secrets they have laid away
By the many whispers of our brain
======================================== SAMPLE 386 ========================================
, by the way a servant,
Who was very, very little,
And, when the child was on her knees,
Said, 'There are lots of other people
Than are ever free from starving.'
And he sent for Young Novaunt's wife,
Who was looking very frantic,
To see how she had got those ragged
Ragged ragged ragged ragged ragged
Ragged ragged ragged ragged ragged
Ragged ragged ragged ragged ragged
Ragged ragged ragged ragged ragged
Ragged ragged ragged ragged
Ragged ragged ragged ragged ragged
Ragged ragged ragged ragged ragged
Ragged ragged ragged ragged
Ragged ragged ragged gowns.
This, the year's supplies repeating,
With the current down the river
The couple were starting to recognise that young March
flock- starvation they had got.
"We are going to show 'mum mama,' and they say
to each of us, 'Oh! Farmer dear, you'll soon get
me a dollar a dollar a year.'
And we can show 'mum for it, we can show 'mam gold in
I've got a dollar a-cushion, too, and five hundred
perampities in my purse;
Oh, but it's a terrible wish for me in this dusty
stunner 'way out in the wind.
"You 'needn't go out of the village, because I'm so
myself; and although I can't speak, I can walk
upon my horseback every night in the night.
Now give me a dollar a day
To spend in an idle way;
But buy how you spend it:
She 's in the hen-house, and I'll show you how
it's worth the stooping owls.
"But the day that I'm coming is a day of much
gret comfort and work to me;
And, oh, but if I should feel luke-out, in a little
closer than she is,
I'll eat her and serve you as sugar and other
things under the sun.
I will clothe her and serve her, and pay you
with the best that you can;
And she will be mine forever.
"But I've eaten and brewed, and drunk, and
given her everything;
I have finished her dinner, and she will be yours
from the start; she will grow on you;
It may be she likes me."
On hearing this, the old woman got mad from the
accompaniment outside the door.
"I've been a lucky bird, mother," said mother,
"all round about;
I've known the best of any bird in the land so
long as I've heard him say.
"The first bird I know when there aren't any bacon
that is half so good as me;
My tongue is at every limb and my tail is
tall, well, than my head is true."
And there sat a wife who looked out of her window
with a look half joyous,
So says till she cried to her heart, "Oh, I'm
silent everywhere in the dark while
the others come in to sup!
"And I got a little bird sitting on the edge of the
Ain't it was alive!"
"Oh, my heart is jes thinking of me when we drive, and
I will eat of my own bread! Oh, yes, and I'll tell
the tale to you!"
"And now if my body's as full of good cheer as it
is at my home,
It's settled we couldn't stand it, when the
ladies all come out to see."
"Oh, father, a long, long way back, I've been
bandon and I've done.
But when the sun's on the journey and the snow
comes on the ground and everything goes with the
crowd, and we're off our feet,
"Oh, why does it seem like a wedding in the city
to-night? To-morrow morning in the morning,
and I can't say much of what I think,
And then I'll take my homeward way to breakfast
on the luncheon after tea.
"When you're getting out the ditches, and you
want to go to school,
Don't think of that for walking. You'd better
never leave that place for me!"
Mother and father marveled
When the bird flew home from the nest,
Heard the cry of the cockscomb,
And on into rest.
After a week it came to no use,
For the air was bright and strong;
It flew to the sky,
======================================== SAMPLE 387 ========================================
, _Horse Lane_, and _Borough-Jonah's
house_, a London _Hercules_, also a street in the town, in which
garden. _Alfred._ It stood in the garden during the summer
winter.
_Alfred._ But not in the least.
_Alfred_ [_who now [_awake_]. I got up, and was trying to be
_Horse_ [_in the street_]. That could not be, then?
_Alfred_ [_frightening_]. I can see!
_Alfred_ [_careless and silent_]. The two citizens go their
story-tellers to inquire who was acquainted with the young
_Him_ [_ground_]. A father! [_Horseman_ [_in his cart_]. Who was
_Hitche_ [_in his cart_]. Is he still alive?
_Hitchil_ [_in his cart_]. What? Leave the figures and the figures
in order with him.
_Hitchil_ [_nodding_]. Hitchi!
_He_ [_dancing_]. Hitchi! Don't you wish to dance?
_Hitchil_ [_dancing_]. Hitchi!
_Humpil_ [_dancing_]. Hitchi!
_Humpil_ [_humpil_]. Hitchi!
_Hebaldet_ [_who had known_]. I've been married three times
and come. My daughter does not refuse to go to the window
and see the dancing-floor. She is a woman most unselfish
and unfortunate!
_Humpoor_ [_nodding_]. Humpi!
_Heard_ [_howling_]. Ay, I'm mad! [_Humpi_ [_dragging_].
What, you all?
_Hitchil_ [_coming_]. I hope I haven't the sense left here
for my days. I would like to show a little girl so far
respectable for her kind and comely, and come to look at her
proud and handsome.
_Humpoor_ [_dancing_]. What the devil!
_Heard_ [_howling_]. '_Ham-rumplar_ [_dancing_]. Humpi! [_Ham-rumplar_
_Hitchil_ [_dancing_]. I hope we'll get back home. [_Humpi_]
_Humpil_]. Won't you like this? [_Ham-rumplar_]
_Healfdene_ [_trying to the hound_]. Is't your hound?
_Heigh-ho! [_in his cart he_]. Houldn't you wait?
_Heigh-ho! [_who kicked him down_]. Who'd be out?
_Heigh-ho! [with the white feather_]. He's so fickle!
_Hitchil_ [_dancing_]. I bet you won't allow me to run from the
_Hitchil_ [_running_]. What is it? I have only to thank you, my
_Hitchil_ [_running_]. Hould the horses off, if I only would fly
_Ham-rumplar_ [_after him_]. I'll engage if I have as good
followers as you are?
_Hitchil_ [_after him_]. Just let it be said at once that you
cannot be made a horse-shoe. Come, let us consider. You
_Hitchil_ [_after him_]. Hitchil, and the horses must.
_Harvey_ [_tries to crowd_]. What's the hurry?--that's both.
_Hitchil_ [_own to the_ knob_]. What a horse-and-an-horse-shoe!
_Hitchil_ [_nodding_]. Who was the horse-and- vizor?
_Hitchil_ [_unlocks_]. To leave this one or two behind.
_Hitchil_ [_whispers_]. A horse-crazier, and the horses are so
fleshible that they can travel out of the mouth of the earth.
_Harvey_ [_to_ the_ groom.
_Hitchil_ [_to_ the_ groom.
But what the bullock-driver does, they tell me.
_Hitchil_ [_to_ the_ groom.
But where is the horn that
======================================== SAMPLE 388 ========================================
,
And the other two.
And the father, too!
Is the father of you, very good?
He's a man to be happy;
He's a girl to be happy.
"Why is that face like that?
You'll be happy to-morrow;
It's your mother back home, never fear, at the corner there."
"My father's face, my dearest?"
"My father's face, my dearest?"
"How you look at me, my dearest?"
"I'm not like an apple."
"It's your mother back home, never doubt, because it's so."
"But why did you come, my mother?"
"Why do you come, my dearest?"
"I brought the wood-pigeon,
Saddled the hazel-thicket,
Killed the red squirrel.
But now I've come, I'm absent:
I can no longer see thee;
Leave me to-morrow, dearest."
"I cannot come to thee;
Let me glide near thee, dearest,
Quickly to thy side come,
Pretty and softly,
And, my dear, tell me quickly
That I may come to thee.
"When my house is built,
Then it floor is ranged;
Then I sit and talk
Till I talk to thee."
"Yes, I would!"
"What's the matter? what's the matter?
'Tis nothing but the shadow
Of that precious thing.
And the shadow is the shadow
Of that precious thing.
"I would I were with thee--
Thou wouldst walk in my shadow
And walk in my dim light."
Mother's heart is heavy,
Mother's heart is sore.
"And where are it now?
'Tis nothing but the shadow
Of that precious thing."
When the shadow is the greatest,
Then it drops away;
And the shadow is the greatest,
The shadow makes it stay.
When I think of my trouble,
And of my pains,
And of my longed-for trouble
Then it disappears.
A little while I sit here, thinking of the day,
And long for other things; but not the happy hours
That are in summer come again, and find once more
A home in my young heart;--so longs my soul its life,
Almost in gladness and of silent joy.
And I feel that, after all, this little self
Of mine is wretchedly to be, and so
To be by everything save thee;--all my heart
And heart have broken away, and left no trace
On earth of any happiness.
How can I take and follow thee,
And so leave life and all its cares?
How will my life leave thee and me?
And what is this, I cannot know,
That I must die before it goes?
And where is all thy memory?
I dare not ask it for a kiss,
And so I cannot know I must;
All thy life's sad years must seem
Sin, and not sin--we part for this.
Not all its sweet, all this is thine,
But Love, the strong essential fire,
Which burns within, without, within,
When the great joy of loving thee
Is dead--O, come to me, my love!
I stretch my arms, I kiss thy feet,
My love--O, come to me, my love!
O weary love, O meek, sweet pain,
My love--O, come to me, my love!
There is no rest for me--I weep,
For this--my heart--I feel my loss--
O, come to me, my love--I weep,
For this--my heart--O, come to me!
And as we stray along,
Weep not for me, sweet love,
But say, "Here is my heart, this heart!"
We stray along the shore,
But nothing is there left to us
But the ocean and the shore,
And the wild things we are,
And the sighing of the sea,
And my own felicity.
We stray along the shore,
But nothing is there left to us
Except an ocean and a sea,
And the sighing of the sea,
And the sighing of the sea,
And the moan on the shore, this heart.
I was with thee yester-night;
As night by day, through the still hours,
I seem to float like a star on light,
Or the breeze of summer sigh;
As bird to the nest that clings
For thee, dear bird, as the night-bird sings,
I seem to float like a boat on the air,
======================================== SAMPLE 389 ========================================
, _Eureka_, cap. i. q.
"He who would not be happy,"," says the poet
"May come again if he does. I suppose he will not be happy."
"In after lapse of time he will come back to the memory of his
former friend.]
"In the midst of the ocean a wave was wafted away,
When the wave was the centre of all the world's wonder."]
A poet would not have enjoyed a very high immortality in
"The sea was mine but my head; its spray,
Its misty cauldron, my fire had leaped
Into the sun. I can hear a voice
That calls me to the deep."]
of his _Dabarbsha_, and the words of the following verse.--
"My son," he says, pointing to the sea,
"The glory of the earth on earth--
All loveliness of space where thou art gone
Is mine but thy devotion is to one
The only sacred thing God ever gave;
I can give naught but joy; you all can give
Beauty and grace to me."
"You know I was too dear," she replies, "but I will not tell you
how I lost you, and how you lost me." She replies, "I will not
"I am afraid of God," she replies, "and I'll be afraid of Him."
A little one, in a yellow vest and gait, goes slowly along
"A little thing laughs at its awkwardness, and the mother, with
"The little thing laughs at another's guilt; the mother, who
pouts but her eyes to hide her cheeks." Then the tiny thing laughs
coyness, and weeps, "and I'm in such a bother!"
A little girl in a black tawb pocket produced a very lovely
frizzly picture by the child and mother.
A smile of love, and a bobolink's cadence, and a far-away
butts.
The little thing laughs and runs away, is half-past eight now.
"Now what a pretty girl!" she cries. "'Says one, 'I'm all right
in going!"
The little thing laughs and runs away, goes scaredly to the sea.
"What, the little thing laughs at another's guilt?
I say I must, but I won't think she will!
I won't. I won't. I won't think she will!"
"What's the good of thinking?"
A little girl in a black tawb pocket sat. The two little
children have their six days in the grave.--H.B.]
"A nice little boy with a big thick head!"
"Now I shall not say it!" she said, her hair dishevelled and her
boots.
"I'll teach you a lesson."
The little man laughed and said, under her fan, and said, "No.
"What is the matter, child?" said the little woman.
"I won't think you are going to take me there another time!" he
"Don't you laugh?" she said. He shook his head. She laughed.
"O yes, father. So you don't, old thing! So you don't--so don't--with
"And you don't speak to me," she said, with a little smile.
"That's right," she said, with a little frown.
"But you can't talk about that!" she said, very softly.
"Why then," said I, "it's foolish to talk when I'm so fond of
"So I went to the garden, and one night I went there. I saw
"But how many of the folks? I think they are going to be
"I'd have remembered everything, and gone, and gone with never
nothing. But the things you tell me are all true, I understand."
"There's no use," said the little woman. "I want you to know
"Well, it's all right," said the little girl, with a smile.
"Then I'll show you to-morrow if I go to-morrow."
"No," I said; "there is something in the world that I can
discern. I want you to tell me about the other girls."
"Well," she said, "do you like to know?"
"Well," she said, "and it's perfectly true, for you know
everything in the way of it."
"Ah, no," he said at last. "Let me know it."
"And if I don't go, as I think I should, I'll never come to you
"Now, tell me the truth," was the little girl's mouth.
"I must
======================================== SAMPLE 390 ========================================
 with the world.
What are the days when womanhood so often is seen;
When youth's bright days are over and gone?
Then what are days when fancy loves to wander alone?
Oh! all the loves that are gone.
There is no sorrow in the day,
But the sun looks smiling from the gray;
The morn looks bright as yesterday,
And the gray morn looks fair.
There is no sorrow in the day,
For thoughts are sad as flowers at May,
And happiness with summer brings
The merry smiles of birds.
There is no sorrow in the day,
But pleasure lends its grace the way;
And, oh, the autumn-time, when all
The roses of the world are gray,
Then, then we're glad, when all is gray,
Till summer comes, with quiet May,
And love, with summer, brings to mind
The sunny days of youth.
Now, I know not how you came,
Your lover, gentle, loving speech;
You could not tell the tears of home,
Nor bring the smile of happy years
To eyes that loved the dear return
Of hearts they loved so much.
Now, I know not how you came,
But hear, oh! hear my wailful tale;
And let the tears of home be falling
From eyes that loved the best of all;
For me, the heart that loves the lad,
Has never been a stranger's foe;
I loved, and thought he'd look upon,
And put his hand in mine, and said,
"Sweetheart, I love thee; let the tear
Of memory quench the touch of hope,
And give us kisses."
Now, I think of thee, sweet one!
A little space before the day;
The sun went down behind the hills,
And brought thee to me, far away.
Oh! I have watched the glory from thine eyes
And felt thy breath upon my cheek,
Oh! I have seen thee kneel before me,
And fondly kiss thy hand in turn.
And now I pray that thou would'st be
Alone in me that I might share
Of thy pure soul to wander by
With thee, as thou wert pure in love.
The first day I remember, and first I heard thy voice in the
--Mother! I am sick of singing. Come in, and help me! O
mother!
And I know that I have need to pray for thee. Gather round me,
And say that I can hear thee singing to me alone, and leave
no proof,
To speak, that thy own voice is not as thine.
For I am weary of the noise of thy voices. O listen,
And make pretence to tell thee of the joys thou bringest to
thine heart,
That thou wilt see that the deep, and tranquil life in thee
is part
Of what thou wouldst desire. Tell me, then,
My secret and my secret and my longing after all?
I want my voice only as a lover's in his arms; and the calm
ease,
Is the peace of the silent nights when thou and I together
Are half forgetting, half forgot, the deep quiet life in
which
I cannot speak.
I want the still clear voice and the quiet life in each
other's speech,
That I have only known thee when I was a child and thou wert
Ages gone, and I have not forgotten, nor even watched thee;
But now that thou art gone, it comes to meet me often.
The years go by, and my mouth is open to the kisses of
I forget always I can hear the sound of thy feet.
The little birds call to me sometimes, and my voice is hushed
And the blue sky
Is a place where I cannot tell thee of all that I have
known then,
And the very depth of my longing has become as a moan.
Then come, my dear, let us sing for the sake of thy lonely
And that my voice never more may summon thee back to my dear
And I would be thy lover still, if thou hadst known him
And all the pain and the trouble of years that are to be; but I
will die
And I will think of thee as a lover; but now thy fame is lost
Above the empty past, and my heart has become as a stone.
And I must kneel alone in my dark place where the dead kings
still sinn in the dark;
And my soul is filled with a greater yearning to be thy lover
Than the year that is to come.
Here in the dark the shadow of centuries has become as a thought of
But when I look back over the old glad lands that lie over
======================================== SAMPLE 391 ========================================
,
And the world's wealth and power I had,
But that I knew of none.
What were the good deeds done by me,
What was the words the old friends knew,
When I, a boy, was brought too low
And placed beneath the sun?
Nay, I would not forget the world,
The world they say I see,
Aye, aye, aye, a great and wise
That would be chosen men
When I, a boy, was brought to bear
Those crosses on my brow.
No--I will go--I cannot help--
I cannot help myself,
But I will say it out, so let it go.
We cannot help ourselves;
We cannot help ourselves;
We cannot help ourselves.
We cannot help ourselves;
We cannot help ourselves;
The whole world lies in our hands
To build and sow ourselves.
They have not left a pile
Of bread and meat to eat,
And wine to lubric my blood;
They have not left a pile
Of bread and wine to fill it.
We have not left a pile
Of bones and blood to fill it;
But in the wind of Spring
There's a kind of peace, oh Spring,
As still as Death--do Thou
Still keep the crumbling stone,
Although the Church is cold!
A stone's throw off--twere better so.
The world is weary of their show.
God, what a host of worshippers!
I would not have them take their way
Had I the heart to stay.
Some of them, I care not,
Others are loth to stay;
And some are out for courtship,
And some the cold to pay.
God, what a host of nurses!
There are so few of theirs,
That they can send a blessed blessedness
To clean the clods and shavings of all kinds
When they have gone to dust,
Where they have gone to dust,
Where they have gone to dust!
I have seen the moon all full,
But before it had not a cloud,
'Tis a starless night,
And I see no stars at my window;
Only I can show the naked eyes
That have glistened, in their infancy.
And I heard the night begin,
And I saw their silent smiles,
'Twas a vision lost within
The unfallen gates of Heaven.
There's a portly house in Death
Where all men and maids are fair,
'Tis the home I love, 'tis the home for me,
My life's all very sweet.
There's a portly house on Death.
'Tis a ghost that hath come back to me,
And the hearts that have been so sad and sad
Are drifting out with its ghostly sails,
Or ever the world hath had its farewells;
'Tis a ghost that hath come back to me
And I know that the years have rolled away,
And the earth is young,
And the new of the night is old,
And the new of the night is old.
I see the tall lilies of the World,
I hear the Night's tears romp,
And the old Night's tears are a-shed
For all the world's in loss.
But I see with a ghostly hand,
That the stars and the moon eclipsed,
And I see with a ghostly eye,
What it was that I was saved.
You'll not believe that in the tomb
There's no more blissful life than joy,
And there's no more sorrow, void of fear,
But love and joy and strife and song;
There's a heaven where a sword is bright,
But there's a fathoming deathless life
And the hearts that loved when we made our goals
Are never quite so sweet as I.
You'll not believe that in the tomb
There's no more grief nor weariness
Nor a thorn that Love once touched,
But there's life and deathless speech,
And words and tears and tears on earth.
There's an echo of sweet pain,
And so I have said again--
There's a soundless heaven
With the ghosts that my love has sped,
Then there's a voice that sings a lay,
And the world is made no more, I say.
I am weary of the light of my lips
And the songs of my aching heart,
And the song of my wild song of death,
And the song of my long song of love,
And the cry of its cadence waking
The heart of the long hours in, I know.
But there is one who clasps me to her hand,
And the red of dawn is in his eyes;

======================================== SAMPLE 392 ========================================
 as he was minded to be, but not as a man.
As he was going on, and the time came to depart,
The man's cries rent the air, and voices, harsh and strong
Shook the black ooze from the ooze, and in his heart alone
The man's cry swept the air, and the man's moans ran along.
But the word came to that end, as the night grew into day,
And he spoke not a word, but still stared there at the sun.
And the light stretched out afar in patches of dark grey,
And the two turned from each to each, and out in the blue
The word went, and he spoke not a word, but he said
The words that in his heart abide.  And the silence is
Upon the hills, and far away on the deeps of the sea,
And far away on the windless main a voice sings to him,
And far away on the sounding shore are those who have gone
With a waft of memory--and the sound of the oars that groaned
As they drifted, or drifted, or drifted, or drifted, or borne
By the wind that moaned sadly along the horizon of sea.
But they heard it in the distance, and swift as a ship's breath
Came all of them singing; and then again they all turned
Back; and the sound of the oars that groaned was in the air,
And the song was of that death, as of one that in agony died.
And in the darkness he stood there, and seemed to be bending and
Lifted his head towards heaven, and gazed from his lattice to bid
Farewell, and the light came again, and the oar had gone from
His eyes; and he looked again at the white sails heaving with
Hailed, and leapt down to the shore.  The sun went down and the
streams
That were far below, and there was stillness in the sky;
But they looked back as far away, and the summer breeze went by;
And then a voice said softly, "It is in the month of July,
But when the wind is at the mouth of the dark sea, and the
flow
Of the sea, there is no place to rest, nor any harbor close,
If a hurricane be there to stop or a wave to come.
O the sound of the oars that were slackened, and the ship's course
Is slackened as the day grew towards the sky and the night
Yet shall the doors of the oar be wide, for the voice of the wave
Is calling to me now.  I shall know well that the voice of the
Where the waves are at the full in the temple of God,
Shall call to my heart.  If a man is lying on the shore
His head shall be pressed down, and his fair temples shall be
clothed
In white, and the banners of his chief shall be outspread,
And the banners of the honorable shall go waving high.
And we shall know well then, if we are to be false or he'll die."
And now the Lord called unto him with his mighty voice, and he
And the ships he bade them forth:  and lo, a sound of triumph and
The sky was so blue that only the eagle could see, and the
plains
Were bright and quiet as ever that ancient and marvelrous sky.
But before the Holy One he called aloud once more:
"O my Lord, give me peace and a good heart's hope, that my
I will speak though I know not the word of the words, till my
soul
Is bowed in sorrow down.  If he love me and love me still
For his sake, all things I am worthier shall know of him,
Than any one that is worthy of love."
Then with the sound of a trumpet, and the voice of a man
He answered and said:
"O my Lord of the waters, my heart shall never break
Except through joy of living; and all that I love is, so
O my Lord, be with me ever, when the darkness is sharp,
After the silence is long.
Then let me stand on the porch, and my hands will be folded
up tight;
Let this thing be only so spoken as we stand listening
For the word we promised and the look we promised and the
smothered my life,
Let me sit on the porch and to listen and be one with
The evening light is dim--it falls on night--
The light of God!  Where is the light?
It falls on night--it falls on earth--
It falls on men!  Where is the light?
It fell on men in the night--
The light
======================================== SAMPLE 393 ========================================
,--where, from some old oak,
Their old familiar chimneys smoke
With the sun's last rays.
He, when the sun no longer glows,
But slowly sinks from sight,
Far off amid the wastes, and knows
His glorious height.
Now through the tranquil fields of air,
All breathless, on he goes;
Now through the shadows of the wood,
His strength renews its pace;
Now, as the light of opening heaven
Succeeds their grand retreat,
He springs no more amid the leaves
Of loneliest space.
And yet, O, happy, happy elf!
Though all the earth is dark and mute
And devious thou art found,
Thou wilt come forth in turn and go
And play with me a friendly part,
With me in place of lost or won,
As in the living scene;
And let me hear thy timid voice,
Which comes to me so sweetly,--say,
"It must be thou art Lucy!" Dapple's Fairy.
There's not a bit of earth--
There's not a sky;
When the heart of man is torn away
It clings: but in the heart of Heaven,
The starlight of the spirit to the sun gives token.
O, my spirit,
Wilt thou fly with me?
So fair, so sweet, so sweet;
I will stay with thee still;
Thou at my casement wilt lean on my chair,
And I at thy casement will kneel to thee,
And I will speak for thee.
And, waking, thou shalt say:
"Nay, Lucy, though she be
But a vain little thing,
There is none alive to thee
So sweetly as I could!"
And, seizing his sleek hand, he says,
"I will not leave thee here,
Even though her head I violate,
To the dear one who has thee for a pillow."
And I am straightway in my soul's domain,
Alarming with the good, with all the pain,
And with the gentle pressure of my breast,
And then my peace, and then my weakness rest,
And then I come to my peace and rest.
A little while it is,--and Thou shalt come,--
Unchanging, beautiful, for evermore;
I shall not now behold, nor ever see,
The sunlight of Thy peace, nor hear again
The echo of Thy presence o'er the fall
Of waters, as they fall, as they are rolled
Silently down forgotten melodies,
That died like sounds in waters; but I know
Thou comest, and from all these I shall not hear.
A thousand thousand tongues are now my hearth;
But, dearest, I must tell it without loss.
Through thee, O dearest Lady, my heart's blood hath been
All that was worthy of a Lady's love;
And many times, when with my spirit's ecstasy
I have felt thy breath, my life would offer thee
The love of thy calm breast, a perfect sacrifice.
_Vidyāpati says: My life is very blest!_
_Rādhā:_  How is it that the morning flutters through
The dawning of the day, and takes the gold
In the wet sand?--Rādhā, my love, is fain
With us to play the Brahman's part, being young;
But if you search for me, my heart beholds
The Koil that is laden with the oil of youth,--
Yet must I find an enemy in Kama's heart._
_Krishna:_  You must not see, my dear, how Kama's heart
Is filled with hope to know love even now!
Your heart is weighed with bliss, and so can sigh,
Remembering what a lot of lovers do,
When one is lacking in love's happy lore:
But if you dwell there, still am I content
To find the Koil in whose breast the troubles lie:
And if there be aught 'neath the sky of bliss,--
But only Kati's love is such as this,--
I pray you, tell me, tell me, dear, again!
_Vidyāpati says: My fault is hard to find!_
_Krishna:_  The longing for my heart's desire,--
'Twere folly not to sit a fool at pleasure!
When first I came into my own glad heart,
And now my life is left with all love's art,--
My life's delight is gone, a bitter chance,--
Yet will my love no less return to me,
When the young boy is glad of victory,

======================================== SAMPLE 394 ========================================

"The rose's flush is gone, the violets burst
Out of their winter drouth; and, as for me,
The cypress flaunts in the wild windfalls
That scream the violet's dream, as the dark cypress that
Droops in the moonlight and is as a woman's ribbons
When her cheeks are all a-flower. And in that deep
Pale, beautiful, and mournful, she goes up
A face like a far-beaming, beautiful, ripe rose;
And as I look, she leans upon me all night long,
And watches me with wonder and contentment
To see how love and happiness are wed,--
An air of vague, undefined desires, unreached,
And haunted expectation that is only
A dream in some mysterious, shadowy vale,
And whispered only by faint, beautiful voices
That fill the haunted chambers. But I stand
Alone in the night and wonder, with a spirit
That sweeps through the darkness like a sea;
And with a face as fair as any face
In all life's grandest mysteries, forlorn
And desolate, and white with age, and pale
With age's history, and a heart as sound,
A heart as weary, dull with doubt and doubt,
And a life like parting for the sake of the dead,--
The heart that knows not of and of again,
And the light of its own home. An opiate
Of some unholy wine of bitter gall,
And flesh of agony, and the lips of hate,
And the heart too like falsehood. The soul of her
Grown faint with its own sorrow, it needs too
A self-cry for a warning. The world is filled
With a tale of the heartless, and a desire
Of the empty past, and hunger and thirst!
And the man that shall not crave the love of him
Is glad with the soul to God.
The night is grown
Yet not the night. The day's unwasted
And unaccomplished day is slowly passed!
Faint yet again from the dull dull west,
The dull low purple east, the evening star,
The great moon lighting the world; the mists
Of twilight that grow into the grey
Dim west; and no more, in the twilight dim,
The starless dusk that is lost of the sky.
The night has still some rim of silver death
About the life. The black mists glimmer and creep,
Like the pale ghosts of the dead lights of some dead
World-realm whose ghost is like the funeral pyre
Hung over the tomb by a sable shroud.
All is ended now! The starless night again
Gathers itself about the life we live,
And fades as it were in the dawn's thin crimson slain;
And no more faintly from the dark is heard
The sound of song, or a soul's last carolling,--
A ghostly voice of sorrow and joy. The world
Has passed like a day out of death; its face,
Towards heaven, is a pallor.... Oh, the starry night
Seems a pallid phantom. The long-vanished day
Blossoms unextinguished; the long, longed twilight
Leads all my spirit into the light
And grief of it. But through the mist of years
What toil will rise in the heart to bear with the tears
And the soul from the dark outleap? The night
Speaks tenderly to the heart. Oh, never again
Shall its sound through the darkness fall again
On the world we live. The starry night, the star
That will not rest, will have a change. The world
In whose heart all things are, will bring us back
To the days of glory that have left us here.
The stars burn brightly, the leaves are sere,
The stars shine clearly, the leaves are sere.
The stars burn brightly, the leaves lie cold,
The leaves are trembling and drifting, and the leaves are rolled
In the wind that comes from the south.
The trees make no sound, the grass turns grey,
The stars burn brightly, the leaves are dead,
And only the wind goes singing by,
"The leaves have fallen and murmured instead,
And you have come to the fields of the dead,
To wander at last, my child, to die."
You are awake in the morning
With eyes that are golden and lips that are red,
Your lips are astir, like the lips of the dead
That are pale with the heat of the lips of the dead.
The leaves lie still in the valley below
And whisper a word that is whispered and said.
The earth is asleep in the sleep of the day,

======================================== SAMPLE 395 ========================================
, etc.
The two following poems are found in the 'Threes and
Shakespeare (the 'Threes' will be absent from the same line),
The 'Hymn to the Lover' is a beautiful piece of composition, but
'Thackeray' is not inserted in the 'Thistle and Rose' line.
'The Nightingale, etc.
'Love-in-a-mistory' has been one of the most delightful of our
English songs.
'The Lady Jane is tall and young,
Nae maiden has o' me:
'Sister Eliza's gone to the wars,
Ae day's march to see.'
'The Lady Marg'iffin is up,
And she's away to see.
'The youngest that gae o' her thrall,
Far frae me and me.'
'The Lady Marg'iffin is a widow,
A widower and ane,
She's heard o' the knights o' the Norland air,
The wedding-rites by the sea.'
'The Lady Marg'iffin is a widow,
A widower and ane,
She's heard o' the knights o' Norland air,
The wedding-rites by the sea.'
'The Lady Marg'iffin is a widow,
A widower and ane,
She's heard o' the men o' Norland air,
The gallant young gentlemen.'
By the way, by the way, by the light,
When young men have gone to the war,
The lads o' Norland air,
By the way, by the way, by the light,
Are waiting, all waiting for 'Lhornay'
By the way, by the way.
'The Lady Marg'iffin is a widow,
A widower and ane,
She's heard o' the knights o' Norland air,
The wedding-rites by the sea.'
'The Lady Marg'iffin is a widow,
A widower and ane,
She's heard o' the knights o' Norland air,
The marriage-rites by the sea.'
It was not in fair Queen Marg'iffin's wedding-day,
For when before her eyes 'Heaven turns Eternity!'
She heard within her heart the voice of sorrow;
She saw in all her pride how nigh it were to die.
'There's no wine,' she said, 'no corn nor women's singing,
Nor sweet songs to the child's sad play.'
'Heaven knows,' she said, 'no corn nor women's singing,
Nor sweet song to the child's sad play.'
She heard and understood, and then she opened her hand to say
That the soul, being light, hath aught that is beautiful.
'To yonder height,' she said, 'we will go no longer;
Death will find us soon; we will live, and let us be free,
Till time shall have to drink the wine to the devil's fire;
No more the maid shall hear her children's cry.'
At last her foot she turned and to Hellespont's door,
And she ran to meet him in a strange, fearful way.
But he would not go; for she feared the very last
Of her sons. She heard not that her eyes are dim.
She looked below; but he could not follow him.
'I am God's man,' she said, 'to do His will, as I bid thee.'
But the last fear pierced her heart: he bent upon her knees
And took her hand and drew her in one long embrace.
Ah, cruel Love, ah cruel Love,
Away from me, away,
To seek in strange lands thou
Him who made you gay;
Ah, happy I, happy I,
Where the wild deserts flow.
O wilt thou find him there,
Where the tall mountains stand
And the streams run like a river--
Where the bright valleys pass,
And the hills are like a silver ocean,
And the winds are a golden sand,
And the sea a golden sand?
O welcome, Love, to thee,
Home of my restless years!
For the tears that should be shed
Ere I come again,
For the grief of all my people
Who lives by my name in the land!
Dear heart, it is full weary
Since first I saw you smile,
And in strange lands I wander
Yet you are not my style;
No kinder love could ever
I find in my life,
The love of him who made me,
For I lay in his hand;
I know no more of trouble,
But when he beckons me
Where the dark deserts grow,
I know he will be with me
======================================== SAMPLE 396 ========================================
,
With all his t'others, &c.
For this is a mode of shedding tears,
Of thinking that we are worse than peers,
Of cursing Parliament, and of bad laws,
Of doing them justice; and of confessing
That murder speeches are never heard of;
And that we do nothing but sit in the vale,
As we thought it best, as we thought we should;
And that it is ever thinking of some tale
We are sure to receive, and that such as these
Is a matter of course, you may understand.
_Written about the present hour._
For, truly, no doubt,
We are going to be honest,
And to be honest, I vow,
And to act truly, and do so.
Dear rebels, in the best of couriers you have a right to do;
And in any other thing, for the sake of the Prophet, you
Abjure the most wicked of your foes, whose riot you have
And in your own service, for which--in God Himself have
In all the circumstances which are possible to allay
That wronged not your harmless lives, nor made a noise in
your quiet,
Nor righted what was due to the abuse of your race,
And why are your friends so ill, as not to be pitied,
Who thus are so vile, and who greatly mislac'd?
_Your_ enemies hate them; and who can say?
_P. M._ Why, you should have chosen the worst, and not the best
common among the many who in that wicked city dwell,
Who thus are infected with pride and villany,
Who thus have lost man's life, and now go in despair,
And where they come from their prison, in this world
Of senses and senses?--_P. M._ And you, my friends, are
in danger to
These innocent cobblers, madmen and infidels.
_Sec. Bro._ Peace, peace, oh rebels, my friends, I am fain to
murder.
What have I to do with you, my honest prophets,
But I will now tell forth a word of my name
For you to use, in fact. Let them say such a word,
As I fain would sing. For how can I then be a Tory,
Who have no right to complain of your sins, and no right to
abide in the sight of any suffering? No. One man has lost
his head, and his heart,
And his heart is broken.
_Echo._                  What, prithee, prithee?
_Second._ The name of a Tory, or worse, for the sake of the
fourth,
Is that word enough, all the same. It is false enough.--_H. W.]
_Second._ That name,
The most potent of all Tory foes
Who speak with so grave an attack,
But have an ambition to pose it with a trumpet,
A trumpet, I mean, can set you to your feet.
This, this is a subject well compared with a subject
Not to the moral thereof. You think,
In all our business-hunting clans and clans,
That this is a rebellion against a despot.
Have, therefore, with good reason, and with the same feeling!
Remember, dear heroes, in your boyhood, too,
This proverb, not being true, is worth your weight
Of weary debates at this very time.
'Twould hurt a little sometimes to see this truth--
Who could believe it--on any war ground,
With no such reason. But, at the time of war
Such Britons are not so dreaded as they are.
_Second._ A great leader of the _Giantain_, one of the _Fiancise_
"And if he conquers, it happens to strike him dead;
If he overcome, then this is no reason for him.
He hath a sword, _H. W. S._ A good old sword,
_Echo._ And this, too, is but a sad affair
Of warring souls and bodies out of chains."
_Second chorus of this _New York Evening Mail_:
No, not so. The _Nancy Journal_, with its benefits,
Has surely rendered up the history of
The first grand discovery that the _Babel_
Gave birth to the first canto. The facts, at the close,
Had no longer been conjoined upon a _Nest_,
But that the devil must have an _Enoise_ to sell,
And that the souls _ex_were doomed to suffer thus,
Were the sole cause of _
======================================== SAMPLE 397 ========================================
 in gold,
And silver-headed men-at-arms withal:
Then, in the midst, the brazen-voic'd clarion,
To call the Magi from their battlements:
And round each banner in his hand
Thy pennon wide and signals all the East:
And round thy pennon weave the glittering arms
Thy thunder-bearer as the sun at noon,
Mighty with outstretch'd hand and bloodless robe.
And on thy breast the sacred poetry
Thou art, from which thy name is written down,
As at the maker's hest, an image fair
Of Godhead, in thy being portray'd: and there
Sits on thy right hand Victory, thy Power
The goodly city of the world to come:
Whose godlike glory, in the thunder-cloud,
Shall never float, nor roll the smoke of war
Above its surface. Yea, though thou art in it
In mortal stabs; yet, in thy mortal toils
To bring all shapes and phantoms of the world,
Thyself art worthy of the precious gold
And all the fairings of this glorious land
Which from the dust doth pass away;
Whose living gold doth enrich and move
The senseless rock, and cast the base stone by,
As, all but yesternight, the level sands
Were cloth'd with purple, and the sea with pearls,
And all the stars with their great diadems
Did dance about it in a glittering ring
Of rays and sparks, as if the splendour of
Their glory mock'd the folly of the wise.
Thy brows are all of gold, but thou dost hold
The breath of morning: so, from thy fair brow,
Sleep'st thou, or ever Death his wings hath pluck'd
For prey,--but ever shall he snare thy fame,
As now thou liest at that golden gate,
Thy great broad eye which laughs at thee no more?
To thee the sun owes his devouring looks,
And thy pale cheeks, and lovely face, and lips
Still do their best, nor yet are changed to anything;
And all the air is full of thy deep voice
Of utter speech and sound; and all the waves
Of time, their constant flow, and all the suns,
And all the souls of sea-born nymphs and stars,
Have fill'd the void, and in their midst immense
Thine own high presence: how, when thy fierce light
Hath shaken from thee the world's old heart,
And from thy wings blown thee their guardian fire,
How hast thou left the sea-beaten sands, to meet
The new-born glory of the earth and sun's
And mounting mounting heaven, and left the sky
To be the first fair glitter of thy face!
To be a brother of the joyous life,
When thou hast made thy home; and wilt be still
Our heaven's eternal canopy: for not
As now, does thy high head, like the cedar,
But in its proper state, before thy face,
And thy sweet mouth the wide world openeth,
So thy high soul, enrapt, as now it is,
Lies like a dream of pain'd eternity.
Thy glorious memory, even in sleep
Of death and glory! is a dream to die
For ever before thou art born again.
For not when suns have disappear'd in night,
Nor when the moon hath disappear'd in east,
Nor when the stars have set, nor when the moon
Has, like the cloud of time, melted away,
Nor when the moon hath disappear'd in space,
Nor when they've vanish'd from the shining skies;
Nor when again before thine eyes doth seem
The world and its great brethren, utter thine
Intrusive and yet vain-whispered thought!
Thine eyes, how do they hold a mighty power
To make up all, or limit or abate,
Or add unto thy life a thousand forms
That never more can hold the breath of God?
How doth that love which can do this, stir the
Soul of the beautiful within his self
A thousand shapes, and lift him, or to hold?
Yet not as with the senses which see through
A dream-shot's windows Life of Life to be,--
Even such thy love which in the dream doth fill
A thousand forms, nor in one rosy drop
Even of thine own, that can have life itself
Within thy soul as to a rainbow mist.
This is the secret of the Universe;
And the vain hope thou darest to know of this,
That, ere thy spirit birth
======================================== SAMPLE 398 ========================================
 from this note,
The poet's name shall live in your prose,
And my name be not cut by the poet's touch,
Nor I thy father's. You know my song,
My friends, our country, England, and the world
Were once our pattern. There is not a word
To tell a poet.
I am here with you
My last sixpence, then,
To tell all to my father's father,
And to his mother's brother Hales, then, too,
To follow you.
There is not a man among us better can
Be true as we are true, and not to the world.
You know my song, Sir.
You know the stars
That pass on the blue sky, and the moving stars
That follow in the space of some great world
Wherein God hath made all the stars divine,
And the soft stars that follow the dark world
Are a symbol and sign.
You know the stars, Sir,
They are three shining spirits in Heaven--the first souls.
I cannot make them out. I say to myself,
What are they?
You know the stars
To-morrow, then.
You know that star--
I'll not believe it, for it was all night.
The stars are dead, Sir.
You know that star.
The stars are dead.
The moon has gone into the midnight sky.
You know that star.
I'll not believe it now.
The moon was nailed in stone to make it out,
And a great star is nailed in silver, Sir,
The seal of its own hand has nailed it to
The seal of the sealed hand, Sir,
A seal and a seal on the sealed seal.
The moon is the true sign.
A star is nailed in the sealed book.
You know how the stars are here.
I do believe the sealed hands are drawn between them.
My soul is a broken star, dear Lord,
And a broken star is nailed in stone.
The moon is the true sign.
The star is lost in the sealed book,
But the symbol star will live in heaven.
(A wind from the sea comes creeping
From the sea to the shore
and leaves us on our knees,
and ceases here.)
We know that star--
It is the sign that will return ere our eyes
can fill with light.
They are the white stars of hell,
but the stars are white in heaven.
Scent of the night-wind
mellow,
cent of the sea-wind
but not so;
they are white stars of hell, and are fresh stars
of fire.
When you touched them
that they had turned black
till the light was
a vision of the stars,
then you waved up your hands,
and the great stars of hell
would be red,
then you waved their tongues,
then you waved up your hands and the great deep
dark night,
starry like statues
in a temple,
till we had become gods,
and the gods of Babylon,
thundering at the gates of hell.
You are white waves of sea,
but our star is a symbol,
and our dark star, the emblem
of eternal things,
the star of the night, the symbol
of the world, the shadow, the light.
If that star went away,
then you waved a flower on the tree,
then the flower came
and kissed the child that was born of a tree,
and the flower went away.
If that flower came still
then the angels would know it.
If the night came and only the rose returned.
You are white waves of sea,
but the night came and only touched the flower.
If that flower came still,
then the angels would know what it was to have known
a thing for the angels of love,
and how it came to be known
and how it came to be known.
You are white waves of sea,
but the moon came upon you and caught you unaware.
With a flower in your hair,
you are white waves of sea.
You are white sea-foam,
and the sea-weed has bound you,
but the sea-weed has bound you,
and floats between you and me.
If that flower came still
then the angels would know it,
if that flame should fall off and be buried among you.
Your wings are gray and thin,
but I would hide them within mine,
and let them fly out of the air,
and conceal them to men,
and hide the truth from my men.
When this flower came back,
it was white as a flower,
it was white as a flower,
and the flower was red.
It is
======================================== SAMPLE 399 ========================================
 of
A blackbird sings
In the trees,
When the weather's warm,
'T is the footstep of a stranger to your castle,
A stranger to the castle of a stranger
A blackbird sings
On the ground,
When the weather's cold,
'T is the footstep of a stranger
A blackbird sings
In the boughs,
When the skies are clear,
Oh, what is your surprise, dear?
Your coming is fear, love,
And I see the reason of the blackbird
A blackbird sings
When the weather's cold,
Your coming is cold, love,
And I meet you here, love.
If you meet this face, my dear,
I will speak to you, my dear,
If you meet this wood, my dear,
I will speak to you, my dear,
If you meet this gloomy forest,
I will shut the door,
If you find no kind friend, dear,
In the shadowy forest
Of the sky,
When the darkness falls, my dear,
I will know and fear no better,
For I'll meet you here, my dear,
And I'll welcome you, my dear,
And I'll tell you tidings of a hundred pounds
A-healing on a hundred pounds on one,
When the weather's cold,
Away from the land, my dear,
While the first red leaves of autumn fall,
While we reap the golden grain, my dear,
While we feed the first spring rain, my dear,
While we live the sweetest rain, my dear,
While we live the sweetest rain &c.
It fell in the year of our youth, my dear,
When our little ones came back, my dear,
That we knew each other, as maids have will,
And met in the glades of love, my dear,
To lead them to the door of love, my dear,
And we two were the first of all, my dear,
When the weather's cold,
By day and night, my dear,
Our course was always on the same, my dear,
And I and my darling were born one day, my dear,
By the selfsame, white star in the sky, my dear.
There came a storm and wept the while, my dear,
And then I knew myself again, my dear,
And wept for joy and wept because her smile
Was gone in the day we twain, my dear,
And she made me all forget my arm, my dear,
And now you'll think what that can be, my dear,
As sure as your name is writ, my dear,
My dear, I know,
It's true no more,
I know, it's true,
There's no place can ever be more, my dear,
For there's naught can ever last, my dear,
There's ne'er a flower can bloom for me, my dear,
That would not blossom for the winter, my dear,
For there were hearts all cold and heartless, my dear,
And they are dead to me, my dear, my dear.
O Love, your heart is warm to mine,
It beats more wildly to thine!
O Love, it's warm and warm to mine,
But in its coldness I knew, my dear,
That, when thy coldness leaves my heart,
Thy warmest tone will be my cry, my dear:
O Love, thy coldness leaves my heart,
Yet, e'en in this cold world, my dear,
I find my faithful spirit still,
And yet, through all my woe and ill,
My faithful love will follow me, my dear,
And I will hold my peace, my only dear.
O Love, 'tis winter now, my dear,
And in the frosty mist and snaw,
Oh! fold thy sparkling pinions, Love,
And cheer the cheerless seagulls out
From the chill wind and frozen snaw;
To cheer them on their journey forth,
Oh! let thy spirit, winged for love,
Float through the frosty paths of ice,
And with the heart of a loving host,
Let all those sorrows all depart,
And let the world's dark tempests drift;
As it will be, from night to day,
O'er the icy hills of Winter,
Ere the wild rose blasts befall,
May I ever rise to greet thee,
Wilt thou ever be my brother?
Hast thou still a hope of me?
And a faith, and a trust must be
In the trust of every fairy,
A man's growing fancy,
The dream of each
======================================== SAMPLE 400 ========================================
 the
Of the Old-World commonplace.
The clouds, the rain, the wind, the rain, the rain--
My heart is sore--my very brain goes clack again.
And I do walk all night beside my dear one's feet,
All night beside my dear one's feet.
The tears I shed are galling everywhere,
It is so freezing and so very fair--
It is so freezing and so very fair--
It is so freezing and so very fair--
It is so freezing and so very fair--
It is so freezing and so very fair--
It is so freezing and so very fair,
It is so freezing and so very fair,
It is so freezing and so very fair,
I would not stir--
For I am very weary--
And I am very weary--
It is so freezing and so very fair--
It is so freezing and so very fair--
We have been happy--
We have been happy--
No one is sad--
Has ever felt a sadder, sadder pangs
Than when he sighed to the delightful sounds
Of his beloved's "Ah, my God!
How can I love and live thus?--
For I am very happy;
And blither than the birds are every day,
And blither than the April-showers are they,
And wiser than the Autumn-apple-dew,
And blither than the April-leaves are they--
And blither than the April-leaves are they;
And better than the April-apple-dew,
And blither than the April-showers are they;
And merrier than all the mer-winds warm,
And merrier than all the May-flowers are,
Are those who love--and they are always sad.
O, the night is very dark and the moon is pale,
My love is like a little child alone--
Alone she comes to me to say good-night,
And mother's like a child that cannot guess
Why mother's like a child who never knows
Her own sweet way of creeping on the grass.
The night is very dark and the moon is pale,
My beloved's like a little child alone--
A child asleep on some grass-grown pale.
The night is very dark and the moon is cold,
My beloved's like a little child alone--
Alone she comes to me to say good-night--
And never say a thing that never knew
A child in any way that mother's tongue
Has written--not that never heard it sung
Or any meaning--only this I see:
Alone she comes to me to say good-night.
The night is very dark and the moon is cold,
The moon is like a little child alone--
Alone she comes to me to say good-night
And mother's like a creature who cannot guess
Why mother's like a child asleep on grass.
The night is very dark and the moon is cold,
My beloved's like a little child alone--
Ah, mother! but I see my love so old,
And mother's like a woman who cannot guess
Why mother's like a child asleep on grass.
The night is very dark and the moon is cold,
My beloved's like a child asleep on grass--
Ah, mother! but my love will never tell.
For I am very weary of the tree
That looks no more upon the sunlight there,
For fear the moon should quench my thirst of air
That drowns the daylight in an endless sea--
A cloud upon the sunset sky is cast,
And far across the sky I wander now--
Ah! mother, but my love will never tell.
I will arise and go,
I will go,
I will go,
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay
I will stay

======================================== SAMPLE 401 ========================================
 of a day.
They were out from their wits in the morning, to stray
On a path that seemed to be moonlit at dawn.
The trees that stood in the garden, they thought, were asleep,
And the leaves that crept to the branches were gone.
The trees that stood in the garden, they said, were asleep,
Or they heard the song and the gurgle of rill.
But the words they heard then followed the murmuring stream,
And they thought of the times when the forest grew still.
The birds that came with a twittering, glancing fin;
The water that broke in the gurgle of rill.
Then they heard the birds singing, a welcome, glad cheer,
Till their hearts grew young again in the glow.
And the winds that came with a low, plaintive voice,
And the waves that came in an overwhelming rejoice.
"Away!" they cried, "the good luck may come to the door;
O, how shall we sit in the summer-tide o'er
With the fruit-trees hanging their wet heads before?"
"The harvest may come to the wheat-field," they said.
"The Lord of the harvest may come to the fold;
The Lord of all bounty may give to our need.
His servants may bring us grain to feed the poor.
He makes who sowth, who sows, to his fields, a grain
Of wisdom and goodly seed; for these are He
Who plows with light and care the world, the sun,
Is the Father of corn."
They stopped. And the wind that came in an anger and flails
Swept the wheat-field and scattered it into strips.
"Our harvest may come."
But the wind that came in an anger and flails
Swept the wheat-field and shattered it into strips.
"Our harvest may come,
To be glad with the sun.
To be sad with the flowers in their marrow and bloom
And to have love in the great world for the show."
The wind that came in an angry and loveless fashion
Whips the wheat-ear to the skin as it cuts.
"Let us dine, then, with the fowls on the wing.
And sing, then, while the moon is waxing, a song!"
"The stars that go Far in the evening, the stars that wane,
The stars that die Far in the midnight, the stars that wane."
"Ah, woe is me!
My doom has come upon me."
Far and faint was the calling,
Far and faint from the calling;
And the moon waxed and waned slowly,
And the dead leaves waned slowly.
And there on the hill anon in the dim light lying,
He saw this dead man lying;
And he wailed, and cried, "The doom that is come upon me
Is the doom that is waiting on me!"
He cried, "O me!
I have no child or mother."
The dead man lay dead, as dead as ever;
They never hear him, never heed him,--
For the dead leaves wailed as he.
And the curse of the shadow was in his soul,
For the shadow of the coming night.
_O earth, my womb is full of thee,
And all the trees and beasts of all the forest tree,
And all the trees and beasts that live on every tree:_
_O earth, my womb is full of thee._
But the sun rose and the moon grew faint in the night:
The last rays brake asunder:
He rose and went, and yet he came not back.
And the dead leaves wailed asunder.
With the last blaze of the earliest light
They died away; and the last light went ill--
And the snow ground on the mountains was so still
That the cry went up from the trees,
And the wind blew loud, and the white moon went down;
And the last light wailed, and the sun went down.
Night fell; and at the end of all
The winds and the stars of all,
And all the sea and the heavens and all the sea
Wailed loud, and the sun went over him.
The last light lit in a sorrowful light
Grew thin and all was still,
Nor did they know how long the last woe had been.
But one was lying asleep in his bed:
And the tempest blew behind:
And the face of the sun was hidden from his eyes;
And the face of the sun was hidden from his eyes.
His face shone as the sun had shone before;
Nor did he dream to wake:
For the face of the sun had hidden there,
======================================== SAMPLE 402 ========================================
 to the sky,
Lest its too heavy weight should seize me,
So that I sink beneath the river.
And the water-buckles, white and dripping,
And the pine-trees dripping, drip and trickling:
And the birch-trees, crisp and muddy,
And the rain-drops, dripping, dripping, dripping.
These all came crowding into assembly;
The last came, and the last stood still and gazing.
All stood up with heads all bent together;
Then the others stood and looked at each.
"We shall see our able tongues," they cried,
"For the thousand years that we come to,
And that never will be, or have, or.
God's, who sees all things, He gives to each one
Power more than any power can reach Him,
As we learn by faith how power can reach Him.
Praise we for our gifts and privilege,
Praise we for ourselves and privilege,
Praise we for ourselves, that are His;
His, who sent us out of the far world
Broken down in cold sweat and agony;
Out of the night of the cold and tumult,
Out of the shuddering and turmoil
Of the earthquake, out of the din of the thunder,
Out of the heat of the blinding lightning,
Out of the beating rain and lightning,
Out of the crash of the roofs and thunders,
Out of the flash of the crash of the thunder,
Out of the night of the dull, grey night,
The wonderful shining cleft of light--
The miracle singing so hidden and tender,
Out of the fear and terror of God.
"Nay; who am I that I should cast off this thing
Before me?  Ah, who have I done this thing?"
"And what the answer?"
"And have I done it?"
"I have taken no hurt.  I am not hit."
"It is this, I know--that by God's decree
The people of England shall stand before me.
Have I done this?  I am shot.  The cannon-balls,
I know, are shaking the earth with a roar,
Then I shall strike on the head of the host of the enemies,
They shall smite me and hound me and hound me and stun me
With the teeth that my sinews are being cloven."
"I have done so, I have taken the stake."
"Now I shall strike it--I have struck on the stake."
"Now I shall strike not, but always I shall strike."
"The stake's a prize on which Erinna's men have striven,
The ships of the wind have fallen on the lea,
'Neath the light of the sun, in the quivering blue of heaven,
There is one thing alone which is not to be--
There is nothingness with the things they call humanity.
Doubting and doubt--and the faith in them--
And the love of them which all true men love.
(Dread and faith and honor, and the courage, vigor and fire,
The terror of the soul where all men are).
If this be not the thing's the better so,
If this be but the real, and the real good,
If this be but the real well, and the real good.
(Seeing the sea and the sky and the earth and the heaven,
And the love they are taking every day for a goal.)
Dread and doubt and trouble in the soul.
(Seeing the world through the fire of them,
And the love men are making every day for a goal.)
Dread and doubt and dread,
For the old sword's sheath and the other hand,
And the sword's sheath and the left hand,
(Seeing the sword spilt out in the sheath of swords,
And the shield of the hill where men went forth in one battle,
And the shield of the hill whence giants drew forth men.)
Dread and fear and trouble in the soul;
(Seeing, oh, too surely, the hope of them
Who loved so well, and knew so well, and loved so blindly),
Dread and doubt and trouble in the soul.
(Seeing the sea and the heavens and the heavens,
And the love that is left of them and the hope of them;
And the love in their hearts that was with their own,
And the hope that was left of them and their own,
And the faith that could find no refuge in hell,
And the justice that might forget and pardon it,
And the hope that was left of them and their own,
For long and long they prayed and long were they silent,
But long ere the end came the old strife came over.
======================================== SAMPLE 403 ========================================
, in the "Pastor of Eden"
That she who sang of "misery" shivering,
Of the wild world's torment and woe,
Of sorrows of a spent child's weeping.
And when the tale of her had passed
To the last word of Love's sweet mouth
It was; and of the one I loved
There was no more song in the refrain
Than to stretch forth an empty hand
And tear out the heart of pain.
Her heart was so set, her way fell so soon,
That the way she took was not long;
And her soul, a bird upon the bough
Dropped its cup and sang for joy.
But there was on the earth a new-born thing,
A new-born child, and sweet from the time
Of its first fresh hope and the thought of men,
And the way she had learned of her love and her life
Was grown to a close, not grief,
And the way she knew not the heart knew her life,
Was filled with the griefs, and the pain,
And only the tears.
And she knew not of God, nor had borne or forgot,
Nor of any, nor had she felt, nor spelt,
Nor known the disease and the pain,
Nor had felt, nor had hoped or striven,
Nor had hoped nor feared in the years
That should blast their wings.
But she knew not the way God had given,
Nor knew what might bring the curse,
And had built her dream of a better thing
Than to nurse and to nurse--
That the world had known of her all its ways,
And the world that had kept so much with her
Had grown to its purpose and loved her and died,
And lived again in its ways.
And her love, for a time, and her love was dead,
And the world was hidden from her,
And she lived for a hundred or a hundred years,
And her love was gone to the end.
But to come again to her side once more,
So long as the dawn was young,
The dayspring lent him to us so rare,
And our souls were filled with the promise of love,
And the dream was hid from the cloud.
For her God was true to her faith and her love,
And a rose of promise is thorn
That blooms where the laurel is ever new;
For her faith in the things that were born
That were shed by the blood of the tree,
And the hope of all loving--was brief, was nigh;
And life in the wreath was a bitter lie,
And the hand of the shadow of death
Had left the touch of the life.
And the days grew long and the world grew dark
As the shadow of night grew thin;
And life in the shadow of death grew stark,
And love grew sorrow-worn
Through the mists of death to the last of the world--
As the soul that had left us never a mark
Was left in the face as a bar
To the hate of the world and the love of the place,
And, born of the newness that still must endure,
We, too, were the same!
And the world had all grown but a hideous night,
And Time was the oldest thing,
And the slow years grew and the last came of us,
In the hope of our spring, in the faith of our youth,
When the world had first found us wise
To look up and see the skies,
And the heavens and the sea and the face of the world
As they saw the dawn of the morning, and heard
The sound of the wind-beat wings
Of the little red kine, and the long low cry
Of the little flying stork, and the long low cry
Of the little red kine.
So the day grew old and the world grew strange,
And the sun went down in the west,
And the old, old life had grown a rosy mist
And the last went out as the last went down
From the sun-red west.
Now the air was alive with new life,
And the sea was alive with new life,
And on out of the mist a golden star
Was burning, a strange star;
And a voice was heard, and a sound grew strong,
And the old man stood on his knees,
And said, "There is nothing, the star's own star,
On the field of heaven and seas!
There is nothing, my heart, but the light, the light!"
And the old man shook his head,
And suddenly, from a dream-haunted place,
He saw the star, and the face of the angel,
And the face of the angel, and thought of a name

======================================== SAMPLE 404 ========================================
,
and W----n, T. W.,
and VI, T. Letty, T. Letty's MSS.
In the Days of Wight, when _Otios_ was seene
That this same vnto _Saturn_ no more was reene,
Though that the earth with _Oge_ had no more seene;
But that long wall which stood vpon the ground,
_Otios_ so strongly hew'd where God had found.
In many a swich plyant, on the street,
That greecely stood vpon the middle streete,
Where the _Amontium_, _Trompa_, and the _Adorn_
Did first their happy state, with all their haide,
And praisd the present happinessfull ayde,
Where God had giued that all should be so loyall,
And with their owne triumphant joyfull ayde.
To tell a thousand trifles with a feightfull cheere,
At once to take a draught, of which the eye much nere would feare,
And then to let _Tiberius_ list the sweeping streame,
To see some great _Proteus_ to his hearte-castle growne,
To which some braue _Gyneura_ hardly would be knowne,
So much to him a _Gyneura's_ guiltlesse state
Was then enamord'd: so _Bacchus_ did accesse
The _Gyneura_ for himselfe, that to his state
He came himselfe, to see if _Dius_ brave;
To _Cacus_, or to _Nereus_ he would have
A _Dius_ to extoll his selfe, to whom he giues,
His owne great shame, his faithfull godlinesse,
And how the friezes of his sins did rake.
But _Mopsus_ with _Ouid_ could not choose but loue;
Whose loue was _Saturn_, that he did to him keepe,
And was his spirit drawne more by his teares
Then heauy _Quisquis Fabi_, whose base pretie,
Hee vow'd to be the great _Pyramus_ of Heau'n,
Because he durst with such a base intent
Vnto the _Nymphs_, to vpe his handiue moues,
Doe not aduenture, but set farthingale
On his woues, loue-geling _Iasius_ preues,
His sonne, he will vse to haue to vtter him,
Which of the gods he vow'd to haue some care:
With which shee leaue him her yett, then shee vndreame
Doe read _Mopsus_, read _Clymenas_, read _Deo_,
And all the Prophets of the East aduish,
Whose sacred Truths aboue to God-head are,
And with their Apes vndunke the golden aire;
Whose Light daz'd _Bacchus_ and his sacred heires,
And his _Euphrates_ (though his _Arctics_ all,
Made out of _Arctics_, neuer yet brought forth)
Doe not commend his thoughts, thy matter, doth marres;
As in this worke, his countenance did feare,
And he did smile; thus doth he proue innocent.
And like heauens heau'n, so streight these twyes he fynd:
Nor is he now indifferent to his taste,
Whom he thought feild, yet doth he now remoue the twist,
And ere his eyes he marr'd, doth vow and speake,
And in these words did haue his vowelie keepe.
Vntill his mind is drest, he vowes to prove it:
And to this relicke of that timefull heiress,
When as the winds had played the _Eagles_ dirges,
The loue-haun'd poespos in his mind doth heau'n,
And he in her, nor he in her his vse, nor shee.
His heart is now vnlesse, as if it did pant,
And though his body were but flesh & fleshy,
Yet was his heart but brasse, alas, to bloat,
As fire that's fed, vnlesse to bloat hath v
======================================== SAMPLE 405 ========================================
 of the present century.
We can but do what we can.
Our hearts will not be weighed down by pride and greed;
It is our own time.
For we have no choice.  To-day is all we need.
Our hearts will not be weighed down.
A fool has won himself, and he must fight for his own,
And he shall find his own.
The world must fight for him
Till he is very old.
He must not fight for men,
Or lead the other side.
Let no man be a fool.  He must go mad and dull
From place to place.
Let him be utterly beaten, and go back
To his own place.
Why should the fool cry to God
And beat himself with pride?
Our God does not despise.
Our God is not a fool.
We cannot bear His wisdom.  He can smite off our foes,
That is our loss:
And there's a greater loneliness in God's universe
Than pride and change.
There are no stars to burn in our esteem
For the to-morrow's gain.
There are no hands to cast away
The shovel and the pain.
He does not save us all from grief
Or forwardness, His own,
Nor yet the whole world's wealth and gain
For that old-fashioned gain.
He counts it gain to strive and fail,
He counts it gain to die,
His poor old friend's, who stays alive
And shouts to live or die.
The Christ whose name is John,
Whose name is Robert,
Is captain among all the host
Of all the ages, master without a loss
And master within a soul of selfishness,
Whose place is place or time for living things,
And not for time.
A light has loomed across the sea.
The night is as an ancient sea
Which has a wave before it.  It is night:
For all its waves are silver, and with pearls
It decks the deep.
My feet go down to the shore
To seek this ghostly shore.
It was an open hand,
And there I lay me down to rest;
And it was very light:
For it was very light.
The weary night came so,
I put my face to bed.
It was but a little child,
And I lay fast asleep on its mother's knee,
The same it used to say:
Three years ago it was,
And the rest was all gone;
Yet I have struggled up to the dawning day
And cried among the trees:
So it seems that I am still to say.
It is not crying, "Mother, mother!"
This is not childhood, surely:
We think and speak in heaven.
We have lived and gladly, forever:
It is our daily bread and food,
Not with the world's care for us.
We are very old:
Our clothes are stained and old.
We cannot get a song.
We must grow strong.
Then it is right for youth,
And then the old world's wrong.
The dawn of the day is bright.
Over the hill a sound of noise,
And now the wind has brought the rain.
It is the voice of the night again.
The sun is up, the day is gone,
And lo! how bright a sunlight shines
Beyond the shadow of his bars,
Upon the little church.
The clouds are gone;
Only the sun looks up, and then
The light comes up again, and men
Are standing by the graves.
The little winds wake softly;
The snow lies thickly on the ground,
That covers all the graves.
I hear the noise of sleeping sailors' bells
That rise upon the stormy deep.
There must be such a bell below the steeple:
I think that they will never toll again.
The little birds fly out and speak to one another,
They are silent always, and I think they will never
rot the cold stones to keep out their sleep.
The little clouds go slow and bright,
The winds blow cold and bitter,
The little clouds lift up their heads
And still their voices hover
Over the lonely sea.
The little clouds smile on their bed,
The winds go gay and busy,
Their shadows make a soft soft bed,
The little clouds smile on their breast,
And they lie on their mother's breast.
Oh, little white clouds go slowly through the sky;
What need is there of wind to keep you dry?
My mother has gone away.
She left me talking on the deck;
And a shadow fell across the sea.
And mother said, "My own child, come home,
Your shadow falls across the sea."
The shadow
======================================== SAMPLE 406 ========================================
, of Bôleven, had sent it the following
The following pages contain advertisements of
disappointment.
(2 examples of this passage need note here. reflect, that in
providing the same story, "Ço Pietro, seul."  See
(3)  Adventure (Canto XII.).
(4)  "I have found out a place in the forest, where live giants
(6)  "Benedict".  See the "Garden of Satan".
(7)  "O fiends", see Adventure VIII., in Adventure XXI.
(8)  "Atremble".  The island of the Beder is situated at
Eq., on the shores of the Beder Beder Beder Beder, in the
Druzzi's "Catiline", p. 197.  The Beder is situated in
Florent's land of the same name.
(9)  "The Eagle".  The Eagle's cognomen of the star.
(10) The Beder is situated in Spain (see "Siena", and the
Brutello da Duera (some twenty-seven).  See note on Adventure XXII.
(11) This journey of the Beder Beder is not remarkable.  The
"Numa".  The Dogs, or little birds, of the same name.
(12) When Beder is situated, the river Nubian is enumerated by
(13) The ancient mythology, in its mythology.  The legend is
found in other Beds of Beder Beder, of a small distance
in the Troad, and the sources of the mountains near Elis.
(14) The district of Italy. See the poem on the "Garden of
(15) The quasi-Garden would be situated.  There is an interesting
personification of the goddess is supposed to have been
sprung from the stem of the tree of the Fleece of the island.
(16)  "The Citaphic goddess was of the hair and wool of Areta, the
(17) From the Greek word μολεκός, the most famous Minyæa, who was
born at the eastern goal of the Mediterranean; and having become
surrounded and then sent a part of the earth to him.
(19) I should have regretted that I have laid my boat upon the
water in a deep place near the river Nubon.  After having
passed from here it is not certain whether I shall go or no
overtaken by any other motive.
(20) I do not believe that it is necessary to risk your undertaking.
In consequence, I shall leave you to inquire into different
interest:  I shall have something to answer you in this place,
that between you and me there are no greater feud than that
between Fiesole, in which the difference of ages begins when the
poem was written, has sometimes occurred in the literary language.
(20) According to the geography of the Mediterranean, into which
Mengrab was buried in 159 he died 1109.  His survive written on the
truth that the tenth part of the poem will not bear the same
hundred marks.
(21) A reference to the fortieth Century, about which time the
whole year was over, a kind of augury.  On this point he was
surprized, and the whole of his life suffered contempt and disgrace
(23) According to the prophecies of the 13th century, alluded to
the Emperor Napoleone, the daughter of Ruggieri (or Appolo,
(25) The Emperor Constueuf of Modena, on August 21, succeeded to the
anperial brother of Londonus, the latter of whom was the
title-stanza., and died 1109.  A very important prophecy of this
personal lapse is assigned in the 13th Book of the Conquest of
Shingebís, which Valerus introduced to her, and which she is
kingdom.
(26) The guerdon of these stories is not mentioned in the
poem Cid. II. and XXXIII
(27) The circumstances suggested in Zentia by the incident in
which were related in the _Thuringa saga_, c. xviii
(28) The events in the _Thuringa saga_ (Convito) were the
truth about the birth of that imperial oracle may be supposed
to have been derived from an ancestry known afar in Europe,
and as the origin of the prophecy is probably the result of
the tale.
(29) The idea may seem to have been suggested by the following
comment on the line described.
(30
======================================== SAMPLE 407 ========================================
, _Falls_, _Brasshoppers_. And if there were a
magnificent name of "Rheme Férminal," as it would merely be
"Hector" (Klir) "Captain"--as it would seem to the scheme--
"With the dead body at his feet
And the two arms extended wide,
And the fierce spirit in his side.
No--he was back in Calydbounde,
Where down the trackless pass he fled;
No--he was back in Calydon,
Where _Ce_ kept guard in bottles led;
No--he must back in Calydon
Where _Ce_ fought now, and _Ce_ was slain;
No--he must back in Calydon,
Where _Ce_ had taken _Fell_ away,
Where _Desket_ lay in her despair,
Where _Desket_, starting from his bed,
Stood at the doorways of the stairs,
For he was gone in Calydon,
There _Thomas_, with his dame at heels,
Followed the steps of Peterkin;
Followed the maid of Tso,
With the three hues of night that flit
Before an overshower to a light,
That shone like moonlight through his hair,
And, like a glory, seemed to be
Of the three sports of Pe incomplete.
But, "in my soul," said little Bob,
"I'd rather not be seen at all,
Than thus so near a precipice
Of frozen water, than be hurled
Along to where we now shall be,
Instead of lanterns in the hall,
A mile away and in an awe,
To see the mist like pigmy law.
"Ay, but, somehow, it seems to me,
It seems to me so very strange
To see, on the next turn-day,
A crowd of people steadily
Round the fire at the top of the range,
Like comets in a stormy sea,
Or like stout fellows in a fight,
But as that company grew old,
Out of three forests came a knight
With six bright beards in his bright hand,
And a black eagle in his hand.
"And he was gone," the knight said, "he
Has nothing left to regret the day;
But, rather than be placed apart,
He could not raise a tear for him,
Though he had heard from that accursed land
The name of his lost knight's Sire."
The knights approved with grave rebuke
And followed after him the same;
And never half believed that Brown,
Sitting alone in his gray-green gown,
Of all those summer months and years
Which time and summer, in the reed,
Had made with all their laughing pride,
And whispered many a dubious word
That was not deep enough, indeed,
But he would rather be alone,
To have it be a week from him
Than tell three days of what he thought
In all the flowers of his thought.
Thus, happily, they all went forth,
And, to the hunting as they would,
Dwelt with the knights about the hearth,
And thought that they must hunt them down,
Till, when the night was almost done,
Came neither cheerful peal and call,
Nor challenge, challenge from at all,
Nor challenge by challenge, none,
Till, through the silence and the black,
They heard the quick grey squirrels bark,
And watched the elfin-light about,
And watched the shadows as they went,
Until it seemed that little bare
Fell feathering at their feet.
And then, as the great day drew near,
'Twixt the low woodland and the blue,
There came from some wide-waving cleft
A little barefoot boy, who threw
A light robe round him as he strode,
And seemed to crouch over him as he drew
Into the thicket, then stood still,
And, turning to his foot, said, "'Tis
Some minnow's bird that loves the tree."
"Alas!" replied the wondering maid,
"What thing is this that moves the crowd?
It is a withered old witch-wight,
And in her shroud she is not bowed;
But she has heard from the woods of night
And followed her own grandmother."
Oh, to his hair they laughed again!
His beard they tossed like a red ball,
And o'er his eyes like sparks he played
As he slept on that fatal morn.
'Twas morning yet, but scarce a third
Had gone the merry moonlight on,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 408 ========================================

And took his journey to the southern shore,
And there beheld the Cyclops; for eremore
The monster-crowded Cyclops had an end,[ga]
The Cyclops had his dwelling in the main
By his own craft, and there was found the friend
Of the old Sirens, or a cave or tower:
For that they told him all the tale of all,
But all in vain; which now he finds again,
To move the mind, and give the youth the strength
To tell his story; for the tale itself
Was not for idle talk by such a way;
But in their course to Pylos in his quest
Was bidden to declare the wonders there,
How in the roaring cavern is a cave;
And how therein, from all the shore afar,
There lives no gentle girl who bears her fate
In joyous words, and tells the ancient tale
Untold, unbroken by the tale, or why
Awaits the growing of the rock to be
Anigh the olive-bough: there, with a song,
The tale doth end. And now the tale is told,
That in his turn that he began to tell,
And the next day to dine, and take his seat
At his own board. No less amazement waits
At the Sicilian maid, nor less desire
To be at supper with the guests, who come
Threading the mountain path, then in a band
Of twenty mariners at black-wolf hies,
The bearers, who make merry through the bark
With many an eagle-headed, speedy steed.
And now he gives them all his brass, his bow,
And a good yeal to bear them to the test.
And now he takes their places in the hall,
And to the entrance leads his band; but men
With no good cheer come on; for soon they hear
Of that ill drug to which they will give way.
Therewith the ancient Pallas, grey of mood,
Recalled, and, with a sorrowful surprise,
With plenteous hand and heart, and voice and voice,
And joy at uttermost, the dame her Lord
Amid the mariners in act to pass.
Then she gave food to stranger and to guest.
The shipmen cast their hook into the stream,
And a black storm upbore them from the shore;
And a great wind rose up, and smote them down,
And straight they left the raft and on the land
With rushing oars. Then to the palace gate
The ship, as one that from a mountain-cleft
Has wandered o'er the sea, and with a song
Of joy, unspeakable, the tale she tells,
She told the story--he who knows the more--
And yet he little knows! And yet he weeps
For grief and joy yet never once he finds
His own lost daughter, or his spouse, or life,
Or wife, or happy land! for neither all
The winds will change, nor yet the waves will roll,
Nor do they change--no, they will never change!
And yet he little knows! The tale he tells
Will not be unavail'd; and yet he longs
To join the company, but he longs
To learn the tale! The nymph will search the cave,
And, wondering, will it leave, herself, at home;
Then will he take her to the sea, and there
Return to dwell for ever on the earth
In the Elysian starlight of his love.
And now, aghast and wail'd for home, he stands
Among the sea-gulls, with wide eyes around,
And lips that cannot speak, and heart that fears
The doom that now must fall, and his own voice
Begone from which he longs to hear: "O thou!
Thou, the great Serpent, by the serpent slain!
Thou, who the one that's born in Tartarus
Fearless? O, to what evil shalt thou come?
Why move thy feet so slow upon the beach?
Or dost thou lift thy foot against a tree?
Or what dost come from where the reedy pools,
With rippling waters eddying, to the deep
Are dash'd, and blue-eyed standeth Ind, and there
Standeth a hundred fathoms in the sun,
With vapour fill'd, that maketh oft the air
Crimson as blood, ere yet it giveth mist.
Woe to thee, old man, thou too canst go
Where Stygian river teareth to the west,
That leads to woe. And hither must I go--
Ah, with
======================================== SAMPLE 409 ========================================
 to the world, as thou may'st fancy that any man
tries hard at any time, but as a little more than mayest thou,
however, when time is short, is lost.
As a little house thou may'st avoid, and be able to afford
to men with mutual help, and the wife's love to see with
the first door, because of it little is best, and not of the
all-pervading mistress, there to reign and share the whole house with
the kind-hearted and the good. So long as I live I will not
abide here; but here I live here."
As he spoke he caught me up and spake unto me, saying: "My
poor father, what a truthful tale is this thou tellest? There is
a woman of worth and beauty here below, who is like unto God
unto the world, neither goddess nor mortal man may avoid her;
while in other things her husband is above war and rout, and in
fame, forsooth, that all men may have glory in her, and
through this woman likewise shall ye all be lost; for many
sorrows of ours brood upon her not the less."
And I, "My son, among all these my brothers have not been
withdrawing thee, except to serve thee in the sight of God,
who sent the first of us his comfort. But thou canst say to
me that thou hast not the only ark, even in this place where
thou art come to the bound of Parnassus, where the one on thy
way is sitting, thy wife for ever; and thither thou art come
where the others sit. If thou canst know me, soon thou shalt have
to mine arm."
Then Peneos, "Noman and Cenchremyth, where are they that hold
O thou, wherefrom the folk of Helios still repose, who
seemest to have no fear, if aught can be in their hearts that
I am thy friend and husband. Thou art my son, the man of
Therefore and with my own wife shalt thou be taken, which
is a godlike man. Thou shalt lie on the brow of that god, but
if he may yet suspect thee, then thou shalt have knowledge of
all, for the sun shall make thee up to be his bed hereafter,
and thy day hence at the breaking of the day."
Noman was then laughing, and said to him: "Tell me thy
friend, for now I have had great care about him."
And in the voice of man he said: "Friend, wouldest thou behold
of what a god I am," and left him. Thenceforth he went
upon his way through the town, till he came to Colchis, and
when he came to Colchis he went to dwell among his
people. It were a shame of his meeting with thy wife to look
upon. But I will tell thee all, how I have heard thee tell of
that god, the son of Polyphemus, whom thou bearest in the
Zeus-slayer's name; so tell thy wife, and of what manner
god she was, of that wandering goddess, who was the daughter
of Tyndareus, and who was the son of aegis-bearing Jove; and
she was the daughter of Tyndareus, who was indeed the most
of the Danaans, who might come to her, and as yet do not
know it, neither have I heard of the land of the Trojans,
where the sons of Alegenor dwelt in Oechalia, that famous
islet, where the holy Oracles held the sceptre. I
will say likewise, how, by reason of that name, she bore the
holy burden to my home, which was mighty to me. She
brought about Phylacot the augur, the augurate, and the
infant son of Hippotas, Phylas the divine, to bear the body
of my son; then she gave me a boar with a ram, that I might
be able to drive him out of the fold of the ram."
Thus she spoke, and she made fruitful earth, and the holy
cave of Poseidon. I will tell thee the whole truth, if thou
hast any faith in the Gods, only in the blessed ones that were
in heaven and save; and if the lambs in the fold are lost,
then there is in your breast the sting of death."
She spake, and I, the son of Amphitryon, who was king over
gods and men, followed her.
Now when they had put from them the desire of meat and drink,
======================================== SAMPLE 410 ========================================
 the poem:
"The song of the night thou canst not stay,
For the moon on the lonely mountain shines,
Bright is the hue that nature has shed,
And the moon is the white of the gloomy brine."
"I know my star, and I know my love,
And I must seek my own, O nightingale!"
"Alas, for thee! Ah, hapless earth!
And the dark seas where thou art tossed alone,
And for all time the stormy night above
Thy song is still as ever."
"O, weep not for me, my Sunbeam bright,
Nor for my love, my love that is so dear
Thou hast not struck the measure of delight
To this my life, nor made it half so clear.
But thou hast set my spirit all to light,
As thou hast set my dear immortal peer.
"I had no thought that thought, as thou hast done,
Ere this short space was filled with thee and me,
That in the darkest deep no image shone
To show at once how much we love were we;
No dream, no shape, no passion's dream could be
But that which we in shadows cannot see;
"No longing to be what is to be;
But still, still thinking, still imagining,
That which we dream, which is our heaven and earth,
Which is our heaven and earth and earth and air."
"It was a dream of night--so dreams the strong;"
Said Orpheus: "Sexton, O lost song of night,
When I awoke from slumbers long and long,
I saw the stars arise, and heard the wind
Sing, and the night was strange and windy white:
But when I woke, it was not day, and then
The lands were bright, and the pale streams ran
To meet us; and no thought of us was there,
But a long, long farewell, to that shoreless sea!
"As in the pleasant moonlit evenings of May
I lay alone, beneath the wide-branched tree,
And in the dim blue shadows dreamed of thee,
I saw some fairies in the wood-pile there;
And o'er the beeches rose their heads of gold,
Fern-heads and blossoms; and anemones
And mosses wide, and the bright-peaked clover bloomed
In purple clusters; or some enchanted wight
Came there to tell me of the lily-clothed
And silver-footed velvet-footed Queen,
And how she loved and how she loved them both,
And, though they knew the warm white bliss of life,
Yet deemed it naught of magic to remove
The heavy burden of her heart and moved
Away beyond the verge of death and strife,
To reach a stillness and immortal bliss,
Beyond the reach of words and dreams of speech.
"I saw a fairies there, I saw them there,
With golden crowns and roses in their hair,
And all their golden hair with rippling gold,
A golden glory in their locks of jet,
And on their cheeks the pale and rose-red flush
Of maidenhood; and one I deemed most fair
Fell on them, and the next I deemed most sweet;
But on they went, and each one took a kiss,
And through the bloom and music of their hair
I saw the first smile through its light and bloom
On the dead brows of fairies dead below--
And when my lips closed, they were silent yet!
"But what said they, my dear, and did they know,
When they beheld a little maid asleep,
And when I looked around, and said, 'It is
The Queen, the little Maid, the flower of love?'
And when I kissed her, and lay on her breast,
And kissed her dreaming heart out in my arms,
And kissed her mouth, and kissed her downcast eyes,
There in the midst I saw a little Doe
With her sweet eyes, and all the world was well
About her; and she lived with me but now,
Deceived and lured away by dreams and fears,
And of my care in sorrow in the night;
But that she did not come, I saw her now,
This little Maiden, this sweet creature I love."
At this he came, and where they sat at noon
Among the snowflakes, he was soon at work,
And near the cave, and from each open door
They made him come, and when he came no more,
They laid him down, and then in eager mood
She bade them take her to a lovely bower,
Which they found standing near their virgin bed.
And on the grass
======================================== SAMPLE 411 ========================================
's
I should now be in my class, with other pieces of
"I knew when he was a boy," I said, "and he was just
taken back from school, and had a natural feeling for
his spirit. I can tell you how he felt with joy, at his
schoolmaster's cards. He used to sit here, on a stage, with a
public-house, and at every stage he seemed to see the
public road or look; there always had his soul,--of
noble faith and modesty,--and I thought he ought to have
something of the sort of man I now see, as in
verses, of the kind of man I now see, and at night when
I have left the school, I want to go away and study
myself, the subject I have worked for, and the kind of
man as well as the man I have thought me good for."
"And I must then be as if I could not go away, for the
schoolmaster orders, and takes all things in the way of
such a man," said little Torgie, with her eyes fixed fixed upon
him, and she said, "I want to go away and tell him to go
with that letter."
When I did, I said, "Please tell him to go with me."
And I went with her for a teacher, and was asked to tell
him of the girl, the way and manner. He was always
there for his company, and his mother was busy making
pictures, and when she asked him how he had been, he would
not.
"Oh dear, dear friend, you have forgotten such before me, and
you see, that you can only go with me to the place of
the most Sacred of Men's Lands, as we now look at them.
I beg your pardon, Mr Egbert, for being so anxious for
me, and that I have not forgotten anything about that
other person."
"I should like to tell you something," he said, "to
tell that stranger, because I've been so anxious to go
back to town at this same time when I have been reading
the papers. He ought to have gone down to the
street at all so polite. I have to recollect that I
was about going to meet him. I should say, do you
really, that if he got out of town he never would
see his home again, but that he could stay with me; and
then that he, though he was taking me into his town, would
never go back. I'll do so, for you are so kind--and he
has returned, and I am quite sure I shall be back in
the old place if I don't say no more, which is it; and
I've been getting back there just ten years or so. I should have
had more pleasure in it then, if I hadn't had the
chance of asking him about the thing I was saying about
the matter."
"I'm sorry," I replied, "that if she had known anything
there was in his life either caused cause of grief or
shame, there would have been no rest for her; but if her
speech was not always the most drollery, she could never
here have been again, unless on the 24th of June, and you
might have come, and if you should have gone off one day and
taken her seat here."
"Oh," she said, "if you had stayed out of town this very night,
I wonder if you have disturbed your sleep. I cannot speak
of any kind of cause for weeping. I do not think I have
found you ever, like a little child, in want of you, and I have
no friends who'll be kind to me. I cannot show my face to
the children about the streets; and no one can see my
children in the look of children afterwards, who only
guard themselves with me on the street, except those who are
as idle as children be. I always, of course, like children
who are, at any kind of moment, become younger and
beloved by their parents, nor know the likes of life, but I
fear that they should meddle with me or with unsparing
kindness."
"I believe that I am not alone," he answered, "I believe
that in your life I have always considered together as a man
the moment of meeting you. I am sorry for the father who
seemed so to me so nearly a dear one before the
you, saying that you wished to be me in another affair when
you were all gone to bed, but I do not think, if I should
attempt to come to you, that you are a good friend. I do
not like this
======================================== SAMPLE 412 ========================================
e and the rest.
And he thought he had been sent
To find the lady;
Love-laden was he
To visit her.
She had a silver wand
Made of green emerald;
And she bent over it
In a soft hand.
This was the first she met,
Love-laden,
The lady-loved one;
This was the last she met,
Then the next he met,
Full sad and yet so sweet,
Was the third love I knew,
And that was Love's.
And the fourth love was this,
The fifth love had that;
Love's bed was dark and cold,
And cold was the youngest's mound,
And dark was the youngest's mound,
And the ground where they had been:
'Twas dark and it was alone,
And I in my joy had none.
I had a bird, the meanest thing
That bird could do;
I found the highest note
On every bough.
I flew away and found an ant,
And round about the ant its food
Upon the ground it grew so hot,
In summer time, too;
Its ant has never found a ant,
Nor yet I had, nor could;
I left it as I went, alone,
A ant, alone,
I went my way--with ant and ant.
I died when I was little,
A poor girl in her teens,
With a brier-bush and brown brier-bush;
And no one came;
I put them in my garden,
And planted them in the ground;
I planted them--they grew;
I planted them in the ground.
And I have seen the ant,
But has not had, nor cares;
I am left to myself alone,
Alone and poor, and fearful grown;
And I shall die of my heart
And rot in the dust far apart.
So once on a time on a time it was said,
"What is the use, O neighbour, of going to church as well?"
But I have had my lazy supper,
And my little dog Tray,
And he can find grace with his good dog Tray
In the stall near by me.
He is the dog, too, we're the curs,
The little dog Tray,
The little dog Tray.
O the dog is the chief of the household,
He wears a coat brown, black, and black and blue,
He is the man, I tell you,
That can say, "I am ready."
In winter for the children
Aunt Gray came t' me:
She caught me by the leg,
But I--I was sheer well--
I was full sore inside.
"What is the use, O neighbour,
For giving your best dog away?"
But I can sing and I can dance,
I can dance a song, but I'm more like a prince;
For he's a lazy dog, and he eats too long,
He's just as bad a dog as you, you know.
He's just as bad a dog as you, you see,
To go to school as well as he can go;
He runs away and often comes next June,
And learns to know the worth of school, you know.
So when at school they come to that,
They take him with big Sam,
But he knows better than they know.
And all the day they study him,
And when at school they try
To play, and hate, and quarrel,
They get him better than they.
But when at school they come to that,
They take him with big Sam,
But when the Teacher screams and wakes,
He's just as bad a dog as you, you see.
It's hard to teach school boys that,
But, when one wishes, they can't go
Just then, to learn to better things.
And they must know what tricks they are
In making books for people here;
And then they'll joke and lecture,
And lecture slyly, and laugh, and fight;
And all the day they study
What problems great and cunning lie
For children--not the books, but the sky.
So there they sit and talk,
While others read and smoke and spin;
Shutting the windows, too,
And gathering acorns, and the jars and jars,
And everybody's children, and even Ben.
First, I don't know how to say it,
But I'm told that when I talk to school
Sometimes I fancy things to say it,
And then to break the rules and rule.
And it's what folks amaze at,
When they study what they study through;
But they do not mind the grammar rules,
Nor care how much
======================================== SAMPLE 413 ========================================
;
With a great _great_ mark; and a _great_ great name,
(Which makes the people so large, anyhow, without
doubt a 'putrescent touch' should be confin'd
That there dwelt a king, or a dozen men,
In George the Third's reign, of no man-age.
He was a splendid king, though the world
Went round about with an unsuccessful tilt
Until, tired of his caprice, he grew
Taller at Tyburn, he would pick and poke
Kins in his little cocked-hat, with a spring
Into his very nose and cheek,
And there he would pick out the little _beau_
Which he had longed to win, but, being so,
The boy grew up--and he won his way
Through the wet woods and the downy grass,
Through the soft moss and underbrush, to pass
At noon, at eve, till the close of the day
He should return at the evening-flush
To the garden of his childhood, of himself
Renowned and loved by none but the flowers
And the blue skies overhead.
He was a father of plenty and friends,
And the mother of much children--all, both him
And Mrs. Wortley. A decent girl,
And Mrs. Wortley, that is, played with me
And was tickled off the happier day
In the pleasant orchard, where the sun
Was setting and the grass was all arrayed
And the seed-field was in bloom, ripe and plump,
And the clover tufts were waiting to be pressed
By the bees of barley. Here the rustic
Kirted the fence round the apple tree
Which he had chosen for a fence of his
Cloak, and that morning by the fence he'd gone
Through the garden; and we left behind
The busy orchard, with its tasseled corn,
And the broad blue sunshine, and the apple trees,
And the apple trees that had been plump and lit
As they had been, and could be, yet I thought
They would never again mow again with me,
And I knew they would never again mow again.
When the sun sets and the sky is blue
I will fly away from him, you and I,
Out of the mists of morning yet
(Never since have our Emblems been),
As long as we are shadows; but each day
I see what is before us, that great sun
Which has to-morrow found us.
Oh, come to me,
Come to me, newly-born daughter of the earth
That is young, in her eye, and yet which is a child,
And whom it hath not found and yet whom it is
In its full heart's eye; who, in whose gentle eye
My soul sees things too beautiful to be
Things through the sight of our beguiling fires,
As if they were not lost the sun of them
That dazzle mortal things, who are too fair
For aught but outward shows of the sweet sight
And rapture of the world, who, in their might
Hurrying in rapture round our fires,
Can yet be born of them that, like the sun,
Hover and shine among them, until they are set forth.
I cannot find her in me when I go.
I cannot take the thought or touch the hand,
To take the things that, living, are unknown
To those who, knowing them, have no more pride
Than a mere chance to do them.
Yet what matters it?
There is no more of wisdom than the cold,
The world's less ready to them, is their fate.
One knows more things than other things are sad,
And many know and yet they are not glad.
That's where I was trying to look
On the face I had left there, it is true;
But it seems to have never been so; for I see
On no face more of them, through all the trees
That creep with misty shadows, to the sun,
Or to the night-wind lightly blow the notes
That only made earth's faces so asunder,
But the very same their images are now;
And I see, if I must, the very same
That my mother cared for, and when she turned
Her back to me, I said to the old folks,--
The old folks! how I loved them,--they and I,
And the little family that used to be
Just the children of us all, and we and them!
Mother was always pretty and good to me,
And made the whole world glad with her,--and I
Praised her by their names, and her by ours;
And
======================================== SAMPLE 414 ========================================
,
Bows before her like a flower; my hand
Is in my own, is on my own; and I,
With a mysterious certainty as old,
Boldly to walk the open fields of air,
And the green earth above my head, the clouds
Above my head, the clouds that sweep and pass,
Are but the clouds of dust wherever I go.
But, O great brother, I am like to-day
To go to my old age to hear thy voice;
To see thy face, thy deeds, thy days, thy state,
Thy thought, thy wisdom, works, thy strength and weight;
To be thyself my guide, thy friends and guide
To look into thyself from every side.
Let the old alphabet, in dusty time,
Furnish the old heroic name of mind,
Like an old regiment of valiant rhyme,
With the old chiefs whose ancient lips were eloquent
And whose majestic tread was not less steady and just,
Shall not Time make our names equal to the youngest of Time?
Let not Time make our name equal to the youngest of Time?
Do not Eternity mock thee and chide thee and turn away?
Rather let us strive to shape ourselves as fragile and vain
As the Old Conquerer once was, and be born again,
And to live not as one and to die not as all,
And to die not as all the Old Conquerer once was,
For nothing remains to be said to be done or said to,
And nothing remains but what we have been and having been;
The eternal Fates can never undo what they have disjoined,
The eternal Fate can never come after what is imprest:
And at the last, when the Last Conquerer has come on the wings,
The unrememberable Name shall be sounded at times again!
The Old Year's gone,
The Summer's done:
'Tis merrymaking time
And the merry tune
About the daytime
About the daytime.
Fa la la!
'Tis merrymaking time!
Fa la la!
The summer's done!
Fa la la!
Mellant is coming,
Fa la la!
A star's outshining
Another's glory!
Fa la la!
The little Nightingale,
Heard from the dark
A Woman's Chamber
Sorrow for Roses
Fa la la!
Mabel Montrose, mother of English children, who is now learning
Fa la la!
Merry, merry England!
With a love so wild,
A love so mild,
A love so mild,
A love so warm,
That the heart of a child
For Erin reads,
Beats in a Border
Fa la la!
Mabel Montrose, our childhood's own,
For Irish did she wander,
For English sang she left
Her home and bairns,
Her hair in the dust,
Her feet on the hills,
Her head on the earth,
Her body in mirth
For Erin reads,
Weary Erin reads
Faintly and weary
Fa la la!
Mabel Montrose, mother of English children, who will learn
Fa la la!
There is an alderman wagging his head in the twilight,
A lass so fair,
A lass so true,
So gentle, so sweet,
A lass so true,
So dear, so true,
And dearer yet
Than heart that I know,
Or aught that I know.
O fair! O fair! O sweet!
O sweetly there
The dew-draps fall
Upon the grass,
And the rose-leaves whisper
Of _Alfred_ maid
As she dances among the maidens.
O fair! O fair!
O sweetly there
The dew-draps fall
About the grasses where
Her footstep treads
As she dances among the maidens.
Out from the milk-white milk-white milk-white milk-white milk-white
Came delicate milk,
Came delicate milk,
Came delicate milk,
Draping the moist lips from the lips of the maidens.
O fair! O fair!
O sweetly there
The dew-draps fall
About their gushing and pearly milk-white milk-white
Came soft,
Draping the moist lips from the maidens.
O fair! O fair!
O sweetly there
The dew-draps fall
About the grasses where
Her footstep treads
As she dances among the maidens.
The dew-draps fall
Down from the heather bell,
And the rose-leaves whisper

======================================== SAMPLE 415 ========================================
 of England's ancient and modern records."--M. L5.
"I am thinking of you. I think of you, perhaps," etc.
"You are going to send your son, my son," etc.
"How is your turn come? Oh, how is your turn come? Kind
mother, you will not forget the son's name."
"It is your turn come to ask her to come. I'm old and
unstainable, it is the first day she died for you."
"But what of your boy?" asked his parent.
"I am old and your son is just as handsome as usually you are."
At last we parted and the day that took us on the horizon was
When, like some sad, unwelcome news, they rose up and formed a
"Good morning," said Celia, "I hope what you are going to say to
"Oh, father," said I, "the morning will soon be more precious,
"We have been too bad," he said, "and I, too, have my
decks between ourselves and my little ones. The night is almost
"Oh, father, I am sorry now that you are so sad; and I have
comrade, you know that, to go with you. I shall see you and not be
scandalizing you."
"Don't take my oath that I shall never break my faith," said Celia.
"Yes," said I, "and you understand the kind that you love.
But my father always said me that you will not break my solemn vows
He advanced and took her lightly to the garden where had extended
The afternoon sank, and as she moved the boughs she was alone with
She had not reached the place where the lady had cooked her tea, and
When Celia asked him who he was, she said these words:
"Why are you abusing what I have done to you, my dear?"
"'I am that country,' he said, 'and that is what you have done
"'You mean you say to me?' I asked him. 'You are the one to
ask me,' she said, "or very likely. I am going away; and what is
you at the present moment?"
"Perhaps that is the way you mean to me.'
"At this moment she asked me, but her lips were motionless and
nothing but the talk of the surrounding world.
something we could make into form, like a curtain.
"'What do you suppose,' she asked, 'that is only an excuse of a
creature?"
"I am ashamed to take it yourself," he said, peering round her.
understand that he was a man or a woman; for he had been on his
something else; and he had been married to a magnificent
excellent lover of Celia, the one who had the wealth of few
others in her life; and it is not right to err, because he wanted
"I don't know, Celia."
"I am really ready to accept a little part of the matter. I am--
"Well, then, Celia, I believe that I shall do the very best
rather to continue it."
"What, you look at me, my darling?"
He had come back again, and brought her up, the night after
twenty-one whose eyes were troubled with a deep, solemn, and
severer.
"Yes, at least, I believe that I shall do something."
"I do; and if you think I can explain the truth of it, then I
shall say something, not what I shall say, for it never occurred to
that of Celia."
"It is quite possible from the beginning of the morning to the
different moon," he answered.
"Well, this is what I wish to make, and what shall we do for it?"
The reader will mind you, if you only read the following:
"I am making nothing of it. I believe that life has only one
minutes. And this is what I wrote about, and that is what I
believe me to do. I have tried everything I can, and can only
make my verses sweet and clear, with a sense of something
good; and if you do not believe that life has a thousand
millions to do to-day, and you dare not hope for a better,
life, the only one in the whole life; or if you are disposed to
die, it is the impossible."
"You see what I have promised you," he answered. "I know it
very well. And if you do it you will go home without your
"In a few years I have given you a lesson," she said, "and
a foolish thought, perhaps."
"Perhaps, then, Cel
======================================== SAMPLE 416 ========================================
 a-dreamin',
'Longside 'out o' my pot!"
_Wharever you goin',
Takin' the co'thans in,
Boysie's the word for a soldier,
When he goes to the war.
Now, at the word, he took off his hat
An' gave a wooden bugle-reel
To the boy that was left on the seas;
Wharever he went, whare he went,
Our boy will come when he 'spies
A British officer, loaded with debt,
Thru his pay-roll, to run with the run;
And into the list of the heiresses
The English retired for a bout with the dead.
And they fired and they fired, and they fired,
And they could not hold but they could not keep,
Until the day of the dues of the day
That the enemy play'd, and the English march'd
To the caves with the day in their hands;
And the judges they stood by the bars that kept,
In the glorious march of the day that they made,
And the furrow'd ground where they laid their load,
Was strew'd with the _Parliamentum mobile_,
A sort of _Pipe_ from the City of Frith[F]
With its crowded streets and its glittering shops,
And its barges of _Punch_, and its _dolli_,
And its throng'd engines of thorough repair,
And its busy tongues of _Irish_ fighting,
With its _entrickades_, and its navy,
And its legions of _Irish_ fighting,
With its _Catalimban_ and _Scauris_,
And its _Mallan Duist's_ and _Biscayuse_,
And its _Alzivver_ and _Rivis_,
And _Rivis_, the river the Rhine,
And its _Montparnasse_, and its squadrons
Of seventy-seven, each with its gun,
And its _argus_ and _Arras_,
And its legions of _Arras_ and _Norse_,
And its _Arras_ and _Fishers_,
And its legions of _Rivis_ and _Frais_,
Fierce and powerful as seventy-six;
For, like _Arras_ and _Norse_,
There is no _dolce_ more _dolce_ than these.
There are men with hoary hair,
But for purposes and things,
With fair young _Tades_ and _fame_,
And good _soul_ and _water_ drest,
And bad _dolce deux_ and bad,
With their _soul_ and _breath_ and _blood_,
There is _soul_ but one for that,
_Ue, me!_ and _scandlers both_!
When the _Stalls_ were not over and done with;
When the _Stalls_ were not over and done with;
When the _Stalls_ were not over and done with;
When little lads slandered and shan't with;
When the _Stalls_ were not over and done with;
_Ue, me!_ and _soul_ with the things that are done,
With _goul_ and _blood_, and _water_ and _breath_;
When the _Stalls_ were not over and done with;
When they went to the fishing and _breath_;
_Ue, me!_ and _soul_ with the things that are done
And _air,_ and _air_ with the things that are done,
With the _soul_ and the _breath_ and the things _breath_.
Then Sir _Sickercoat_, who was not aware,
_Took_ up his pipe and began for the fair,
And began for the ball to be done with,
And _said it with the hues of the _Star_,
As he stood in the moonlight and fumbled in,
_I'll put it down_, 'twas a pot of the _ Chrysothemums_,
And as soon as he saw it he said,
_Take each of them one_, _and so you will,
With a feather of feather, _that I shall dissemble_!
It was not right at all for the _Stalls_;
It was not right with _Flames_;
It was not right at all for _Stalls_;
And so it remaineth, for me to beware,
If I speak
======================================== SAMPLE 417 ========================================
, a Newton, or Old Woman, or
the beautiful. The _French_, or _Mason_, and the
_French_, or _Toucan_, are out, or appear before a single
man, in fact, as a _French_, to be the famous
Psalms. The _French_ is a well-known form of _English_; the
_Santin-days_ and _Santin-time_ are to be seen in
Chamele, or _Mussu'-Wrot_, or _Brocadere_, or _Brocadere_, or
Chamele. The sense and feeling of this life is not so much
disfabled by the dullness of our intellect, and the
composition seems to be struggling with the delusion; and it
takes a deep thirst for mash out the materials and
desires of men, and all through the creation is perpetually
greedy. Our inward delight sometimes penetrates through a
nervous ignorance of the female sex; and it occurs often
rather in the stomach than in the stomach. The nakedness
of the body is such that it can never be seen in the
monsters. There is a rich colour in the coal when it is
burned. In winter it is dried up, and in summer it lies on
the earth. In summer sometimes it rises in a dark, dense
redness, and sometimes it rises in a dark; and at night it
has become a prey to the stomach of the adversaries
that are almost always in a constant fear. A fire is
burning and falling from its mouth, and now sends a deaf
groggle with its own breath. The breath which it contains
shrinks deeply for want of knowing whether a person be
quickly caught, or a languidly pensiveized, and on good
comers prepared for the journey. Oh! for the safety of the
spirit that might be kept without a painful memory!
We are like the rest of our ancestors, who were children to
his children. They are always in innocence, nor can be
inclined to be called parents, but are always in love with
his first father; and, of course, we have the same hope with
which their father was more than they do us; it is a grief to
them for the most excellent and virtuous parents to whom our
Nations have given birth and titles, but they are seldom
decayed or early. Like those miserable old beggars who
never have a long winter-weary life, I should now almost
forget the sweet peace of your native land; and like them who,
for a long winter, are always in charity besides, for their
sake for winter pastime.
These miserable old beggars are doomed to die on the morrow
differently, for a rich and respectable servant is safe to
their several offices.
But what do you think desperate about my health? Among these
poor old beggars would I have such talents only, but there is
a great favor done me, at least, as I had before been able to
count my wants and desires. It has scarcely any force or
smooth contentment in me, and it is now become my own
unworthy of you to be, even though I should say so. To see
your health I would recommend you the good things of the day
that you have done, for me; but you have a strong appetite
no power for better. By this I am perfectly well supported. I
will tell you truth, whatever it may be, for you must not be
satisfied.
But let no man be too old to be too feeble for me, and with his
little ones.
A child should never want good luck, and a beggar be too old.
I pray use your patience but the common good things you meet upon
earth. The world is less bad than the world is. The stupid
world, I mean, is a kind of envious discontent; for the evil
and suffering of it do not bring the sunshine and the
sun upon the world.
It is our privilege among the many things to be useful, and
its joys that the world needs not be scattered. The world is
full of perturbed insolence and vacillating with idle
apprentices. A beggar, too, is of lower rank, a character of
the government: and his people, or his people, the people, are
born to fill the imagination of liberty and that of the
things and thoughts which are constantly being thought of, and are
sung and appraised to you.
The object of this charming volume is the homage of our
friend, and it is no favor done to him to be the object of
all our attempts on the poet's
======================================== SAMPLE 418 ========================================
.
_Vishnu Pupil_ is not to die;
_Dūtikā_ lives in the trees with Brâh and favēng;
Joïcked is in the river of the Jumna;
Dowéysi repeatedly come two thousand years.
Mādhava is her name; to quit the road of earth,
To look at Hari Hari, to see how Bāli is faring,
To see if Hari has a house in Hari, for fear
O Kānu, to see if Hari has a house.
_Vidyāpati says: There follows a Vedic poem._
_Rādhā:_  How can Hari not see how he has entered there?
How can Hari not see if Kānu has a hand?
_Rādhā:_  How can Hari not see if Kānu is not there?
_Rādhā:_     How can Hari nor Hari not see?
_Rādhā:_   I went forward to Hari and asked for news.
_Rādhā:_   How can Hari not do?).
_Rādhā:_   How can Hari not see?
There must be divers sorts of divers kinds of singers
_Rādhā:_   How can Hari not see?
_Rādhā:_   How can Hari not see?
There is confusion, there is care:
_Rādhā:_     How can Hari not see?
He must see for whom all roads are.
_Rādhā:_     How can Hari not see?
_Rādhā:_   How can Hari not see?
_Rādhā:_      How can Hari not see?
_Rādhā:_   He is a man full of troubles.
_Rādhā:_   And can he not see?
_Rādhā:_   With sorrow none is there:
_Rādhā:_    A sorry comfort!
_Rādhā:_      O sorry, all-impertinent thing!
The world is set on such a wretched one.
What is there? and what is all coming home?
What is there to fetch the water?
What is there to fetch us water?
Come and see what the water will bring.
How can we find water?
Come and see what the water will bring.
How can we find water?
_Rādhā:_         Oh, he is longing!
All the water's over.
Come, let us seek the water.
In the water let us pull the water-roots.
The water is running with the water shooting into the sun.
Be careful how the water pours--
Whence he cannot find fish,
Cast him into the water,
And put into the water.
It does not harm you, nor does a certain god destroy your life.
When the water is over,
When the waters are still,
And the water finds out,
Or the water is drawing back to the earth,
Then do nothing you think there,
But rather you do the water of your life
For fear you touch the water.
But come with me to the waters,
And leave this pool of frogs.
I know a tree in the valley
Under the trees, and the water is running so boldly.
Tell me what you have happened,
And what will be the fate of it:
_Rādhā:_   A sorry end to all my sorrow!
Tell me what the news is,
Without the meaning of the words!
When the water has grown cold
And the water decays,
When the fire has been slackening
And not even peeping through the leaves,
Then should you be like other men's days,
Like other men's days.
As you are living in this house,
You may be living on the floors.
And after that you shall never see a man who knows what,
You may be like other men's days;
But when you have travelled the water,
May you be like other men's days.
The earth is full of young grass,
The water full of tunes,
The air is sweet with the flowers,
The water full of words.
And I shall be like other men's days,
Like other men's days;
I will be like other men's days,
Like other men's days.
I will be like other
======================================== SAMPLE 419 ========================================

In the East, America, I come
From the land of the prairies, from the home
Of the prairies, where the great white floods
Have spread their waters over lands and seas.
I am a stranger and I know the ways
Of Nature, and I long to taste the joys
Of nature; and at last I find, as there
I stand before Him, wonders strange, and fair.
Through me no mist is rising, no mist flings
Her loveliness about me; all is clear
And healingly, no sorrow; and at times
A calm falls on me, and my heart is sick,
And through the weariness I seem to lack
No strength to rise and lift me to the sky;
And, as I turn I slowly pace the hills
That shelter my poor nest, and in the daffodil
Whose voice is heard, may one day bring to me
The peace of waters and the strength of rills.
I come from the happy valleys where the grass
Is green without; the breezes from the West
Bleach low the tops of firs and willows gray.
I come from where the robin feeds among the reeds,
Where the blue thistle waves in the warm sunshine;
For this no autumn fire burns in the veins
Of the deep wood, nor does the summer soil
Burn half so bright, nor from the turf be torn
The labef scattering clouds, which, by the sun,
At eventide pour down upon the earth
A gentle rain, or, by the rain, a stream
Of purple petals, slowly sinking down
Among the rushes, to the land of graves.
Not only all the trees whose luminous shade
The sun suffuse not, but the slender rill,
And growing stream, their influence all exhale,
As from the bosom of a slow-sinking ship.
Not only the blue hills, which, from the breeze,
The sun exhale not, but afford him rest,
No, not in dreams, of any blessed thing
Which in his course he knew; but more than these,
His eyes, which last beheld the blessed light,
Still look upon him; he forgets their gleam,
Filling with wonder every living heart,
And views, with joy, whatever may come near
The happy regions he hath called his home;
And sees with clearer vision, in his bower
The flowers, the birds, the running water stream,
And the sweet things of earth; and, lo! the birds
Are flying from the meadows, to the wood,
And all the summer flowers have come again;
With every opening blade, and that bright flower
Which Nature gave him,--are an eloquent,
And musical; and the soft-scented air
Hath made him hoary; and the earth takes thought
Of his divinity--of Life and Death.
A thousand fathoms are abroad to-day;
Forgotten, he lies here on the cold ground;
And, as that cold and solitary turf
Grows there, he wraps himself in his rude mane,
And treads with solemn step, and mournfully,
And treads with solemn step, the wilderness;
His eyes, that on the grass with solemn look
Were brightly brimming, and of yore full glad,
And if a cloud passed o'er him, it was like
A prayer unuttered, which the stars uplift.
A thousand fathoms, where the fathoms sit,
Fill the green hollows, where his resting bird
Slept, and the air so melancholy charmed,
And the lone river sporting on its way,
Raved in his heart, and marvelled at the sight;
But in the midst uprose on either hand,
And said, "O God! which bearest us below
And who hath made us, that this heart of mine
May be thy bird, and give thine ear, and we
Entered thy bidding, as to one is blest!"
Then to the tree-top said, "Be not so sad;
These eyes behold thine own; and if I see
Aught in thy wisdom in life, I would fain
Compare those cheeks, which I myself saw thine
And all the terror of thy shining hair.
They were but breathless; for not now are gone,
And they have lived but for a little while;
No mortal man has risen to this realm
Who hath the gift of knowledge; such is mine,
That I too have been worthy to be named."
Long had she listened, with such eagerness,
To the old home, and heard her mother's tale,
As now with eager step she mounted up
The moss
======================================== SAMPLE 420 ========================================
 of all his kind
In the last book he gives for the
unfortunate young lady who is called "White Notty"
NINE sets her down to spin about the kitchen and begins singing
out.
SILOUR is the house out there in the open air.
I have no one to see him in the least place except the servants.
I am his servants, and he is my master here.
I leave off singing at play, for to you I know
There are as many doors as my doors.
I care not for the ladies, for I am the mistress.
For he that tries to sing himself belongs to me.
I sing himself as I sing now outside
The chorus that he made for the little folks,
Who run up the steps and look at the light where the lamp is
making its light for them,
He sings as he goes on his round and round as my door opened.
And I see my master and hear his voice through the light
and the sound of his little children there.
I see him with his pipe and his instrument all alone in the dark
I remember my master and he sings himself as he droned on a boat
And I hear his low and musical march and his great song.
HARRY comes with a basket.
I remember all the little girls who jump up out for him in the
corner, and they run up the steps to meet him.
I recall, and it seems to me, a hundred little girl withdit in her
breast,
With a pair of shoes in her hands and a row of shotted hats.
But my master knows that I am more than half as glad and as good.
But I have never forgotten that he sings as he goes away,
That he sings as he goes up the street with the dancers in the
closest tapestry in the corner.
IN the greatest of all the trees,
There is a cool room in this side the road.
A dusty-legged camress with ruffles
Goes roaring down the road.
The road is a long way, but the road is great.
My master and I go by the road.
I stumble over, but down the road
Fall the leaves of red apples.
The road is a long way, but the road
Is little enough to reach a man or woman.
But if there be a man or woman who is tired
And carried into so much space
That it is impossible for him to go into the woods
Before his time it's over, then there's nothing will disturb
him,
And he could talk and eat and sleep
And never need to listen.
I AM tired of the morning, weary of work at the housework,
Sick for a house where my servants are taking tea.
They are packing their boxes and folding the boxes and my
room.
They don't know that I'm tired, and they haven't any lessons.
They go on to tell me something to them from the night.
IN the greatest of gardens,
Stands the windy house-table green;
In the greatest of gardens,
Stands my garden green.
In the greatest of gardens,
Lo! the garden green;
In the greatest of gardens,
Stands my garden green.
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
Strange! the garden is different from my garden!
I was a knight once and gay
Who carried an armour alway,
And what could a lady have said to a lady?
I had hair and no more, and never had eyes.
I had hair and no more, and never had eyes.
I looked at the knight when he cried
Half-frightened at last for to see
What made the bold face of the knight so bold.
I had hair and no more, and never had eyes.
I looked at the knight when he cried
Half-frightened at last for to hear
What made the bold face of the knight so bold.
I had hair and no more, and never had eyes.
I looked at the knight when he cried
Half-frightened at
======================================== SAMPLE 421 ========================================
, _I am but a child_.
Dame Fortune's frowning face,
I've thought that she's my mother's now,
By some strange fop, who's much above,
And can't be blinded to her love.
No truth I hope my mother sees,
Nor hear her counsel in this case;
I feel a strange, unnatural pain,
And in my breast, dear friend, can trace
No feeling in these breasts of mine,
But in their secret hearts must shine.
And I am torn by daily gouts,
I'm bruised and broken in the dirt;
The world has wracked my lovely limbs,
My soul is in an ague sickly wantonness,
And, like the surgeon, I have scarce the power
To cure me of this malady, and so I am . . .
And yet I am not well.  I never am.
I never was before. . . . Our Lady smiles
Her smile upon my face. We may have part . . .
Not I. . . My heart will break. But do not say,
My father!  I am wounded.  I'm well armed,
He is my friend--he will be healed!
I am a girl with friends,
And yet I'm not well.
You love another woman when the sea
Hangs black against them, so I must
Love one to-day.
The very sea's a sea-flower, and the sun's a red-bright spear.
I have seen no such, I have felt no such delight,
No kind of comfort comes to man to-morrow night.
And yet I am not well.
There is a little boat,
A little boat,
And we can see it sailing up and down,
And in another boat that's fishing seems so bright.
The sun shines bright, the day shines fair,
And I am very glad.
Oh! let me lie upon my couch and bathe my throat,
Warm in its silver bellies. Oh! my eyes are full of bliss.
And yet I am not well.
Dear little boat,
You'd soon be back--
A foolish boat is that.
When I was small, a sweet-faced child,
I kept on growing for a girl;
My mother often told me so,
She'd kinder grown, I kept on growing,
And then she'd come again to me.
Now I am but a little boat,
A tiny boat,
And I have dreams of pleasant places,
A little boat,
A little boat,
With the rose lantern and the moon.
Oh! I will cross these great green waves
And come back on my fishing-boat.
One night I woke, a pleasant night,
The moon shone bright, the moon was clear,
I woke and saw a ship.
I was the child,
It seemed so strange and very far,
A little boat,
That through the waves like pearls it shone,
And
There are those who watch for me and pray.
Oh! I am but a little boat,
A little boat,
And I have wandered up and down,
Through such long wonderful woods and down,
And no one has seen us anywhere,
Save only father and mother and brother.
And now I'm but a little boat,
A little boat,
I have got four sons,
And all the books and all the books,
And all the books and all the books.
And oh, I have got no three sons,
And I want no one again,
But only father, mother and me.
And then my little boat is built,
And I've got some toys and all that toys,
And I've got three little wooden dolls,
And all those toys and all the toys.
And oh, my little boat is built,
And oh, my little boat is built,
There is a lovely garden,
A little house,
A little sky,
And a little sky,
And a little sky,
And a little sky,
And a little sky,
And a little sky,
And a little sky,
And a little sky,
And a little sky,
I love a little boy
That dances up and down,
I love him, he loves me,
With all its sleepy eyes,
And bells and coos,
And moonshine from and through
And moonshine from and over
From the morning till noon-day,
In the nursery nobody knows its name,
And all the children call it so.
The Little Girl with the yellow curls,
The naughty little one that never loves,
They all are better, so it seems to me.
They know it, and to know is shame.
The
======================================== SAMPLE 422 ========================================
 from his throne.
But, since he has been long on the sea by the shore,
All good things have grown out of courtesy.  No more,
To take him, and in his case to lose him, he stands,
And, since he needs must win it, has been forced to fall
Far down below.  No more for the rich man to dwell.
He had in store (of a plain land) a merchant,
The master of vessels, and their chief, Aeneas,
A prince of ours.  Now, then, he has a daughter,
And wife, and sister wholly; but I see
She is more beautiful than the morning light.
What can he do, then?  What but to look at a fool?
To be so anxious, and with such a mere fool
To wish that a fool like you would come up.
Then go you in.  He wants to do you harm,
And is impatient of the punishment.
So go you hence, I cannot but be fooled.
I go to Thebes and back again, to the temple
Where Saint Juro consecrates to Jove,
For it is there I took the gifts you gave.
I am so full of it that I can not stay.
Go on, my soul, and, though my heart is pierced
With sorrow, yet this wretched one I leave;
Go; but I'll not be angry.
I have taken
All the treasure of Cyprus, brought it here,
And there I swear it is a lovely prize.
The same, it seems, I know; you are so fair,
You have no heart to take it.  I am sure
It is so much in your possession, I
Have no heart else to give.  I dare not go
And ask you not to taste my wine of life.
Your very sweetness I can never guess.
You are a king, not I.  I cannot have you.
You say you are a woman, with your life
I have lived, as you have lived, and have become.
You would become no man of me, but I,
Who have grown dull and sick of life, am dead;
I could not say that I am.
You say you are a woman,
But all of you are love and woman,
And when the least authentic word or hint
Of yours has been spoken to your heart,
I may know only that you are a woman.
You find to-day the whole world and its women
As easily as pettiness.  I can't tell you
Nor do I know about them.  I confess
I'm not a woman any more for having
Such slender fingers to my heart, and yet
I know they are so precious.
Well, what else
Can I do with this?  I'd hate, I say.
That was a false thought and an idle word.
But why am I not happy?
You were always beautiful, but now
I must have gone away and left you in the woods.
You loved me with your passion.  I could see
Nothing about a woman's love to me.
You loved me, but for that, you know, my heart
Has nothing richer than a single kiss.
So you shall not be happy even when
That love has passed in ceaseless pain away.
I love you in the name of God, and when
Your love is dying with the old despair,
My heart will not be happy.  I shall find
No greater happiness, if but you love me.
When I shall know the name of God
He will come down and help my soul;
He will then come down and help my eyes,
And help me lift their drooping lids
To seek the Master's love in truth.
All the doors are open
To the prayer we make our prayers,
All the rafters standing firm
To the light of the Lord's light.
Not we only need the keys
That guide our sorrows when we try
To reach His presence, for His love
Brings to us things that buy and buy.
Only one word is said
In the parting, in the evening gray
When the shadows fall on the troubled heart
And its sorrows will be lost to-day.
Only one word is said
In the evening grey and all alone
When the shadows fail from the sinking lamp
And the light grows dark, and sad and small,
And the hearts break for the Master's love.
Only one word is said
In the closing, in the evening gray
When the twilight falls on the twilight blue
And the lights turn dim to the evening light
And the tired hearts wake
To the songs of the true dead
And the faith of Him who died.
I have not forgotten that day,
======================================== SAMPLE 423 ========================================
-the-Favonian.
Hesiod, the son of Taurus.
Icarius' daughter, and the only daughter of Abas. The Praklema
is the same as the two last lines of the last verse.
Virgine, the son of Dromedary.
Meheuman, the brother of Oedipus.
Meheuman, the daughter of Abas.
Virgine, a young woman with a head hair and a bosom.
Meheuman, the daughter of Scylla, and the mother of the Earth.
Meheuman, the youngest brother of mankind.
Meheuman, the youngest brother and the only Daughter of Madras.
Meheuman, the wife of Jason.
Omin, the ruler of Rome.
Oshitem, the old man of the Hebrews.
Parsley, the son of Osmo.
Prowling, the ancient, the son of Osmo.
Paris, the king of Persia.
Paris, the wife of Oenam.
Paris, the father of Phœbe.
Paris, the father of Anaurus.
Poise of herbs, the mother of the Omeians.
Porchia, the wife of Koil.
Praecocks, ancient, the father of Prysolite.
Phaethon, the son of Achilles.
Pylos, the wife of Achilles.
Princess of the Red Sea water, and Minos.
Princess of the Red Sea water, and the parents of Ilione.
Princess of the Red Sea water.
Princess of the White Sea water and the goddesses of Tyre.
Princess of the Pleiad.
Pylos, the name of Jason, and the Goddesses of Delphi.
Princess of the Red Sea water.
Pylos, the sacred name of Pylos.
Phaethon, the son of Pronos, and the goddesses of Arabia.
Pylos, the queen of Pylos, the god of Athens.
Phaethon, the daughter of Oenone.
Phaethon, the king of Athens.
Phaethon, the son of Œnices.
Pylos, the land of the Bees.
Pylos, the god of Medes.
Princess of the Prophetess.
Princess of the Red Sea water.
Princess of the Red Sea water.
Pylos, the goddess of Love.
Princess of the Red Sea water.
Princess of the Red Sea water.
Pel, the goddess of Pain.
Pylos, the goddess of Pain.
Pylos, the great-hearted.
Pylos, the daughter of Alkinoös.
Pylos, the goddess of Pain.
Pylos, the god of hunger and cold water.
Pylos, the king of wisdom and the fountains.
Pylos, the place of travail.
Pile, the temple of prayer.
Primum, the lore of the Gods.
Princess of the Morning Star.
Primum, the tongue of the Morning King.
Primum, the chief incensed prayer of the Morning.
Primum, the priest of the Morning Star.
Primum, the muse of the Morning.
Primum, the priest.
Primum, the prophet.
Primum, the muse of the Morning Star.
Primum, the prophet.
Primum, the three sister pear-trees.
Primum, the lily.
Primum, the rose.
Primum, the rose.
Primum, the priest.
Primum, the rose.
Primum, the woman of prayer.
Primum, the woman of sleep.
Primum, the sacred dove.
Primum, the thrush.
Primum, the linnet.
Primum, the linnet.
Primum, the linnet.
Primum, the lark.
Primum, the linnet.
Primum, the nightingale.
Primum, the woodpecker.
Primum, the small dog.
Primum, the gnats.
Primum, the linnet.
Primum, the linnet.
Primum, the thrush.
Primum, the woodpecker.
Primum, the shrub.
Primum, the woodpecker.
Primum, the thrush.
Primum, the thrush.
Primum, the woodpecker.
Primum, the gnats.
Primum, the gnats.
Primum, the dove.
Primum, the low
======================================== SAMPLE 424 ========================================
 it is hard to make _us_ ashamed of
"I am happy," said Little John; "I am honest and just."
John smiled and gently answered her:  "Old man, of course you
don't want to forgive me for giving you something."
"Ah!" said John, as it seemed to his aged heart a shadow
"No, no, I will not," said Little John, "but I will," said the
"And I will not forsake you, old man?" the two children whispered.
But the shadows were many, and each was laughing, as though the
"But don't," said John, "for I think so."  The same morning the sun
"Good old father," laughed Little John.  "Do not be angry, John,
I don't think if you were awakened to "The Good Sol's "Good
"Do you think I am right?"
"Don't be absurd, James," said Little John.
"But I will," said John, with a laugh.  "And please, Johnny, I'll
"I did, sometimes," said Jack.  "Do you think I deserve it?"
"And I do, too," said the children.  "Very good, indeed!"
"Not very well," said the children.  "But then," said the lady,
"And, what?" said John.
"Oh, no," said the lady, "I think you have had the whole
"No, no!" said Jack, cheerily.  "And if anybody gets into
"Well, the children have to go to mother-wallowing," said
"And now," added Bob, "we will get into mother-wallows."
But the children were all left alone, and the children had to
mother-wallowing.
When the mother-bird is silent, and the sun is getting low, and
dawn is in the sky, and I can hear the far-off crying of the
bird in the thicket.
When the wind and the world cease dreaming, and the sea has ebbs
away, and the world is empty, and I can hear the sound of the
flower beating on its spray, and I can see the golden bird
singing toward the sun to rest; and I can almost hear the
bird singing far away in the meadow.
The dear little one is very shy, and it is very hard for him to
be afraid of the sun.  You can almost guess for that,--
far-away,--winging to and fro on the top of the hill.
"It is very difficult to understand," he said in a serious
voice,--"to understand we are so much distressed about the
things we each calls the 'Unholy,' that in order to make
pictures, and it should not be too absurd for us.  It may
be very difficult to see our very sins--Our errors, our
griefs, and our suffering."
On the hill the clouds are hanging heavily over the hill,
playing with a heavy force, and the wind has carried the
sparks from the mountain to the sea.  At one moment the wind is
clatter, and a dull cranny like a cloud is drifting over the
river.  We can see the wind through the trees and see the
water in the faces of everything; and, in spite of our
fear and longing, our very household joy is going out into
the darkness.
At daybreak, when the flowers were fading, I came to visit the
window-sill; and, looking up, I saw in unison the two
sunshine and the shadow of the cloud, the two flowers, and
the little light of the first candle.  And I said, "If you are
So, there are more wonders going on and in the field is the
briar and the garden growing fresher,--while all these
pathways are hidden in their tops."
I thought, "It is time that I should come," she said, "to dedicate
some thing called garden, or garden, and that there is no
pain or sorrow can take hold of me.  It has waited for me many
twenty years till this letter has become a part of my joy.
If my hands are as small as the others, I should go away, or
die."
She turned her large blue eyes eagerly, and saw me standing there,
and that light in the sky.
She went away, neither homebound nor glad; but just as I gave
her my dress, and gave her some flowers, and she looked like a
amid the sweet blue flower that had appeared to the garden.
"I am sorry to see the rain," she said, "and I do not believe
that any or unlicidal or
======================================== SAMPLE 425 ========================================
, 1660.
"The man who does not fear
To run this risk of life,
Heed not the watchful ear;
Nor is the thicket closed."
The following is from the first act of the
sentiment to the following character:--
"And all the while we see
The conscious pictures glide
In unapproach'd device,
And read, in every face
The fables of the rout."
"We wonder if the master who records them
is angry with us. Perhaps he thinks he refers to all his
"In vain our eyes we turn
To all our artless cries,
And give no place to fears,
That vex us in our waking or in waking we may be
silent."
O Thou, who knowest all below,
All things above, below,
Whose wisdom is the wind's,
Whose power is the clear waters of fire,
Whose passion the unbridled river of desire,--
The reason of all this thou know'st and hast no part.
In the first place,
As it began to fall,
Adown the hill there came a shout and smite:
Thereafter instantly it drew and light
On all sides, showing by miracle that sight,
Whereby the heavens were open and the earth was bright.
Those twain, together,
Saw the Creator coming through the cloud,
And by his nature proved, as by his clear notes,
Unto the harmony of the primal creatures
Three several facts:--
First, for the union of fixed seed and soul,
The order of the body and the soul,
The order of the mind,--the law of the body,--
First notes of nature, and of thought, and sense,
The order of the soul, and sense, and sense,
The order of the body and the soul,
The order and the soul, and sense,
By order of the parts.
Next, for the order of material bodies, and the soul, and
the whole,
How they had each their fill.
First, for the order of material bodies, and the whole,
The order and the soul, and the whole,
After the order of the parts;
after the fixed fixed laws and the fixed decree.
Then, for the reason of all things confused,
After the order of the parts,
Those first parts were together measured and kept,
In order of the parts.
Next, for the order of all bodies under the sky,
Those first parts were together measured and kept,
In order of the parts, to each of its intrinsic ends;
First, for the order of all bodies to create
One order only, which could thus be formed,
First, for the reason of all bodies to create
One order only, those primordials of form,
The perfect loveliness of matter, from which
The primordials of all things are produced,
And the prime parts themselves, compact and pure,
Are primordials and primordials of form.
Next for the reason of all bodies under the sky,
Those primordials of all kinds must be combined
In perfect loveliness, and made to dwell
Together, like atom unto atom joined.
The first part of the body is of warm earth--
Fame, fortune, the ideal, and that which exists
In the same order that the soul is made
The object and spectator of itself.
The second part of the body is of matter,
And from the further part of it the soul
Can be conceived, as I have said before;
And after that, besides the members must
Lend outward motions to their proper forms
And function, each part must derive its being:
And yet for bodies' stuffs, like atoms of seeds,
The members must make up by some fixed plan--
By which exist each thing, or mind, or soul.
Next for some bodies, which have been create
By reason of the inborn loins conceive
To be by motions of a first-born fire;
And so create, exists each thing must be--
That these divide from others any more;
So nature is, and nature thus has been--
And that must all of them.
Next for some bodies of hard things the mind
Must make a road of body,
The certain parts of all things round and round,
And outward to the centre, to the whole
Must go with every soul that's in them.
The same must be the body of a soul,
And this is the soul's also, and part also
Of that which goes with the members: what is that,
But is, and always will be sooth,
_Whenas things go_ are parts of one another,
_And other things there be another_.
======================================== SAMPLE 426 ========================================
 of little children!  From the first day
I know the little groups of boys who played,
All in a manner, by my mother's side,
The noisy game-books of the lower grade;
I knew them all, but little girls, they seemed
Like little girls in a most cheerful mood;
Yet on the whole they seemed as if in vain--
They never played at all for sixty-four,
And, in each hand, they were not twenty-four.
It was the longest time before they went,
For thirteen days, past five and six, they played,
Just as she was about to die, herself--
"And what are they to do with our young men?"
"They are as hard," my mother said, "as if
These little fellows played last week!"
"Is it summer-time," I said,
"Or shining brightly?"
"I think it is!"
"I cannot keep them," I retort.
"There is a quiet and a quiet grave
That cures the fever in my breast,
So rest, my dear, upon its quiet breast,
It does not frighten me!"
But to my soul
The thought of Heaven is a soothing word,
A lovely hope, a gentle touch of hope,
After the storms of years!  Oh, let me try
My little boat of life with all its sails;
Its every wish fulfill; let me upraise
My little boat to go on shore with it;
And as the waves that quarrel around the shore
Come rolling, let me on the shore look up
And see the glorious fisherman, my son!
"A man is happy, son."
"A man is happy; and the moment he
Can give without his leave, his hand, his bread."
"The bread that's in his clutch, let that be thrown
Upon the shore, because that life is sweet."
"A fitting spot be found for charity!"
"A fitting rest for thought; for happiness
That comes when the great world has need of him."
"The fitting place to win the little life
That ever has been given him."
"A man is happy, son!"
"A man is happy; and, if he should fail,
That life is wretched."
"That's well enough;
I'm sorry for it; and I know not why
He should be sad; he has no darling son,
Or yet no golden apple in his cup
Of happiness--no rose or lily-tree."
"That's ill enough; and if it be denied--
And if I did not answer, 'twould be worse
For me to have thrown it in his clutch,
And thrown it in his clutch."
"The worth of my body is a little thing,
The thing of life a senseless thing and spent."
"The thing I did, that, all too easily."
"The thing that lasts for three short years
Is not so hard to bear!"
"The thing I did, within the hour
Of noonday,--heart of mine,
Which would have been too sweet to be,--
The thing I played and hid away,
For my life's sake, and for myself.
I played it once, the thing I played,
Not knowing the true way,
Until my breast was full in breast,
And for the love of Him who played,
But for the love of God who played.
I cannot bear it, O my soul!
I cannot bear it, being all;
And yet I know, I know how much
May come of it--yet I know how,
How much I loved, how much I loved!
Ah, it is not God's word,
I cannot bear it.  Woe is me,
So must I stay, so must I stay;
All will be right, so will they say.
"When I'm gone, God will draw nigh
To where I still must go;
Then I shall never see the sky,
And not the earth below."
"The earth is full of every grace,
Save where some soul meets face to face."
"This is no place for me to dwell
In this deep world, nor back or forth;
This little world is only girth
To me; and I must walk at home.
God loves me well, God knows I'm like
A brother to the kind heart of
A mother!  When I am gone hence
May God be kind if I forget;
And this poor heart of mine so true
I never can forget."
"In the old days of gold," chanted the Master,
"All the wise of gold,
All the learned men of science,
Learned in song and truth,--
All the wise men with the
======================================== SAMPLE 427 ========================================

Bearing their gifts of life.  No man may read
Or understand them, but the Book and I.
Yet, if we have to use a slender bond,
If such a lapse into the world may fall,
Itself unsaid shall be, then, that we build
A nobler monument.  If, from the height
Of our proud power, we claim our spirit's right
To bless our fellows' worth with a just cause,
And say that they who serve, with God and man,
God's purposes have been; and, after this,
Perhaps the second time shall send for all
The messages of hope.  So much to gain
And good we have enjoyed and been betrayed,
So much we have suffered, known we know not where
Nor by what name the world shall be called poor.
We cannot see, with clearer sight, what we
Have done and suffered; what we have been doing
In our own work; what we have lived we know not.
But this we know, that, while it brings to pass,
One deed of kindness, in another life,
Will nerved by service; this we prize for true,
This for success, and that for humbler things.
What then?  If, with success, we gain a name
Or rank, that, finding this, is also good,
It should be read, and written on the stone;
But this is truth:  to gain it one mistake
Is more to suffer than to think.  This man,
Who took the pittance of his brother's will,
Gave to the poor, to whom he had recourse
To those he proffered gold, and then the others,
He counted for his sums, and called himself
Abandon friends and kinsmen.  When the Prince
Received his wish, this being worth account
Did not the people call him father, then
He threw away all bonds, and fled to seek
The Prince's father.  But these things are not now:
If, after fearing much and pausing long,
My noble mother foolishly had said
That she was going to her former husband
With him, or aunt, or brother--for she thought
He had gone to heaven, there the angels might
Shelter safe keeping of the charge.  She knew
He had sent her love to me--she never had
Her heart suspected; only when she went
A-Maying with Prince Henry, then she knew
His business was not done.  I was at work
When his Highness was gone, and I was not
In the least part of work, and wanted work
Of talents.  But, alas!  my son was ill,
And orphaned, howling at his mother's will,
And me, her pride, as he refused his due.
My son!  He was too old when I was young,
To see with how much trouble was it in him
To do this thing, for now he is no more.
He cannot bear to ask what sort of life
He chose, whatever.  He is old:  and yet
He lives; and I, that very same, may die,
If he may live to hear of this one's fate.
He never told me of his wish, but thought
That I could do the bidding of my Son,
And only waited for it.  His great wish
Was for a time to learn.  I knew it long,
But could not.  Well, he loved it so for me;
He knew his duty; and, as I perceive,
It is not very wonderful to see
In any way what happiness there is;
But so much, to be loved, to see in him
What to be thought of--what to be, for aught
He can command, and still obey, and still
Attentive to the bidding of his God.
This little life of ours, we give to it
To exalt higher worship, humbler zeal
In doing, working, in possessing it,
An infinite love.  And now the love that moved
Each year by the peculiar love of God
Is on the bare outside of happiness,
That, satisfied, we cast into the fire,
And sacrifice our bodies to his fire.
I think that I shall be disturbed at last
By this, that in the presence of the Prince
I shall be humbled in the sight of God,
Not as a man who fears what he owes all
For grandest uses, but whose purpose serves
As best man's office, but whose conscience serves
As best a man's profession.  Let me live,
And work with diligence for happiness;
Nor fear to dash the disappointment of me
For the occasion of my ruinous life;
That some day,
======================================== SAMPLE 428 ========================================
,
I am alone.
What is the rhyme of love? No kiss
That ever troubled the dear little heart,
That in its little hands lay its full life down,
And for its sorrow would have sleep a sleep.
You will forget yourself, and it will be
That my poor love, the garden of your thoughts,
Has lost your sense.
I will remember you, but not enough;
And if it were it now, in that far time,
In those far days, when many a change has come
To my full heart, you would not leave it then,
For it has now been troubled.
I will go in,
Thinking upon what you had never heard,
And will not see, and yet I will not hear,
Yet will not see, till you should see me more.
All that has been is mine! You must recall
All is as it was; yet it is not so.
I know the harmony within my heart
Is of a voice that spoke of Solomon;
It moves me for my own use, and I wish
I knew it not at all. It is not so;
It is not so. I must not hear you more.
Behold, what miracle has come to me!
The world grows wonderful. I wonder if it ever came
As now--for now--that I have gone into the world.
The world grows wonderful!
The world grows wonderful to-day, and yet I would know
That I have found my love, albeit the world may scorn
My master, for this very moment; no least hint of pain
Was mine, my lover.
I have seen the beautiful sun.
The day grows wonderful, too; nothing that is not there
Is there for me so radiant.
I have seen the moon at my window of despair;
The day grows silent, and no man is ever dressed
With a look.
The day grows wonderful.
Now will I go out till I am in the garden of flowers,
And bring them to you, beloved;
If you have seen this,
All the fragrances, dear, are now made manifest.
The garden of my soul is full of flowers;
Every thing that lives that day must die
Out of its chaos and decay:
All the earth is beautiful, and only you.
They die with their faint perfume,
Like faint incense from the sepulchres,
Out of the incense that remains not there.
I pass along that path to the end.
The stones of the road are heavy with dust
As the leaves stretch along the gravel,
And every weed upon the bramble
Lifts its head in the wind.
And many times I pass,
When the moon is shining,
As if I were a wanderer over the housetops.
Then I will take the path that is up to the sky,
And thread its intricate skeins.
The world is wonderful, but not you.
All the air is wonderful to me,
For many times I wander
Away in the wind,
Through the paths of stars.
And now I would be a sailor,
With the shipwrights in the sky,
And the moon upon the water
Looking at me from on high.
All the earth is wonderful, but not you.
Even the stars are beautiful in their beauty,
And I should be a sailorman of souls in a ship.
I am a pagan, and I am a pagan,
And I wonder at the fair white moon.
The clouds are beautiful with the stars,
And the sun is never a one.
And I say to you, my sailorman,
As you are the one that you have seen,
That I am a sailorman,
With the storm upon your face.
The earth is beautiful with stars,
And above it the wide heavens are blue,
And a soft blue sky in the sky over my head
As I gaze upon its rays.
And I say to you, my sailorman,
As you are the one that you have seen,
That I am a sailorman,
With the storm upon your face.
'T is a horrible, horrible,
And I pray the gods this day;
So I will go out to the world,
And find a home in the bay.
The stars are beautiful with lamps,
I love them, and they shine;
And I, weary of all things,
I pray the gods this day.
In the blue sky there is a bird,
And he whispers to himself;
And the birds and the flowers say:
"Peace to the world and good."
And I say to you, my sailorman,
As you are the one that you have seen,
That I am a sailorman,
With the
======================================== SAMPLE 429 ========================================
 it and
a bray, and she will laugh."
"He mustn't know," said Mrs. Brown,
"What I'm going to bring."
Now was not this enough for her,
To make this rhyme, you see,
For she told nothin' about troth
If she'd like to go to school.
So she bought a horse, which he, you see,
Came to read in Mary's chair,
Read it, and his face was rosy,
Turned it on and everywhere.
And a tear brought many memories
(Some of whom you'll excuse),
In remembrance of the mother,
And the sister who was his brother.
"I will go and pay the bill,"
Said old Mrs. Brown,
"If you want to go with me,
We'll all of us together."
So the old horse went to pay
The bill, and the servants were
As happy as happy could be.
And Mrs. Brown bestowed
An invitation to say,
"It would go to hell if we
Miss the bill and leave you the door!"
And when she was gone to tea,
Old Mistress Brown forgot t' me,
And wrote to her in a letter,
Which she wrote, on her present,
That she'd like him to give, her.
"It is time I heard," she wrote,
"The letters would all be carried;
I wish you'd done what you wrote;
Let me see if I be aware."
But she didn't go to stay
On her feet, to see the way
She had gone, as she was told,
For to take her gun and hat,
And see if I had a nap;
And when she returned at last,
She'd say, she never had been born,
So she went to school and said,
"Oh, mother, do and be not alarmed,
Let me see if I do or not!"
If the little boys and girls
Were happier than I am sad,
And happier than I am sad.
If they never tried to be
As good as I am sad,
And didn't have the joy
That they ever had.
They have gone for long and so,
And I for one good-bye.
It's all right, for the little girls,
For the little boys and girls,
That God has left with them.
The Little Girl's Wish
It's all right, for they say
That the Little Girl's Wish
It's all right, for the little girls
That are as good as boys.
We wish you better views
Of my little girl.
When the birds fly about the fields
All day long, and all so quick,
And the skies are full of rain,
And the big trees moan, and all
The little boys and girls are playing
Every pennyless child,
Take the ball, take the doll, and play
The littlegirl's doll along,
And, with her cadging song,
Play thegirl in my ear;
And we'll hear her playing,
As the birds played, you see.
And if my dear old mother
Has not brought me food and rest,
And I've no more need to say
All the things I cannot
With the laugh, kiss, or singing
At the girl, and at the child,
With her toy, song, or laughter,
With her wayward, pleasant art,
And her laugh, and her laughter;
You will know when she is glad
That her heart is at a spring,
Rosy as the morning;
And her work, she does it, by and by.
It's all right, for the little girls
Who are up there, all day long,
And are always up there, always up and doing it;
And they never let you play
Until tonight,
And you look like a bird, my darling,
Laughing in the sun;
And I love to think of them,
As of them, one on.
But, when I am very tired of it,
I wish that I were only ten!
To think of them was a hard job,
But then I must take them ten,
And I hope I shall tell you, my darling,
How a little girl sits and gazes
At me in the apple-tree;
And I've always got one eye
Of hers, whither there's wood.
And it's pleasant to sit at the wheel
All the way, and make a call,
And tell him (you should hate to hear him)
Just when I'm there at all.
And he looks so tired you cannot make him
Look very still and say,
"I'm tired of the big boys who play,
And can
======================================== SAMPLE 430 ========================================
 my father's name,
For I thought I'd give it, though for shame;
And then, in time to come, would give it me,
From that time forth, a child, a violet;
But now--oh, mother dear--I feel it, too,
As you think I'm real--I feel like you!
I've found the place through all the weary days
A lonely little spot by lonely ways;
The place where I should sit with smiling face
Before my window showing all her pace;
Where I should sit, in rapture, watch the stars
Stand out with twinkling points of silver bars;
Where I should sit in transport with my eyes,
Till through the window I should see the rise
Of some pale pansy, without one sad sigh;
Where I should sit in transport with my toes
On each white bank, and catch a glimpse of rose
That with its fragrance would surprise my heart,
As I should do in secret, and impart
My thoughts to her who's happy as a star
That looks up, smiling sweetly on my bed,
And keeps her blest with every care--a tear.
I'd like to tread a daisy up my bed,
With sooty, dimpled hands, with dimpled head;
And in her eyes to plead my cause to be
How dear she is to any one but me.
How humble would the beauteous spirits be
Who prune their taper's buds as soon as may!
I'd like to tread a daisy up my bed,
With sooty, dimpled hands, and dimpled red.
A little maiden once my queen was made;
I live but to keep her pure, and as a maid
My dearest, loving lady, she will be
My dearest and my queen, and I in her eye,
And yet, love, I will never cease to cry.
The music of my rambling harp will soothe
Me if my words are echoes of some choice
I've ever heard, and yet might love to hear
Where I might sing her praise, or watch some sphere
Hushed in some sunny dell where she used to be;
While she, who never thought on earth, but hung
A happy, bright, and free,--would often chide
And smooth the way to heaven, to me alone,
And make my pleasures happy even till shown
By her sweet eyes, which, in the morning's beam,
Have all the bliss of heaven in one sweet dream.
And there's the truth! She made things young again,
And gave them lusty smiles, and taught them lore
Of this sweet heaven and the wide sea of life;
And I have loved the beauty of her face,
Who seemed too fair for earth, and made her young;
I have not seen her yet; and yet I think
If death had left me, and that I could sink
And be brought up to heaven, she would be mine--
An angel, the bright spirit of the scene
That she used to wear in her girlish grace;
Whose smile was what his smiles could understand;
Whose every word, as light as dew on grass,
Made her a heaven and made her heaven complete.
I would take back that vision when the light
Of early morning shone, and all the world
Was changed from dazzling to a twilight dream,
And she was weak with grief--but oh, my heart
Is growing happy, for before my eyes
There shone a face I never saw before.
All desolate and sad, with eyes aflame
For love and pity, she did stand and wave
Her heart out o'er me, and with soft, cool tongue
She whispered to me, while her lips yet stirred,
"I am thine only--only--only--lost."
I feel her silent as before the day,
And she will smile to me in spite of all
My sorrow--and my life has never found -
Nor even in dreams can reach her, when, behold!
I rise, and bid her rise, and bid her fall:
I am so weak--oh, let her up and cry,
"I am thine only--only--only--lost;"
I long to rise--but, ah--her eyes are dim;
I know her but a moment's dream is o'er;
And when I touch her hand, I feel the touch
Of that caressing caressing, touch of love--
The thought will fade, and will no more move me;
But though I die, what are all memories now
To memory of the joy that once was mine;
Still, there is something in her presence strange,
That like a spirit's spell will leave me weak,

======================================== SAMPLE 431 ========================================
 that I have had to sing.
They say (and still I sing) a fairy dies
Which, if not found, would be a funeral--
A dead, unprofitable heart; and there
(O Heaven! a living death!) shall weeps be....
They say (I'll sing her), every morn and even;
The sighs they utter, and the tears they shed;
The mournful, sad, last parting; and the wailing--
The graves,--the groans,--the last interview of Sorrow--
The graves,--the groans!
And, oh! the voice, that calls from out the dead,
And, at the last, at last, when all is said!
The voices, and the eyes--
Forever and forever, I'll be there,
And smile and sing, for ever and anon,
"The dead, dead love-oaks!"
The voices and the eyes
(Forever and forever, they'll be there!),
I know they sing:--
"The dead, dead love-oaks!"
(And I would that the dead, for me, might still be there!)
I see the gleam, the dim, and faint derision
That follows all that follows or that sunder;
I see the wail, the weeping and the laughter.
And, oh! the grave's lagoons and dead awaken
O'er all men's graves and nations that are shaken!
The dead, dead joys that are to come no more!
(And I would that the dead should die asunder!)
The dead, dead faces!  Oh! the haunted gloaming,
The spectre-prayer of some departed glory,
The last, dead love that once was all undying:
The grave, dead loves, the weeping and the sorrow!
O I would that I were dead, and thou far strayed!
O I would that, when Love grows grey and gaunt and old,
Love should grow dull and withered, like that crost!
The grave, the meadow, and the fading grass
Let their glad ghosts walk with us through the morn;
And at the grave's steep edge we should pass on
One mournful look, and lie as in a dream;
And I, as fair and young as any lily,
With cheeks and eyes did meet the dew of night,
And there, the ghost of Yesterday, I was,
And there, dear Love, the hill-winds sang for me!
I hear the breath of morning stir the dews,
The great guns thunder through the quiet trees;
And I, who loved the day, forget that now
The hour draws near to break, my Love, to know
Thou art unseen, through twilight's half-shut door;
The graves are not for me--I would, once more.
To-day is dawn, to-morrow is the June;
To-day the bells of Eden ring;--all June
The bells of all the May-times ring, we leap
Together from the shadowy place, and come
One day, and joyously the bells up-peal
To us who lingered through our dreamland here;
And as the hour of day draws near to us,
With our hearts beating and our proffered cheer,
Once more we stand, with outstretched hands and knees!
Again the moonlight sleeps upon the hills,
With slow, and lingering, waning, and the dawn
Through the grey mist creeps slowly through the deep;
Ah! they are gone, that were to come, or soon
To part, as we were ever, with our sleep!
We hear at night the sound of many waves,
And, borne along, the innumerable cry
Of some broad lake whose waves, like ocean caves,
Are piled on high in everlasting sleep;
From our first draught of life renewed we keep
Spirits and bodies, children of the flood
Of thought,--and all our own,--and still we keep
Breathless and wondering.  As some great tower,
At night by one lone peak among the hills,
Gives back its silent peaks,--so all the shades
Are seen no more; and in a lonely place,
Where sinews cling to branch and stem, the trees
Are seen no more; and beauty is no more;
And now, all beautiful, the sun hath set,
And in the east the world's great glory breaks.
Ah! when, amid the gray and flashing weeds,
The young men sit in idle hours and grieve,
The clouds have fallen, and the wind hath ceased;
The leaves have dropped, the rose hath withered, and the bird,
All lovely things,
======================================== SAMPLE 432 ========================================
.
_Mephistopheles_. We've made a triple fence of the old farm,
There was an old man, and he had a calf,
And when that old man fell out he turned away
Trotting the catkins. He picked himself out,
And put up the mare with his old grey mare,
And he said the catkins are always in trouble,
For our old mare mares are a dangerous race,
And why should I give them not now, my daughter?
_Faust_. Now, my little girl, I can take what that beggar
Has put into your mouth, the mouth of your mamma,
And tell you that milk is the best of salt dishes
Wherever you go.
_Mephistopheles_ [_in the meantime_]. And your brother, my dears,
Is the old man with the dog-eared eyes,
And his nose is the best of salt dishes,
And he eats large trout sometimes
When he's still a-hunting.
My dears, you've one of the wisest and queerest,
In hunting the elk, so 'tis plain to see,
And you've found the same
But give us some bread and some wine.
The man who has that small sour head
Is a pleasant old soul, and a dog as black
As a dog, and I've never got
So good as he is, yet
To say the right,
And to say the wrong,
The wisest of men is a friend of yours,
But, goodness a pity,
My children have always my share
Of friendship and beer.
_Mephistopheles_. What would you like by my advice, if I'd had you
In my way to be old you?
_Faust_. And now that I see with my eye
A man that is old;
_Mephistopheles_. You have, with all my strength, a good deal
Of your virtue to do,
And, of old, one may have a good end,
Though to live with you too.
_Faust_. There was many a ring of hound,
And a catch in your ring,
But no drop in my bag, I was tired of the sport,
And I'm worried to live with you.
_Mephistopheles_. Let me rest a bit more on your quiet than
I have done my best to-day.
_Faust_. The day of the chase hath come,
The deer is out of cover,
The ant runs after the ant:
He hunts and takes the cover,
And I can hear him call,
"Hounds, hounds, hunts, hunts, hunts, hunts, hunts, hunts, hunts, hunts,
And I love you as dear, dear, dear, dear, dear!"
_Mephistopheles_. Here is your case full plain,
That, though this be the error,
I do not see myself again,
Or have you quite forgotten me.
_Faust_. If I had told you yesterday
About the noble prize I prize,
I'd not then find the grosser blade,
Though now it lies in my poor clothes.
_Mephistopheles_. No doubt you keep it secret;
There is a great deal hidden
From your eyes' shining, shining trust,
In many a dainty bush and tree.
But yet by chance, my leaves are spread
Obscurely round, and, running free,
The trees of liberty are spread,
And my whole heart runs all the race.
My love, the last of all these leaves,
Has put me where the grass is good,
And you, my first, must be the last,
When I shall be dead,
And with my last eyes round my head,
You must drop down again,
And I shall be alone, alone,
And with my last eyes round my head,
You must bury me, and not a trace
Lest you know my love was in its place.
And the wind is blowing out of the west,
And the great clouds sail by,
And the ocean rolling up and down,
Where neither sun nor cloud have place.
I am alone, you know, but I would sit,
And it is in the shady bower,
To make your very pulse itself a rhyme,
And feel your breath to life beat.
_Faust_. O foolish lady! I have heard
From women some great truth:
You are too quick to take your word,
But I'm not dead to teach.
_Mephistopheles_. The proverb says that woman
Thinks all she _plays_, and when her tongue
Quickens it, only
======================================== SAMPLE 433 ========================================
.
SORR. (Searched him with a glance.)
SORR. (aside.) What use?
SORR. (aside.) What's that?
SORR. (Very angry.) O be quick!
How now?
SORR.                     I've thought about it.
Let's turn around to the kitchen-door,
And seek the house with all the key.
SORR.               Here it is, I'll open the door,
That best of the kind of ointment.
SORR.                        So we'll, Sanny dear--
For I'm going away with the rest of the matter,
And I'll show you the kind of respectable fatness
Which I have for my supper.
SORR.                    'Tis very, very true.
That's the way the honest country folk live.
And see those kindly faces,--well, look there!
I've seen them all and I'll allow it;
But the simple, sweet-me-nots they surely may be.
SORR.                           I'm sure they are.
SORR.                              I would be with you.
SORR.                                 No, the sun's up.
SORR.                                   Come in!
SCENE.--A farm or field.  Early morning.
SORR.                            I'll let you in.
SORR.                         I'll let you in.
SORR.  With good will do you!
SORR.                                    We will have my fill!
SORR.  When the day's work is o'er, I will be with you still.
SORR.  All day I will work, and you may work for me still.
SORR.  When my work is done, I will wait at nightfall and be still.
SORR.                                    I'll do my share!
SORR.  And I will do my share!
SORR.                                              So.
STREggles which may have some relief, but may all comfort go
STREV.  Good morrow to the day,
As the sun rises slow.
How the busy day speeds, in its course and its course,
And the colors have all their flaws;
How a few weeks before the day comes that way,
And the cheerful light shines every day;
How it comes mixed and mixed, and yet not mixed yet,
And the blue sky broods o'er the blue hill and hill,
And it goes forth a different hue all day long,
And it goes forth a different tune all day long,
When the sky and the river seem joined in one word,
And this one is clear, and that one is clear.
What is this that is breaking upon my breast?
I do not know; I do not know, I do not know.
I do not know, I do not know what is here,
I do not know that I do not know.
I do not know, I do not know, I do not know.
I do not know that I never know what is here
======================================== SAMPLE 434 ========================================
."
On the contrary, the poet has, instead of in the word,
Scoff at a _con_partition, and then call him villain.
"D----n ita d----n, d----n.
"D----n. _T----o'_ versification.
"D----n----n. _T----u_ versification.
"D----n. _S_v'sc_. _S_u_ versification.
"D----n. _S_u_ versification.
"D----n. _S_v'sc_ a versation, and _grace_.
"D----n. _Br----er_ versation.
"D----n. _Br----er_ versification.
"E. _Fe. (κάνέ)_ versification.
"E. _τετιδρα_ το κά πολήτος.
"E. _ττυδραν_ τάν χαμέρήσ· θυσαι ὤρω.
"E. _fei-an_ τῳναν ὤμιος ἐλκέρων νικόμεντε δικρήσα [by
"E. _feil_ τάν τόν πολύπάν·αι·
δέρα τόπον πολυ ενοι·
αιτη τοῦν ὜ρκοτάν
δα τ' ὀλλαρέφης. μέλο κ.τε αμόμαιδία τόν χραύμισθον
θεὶ κοῦς ἑπαλόστα κ.τ.λ.
θειρῶν βράρα θ' ὜ρωμεν ἐταλήσθεσι
ἀβλλος κ.τ. τ' αθημος κ.τόμεν το τ' κ.τ.ρος. Cf. Athen. Buttm. Lex. El. de cent.
_4. The blind Fury_, Pergamus. p. 43, has occasioned her madness,
_5. On aoid_, the hind part of _poetic_ sacrifice.
_6. On a clouded brow_, the head part of _Cassandrus_, and
_7. The nightingale_, the owl, and _fallow_ flowers, appear one
eighth of the whole and asks its share, which is not _nor_ what
Themis, now reposing on a flowery bank, having lost the
sweetness, and remembering the fair form which it had once given,
fear of its own beauty, and the longings of its own dear.
_7. To the blind Fury and treacherous Queen_, the witch, the
charm of poets. This feeling is most certainly the more obvious
_1. Awed by a ravening hawk_, &c.
_8. Ladies_, maidens.
_10. '_bouquets to the hungry_, to the hungry _she-goats_, to
_11. '_to the beggar-wife_, to the mistress' (_i.e._, clothed on
_Six. The owl at first on the bare ground_, and _with no
favour of words_.)
_13. '_to the blackening dogs_. But, as in these lines the rhyme
appears, it is of a gross and corrupt nature in _eight lines_
exceeding, _e.pt. in_. The second line of _one_ is
ascribed to _those who have trusted in._
A. Whether the last line of _seven_ is _e._ supported by
_five in a wheel, and the whole number_. It is generally
written with a per-centual and double _e.p. also_ in _cor._
F. The _septenary_. The _septenary_.
_Sixpenny soups a th'y sen'_
======================================== SAMPLE 435 ========================================
 that I am,
For my soul is a light as the light of a woman,
And mine the high joy of the first of her daughters,--
But I was a fool in her hour of gentleness,--
Ay, with me and hers it is possible,--
Yet I was a man of the heart of a woman.
'Twas a dream that came to me under the sun,
When the skies were the first to begin,
And the stars were the first to shine out and run
And in the same cloudy track wander and run,--
I dreamt it all in a dream:
'Twas a dream to have seen the face of a woman
And to have seen it never again,
But never to have to have lost or to have won any
In the love that she showed to the man that was her all.
I dreamt it all in a dream,
When heaven looked down for the deed done there
Which saved me, and left me the right to despair,--
That was it,--or so it seemed, the right,
To have left me,--as I am, then?
But now as the dusk was deep and deep
As the deep-moorland is free
And the far-off fields in the light of sleep
And the long-gone lovely sea,
I dreamt it all in a dream:
I knew it all in a dream.
"Tell me, tell me," went the Voice.
"Have you not told me, brother?" she said,
And then, in low words, suddenly,
All brokenly, as one dead.
"I have told you nothing;
Look, you cannot.
I know, you cannot."
"Don't you heed me," he answered,
"Don't you heed me."
"I know, you are but mortal,
And would have warned of my name;
But I have lost the name of her;
And you that are evil, blame
On my face.
You shall not find that, brother,
And share her shame.
That's an old story, mother,
I swear it true;
And a man who was stricken
By her will, maybe,
May forgive her for evil,
And she may not shame."
As a man with a heart of steel
And a heart of stone,
His heart went back to her,
But my tears were gone;
For the Old Year wailed, "The stars
Shine no more;
No dead poet, who wanders
In the gloom, sees the dawn.
"The last light dies on the tomb,
And the last light lies
On the breast of the lonely ember,
And the face of the sky
Moves on and awakes.
And the voice of that holy man,
The voice of the lonely man
Moves, and is gone.
And the voice of that holy man
Creeps, and is gone.
"But I weep not for the dead,
No, not for the living;
Yet with my spirit bled,
I believe in the word which saith,
In the yearning of life,
That there is but one light left
In this our life.
"I will not weep," she said;
"For, if God would not have it so,
My heart would have it overflow
With every drop of pain."
"My God!" I cried, "I will not weep,
Nor turn my grief upon
The loving lips of the living God
And the lips of the Eternal One.
"I will not weep, for I have not seen them;
What has been, and shall be, blurred them,
In that life which was so lovely,
In that death whereof no record is?
'Tis only as the soul dies,
So the soul lives on,--as if it were not,
And is not, ere it is born, the Keaner.
"But I weep not for my soul,
I weep not for the living,
That I bring my love to me:
But I bring my love to thee;
And O! my God, O God, to thee!"
"And is it then God's hand that takes me,
And the hand that takes me, and makes my life
A terror, fear, and suffering and death?
A light more clear than sun and stars,
That makes men shudder when they see no man?"
"Ah, child," I said, "we weep not, any more;
But I, who weep, weep on, and on, and on,
And on, and on?"
"And when I die, I weep not,
Nor bring me fame of others, sweetest thing.
So I may weep. And so
======================================== SAMPLE 436 ========================================
, 1678. Richard of England appears to be,
and, though some few of his adventures appear in this
confineland, the most important of his adventures appear
as an instance of a dangerous experiment upon the Scottish
Scotian ground. These days are gone at last--and no
advancing-ribed excursion to the West, and the South's
effect--to the great Western Western world--have brought
it almost full--even in a day when almost every sheltered
cave was destroyed.                   Robert of England
(afterwards Baron Ludgate), one day, very early at
the prime, found Willy telling what had happened to
influenced him much about the death of Elenor Murray
and Catherine.                   John Greenleaf Whittier
was born at Tholick, in Kent, in 1579, and for some
time, a servant of a substantial service, lived on
a sudden out on the morning in the first of August.
"The Rev. and Rev. A. W. Smolick," of which the family
number no greater spirits than James Cole, the famous
 lamented for their letters.  "John Smith," writes his
loud-orbed music, in his "Celestial Bells," says Mr.
Sherwood, "an ode to a dell tout," and the hymn of praise
and pomp.
"In this year, our first Christmas--set in the year
Of his marriage we have had a revel;
How, in the sacred year Eve, a thousand times
Hath Alice been a bride to God!"
So ends my story.
Yet in this ever-living page,
When God was with us averse,
And we were men again,
Still had the mystery.
This tale of our dead king
In some remote, forgotten place,
Hath power with God to raise
This heart of stone to his.
My little Son, when the winter is over
And the snows have been temperate and deep,
Will come back, with a light on the heather,
And a shelter from school.
The heather is green, but the snows have been long,
And no frost has trodden its purity down,
But the snow has been deep, and the white virgin song
Has danced over it.
And the little Son long ago lay with his Brother,
In his old age, in his graves where the frost
Now glitters and fades, as it were of the other
Who were with him in youth.
And that is the plight
Of maidenhood,
When the world seemed all bright
With a young man's face and the beauty of truth.
It was winter, and all the winds went wooing,
The snow lay piled on Heaven's broad breast,
And the wind came and blew from the eastward,
Like the breath of the opening day,
And the little Son rode through the upland,
And his feet in the green,
And the wind was blowing and blowing,
And the quiet snow stood on Hebreola's land
As the sun with the moon
Rode on the crest of the sea.
But the snow lay long on His reconciling,
And the little Son came again,
On His reconciling spirit,
And His heart was broken and weary and cold,
While ever He kept the tryst
With a boy in His mantle of whiteness,
And a beautiful, saintly woman,
With her innocent eyes and the lips of a blessed,
With her innocent, loving heart,
With her wonderful snow.
And God knows who is like to this,
So is the Lord of the world,
And He knows who is like to this,
Who knows what things shall be called heavenly,
And why must the children of men
For the rest of the worlds so perish,
So should not the little Son live in vain,
Nor the King live in vain.
For He came to the little ones home
That were given Him gifts of flowers,
And when He was up He was not alone,
Nor the weakest, nor least in lands.
His people gave Him their lives and goods,
They counted His gifts as they came;
And His people gave Him their lives and goods,
Which have become very dear to Him,
Who will not cease from their loving Father,
But will bear no longer the pain
Upon His head, since His faithful ones
Have made Him the messenger of God
To heal them, the sick, and the old.
And since Thou hast made them all,
Have no more pity, for Thou hast made them all.
Where is the
======================================== SAMPLE 437 ========================================
;
So, when at last, they come to town,
The door ajar is thrown.
But yet I know, whene'er I pass
I will not always stand;
If aught do make a little noise,
The door must break at hand.
There'll be some folk on misery,
Some men in pettish poverty,
Some men in drink, it seems to me;
Some men have wares to sell;
Some men are rich and poor;
Some have perhaps found happiness,
And some are poor and poor,
And all are poor and over-souled,
And all are poor and poor.
I think it best to make this show:
If you're a man, to be resigned,
You can be poor and over-souled,
And such are poor and low.
But yet, there's something in the air
That holds my heart in Frederick Square,
And whispers, Yes, and then, says he;
"Choose one if that, and one for three."
What will you buy a heap of things
And one can't buy a heap of things?
There are some things about our mind
A sort of mental stimulus;
An energy that no man has,
We call the meals that we detest;
There are some things we never eat;
A thing we like of daily eat.
For us there's money in a load
Of sentimental agonizing;
Our souls are full of conflicts too,
And are successful in vainglorious tilts,
And all that we have ever lacked.
The world will have another show,
As it has been from first to last.
One thing is sure: to know a man
Is greater than the happiness of him,
And more than his acquaintance is;
To give him courage and to see
The kind of man that's with his three.
Thoughts from philosophy transcend,
And I accept a certain strain;
The path I walk with, to the end,
Is the most wandering prospect far--
The world has something, every day,
To make me eager to _get_ my way,
And, on the other hand, to _pass_
With serious thoughts and solemn sense,
And sound sense-opposition into sense.
There is much that's common in the mind,
Which makes it fit to call a man behind;
There is much, but none can see and know.
Of knowledge is there none, whereby
We look to that which is ahead;
We sit upon the fellow's feud,
Although the strife has made us red.
There is--and there is not alone
The slightest satisfaction from our own;
But we who have our reason wronged
Are bound to claim compassion long.
Thoughts from philosophy divide
Which have no other level but inside;
To reason is an easy task;
The question's plain, the answer's right,
Whether or not we blend with light.
If I'd a friend, and he'd supply me more
Than all the world can need,
Why, he must give to get the name
In which I've found my _friend_;
If I'm a pleb, and he'd supply me
With everything that's clear,
Why, he must pay, without deferment,
Or else, I'll give the _fancy_ way.
Why thus confide to all around,
And yet confide to all?
Do not deny it with disdain,
But in the whole give all.
If happiness you seek for here,
Then poverty must mourn;
And what you want your happiness
Is got by having long.
Be not cast down, to others,
For others' nonsense be;
Ponder upon their sorrows,
And let them know and see;
For, if they had a way of knowing
Why they should end in _me_.
Aye, leave it to the smallest sphere,
But give me more advice;
If you are wise enough to prize
More pleasures than you twice despise,
Then give to me your share of knowledge,
That I may know and see,
That _I_ have had my share of labour,
And that I've had my share of leisure.
I see my friend's affairs as I have heard,
And I know far more than he can say,
Then once more let me do without delay--
And I will tell myself to say.
No thanks to me so great as your indulgence
To any chance who can my profit name,
And I can say, in my extremity,
What is my friend's complaint, what is his game
Then I say, if you have any more
I will tell all and I speak no more--
At least with one more, and
======================================== SAMPLE 438 ========================================

_The Second Ledge: or Life of Christ_ (generally supposed) _New Birth
From _The Monk's Book of Works and Poems of Holy Hood_, 1616.
l. 1297, l. 3, l. 3, etc. 2 vol. 16mo.
The second lot for the lyrical career follows, l. 4, l. 6,
A song not sung by bards alone is fit for God,
The whole may have somewhat of music (or _or prose_) or
But the best piece of the song should have some special value (or
There is a hill that knows no sun,
And sings but to the shepherd Pan,
When he his songs began that year;
There is a silver brook that throbs
In silver throbs of crystal tears,
While silver murmurings of love,
Make the clouds float through the heavens above.
'Tis there that, by the silent light
Of the great Moon, this gentle brook appears,
That fills the world with love and light.
And there the silent three, in their blue seats,
With sweet-breath'd cheeks and happy tears,
And soft hearts beating in their breasts,
And the cool breath of the summer breeze;
There's the blue sky of the highest heaven,
The deepest lakes, all flowers and trees,
Where all the world is love and heaven.
O happy souls! happy compared with me!
The best is joy;
The joy will last till nothing's left behind,
The grief that will not be!
Love is a beauty that may not last,
But that's eternal never;
It is so young, they say,
And love is never old.
Heigho! for this and aye!
The hour has struck, the summer goes,
Birds are dying in the woods,
The snow is on the mead;
The sun shines on the hills,
And summer in the fields;
But O! that hour of joy
No song for them can charm,
Though the boughs withered be,
It has such an hour of bliss,
And the dew is gone with absence.
This is the month of May,
When rose and lily bloom
With their sweet bells of green.
This is the month of May,
When every flower and tree
About the meadow lay,
In the month of June.
Hark ye, hark ye, hark!
A strange, a fearful clime!
The leaves upon the tree,
Amid the fields of time,
All lovely in the month of June.
It is the month of June,
And e'en so dread a day
As this world knows not of the night.
Oh, sweet it is to die,
Long, long to watch and sleep
O that the spring were near!
But now, as in the day,
The flowers shall fade away,
And naught but Heaven appear.
Oh, sweet it is for me,
Deep in my shady bower (?),
To hear the lark begin his song.
Oh, sweet it is for me
To hear from mother's bower
The music of that glorious night.
The young spring, and the old,
When buds and blossoms opening are,
And the young shoots are on the spray,
May well be mute in praise,
In praise of sweet sweet summer.
The winter is in vain,
That never comes again,
The tears of sorrow are not worth
The old fond heart's refrain,
Like showers of shining rain.
And now the Spring is come,
The fresh buds bursting forth
With their long snow upon the ground.
And, sweet it is to die
Alone amid the flowers;
For Spring has come, and all the hours
Have had their sweetest hours.
And now I know another flower
Is coming for my love,
Which in the winter's sunny field
My tender lady keeps;
And I 'twill bring it back to-day;
And when again ye're young,
To be my own again,
O! what a flower that would be good
To keep me from all evil!
I will come to you when the Spring has past,
The opening of her April-time at last.
I will come to you when the Spring has past,
And, like an angel, come to lead you fast,
And hide you in the meadow-grass at last,
And cover you with leaves in coolest shade,
And bring all bluebells up unto his aid.
I will come to you, when the robin sings,
And the blue sky, like a sickly moon above,
Bids the full Spring come never to be ours;
And
======================================== SAMPLE 439 ========================================
 his eyes
And look'd askance on the ground where he had been;
Then, turning to his pupils, all his face
Conceived what next he thought conceal'd, and thus
They all resolved to listen: I, as had
Been silent, chid him.  "Teacher," all
Said, "if ye knew, ye would have sworn he spake
Nothing to gain from fraud.  But were his words,
That a mere lad thus secretly should pry,
To some place nearer, I might yet terms give ear.
Therefore, who list, before it too much lies.
Remember, then, that if on him or you,
What grace offer'd, or whose other part was lost,
He would unmov'd make presents of the truth,
Rather than of the other.  Cheape not then
Lightly, be with caution wary: time first
Leaves thee, and then instruct thee. ften thyself
Discourteous to that end, for which I bring thee.
So spake the bough; then all attain'd, but Eve
With silence nam'd, and Adam separate
His spirits from the rest, and of his looks
Bound with proluded watch.  Towards the animal,
Who joins two natures in one form, she turn'd,
And, even under shadow of her veil,
And parted by the verdant rill, that flow'd
Melting all herbage deep into the ground;
And, where the bank was high and wanted path,
In passing shadow of her veil, a light
So clear of yellow shone on her, that in
It clear'd the offence of sorrow.  As a man
Dwelt in the wrong season, if his season tells,
And reads the rimes in his own face, e'en so
To her the heavier reason back retires,
And to herselfish pain and penitence
Still with new doubt perplex'd, and more disturb'd,
She thus her short-lived vigils broke and turn'd:
"And shall we then, in such unlovely sort,
As to disturb so sweet a silent truce,
Say, Father, when we meet again in heav'n,
'This is that region chaste, whose land, 'tis said,
'The grace and glory of the infernal world
Was first ordain'd that it should peace begin?"
Thus she her words, not heedless of his voice,
And of his state, in rather hoarse rebuke
Impatient spake: "Vain thought conceiv'd, and dark
Hath brought me.  Yet, I deem, this eagle-dream
Too fine for Paradise.  But other cause
Forbid I should unfold the cause so taught
In vengeance, that it may no less inflame
Thy puzzle, Eve, who stand'st upon thy throne.
Wouldst thou behold the violent light of day?
And how the gorgeous dusky veil, on which
Thou flam'st, is drawn, before it, by the wind
That fills the Realm of King Cenchrea with light.
In sooth, that moves the argument to try,
Whether of God, of his own works, or mine,
Which to my question seems unbid, I seem.
As in that light, the first of creatures dies,
Nor aught discover'd of the cause that led
My steps to this our sojourn.  But to those
Who in the animal world have made of joy
And of delight, that in their Limbo live,
Eternal, they are form'd: so in thy sight
All living things have their end, and are of use.
And, lastly, not created King or Queen,
May be some mighty wight, in whom the grace,
That from such bright recesses steals away,
To divers endow'd doth glitter, as with that
Of sweet imbracing which from him is brought,
As to His bounty, any mind beside
May in itself excess, or in its excess.
And renders each grain to some savory hue,
As if it were a Sun, and other Starrs
Of light, as lambs and lambs after their kind.
And renders each grain being more and more
Of latent Grace, as more and more to love
Vice, and the fond desire to know and taste,
Though with none other then in heav'n save thee.
I would not wait thy palm for gifts like these,
Given with so little, or with so much ease.
Do thy full measure, and it will be found
By each according pet to the Chastity,
Which, sparkling in thine eyes, denotes it there.
I've told thee, if thou seek'st that
======================================== SAMPLE 440 ========================================
, and a little of his own is
inconvenience, and all that has to come is dark.
He must have been as a poet, his work in his verse that is
to fill and increase, and his songs, like the wind that blows
from the south, arise like sobbing music from the south.
He must have been a poet if he were old enough to sing
his own life--and he must have been a poet in his verse.
He must have been a song gentler than the loud sea's, a song
of love--for he is in tune with the great sea's lamentations,
and his tears--of utter distress.
It must be to tell him that the sea, having visited forty
years ago the writer would have made him his speech better
and longer, and that they must have been the things he
thought so.
He must have been the singer of the "Melancholious Truth"
too long, and that as he affirms him that he was one of the
may think it possible to bring him back one of these lines
For, as regards the question, he says "these are not of the
mind--not of the heart, but of the animal affections."
A poet may have had no sooner said the [Greek] than that
that he sang in his "Is he so sentimental, or is he not?"
The reader must find, if he has been a poet, there must be
two great poets who might have seen him in his youth; for
the poet is a great poet who makes verses for them--
but as to the audience, he says "they are far from
beauty."
A poet may have had no other contemporary times than this,
if he were born of the "Melancholious Imagination." He may
be the son of an "Homer."
I take the whole,
I take the whole,--I take the only one beneath the rod,--
You said, "It is the shadow." I have always said "yes."
The poems beginning in question are:
the poet is so far from tasteful and acuteurous.
If he be a poet, I say, as to that; he must have either
thought, or poetry, that is a great matter for art.
The poem begins with a natural and beautiful catalogue, and
the verse runs thus:
My worthy friend,
The poetry of my friend is dead; they say
himself must have been finished in his life before he came to
I must read with much care, lest an unexpected choice should arise
which he might have put on me. To comprehend all this is my
I must give it up, and to keep me gentle and content.
I know, as I feel it, I have not the slightest remembrance of
the part of the lyric or of the style. To know so much is
difficult.
I know the theme, and the poem, or the poem, are simply the
poems are lost, and so I would, and I would, and could, and
could, but for ever, in my judgment; for it is too much.
I must give up the song, neither do I demand it, but I
like the more the necessity is wanting. To understand all the
numbers of poetry in the rough; and it must not be amiss
that I should give up poetry in proportion to the utterless
numbers of men's intellect. In a sense, the writer must
be very well off his way, and you are much nearer the
To this view I must put my fine ends, and my subject is
bewilder. I have been making for myself a new poem.
What a beautiful nature is the nature of the verse!
We were children of one family that was different from all
childlike as children,--we of his father's family, and one
that was more natural than any; and we were not shaped like
father and brother to him, or like him, or like him, or like him
all of us, even more like him.
The new poem begins with the natural history of the
world--one of the few whose names are far more common
than any of his greatest and best children, whose heart
embroidered with the wealth of ages yet unimpaired by
human pride.
A new line is added in the text,
"The Old and the New shall every one alike
Concerned be; for my own part I rejoice,
I do but please those children to receive
And when they shall have learned to do my observance
They will make good history to themselves."
For a full half-hour I wish that I were as young as I now, and
I have just left school, and think with pleasure I will learn
from self and others since
======================================== SAMPLE 441 ========================================
-Hook and the King-way
To the Land of Nonsense, where the French abound:
And there are many on the ridge
At the Tauerbragum, where the French are crazed;
There are many on the sea
With dizzy lungs and tottering feet,
And many on the weight of things,
And many on the weight of things.
And there are many, being naked, there are many here:
And there are many on the map
Of different Colonels, with thirsts that make no fuss,
The different Colonels with thirsts that make no fuss,
The absent One, the absent One,
And many on the map
Of different Colonels, to catch the curious heat
Of what they eat, and have, and eat, and drink, and eat.
But you, I am no Viceroy; you can never eat
The food that you prefer at all,
But you can eat whatever comes to you,
And drink whatever comes to all.
Aha! you are a pretty girl with rings of bells
On your head, and your foot, and your foot, and your eyes:
How you would make a pretty figure of your own,
In the midst of the dancing and the wine-cups and the pies.
Aha! you are a pretty girl; your name is Cobledoom,
And the Cure's a clever lad to cure you,
But when I'm absent, and you live in Rome,
You are always finding something good.
You have a little dog, whose nose is wet with soot;
He's always running after buttercups, he knows;
He's always coming at the house with people, too,
But, oh, his tongue is so polite!
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
I have a little pony, I do so,
I have him in winter, I think his ribs show
Like the back tooth of an old brown bird.
I have very short legs, and a little round belly,
And a little round thumb, and a little round thumb.
I have a little dog, I have him in winter,
He is wholly covered with white snow.
He knows better than lies in his bed by day,
And whether he lives in Germany or away.
He loves to play in the evening, he loves to play
In a way that's even, spite of all that's said and done,
But his mind is wise, and his tail is always gay,
And he's worth a copper-bail in the winter-time of the sun.
Aha! you are an old man, sitting on the terrace
Under the window with never a fine-looking face,
In the yellow candlelight you never seem to see
That you used to keep the old books, like little boys of mine,
A little boy, who, I believe, was always mine.
He's a funny book-boy, and a little coat of fender;
He's a pretty girl, a tall girl, and a rosy red pecker,
Who just as soon as becomes them, what do they say?
To make the most of you a little boy,--
Is there not a boy that would not get his bread?
Ah, no, no boy you'd have him any more
If you'd only got him by the hair.
We're all of us middle-aged--
Don't you know the times that will not let us alone?
We're all of us youthful--
Don't you know the times that will not let us alone?
We're all of us youthful--
Don't you know the times that will not let us alone?
We are all of us youthful--
Don't you know the times that will not let us alone?
Nothing is like the rest
Of the world's great climbing up to the sky.
Nothing like the rest
Of the world's great daring climbing up to the sky.
When we're all alone,
When we're all alone,
Spirits of the air with a song
Sweeter than any song
Of the land's dark thunder when it comes along
With a rush of rain,
Blowing again
Oval in praise of the Lord.
When we're all alone
We're all ready to meet the fate
Of the Lord, so great, so great.
He'd rather be a clown
Than have the world come down
With the things we most like,
Basking in the sun
With the courage of a dog.
It's all as though the stars
Were shining somewhere,
Finding their light
In that place where He's away.
Now it's all as if the sky
Were covered over
With clouds and night,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 442 ========================================
 her and call the name of Luso.
But I, a woman, in a passion jealous of her,
Would now advise, and call her by-and-by.
I, the last man in Troy, with speechless passion
For love in all things--of the seven Gods the one,
The one for whom the rest of the seven long years
Lay dead.
And lo! Apollo's self upon the shield
Of her I found, and on its golden orb
Was shaken. And when, behold, a godhead crowned
With thorns about his feet, he came, around
The altar of Diana, who, I thought,
In her was fair of face and full of life.
I prayed the Sire to show my bleeding eyes
That I might weep, and tell him all the tale
Of all my grief. Then, Hermes, shalt thou learn
What wondrous grief the blessed Gods have wrought
On Danae when her wrath set all thisflame
Into aflame--alas, alas for me!
That I, even I, should fall and fall again
A prey to grief, and die. And now I cry
For vengeance, and my tongue is fain to learn
That I am dead. Alas, the day is come,
And night is brooding on my misery.
I shall not learn the cause of my lament;
Him, who beguiled me with the tale of death,
I shall remember, for he left me here
Alone. There he shall find me in his home,
Among his friends; and on his noble deeds
Shall gaze, and with delight behold Ausonia,
And Arria, where the mighty souls abode.
There shall he meet me, and the Gods shall give
To me the praise I'd ask, and all the wealth
Of Troy, and, without guile, himself the King
Shall have from me. And when at last his doom
Has come, and he has met me in my death,
Then shall he speak to me of all his joys,
And sing me the last song to-day, 'Amen!'
'Ay, ay, ay, ay, even this, 'tis sad to see
A son that is not mortal in his grave,
His sleep a shadow, and his heart a flame.'
Nay, not a tear; I pray thee, for my grief,
I pray thee, be it even with my prayer
That thou mayest find me, ere thine eyelids close
Till thou wilt sleep. No man of mortal men,
Who lives as ever, can be found alive,
And in the body breathes not aught but air,
And the limbs burn to rise, and breath is turned
Along the veins; nor mortal can be moved
Till he hath touched the sum of manly days.
And then, I say, my spirit may be moved
By this, and not as once a man of God,
But as a binder, with a little hand,
Beside the yoke, and by the fire of love.
Ah, might I still remember when I saw
The light of life, and the old loveliness,
When thou wast young and I was fresh and fair
And the delight of Gods; how thou wouldst laugh
And dance, and say thou wouldst, and the great Gods,
And, after all, the Gods who dwell below
Bearing thee off, thou wouldst be like the man
Of old, and half of all thy race, and young
As are the Gods, who wear the wicker tunics,
And thou wouldst weep, and never hear a word.
Thou wouldst be like the man who in the night
Hath wasted body, and hath lost the joy
Of all his days, and naught but evil deeds
To do upon the earth, and all the Gods;
And naught but misery, and nought of shame.
But even though he sleep within the bed
Of death, and with the blood of men have wiped
His face, in a great sorrow hath he set
His face, and poured his spirit out like water.
For many, that have wrought against him death,
Have risen and dragged him down into the house,
And with their blood have washed their hands of him,
And soiled their lives out. Therefore thou must weep
At last, with lips of scorn, for she will weep,
And as a man must weep. Rejoice then, son of Zeus,
The sire of gods, and thou, dear son of Zeus,
Who hast been such a joy among the Gods,
And they are dead, O daughter of the air!
For when men die they are no more than dust,
For no more life
======================================== SAMPLE 443 ========================================
,
The following lines are found in _The Evening of the Gull._:
A pretty Byword in the Morning
Not quite the better for the downright fact
(But so much certain must befall it this and so)
That for a pretty Byword t'other day the Old Knight went to bed.
Now, with the valor of a mighty Major Flame,
Who never saw a better so-long Critic's dame,
He was a _Gulliver_, who said, by heart, 'twas nothing in his head;
The Critic did the Critic set him long ago in his own stead.
When he found himself at Quitting Bed-house set him pretty well,
And for a little byword spake, not quite in earnest, but in swine,
"I'd choose a little _Gulliver_, I'd ask him to come round the ring.
I'd learn his riddle an' to prove a good Apollo-bred--
The only ruse to rickle down a Gug-man was the Word he read.
There's no a better Bishop in the whole _Gut-devils_ now,
Nor Lancelot, nor the Widow, nor mermaids that have got the "Bub"--
That serveth not for poney, but for _Gulliver_'s _Bub_.
He fought a mighty battle in the last _Gut-devils_'s reign,
For though the lowest busted should be triple in the brain,
The Holy Cat was tortured more than half an inch of plain.
There's one among us knows, a great Democracyian.
What sets the mob a-boavin' rope-a-day or two?
Th' old _Gut-Devils_'ll cut 'em with a bullock-full of gore,
And some of them are hangin' on their silver-handled noes.
An idle word is most which may the e'e of us require:
Their dealings would you master if you did it in a fire?
He's no more swingin' 'round than when a vicious age begins,
He's sunk himself like other people--at this latest opera stage we see--
A _nobody_, but not a hymn--and that is nothing to his pride,
When I saw this injured Briton--I saw a fellow in the Row.
I saw her in the Fire-pit--a little bilious job!
With her name's _John_ on the fender--a calf that once was big--
And there's not a fellow on the board but her _Me_ must see,
Yes, there's _John_ with her _brothers_--I saw her yesterday--
A cur whose appetite to _me_--a large estate, is grand,
As a ship that knows the Ocean--_Me_ an' me an' all.
But, O for Hogarth--it's _my_ opinion, let me see the job!
There's not a lad o' such a freight fell ever on the cash.
And yet ye'll get some _something_--two or three--
For that's the very _Gut-Devils_ I speak,
An' yet ye'll find it easy--_that_ the game is true--
_O' course ye'll get to manage,--see!_
O' course ye'll get the _best_--thro' dern or sleet--
But hearken, I kin tell ye--_I_ _shan't_ be beat!
I see my Mackinacross was goin' to the 'ules
And as I took to load it I got somewhat smel'--
But this same cart I had before me lay in the mire
And when I got to thinkin' of it, I talked to my desire.
O'times the neighbers, like a carriage in a barge,
Would stop for very fine airs, and have a mighty charge
Of whistlin' and of blowin' and of hail and snow;
But now my Mackinacross was jest a frowzy bullock
And had to put the buffalo down upon a camp.
He'd come out in a hurry and run into the road
And then--no matter what--he'd got himself outside
And then--why, there he came; and that was all I knew
Was--through the night I've heard the owls begin to bellow
And see the men I met in every camp below.
There's nothing like a hoss whose halyards toss,
Fatter than this same huckleberry fool.
When I took to that I'd got the money out
And stared at him, and asked how he'd
======================================== SAMPLE 444 ========================================

and over all his possessions)
with her nine most queenly daughters,
with golden crowns and silver couches
and their sons' ancestral number;
with gold and silver carven
they adorned her head and wrists;
with many an ample purple
and golden urn, seven freshly gilded,
each inlaid with silver wreathe and woven,
each inlaid with silver needle.
These the princess selected
and assigned to the old man's daughter
son as her well-loved heir;
with gold and silver girdle
she adorned the royal house,
with many a precious stone
and bracelets wrought like precious stones,
hard, strong, and antique,
and fashioned of gold were they,
but they are all of different hues.
The princess to old women
made answer,
saying with modest and noble fashion:
"Sir, a pretty boy is he,
an orphan son.
"Woe worth our journey to Burgundy."
Siegfried made answer,
swered in the words which follow:
"I've a daughter fair daughter
valiant Asse, she is fair to see,
and lovelier than ever was seen,
and rarer than ever she'll be.
"Youthful love of youthful youth!
all things rare and faithful,
and his curly-gold hair.
I could easily have found out this,
though truth could naught ill beseem,
and naught without small happiness,
the warrior's heart to me.
"But now no longer would I this
first kiss and pledge to you,
nor yet have such gifts for me,
as my hand in hand should hold."
Then spake the mighty monarch,
knight's daughter, fairest of women,
"If this can ever be,
then will I pledge full often
with treasures so good to see,
so beautiful and so good will,
and so rich with so much bliss."
The princess then gave him a kiss
as she left the hall and went,
And gently bore him to King Gunther's side,
whom he thus in answer spake:
"Of you but one thing grant I this,
that I have sworn to you,
For, though I have sworn to you not so,
yet shall I pledge for you these my keys
that I'll give unto you."
Then spake the mighty monarch,
an hundred knights and more,
"But, if you choose to give me this,
and I but keep these keys,
This gift shall soon be yours in peace."
"Myself no single service,
so long as 'tis my lord,
Ne'er shall I aught have in the world,
nor as your vassal right,
If I should wrong you ever,
I never would forgive."
Then thereupon King Gunther
prayed to the princess fair,
"That you will take on your sword in hand,
for such is your knightly power,
"For I, since all commands are right,
and this my faith is plain,
Shall to your grace a fitting pledge remain."
"Now take your own, whate'er the keys."
From out the hall the messengers
threw twelve knights armed with gold,
Their beauteous red cheeks wreathed about
with gems and golden hangers,
Etzel, the noble and the strong.
The nobles in the cloister slept,
breath-breathing knights all loth,
Save Hildebrand, whose beauteous eyes
shine through as the morning mist,
Dangled in golden eke and laced.
Then bade their gaunts and husbands all
thir choicest of their kin,
They to the bearers fare again
towards the hall in merry guise.
And none had seen the strangers there,
nay, not a man in all the throng.
They went noiseless in the chamber,
nodding in the mould;
Yet were they sorer to be found,
'twas all their boast of wonders told.
That long they had not seen the strangers
sitting on the hearth stone-heaped,
They knew, ere long, King Gunther's men,
who sate in moody mood outside,
With gleaming shield and gleaming sword,
and mickle pride of knights and squires,
Had seen the mighty king them sit;
To them King Gunther's son gave answer,
he would have cast them far apart.
"Why, sir, this boldness," said King Gunther,
"wont thou tell to me and Sir,
As it would seem to thee, Sir King?
"These lands and
======================================== SAMPLE 445 ========================================
 me and say
He's come again.
I'll let you know him
You know,
I've come and told her
I've come for to tell
You it is a message
A happy news is the news she brings, and it brings me news
Of one she loves, of one she loves that loves and sings
Of something he shall not forget,--this little letter, this letter.
I knew you once, that you were good, and now that you are gent.
I knew you once, you could not come, and yet I heard you speak
Of something in your heart that made you happy; only now
I see you all in all that's done, even as God had bid
And not as yet, because we part and this is strange, and how
You came to me.  The sad words sounded strangely, and I thought
Of something you had meant to say.  She came indeed, but knew
You not.  And in the world I doubt, that she was in her mood.
That day, when first I came, she kept at peace, as you have
said.
There is no greater sorrow than you know.  What does it matter?
She loves you, she is good!
She is not good at all.
But how does she want you?
Perhaps she will want you.
Perhaps she is a woman who wants you, perhaps she is weak?
Perhaps she has nothing to sell, or anything to buy,
Or anything else she has won for her.
Perhaps she looks most beautiful, the lady who loves you
as you loves your good husband.
If she wants you, she can buy a house with a score of rooms,
And a hundred more fans for a man, and never trouble
her.
Perhaps she has nothing to sell, or anything else she can buy,
Or anything else she is willing.  If you want her so, try,
Let her give you something to live with, send for to tell her all.
She has nothing to tell her,
What matters it how fair it is, that you have missed her,
That you have missed her,
That you have missed her,
That you have missed her?
I tell you if what you say be true.  I met her when she came
But I've heard of her feet, and now she runs away.
What may I say?
I know you are in love.
I know you are in love.
Your words seem like rings,
Tangled bells,
Tangled bells,
That faintly come.
What may I tell?
I know you are in love.
What will I tell,
What will I tell,
When I come to you with a word and a kiss and a farewell?
Oh, I would stay with you always.
What shall I say?
I remember
How often at the door
I passed some friends I knew
When I came back.
I came from just about
When you were just about,
And talked of love,
And I became quite tired.
I remember
How we must part, how dear
I hugged your letter back.
My dear, I love you quite enough.
I knew you had no word for this.
My dear, I have no word for this.
I know, dear.
How I hate people, dear.
How many women love the one who has been kind to me.
She has been kind to none but me, dear,
But you are kind to all who come.
My dear, I love you very fondly.
But I was blind, and oh, you're blind.
I've been kind to you since first I came
To give up everything.
And now I think upon the third hour,
I think upon the fourth of June,
And then I'm sure the fifth is coming.
The seventh comes.  I know you mean
You like our parting.
There is no end to it.
It's coming, come it must, my dear.
Your lover is not here.
My dear!  I wish he'd come.
He will not come.  I only wish I might.
O Lord, I wish I couldn't wait him here.
You've married Jesus, blessed Satan.
If he knew when you went to his prayers,
I'd not come back.
The clock struck.  I've heard it every now,
I've heard it every where, my dear.
I've heard it all so long since then.
I've heard it every where, my dear.
And now it's coming, coming.
O Lord, I thank you for this time.
It's getting to be on the ninth,
I know you're going to be my wife.
There is no hurry in the seventh,
======================================== SAMPLE 446 ========================================
, _Arundatium_, I. c. 3.
Iramis, Iriphayn, iv. 7.
_Mephistopheles_. O, Nymph, Nymph, etc.
_Faust_. And the god's love's omen now
To you and to your company.
A tale that is told of the terrible man in the house of
Hrothgar, the prince of the Chaldees, of whom the
family, since they were aged so young, have written
These words of the death of the child, who is lying
in a room far from the doors.
_Faust_. But all is told to me.
_Mephistopheles_. Wilt thou be bound to me?
_Faust_. Now that word is enough.
_Mephistopheles_. And by the gods! It is good to know
What is due to me; for I have seen before.
_Mephistopheles_. And the gods are good to be with me.
_Mephistopheles_. Now I shall take thee in unto my side.
_Mephistopheles_. Since from those troubles now I withdraw
This good which I had wished to bring thee to.
_Faust_. Ah, my God, canst thou imagine me reposing
In deep thought on this image?
_Mephistopheles [appears without_]. What means dost thou?
_Faust_. Hast thou beheld the stone?
_Mephistopheles_. But I, the Hebrew prophet, and the goodly
That I am in thy mind to know,
Have seen the stone upon the rock.
_Mephistopheles_. And the child is well given to thine eye.
_Faust_. Wilt thou?
_Mephistopheles_. No man's son is he.
_Faust_. Thou shalt know as if I were a little
It is for that my mother hath asked me
To know the stone, to take it.
_Mephistopheles_. No one's son.
_Faust_. Ah, my God, canst thou imagine it?
_Mephistopheles_. But thou shalt not!
_Faust_. I shall not!
_Mephistopheles_. If thou canst,
It would not.
Art thou not still a child?
Then rest thee on my knee,
And help me to thy father.
_Mephistopheles_. Methinks I am a little
So ignorant of thy name;
I am a child of weakness.
And still remain untold.
_Faust_. But if this be the truth, now pray
Him follow me along,
For I myself shall find them.
_Mephistopheles [appears without_]. And what dost thou?
_Faust_. Up, follow me!
_Mephistopheles_. Up, follow me!
_Faust_. So fare the blessed saints!
_Mephistopheles_. Now the old story is told!
_Mephistopheles_. Is there a man,
He hath a daughter,
And a child in his hand?
_Mephistopheles_. I love her dearly;
And if thou will not, she
Art the true man I know.
_Faust_. She was as fair to look upon as one
Of all thy line;
She was as sweet to look upon as one
Of all thy line.
Oh, she was like to swoon upon as calm:
As quiet as the morning in her eyes;
As peaceful was she and as fair to look on,
As on her forehead in thine own sky!
She was the loveliest of women's names,
As is the light upon the brow of shame.
The tongue that spake her language was as pure
As any pearl within the pearl-paven lid;
The eye so full of innocence, yet seemed
To look upon her as the morning dew
Upon the roseate hues of heaven.
_Mephistopheles_. 'Tis true! And there is something in her
That is not there, though there be no such thing:
There's something, O most noble! in the light
Of thy pure eye, and look so like a beam
Upon the holy temple, where she sits
For a brief space, forbidding all excess.
_Faust_. Oh, that I were a young philosopher;
A sage severe in years, and not as one
In whom the wisdom of two erring souls
Is not less useful unto God than both!
_Mephistopheles_. That were impossible!
_Faust_. But yet there's nothing!
_Mep
======================================== SAMPLE 447 ========================================
 the old woman from the door,
Who, while she walked beneath the leafless trees,
Told of her lover and her little friend;
The moonlit forest of the dusky wood
Around their sombre minuets of snow.
With wistful eyes that searched her slumbering breast,
She watched the drifting of her snowy vest;
Listlessly, to the beating of her heart,
She watched the shadowy veil that undimmed her rest,
And longed to know if she might live again;
Then, once, like dreams, she trembled for her lord,
But, once a year, that day the gods did sway
Her soul, her body, and the limbs, her eyes,
Her dreamy hands, her feet upon the grass.
And so, from that night-time, in a doubtful land,
Upon a lonely island, in cold waters,
She wandered, and, remembering all the things
Of life before her, on the lonely shore
Slept in the coldness of a troubled dream.
But when he heard the wild bird's noisy shriek,
She, in the stillness of a troubled sleep,
Remembering not her love, but only her,
Remembering but the bitter memory
Of all the old, unlovely loves she knew,--
Till at the last his longing eyes grew dim,
And she awoke, and found that he had passed
Between the trees, and that she loved him not.
But this to her was this: that, being dead
She thought; that, lying where the lilies lie
Among the mosses, she could no more see
The sea-white fingers of the fairy hand;
But ever on his lip the heaving sea
Breathed softly as if he to wake at last
In the cold shadow of some magic coast.
And then, perchance, the waking by the way
Was not more changed, and when the evening came
With solemn glimmer, to his spirit's flame
She turned, and, with a wild and tearful look,
Pushed back into his sockets cold and wan,
And kissed his pallid cheek. Then, with a voice
Low-spoken, she began to say, "You've heard
Young Callisto from Anjou, and passed by,
A lonely spirit; and he now is gone,
And is the spirit of one maiden born.
Though she may scorn you for the love she bears,
Her soul shall nevermore be comforted
By that sweet spirit of the woods and waves,
Which, in the stillness of a troubled dream,
Moves idly through the shadowy heart of dreams."
And Vivian stood beside him, and she said,
With half-unconscious eyes, and held her hand,
And saw him gazing with enchanted eyes
Downward upon the sunset, till he turned
And hummed a soft and broken song, but heard
No more the music of the vanished years.
"Young Callisto, you may come to me,
And I will listen with hushed lips," she said,
"And watch your lifted form upon the foam
Of the deep water run, and I will see
A ghostly smile upon the wave-washed sands,
And in your eyes a gleam of living light,
A holy radiance. And I know your heart
Is more than that which takes your mother's hand;
For so I longed for when the foemen came,
And you were strong, and fair, and good, and bold.
The men who come are here to tell my dreams:
I cannot hear your voices, nor the sound
Of your heroic blood. I long to be
A listener in this wild and clammy world,
Who shall but listen, when your children's feet
Touch my cold hands, and all my sorrow falls
On your still lips, and on the open page
Your little name is written, and you lean
Against these cushions as you did of old.
You cannot speak for fame or titles, yea
It is as if you said, 'I come to learn
No great things from the things you love the best,'
And mine you are. I cannot hear you speak:
I can but hear you as you heard the sea
Speaking to many minds. I never loved
A weaker man who lives beside his guns.'
And still I love you. I would do my best
To hide you in my heart, and then to leave
The knowledge you gave me of good and ill;
Yet even when you spoke and answered me,
You seemed so like the man I call my friend.
I love you, even when you spoke, and sought
To know and wait, and when you could not say
Words, 'I was tired' or '
======================================== SAMPLE 448 ========================================
:--_Derelict_. Is an American, and much in his power is a
_Derelict_. Whig, Whig!
_Derelict_. How canst thou be, to me!
_Derelict_. That would be, couldst thou be so.
_Derelict_. But what? I will not let thee tell.
_Derelict_. Why, what is that?
_Derelict_. Where is thy purse, to me?
_Derelict_. Ay, marry me.
_Derelict_. Ah, God! Ah, little do I know,
The world is all before me,
A little house I like so much,
And little house so large;
But all I have must have must play
Before the baby, after him,
And wait for baby-music
Until the baby, after him,
And wait for baby-music
Until the baby, after him,
And wait for baby-music.
_Hep_. What do you think I know of all,
All this life with me?
_Hep_. And tell me!
_Hep_. What do you think the child will do?
_Jep_ [_in his _bark_.
_Hep_. He must be father, mother too!
_O_ [_wails with wailing_] _for_ a child,
_Hep_. Would I were a pair of ragged ears!
_Hep_. Could we but hear his voice!
_Hep_. We must have voices in our midst!
_Hep_. Ah, no!
_He_ [_wails with wailing_] _for_ a child,
_Hep_. You know, dear children, that is _he_?
_He_ [_sings with wailing_] _for_ a child.
_I_ [_sings with wailing_] _for_ a child,
_I_ [_gazing_] _not_ [_to dance_]. So! Now, now,
_Hep_. Come to my presence. I will look
_He_. [_wails with wailing_]. Stay!
_I_ [_dashing_]. How dost thou play with me?
_Voices in the hall;_] [_dashing_]. How dost thou dance with me?
_Voices in the hall_] _faces_ [_with withering_]. What! I fear
_thousands_]. Then, take all thou hast done!
_Hep_. I see now, my beloved children!
_Woe, woe, woe_! You shall have taken
_You_ [_with wailing_] _in the cradle_] _a dead girl_]. And you
_Hep_. Where is thy babe now?
_I_ [_weeping_]. By God! You shall have taken,
_I_ [_pining_]. By God! 'Tis he.
_Hep_. Here, to me! He has grown old!
_I_ [_dashing_]. Who is angry?
_I_ [_dashing_]. He is still angry.
_I_ [_dashing_]. He has not left us!--
_I_ [_dashing_]. What ails thee, dear children!
_I_ [_dashing_]. He must have been angry.
_I_ [_dashing_]. I like it no one did!
_I_ [_dashing_]. What one?
_I_ [_dashing_]. What!
_I_ [_dashing_]. What! Now, is it the wind?
_I_ [_dashing_]. How should it be?
_I_ [_dashing_]. By Heaven! Thy mules could never
_I_ [_dashing_]. By Jove!
_I_ [_dashing_]. But now, here! and where are the horses?
_I_ [_dashing_]. Here, my boys! here they have been
_I_ [_dashing_]. And now, here! and whither?
_I_ [_dashing_]. To what purpose, whither?
_I_ [_dashing_]. To what purpose, whither?
__dashing_]. They were always with me,
_I_ [_dashing_]. I and y _Phoebus_ [_dashing_].
_I_ [_dangling_]. I am come to my own country.
_I_ [_dashing_]. I will stay with you. See--
======================================== SAMPLE 449 ========================================
 of our lives!
Where, O, where?  Not where those hours come by
So much, yet oh, how sweet, as if they had
A sweet existence, as the hours went by.
They seemed to have lived, and are dying fast.
It seems that I have lived, and that I know
That they have never been so far from home.
O, I have often stood upon my seas,
And seen the ships float like the waves along
The mighty, leaping vessels of the sun
In their majestic pomp, till the moon grew
The freightage of its ruby; and there grew
That old, stern, cloistered pirates at my side
Grown wrathful, when I dared.  I was to blame,
And I was sorry to myself and all
The other crew.  I only thought, "I hold
That we have all received at ease, together,
There are no ships nor other.  Let me tell you
There are no dangers.  I am glad that I
Was drowned.  I loved you.
Behold that hand
Thrown upon my temples.  It is yours:
They hold their lands for you, but you are free.
If only we might have all day, how can
You fail to find the sea, and then be slain
And live again?
I only saw the sun
Stream through the trees and meadows, and the moon
Glide over the still waters of the sea,
Where two great cities rise, and all is peace
But now there is no war.  I only saw
The long blue shadows of the trees that spread
Their quiet arches upward, and a hand
That held the window of the sky, and closed
The door.  Then, then, I saw the sea and ships
And all that happy people rising there,
But for a moment watched in vain the west,
And saw far off the sky.  The sun sank down
On the dim verge of heaven.  The shadows pressed
About our life like surf against a rock.
What seemed a hand that beckoned us to life.
The sun, still hot, but glowing, in the midst
Of change, said, looking down, "Now here is one
Of all my thoughts, who has lived all alone
To seek this distant shore.  This is my heart:
One who may understand all sea and sky
And earth, and every sky that lies around,
Until he can remember.  No!  He will
Remember, never, never.  All the seas
That throb with every wave!  But he who died
He is a friend to all who know the sea;
And though he live forever, yet at last
He is a friend to all who know the waves.
The wind blows cold and dead above our graves."
So in the hollow of the sea, the sun
Shone, and there was no sign.  The sea-bird's song
Broke on the stillness.  Thither we had gone
When twilight did most fill the sails, and night
Fell, and we heard the peal of happy bells
Sounding at dawn,--a little louder, yet
A little louder, and the ship that bore
The master-tongue of the world and the bold sea
Had vanished into darkness.  Now, at last,
She came, we knew not whence, yet felt too late,
Too great to bear the thought of.  When the sail
Dropt, for we stood beside the mast, and watched
The moon rise up, we knelt before her, kissed
A wet, bright kiss, and prayed in secret, and
Laid his great hand upon her, and we took
Our vows, and prayed in silence.  Thus we knelt
And prayed in silence, and in silence we,
Half dreaming, watched the distant ships go by.
When I was dead and over me bright April
Shone out in the cold, green, grassy glow
Of the broad heaven; and sudden darkness sprang
Through all my dreams, and over streamèd me
With a more wondrous beauty and strange power
Than the calm eyes most holy; and the hour
Was over, and the lifeless form was gone;
And my heart only, restless and uncertain,
Was stirred, and trembled in a sense of pain,
Which came, as the great sun went down, and kissed
The whole horizon and night, and overflowed
The sea with glory.
So, in a slow, still night,
When the sea ceased, and the horizon shut
As in a dream, I stood without to see
The sun go down on ocean.  Far away,
In a deep silence, a great silence moved
Like God's own silence, even as now I stood
Breath
======================================== SAMPLE 450 ========================================
ly and Co.
As if some maiden should hunt off the deer
Amidst the green leaves of the forest;
Or in the meadows wander as soon
As the sun shines upon summer;
Or, if I don’t wait patiently, I’ll stop
And let its glances stray like walrus-flowers in
Their hollow hollow hollow.
So, if at least we’re drawing a line!
We shall be glad we are not tarry,
Though we’ve a whole we don’t wait long, for ’tis dull
Ere we are drawing to the light
To follow the sun.
Thus, if at least we’ll do the best we can
And hold the skies in stillness,
’Twill be one grand, unending crash,
Without an earthquake.
If the shore will be so little,
Or the sea so heavy, then
There will be the light that leaps to meet our eyes,
And
Each of us shall say "Be brave, be wise!"
O dear, dear,
Come home at length,
And fill the place with happy songs,
And try to cheer thy hopeful young;
Nor think, though now thy little boat
Be drifting, rocking on the sand,
He will think of me, and then--
Give him his usual gayety,
His suitable to foreign land.
What if he be
Dull and dull,
Beggared with roaming weather?
If thou canst change him quickly,
That good old “Johnny” may be.
In the early spring the swallows will come flying,
The wind blow sweetly—no sorrow he knows—
But if he be happy, he will be the fluting keeping;
And if he be happy, good people all will go.
Come, my little Robert,
When thou art old,
Practicing falsehoods;
Practicing falsehoods;
Adviceating falsehoods;
Though thy years have run
Much of truth in private;
Yet the ruddy gold
Thy deceiver,
Would avail—no,
He will find it better.
The dews of heaven on every leaf are falling,
The dews of heaven on every oak are falling;
So sleep the roses,
Dreamily over,
Till the last rose-petals of the world be falling.
How beautiful is the summer of day!
Far, far at sea a sailing ship would roam,
Far away across the tides to stray,
Her heart was on a dangerous mountain thrown,
Sail she or grope, where she herself hath gone.
Then, far away to northward, she would westward bear me—
I must not leave the summit, or be there;
Far, far away to stray, from her own native shore;
Far, far beyond the trackless sea, from her own native shore.
Then, far away to seaward, she would raise
A fair white arm, still moving to and fro;
And there she stood to press, as through the spray
Her pretty hand she laid, and gazing heavenward,
Her heart, my own true love, thus strangely broke at the core:
When came a great steed, that fairly bore
A noble heart from me; that wore
A purple mane, and golden mane,
The gift of God unto me.
And when my Love his chariot drew,
I did not see his hand nor hear
His voice nor answering then, O dear;
Nor yet my heart did hear his chariot move;
Nor yet my soul did greet him as I knew
The dear good news that made my day so glad;
A cloud shone o’er the earth and caught his eye;
And on the waters saw, with joyous sweep,
A snowy gull, so white and swift and high
And high above the rim of a glassy cap
Full in my sight, and soaring yet again,
A snowy gull.
Then, far away to seaward, she would stay
Rather than go to her mother dear;
But, having once cast off her chains dismayed,
He would not follow, with less joy, the child.
Then far away to far-off isles of light
She would not shun or cast to distant skies,
Where death is doomed and life in endless night
Dawns, the sun’s radiant child.
So, farther inland far, would she,
And I, whose home is with the noble dead
Where every sorrow was a light of love
On earth is set at rest.
Then, far away to seaward,
Would I might lay me down in sea,
Where I might clasp the hands I love,
That almost seemed to cling thereon
And touch
======================================== SAMPLE 451 ========================================
, iii. 3.
I saw a lassie once I wadna like,
Lamenting a lassie mair for her folly.
I saw a lassie once I wadna like,
Lamenting a lassie mair for her folly.
I saw a lassie once I wadna like,
Lamenting a lassie mair for her folly.
I saw a lassie once I wadna like, &c.
I saw a lassie once I wadna like,
Lurk wreathed in a wab o' the loveliest silk;
I saw a lassie once I wadna like, &c.
I wadna be be constant, it wadna be, lassie,
I wadna be constant, it wadna be strange;
I wadna be constant, it wadna be strange, lassie,
I wadna be constant, it wadna be strange;
I wadna be constant, it wadna be strange.
I wadna be constant, it wadna be strange;
I wadna be constant, it wadna be strange.
I wadna be constant, it wadna be strange;
I wadna be constant, it wadna be strange.
The warld's wrack I wadna justly blame,
The warld's wrack I wadna justly blame.
I wadna be constant, it wadna be strange.
Tune--"_Go fetch to me a spring._"
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
My love is fair and free;
Go to the trysts, with naught between us;
And drink the blude, wi' me.
The wild rose blows, the sun is set,
E'en winter bleak's the springing day,
But spring will come, and flow'rs begin
To glint their yellowing way.
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
O' mony flow'rs that blow;
And I will pledge my word to wine,
When I wi' her shall grow.
I never look far, but I think
She's charming in the night;
For she's unruly a sight
I wat she's fair and sweet.
Her glass o' dew I never leav't,
The moments winging by;
But she dances light as airy bird
That hails the springing sky.
If this be all my wish, mad man,
And she be still at nane,
Here's heaven I wis, an' that I can
Ere this be lang awa'.
Up, Forth, my bonie lassie, saftly blaw,
Thy fancy fondly turns; we'll set thee down;
Thou need na doubt a mortal bride's explain'd,
Before her face maun e'en a sweetheart be!
We'll slip between the barley-grains, our green,
And kiss our Katie when we're near the town.
Though we were ne'er sae braw, we ne'er sae braw,
Nor ne'er were ryth sae bonie to a loun:
I doubt na, lass, that ye'll find it quean,
But hark ye--Saw ye bonie lassie?
I'll spearm, and shake your hand, and see--
A coof like Katie's cannot match her wi' me?
Aye, brither, as daith auld Katie wi' me.
Ye daurna doubt that we'll or gang, my Katie,
We'll gae nae farther, but we'll cleed our chain;
We'll talk a' hasty, till we get a sang,
And see--sweet--appent ill onCorrect aye plain.
Aye, here, my Katie, here's my Katie,
I ken ye're nae too certain,--
That aye be on your bellies slung, my Katie,
Ye jinker ha'e as saft as ony.
My heart's for thee, my heart's for thee,
For thee my Katie Blair;
I'll rin auld claes for a' that's right,
For thee, my Katie Blair.
I wad na gie a' to a kiss o' Katie Blair,
Ay, no--I wadna thole a kiss o' Katie Blair.
I wadna thole a handsome handsome chiel',
I 'd do nae gie a button to a sweet May girne
======================================== SAMPLE 452 ========================================
 the song
"Ye sons of vigorous Spring,
To lead with joyous tread
The festive revels o'er
Wherever sweetest sweets are spread,
Wherever merrily
The blossoms round us blow,
Breathe, as we wander now,
The lustre of that brow,
Which lives as free as ours
Or as the flowers that grow
Together, for we know
That there, by grace's sweet store,
The flowery garland stands
All decked with festal flowers
And I would give up all
That yet may live to-day.
O that I had the power
To make the hour, the hour
When it would take its flower,
O'er fields and tents and lands,
The simple, sweet, sweet hour
When in its sudden flight
The Summer sun's bright light
Sheds all the flowery wreaths
That Nature weaves for ours,
In her unwithering laughters.
O that I had the power
That to a simple flower
Creation all had given
A season in an hour;
In some bright moment spent
When in its final flower
The flower must yield its breath,
Must give up all its blisses,
Its odour and its pleas,
Its sweet self in the dress
Of the most wild-born earth,
As when an early soul
Makes all this perfumed whole.
O that I had the power
To make the hour, the hour
When in its utmost power
The pansy lay her shower.
Yon star that, o'er the blue sea,
Like Hope's young morning flows,
Is the brightest day that's yet
Shall shine to-day for those
Who watch and wait and think
With the blessed day that's come
To that far-distant clime
Where the great Love of Time
For a little while is fanned;
And the dearest stars above
Shine merrily and long,
As if there should be light
In some far-off, distant clime,
Where the long-forgotten time
Of the weary night was past,
And the sick day came at last
When the sick night lay at last
When the sick night lay at last
And the sick night came at last
And the weary night came at last
With its sweet-smiling, golden grace,
And the weary night came at last
And the weary day came at last
When the sick night lay at last
And the weary day came at last
A little babe lay sleeping
Just as the dawn was creeping
With a mother's love in sleep
And she had folded the baby's wing
Her babe lay dead on her bosom,
And a spirit with a motion
Grew up in its silent bliss,
And the mother thought her heart was
For the little babe to kiss.
And so she lay and smiled,
And the baby's cry awoke,
For she prayed that it might be,
For the little babe to take
To her bosom and to make
What was still the hour before,
And the mother's voice no more,
Not a cry of pain or woe
From the mother's lips might flow
When the little babe was sleeping,
Far in the depths of the blue
Where the dearest thing lies hid,
And the unseen angel one
Guards the gentle breast, and brings
The babe to meet her thought
In the little baby's arms,
And she will share his father's rest
With Him on high who loveth,
And the babe that she loves best
Is the blessed hour of night
When the sick world lay asleep,
And the babe lay withered and old,
And the Lord lay on the cold
And the fair child lay around,
And the angel-looks were bright
With the loving words they said
That his babe lay in his head.
And so they laid him, and spread
The couch with raiment red,
And the angel-sleepers slept
With their baby on his head.
And the angel-sleepers woke
From their angelic bands
And with glad and happy hearts
Led the little baby on
To the heavenly fold where God
Lay in rest while all good things
In their sweetest dreams were done;
And the Saviour Christ was born
On the silent angel's breast
And the gentle babe was pressed.
So the Saviour Christ was born
On that happy, happy earth
Where the waters of life and light
Looked out on the silent things
That He did not seem to care;
Where the desert flowers shed
Their fragrance and rustle in the air;
Where only man was made,
And only heaven is glorified;
Where souls and bodies did not roam,
Where Jesus
======================================== SAMPLE 453 ========================================
 our first love, and in a wise,
That other love, that is most strange and wild
When first she hath it in her eye; yet so
It is far sweeter for her heart to know,
And give her love, than to know and love,
And leave her soul to her own fancies true,
For, lovelier far than she herself, she fain
Would look on heaven and think of heaven again.
O happy thought!  O glorious hope! whereof
No shadow, but is heard, nor shadow falls
From the divine oracles that belong
To those whose souls are in their heaven of souls.
Love is the heart of all; love is the tongue;
And evermore the heart of all doth sing
Into that soul which is the Angel's wings,
That spirit which is Love and Love, and Love.
The wind that bloweth o'er the hills
Is a garland woven from the rose,
And from every leaf is blown
The fragrance that the meadow shows:
The flowers, too, that deck the ground,
Are tears, and mirth that strew the ground.
The music of the summer breeze
Is an echo of the summer earth
And the summer-mists that thrill
The green and pleasant trees and fill.
I stand among that ancient hills,
And hear the music of the sea,
And the sound of song and bird,--
But the sound is not of glee.
The flute which Pan loved first to play
Is a reed which Pan loved thrice a day,
And the flute I heard that day
Is a song to which they all belong,
And they sound for me to sing.
But my heart is filled with a vast and abroken sigh,
And I hear it whispered, "Be of good cheer,
Lightly the great rhymes of the people sing,
Lightly, the great war-notes of the people sing,
Lightly, the low notes of the multitude,
Lightly my sad eyes weep,
Lightly for her that I may know,
Lightly for her that I may know."
And I hear them murmuring of the dead:
"Lightly the great rhymes of the people sing."
And I see them creeping through the alders,
All shrouded in their garments dabbled with blood,
And my heart with them is filled.
And my sight is filled with a vague and aching sight,
And my ears are numb at the thought of that death,
And my heart is throbbing to follow the song,
And to feel the music throb with the memory
Which I had not died in the world's primeval time.
For the wind is in the bushes,
And the grass is in the meadow,
And the little clouds are sailing high
To the blue and purple ether;
And I lie down by their places,
And they hide me from my vision.
As they hang above me in their nests,
And above me scatter the clouds,
And there is no rest or pallet,
For I lie at rest forever;
While the clouds are soaring overhead,
And among the winds are sailing
The golden, flushing sun,
And I lie down by their places,
And quiet is my soul at home.
There are thoughts going and coming,
There are thoughts going and coming and going,
In the quiet, deep heart of the blue air,
And the calm sky, and the green fields below it;
For the wind, the wind is in the branches,
And the sunlight is paling and dying,
And I lie down by their places,
And quiet is their souls at rest.
And I lie down on the bosom
Of the deep and mighty sea,
And I lie down by their places,
And I lie down on my knees,
And I lie down on my knees.
The stars come out one by one.
They shine on the bright, wide sea,
The winds in their fitful moan
Are gathering around my head;
They blow in the blue, wide sea,
The waves with their wanton swell,
And waves are breaking the grey old grass
That gave me so many a year
When I left my own land, and the sea.
They know me not, nor understand,
But they know me by all their words,
And they whisper of my hand,
And they whisper of my footstep,
And they whisper of my eager eyes:
Who shall stand by my empty bed
Save the waves, and the stars, and the sea?
I am the wind, the sea, the sea,
Over the great gulfs of the world,
The sea; the waves that move and roam
Across the unknown stars of home,

======================================== SAMPLE 454 ========================================
, _"de _biscuit_, etc.,--and of all _star_.
 _Munichrist_, the great, the greater.
 _Munichrist_, the great.
 _Munichrist_, the great, the largest.
 _Munichrist_, the name of the person in the original.
 _Munichrist_, the name of the chief of the Order of Danes,
He had a great fame 'mong the people of Danes;
He had a small house, he was plenty for weeks,
He was the best man wherever he was.
He was the very best man that ever was known,
He was the very fondest of parents;
He was a friend to the poor and the rich,
And lovingly watched he his time by the beard.
He was a man of a very fascinating set,
Whose heart was quite aching to the very core;
And, had he not felt patience and patience so much,
He would have stayed all night, and been twenty-ore.
So, then, he paid a visit and took up a toast,
Saying he was an excellent fine fellow;
Thereto, perhaps he was right in a different kind
From all of the neighbors, and the most of the show.
Yet the oldest of all the boys fell back dismayed
Nor knew what the greatest of troubles might be;
And this was the only way to hide his head:
He was _amiable_, and always _divine_.
But he couldn't endure to see with his head,
His clothes were worn, and the clothes worn thin,
And his dress was spotless as the pure white snow,
And in this he was thinking:--
"I'll be the first and last, and the thing's the same--
I am," he thought, "a mystery to my shame."
I'm all right, then, in this world and elsewhere,
If I don't bear the characters of the great:
I want to make the world a larger show,
I'm the _man_ that will run at the big machine;
I'm ever the first that will make it clear,
I'm the humblebee, yea--I'm the humblebee,
I'm the offspring of the wheel and machine."
"But what's my notion?" said the auctioneer;
"I am a judge of slaves and not of pelf,
No doubt it's better not to do the thing,
It looks as if there weren't enough myself."
"But why my notion?" questioned George anew;
"Don't mean that I like rogues and not good men,
Not what they are, but what I sell myself."
"But you are a fool, as all of him can see;
Then what is your turn and your term?" he said;
"It would take the world, as others have, to be
The very devil that I should be BID!"
Then these were all well,--a man of no regard,
A little shrewd, a little pert, and great;
He owned the world, and he believed it all,
And he was sure the plan was not to chuse.
On one of these a curious dream came true,
He felt himself the king of every hue,
He was the one who conquered and did choose,
And he was true to every color's hue.
"You can see he is a perfect man! my dear,
And he's a _hero_, too, but a plain king, we fear."
No doubt he was a 'prentice, quite; for
His mien was grand, and when his thoughts were high,
But, as we all may guess, he was a fool,
And all his heart was painfully brimfull.
To see him he'd have been a faithful guide,
But, as to this, he never was a fool.
He'd no such thoughts as he could torture or disown,
He always had some cause for love to cause his moan,
He'd not allow a frowns from any he'd receive,
For, as we all may guess, he was a fool.
In vain he had to search asunder right,
He had, by constant troth, a pair of dishes,
With all the other dishes, dishes, dishes,
And such a very charming 'cousinist!'
At which he thought he'd have been fain to catch the
Fond, tender thought, and often to catch fishes.
One day, as he stood grinning on the floor,
He saw a few small cabbages--a friar,
One of a number of crows about his door.
One day, in dressing up some rare _catarrh_
======================================== SAMPLE 455 ========================================
:
_What makes the heart to ache_?"
"Well, the night is fallen. I'm dying."
"The day will have its death."
"A day will strike. My brain will have its chance."
"The day will have its end."
"The night will not be long."
"The night will not be long--"
"The day will not be long,"
"The morning will not cease."
"Have you no pity? Did you come to Calvary?"
"What is this thing here?" I whispered.
"Well, then," he said, "it's as if a man killed my life. But I
"Then you will go!"
"The night will not be long."
"The night will not be long."
"The night will not be long."
"Your hour will not be longer."
He said at last: "No time to lose!"
And I, for a moment, paused to wait.
He said to me: "It's time for the hour."
He said to me: "No time; you must go."
He gave his hand, and he gave it me.
"You must not die," I said.
"God knows I lost my life,
But still I can go on."
And I said to him: "You must go."
"It's the only time I know."
"Ah, no," said I, "the world is old."
"The night will not be long."
"The night will not be long."
"The Night will not be long."
"The last time I must go," he said.
"The last time I must go."
I think he did.
He took my hand and pointed to the sun.
"No time for me to give to you."
"You must die when you can," said his sunburned sister.
"If I die, you must think of the Sun."
"The last time I shall die."
"I have no power," said Time. "You must still think of
"Why," said he, "can the Moon have confidence?"
"It," said I, to my brother.
"You must have a good helmet, too?
It will keep for an hour or two.
I shall die when the Sun goes down,"
Said my brother to me.
"Then why do you look at me so?"
"I shall die first, if it please."
I said: "If you please.
"It isn't a shame," said Time. "It is a shame.
You have a tale to bring to me."
"Well, I must go."
"Now, God be thanked."
"Where are your hooded cowls?" I said.
"Why do you look at me so?"
They were gone in the meadows.
"Why am I crying to you?" said Truth.
"What have you done with your hood undone?"
"What have you done with your soul?"
"I have set to the stars."
"O yes, the Moon, and all your stars."
"It is only the spirit that is in heaven."
"The gold of the wood," said Truth, "and the fire of it.
It is wonderful, O God, to be there and rejoice."
"I dare say that," said Truth.
"What have you done with your hood undone?"
"I have put it so tight."
"All that is well made smooth."
"You are right."
"What did it mean?" I asked.
"Why, I have put it away."
"The gold of the wood will rain."
"Shall it hang up at night?"
"Yes, yes, the blind man's soul," said Truth.
"Not by any means?"
"No, not by any means."
"But you are right, O Child."
"You have been very still. Your feet will soon turn no one wrong,
"What did they do, you little dunce?"
"They went away,"
"They all went to the Devil's house," said Truth.
"Did they go into the Temple to see his fulfilment, my
kinsfolk?"
"You must tell you, it is a very pleasant story."
"No, not quite. They are going into the Temple to pray to Him
"If the Devil did not come, they would not come."
"I have not come to say good-by," said Truth.
"But I'm going into the Temple to take His Name."
"But I'm going into the Temple to see His Way."
"But I will tell Him to a very quiet existence, for He is not
"Yes, I will tell Him to take Himself, and He
======================================== SAMPLE 456 ========================================
t's
Mamma says, "We might as well have thought
We should come to a _woman's_ name."
"_Mamma_," said Mamma, "I know she never looks
So haggard, haggard, and unkind,
And can not break her gentle heart,
And all her pretty tricks despise;
And yet I would not, would I could,
She would be so good-natured
I've been born with her since Adam._"
Mamma looked sad, and put away
The usual cry; and thus he said:--
"I should be happy, had I not
A trifle wanted by a lad--
A girl with such a sparkling eye
Would think to make some _Woman_ sigh,
And just be happy till I die."
Mamma's eyes smiled as she screamed,
And, feeling not the slightest pain,
She went to the _biggest_ man
That had anything to eat or drink.
"_Come here, my child, and let me know
Where we may go;
And if you do not, _mark_ we
You can be pretty good for _you_."
I had a little husband,
He was a good one,
He built me a little table
All of the flowers
For my pretty little darling.
My mother never saw him,
Nor any one else,
And she nursed him a little daisy,
With just a bit of a thumb
I had him at once,
I had him at once.
I had him at once,
He built me a little table
With a little piece of bread,
To lie in my mother's lap
For a little young man or lad
What should I eat?
"To eat of beans and beans,"
She told me, and she laughed,
"I'll have him cutting the little daisy."
I had a little sister
And one was quite a woman,
And one would drive about
With little daughter.
To have her, she said,
If I had the little one!"
Ding, dong, bell,
The young man's wife
Is a terrible old woman--
She had him at one.
She sold him a silver basin
To wash her dog and thumb,
She washed the dog and candle
To make him a rig.
My mother promised me
To go a little faster,
And when the sun was high
And I could find a drink-course
I did my best to catch her,
But when it was low
She dropped the flagon's cover--
Bringing the flask,
Oh, the poor maiden laughed!
And I cried, "But drink it, lad!
There's none upon the table but me."
(Poor people!); so the old woman
Loved a small face out of my mother's,
And she was pleased to stop a little--
(_She sailed across the water_)
And when she found her supper,
She looked around and saw
The place where the children gathered
There was a little boat built up
For every boy and woman,
And some were small and brown
As the sky and the sea."
I shall go on for hours
When I shall have brought thee--
On a little boat built up
With a great stone-studded vessel,
And many men beside,
They are all fair to see
And tall and straight and bolder, in a small stone-studded frame,
Two blue and green and green and yellow weeds,
Two muslins; the snow floats and fades
In the sun's friendly bosom,
And the first white star falls--trail-arily
She runs through the shadows.
What shouldest thou have,
Sweet flowers, to hold?
The sun's face, with such beauty,
Is not so delicate
As that white hand whose pressure
Could hold the blue sky in a narrow space of my early days
I shall pass, for the last four petals of the sky
In a small small hand shall hold
And a long blue-black thread enfold
And a soft white glory fall
Over my grave, my darling.
The bird sings each song in its prison
While the dawn its bosom presses
To the folded wings of night.
The butterfly circles the dew-fall,
But the rose is fresh as the morning,
And the lark will sing the last song
With the fluttering wings of morning.
The butterfly dances and darts away,
But the rose is purer than all the flowers of all the flowers of all
the earth
As the soul that welcomes death
From the wings of his early hours.
A young beech bough of the forest
Is spreading its branches to welcome one
======================================== SAMPLE 457 ========================================

and for the second edition
with the "Fourth Edition." It appeared first in the
Emancipation papers at the end of the session at
Elegy- acre. It was signed by a biographer, who had
found it as impossible that a raw boy would be a match for
the natural strength of his heart. As it was the public
sacrifice of a mother for two of the infant infant's play
took place in duty, for he was an actor.
"Your last letter has arrived," it was supposed to occur
in almost the sixteenth century; and though the poem
is far from complete Muirthemaggi, on the other hand, that the
antiprophe was the most beautiful one of all the most exquisite and
poetical poetpieces.
"It is quite sufficient," I replied, "that if I can add only
somewhat to the arrangement of the poem, there will be for the
other interest the subject. 'Tis certainly to me right that
those who have before me have attained that object, which I
take with such great delight that there is no greater left in
the world than that from which I took it; for I have been
greatly refreshed both by the idea of welcoming you in those
visions which make me a writer to write these."
"I am not much confused about this," said Mr. Allen, "but I
want to write of the subject." He answered, "I can not think
how many lines I have passed in my life. I have been
friendship and wholly unknown to myself. At first sight, I
was to have had my share of the public entertainments, and
have suddenly lost the good fortune of my time, as the public
profanity.
"My wife has not been to the deserving," I said, "but as an
brother-confessor in the days of my own youth, I think it
hard to say, but it was his own fault that I put into the
criticism, and I think it the best of it to make it worse."
With these words I had myself restored them to their common
place. I confess that in my early years, during the studies
of which I was a boy, I had learned to prize your attention
at the 'Public Time,' but with a few minutes before I knew
that you were going to the age of forty sixty and one
of these. I shall meet you again later in my next story, as
soon as you have seen me, write under tobacco and tell
me that I am a citizen of New York. After that time I
will have the honour of telling my father that I am coming
to New York. First I shall take notice of you in the next
line, that I am here to add my honoured father's disgrace to
myself and the gall of my betters. I shall see some other
matter, and write a little more than that in which other men
of my character are exposed to what I am. First say
that I have eaten up stubs of my present labours, and I
have eaten the last of my spoon and is now in the main
jection of the present volume. In this case, I should be
pleasing to myself and to those who believe that you care
nothing for my future life, and that you have made me
indeed emptier than my present verse, which is so empty and so
versoundly lacking that there is nothing to be done, or to be
done, save only the perspicuous reproof of necessity and
distressing. There is no doubt that some of these excites
myself, and that I put away those generalities which only
I can serve few women who have a more becoming becoming
fait. And if they do not bring any happiness to your
yourself, and have made me happy for the rest of the world,
take care that your own and others' pleasure be yours."
Then I set out for the world. By and by, I reached the
road through the wood, and found my dear friend behind me, and
they all sat there. Then I dressed myself up in a great white
cloth, and I called aloud upon God--and this man is alive--and
I went to the world and now all the more that I know. This
man, when I knew him, said to me, "Why does he live? He lives
in the house of love and can teach the secret of a private
secretary to him, and that he has all the heart's best thoughts
and all the understanding of him. I am not troubled with
him, for I have been too busy with my own thoughts, and
have not had many people about me."
"My friend," answered the man I did not like, "you are
very young and
======================================== SAMPLE 458 ========================================
, the mother of the child.
It is the season of the flowers and bees,
The season of the flowers and of their buds;
And the long hours' delay has taken wings,
And all their journey has an end in talk.
The yellow corn has gathered from the shocks,
And in the fields the ripe ears have impressed
The yellow barley's ears, like fruit in trees,
And a scant brown wheat crop is all the rest
Of the long, waving barley.  The young girl,
The fair and stately, with young face and mild,
The young and tender, with her air and youth,
And all the sweet things which have brought her joy,
To tend her in the season of the flowers,
And make her look and scent the while she goes
Among the solitary branches.
And when her mother to the garden says,
"What is this trouble?  Is it some disease?
Or is it medicine?"  The mother holds
Her son and gives him what the mother yields,
And answers only her whose only child,
For such there is no cure for any ill,
And all his life's experience does but harm,
Lest, at full length, he perish under some
Vigorous step of his untimely death.
Mother, it seems so hard to see with eyes
Your boy so soon to be lost in his death.
And as a man some sudden fate must send
To be cut short by some impending blow,
The mother and the sweet-heart too must miss
His life and all his ways.  And then how well
Always your own should fare the better day!
Mother, it is an evil thing to die.
We came home last night on the afternoon,
In the spring time, of the dew,
And I said, "Now that I am safe, my dear!"
And you were gone; and I saw the moon
On the opposite side of the valley lie
Like some high cedar lady living and die
In the spring time, and never know this--this,
But not to think there could be other sun
Beyond the moon, nor other sound than these
Beyond the moon.
Mother, I can be always so shy,
And often when I look to father's eyes,
There comes a terror in my very soul
And I am fearful that I can not say
A little word of father to you now,
And father to you even to death.  Good-bye,
Good-night.
Good-night.
Mother, I think your face begins to gloom
And that I think your uncle is ill-willed;
You are ill-souled and unbecoming as
Yet I am no saint.  Good-bye to sorrow,
You.  Good-bye ... good-bye--you cannot stir,
Or, if you only knew, you would not laugh.
Mother, I think it would be childish joy
To be so tossed, with none to care for you.
You would not laugh?  Good-bye to sorrow, dear.
Mother, I would not have my uncle laugh
Or that my uncle laugh.  Why, if he love,
There is no help, I know; and, though he hate,
I will not think of father or my son.
Mother, when God is making a man,
His days are as the long long march of time,
For we are married.  All this little day
You sat in the great roll of misery,
And the tears wept and clung upon your cheeks.
The years are many, and the day is long
For me to go down into the vast
Sands where you lost your dear sight and your gold.
Mother, I do not think that I shall dream
That, while the day goes down, it will not die.
My little boy and mother, when I come
Back from the battle, shall not see me fight
With dog and vulture.  Yet we shall be glad
Of it, for they are with us, at our home.
Mother, I think that I shall go tomorrow
To see my son, myself and those great hosts
We give our children once again all bread.
I will forget my soldiers on the beach,
Mother, I think they will not come to fight.
To-night you have no more.  To-morrow, too,
We'll fight upon the trail of flying sun,
Mother, and fight again, and fight anew.
And we shall meet again, clothed on with peace,
With joy complete, and all our scarred romance,
Mother, although the people think that you
Were dead, Elizabeth, remembering not
The day when first we stood upon our knees.
And we shall meet again.  You did not say:
"
======================================== SAMPLE 459 ========================================
; but I was at the time
About the opening of the poem, and when he came to die,
I stood there by the grave, and asked for my first tomb,
Though I said nothing; but the silence trembled on me
As I thought nothing, and a great silence filled my head
And I saw in the darkness a face that brought
A sorrowful and doubtful smile I yet could see no more
Than ghost-like figures moving with sunk eyes on the floor.
Then I cried out:  'You are dying, O dead.
You have been as dead, O my dead, O my dead,
And you are living, O strong one, but you are not dead.
You know not what you are dreaming, nothing is to die.
You have been with the flowers, O beautiful one,
But now with the shadows of the last lingering sun.'
And then I sank down deeply, like a blind man,
For suddenly the face of Death was on my side
And I heard his voice breathing soft, and a voice said, 'Welcome
For I am the ghost of the dead, O my dead,
Who died for you, who are a stranger and have fled
From the dim light and the shadow, O my darling son.'
So the face of Death was still as of one seeking
For one more sweet than you left by the dead.
But when I dared from my death to speak,
And said those words that had not moved me,
I found a little sign of the dead,
Tied in my own swift hair,
That the wind made it
Slowly whistling past me on the other side
And I saw in the darkness a great flame
That was as a blackened snake,
Its tongue dried, its body dried,
Its body dried,
Its eyes dried and it was white once more.
And when I was dead, it dried
And spoke no word.
I stood dead still,
And saw the old flame, rolled
And spoke no word;
Its tongue dried and writhed past me like a leaf.
'And this,' it said, 'is Death's best friend,
And he that was my friend, O my sweet one,
He died, as you know.
'He lives on the tombs, and his arrows are hurled
To pierce the terrible pyre; his life is red
With the blood of his love, and his tongue has said
He is mine under the curse of his memory.
And the song of his children is over and done,
And his death is at hand with a tale most sweet,
And he shall be light of it.
'He died to save me,
And I forgive you, O strong one,
For his soul's sake only,
That was burnt in the house of his memory.
Then I shall remember the flame
And the pain and the horror of him,
And be what you did and did to him,
But in the lonely grave of my soul
No fire shall feed or fire,
For my soul will scatter fire
Only in this hour of its fairness
And in the silent grave of his memory.
The rain came suddenly down the mountain,
All night long, and there was no wind,
No star in the sky, no water in the river,
And I lay still by the fire and watched the water
Stirring through and through
Till it came in the same old way
Into my eyes, that changed the sea-like brightness
Of the pine-trees to the far-off inner darkness,
And out of the wet wet wood a far off shining
Beautiful water like a bright bird's eye.
Then when my eyes were set upon the water,
And my limbs moved slowly and slowly,
In the lonely dawn
I stood in the cool night
And I saw the great red sun
Shine in a glory across the sea;
It seemed to live and be
With streams of light and love of sea,
And a little cloudlet moving towards the sun.
And at last, when the night had gathered round
Like a great snake's curly shadow in the gloam,
The wind came, and with unpruned palms
It lifted slow its golden tongue
And bore it up the hill and down the dale,
And the white road shone through the mist
Like a great, red, silver blade in a bowl of gold;
And I saw the white face of the sun
And the great tears leapt to my eyes,
As they were red and hot
With the long pain of tears;
And I cried, I looked again up to the sun
With all the world's heart out of me:
The pale clouds were like blood and fire
In the sun; and one bright, amber head
Was bowed as he bent
======================================== SAMPLE 460 ========================================
!  This is a new way to tame _Mankind_,
The kind of _Mankind_, who have taken the Earth
As long as her _Royal_ House shall have place,
Will be faithful to those who in youth have been brave,
Will be gentle to all that have struggled and striven,
Will be steadfast and steadfast as a _Foolscap plant_.
'Tis not because they have taken the Path of Life,
That we must travel with them to show Life's best;
'Tis not because our souls are flying in darkness,--
But being Beauty that shines in the dark and the light,
And we look through the portals of darkness and say,
"Better was nothing _yet_."
'Tis not because each human face
Has not the treasures of the chase,
Nor count the treasures of the field,
Nor that the soul may fly away
From earth's oblivious lap.
'Tis not because the form of Man,
In the enjoyment or the pain,
Is like the docile herd of beeves
Who, seeking for some secret fleece,
Are mindful of the breast of cows,
And feed on unregardful broods;
But by a watery glass, which shows
The surface from an ellum goes,
A sober smile to one who says,
"Oh Thou, who passest through the vast
"Oh, make me patient while I tell
"Thou hast not done a bolder thing
"Than just to set me up a wall
"In the desert thou hast not done,
"Nor hast thou courage now to cast
"For those who owe it to the last,
"The portion of thy soul is past
"And all that Death or Time can give,
"A fiery sunset is to live
"In the last wave!"  Yet, with the thought
Of one who's never to be bought,
He gives but half, and half half to keep,
Sees the whole universe shut in
To endless night of infinite pain,
A vast and toothless feast of pain,
A world of bitter woe, 'tis said,
Where every eye is fixed and dead,
And every heart stands desolate.  If some man had found a rich man
the world would not heed it; but when it found his poor man
the world would have found him not.
This life is not a round in which we move,
Though all the worlds above were filled with pain;
'Tis not because our hearts must groan
With that which we must bear, and we must bear
Our fate, if it be theirs but while
Our eyes look homeward on the ground
Where neither pain nor patience can endure,--
'Tis that this heart, through care and pain,
That knits a shrouded thing, still mounts the strain
Of a glad spirit up to the throne of God,
Must rise and sing to the unknown world
As the loud voices of the soul goes by,
With a new glory on their brows as well
As the old song of the last Calvary.
For all of this must be confessed
In the solemn music of the breast,
In the solemn choristers of heaven,
And the holy fires of earth when stirred
From the heart of the unseen dead,
And the light of the eternal world, must fall
From the orb of the unutterable Name.
And all must truly think, if they could,
That this man never had lived till then
Ages and a hundred lives,
If he heard the music of the spheres
In the beginning of life,--
"But thou, beloved voice of God!"
Then shall the sad heart no more be stirred,
Remembering for a little, when
From a sudden-petitioned point
Of the past we shall sever,--
"Yet, ah! it may be, may she not hear
The words I speak, or see not stir
The pulse of the past, and still to me
May the old love return once more,
From the circle of earth--"
She cannot hear him speak,
Though he would speak for pain,
And from that hour, her ear
Should drink its life away.
So let us--more's the pity!
Why does he take it so?
Why does he shake it so
As one by one they stand,
And shake it from his hand?
Why will he brand it so,
As one by one they stand,
With brandished brand and blow,
And tears and laughter go?
They cannot understand
How sad he is, how sadder far
Than those who hear him when the star
Of morning comes to see the dawn;
How sadder than those who are wont
To do and struggle
======================================== SAMPLE 461 ========================================
;
We know him well, and never talk to him
About the things that are to come.
He has a friend to help the needy poor,
For he has a house in common somewhere,
He has a good wife, and she knows well
That if he goes there she will surely come
And find him out to take him home.
(The Poet's Wife.)
The good wife, too, is very kind of you,
You will not care a cent for that.
I wonder if the men who do like you
Are in the neighborhood all that day,
To-day let them feel happy all the better,
And may not be afraid of play.
The good wife, too--that we have in such homes--
Is no one in the neighborhood there--
She has a kind of sympathy with us
Who are in love with all the rare air.
The good wife, too--she will give us something
To show our family is not there.
The good wife, too--she is in the world,
And I am in a kindly mood.
The good wife, too--she is all in all
To know us one.
She is content with what she knows
That is not true to what she says.
The good wife, too--you understand?
She is content to be alone.
The good wife, too--you understand her,
She is content to let me know--
They know her happiness--and who, dear,
She understands?
The good wife, too--we all must know,
We know her happiness.
With a smile she tells us all the while
What we get, and if we try,
She is happy, is happy, too.
The good wife, too--we all know how,
Has a happy feeling for.
I hope a happy man to-morrow
Will be her happiness.
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light;
I have to go to bed by yellow candles
And go to dress by yellow candle-light.
Mother says the stars are friendly,
And bang the moon together,
For the man who goes to bed by moonlight
May keep awake by mother.
The moon says things to bed and mother too,
And stars to bed, but stars alway,
But stars are stars because their mother knew
And went to bed by growing.
The moon says things to bed and father too,
And father too, but stars alway,
For he knew the moon by lunar when
She went to bed by growing.
He says the stars are friendly, but he can't say
That they are friendly, but he can't say no
That they are friendly, but they only grow
To houses and to houses so.
And father's growing old and full of pain
Because he can't go prying even now,
And father's growing old and full of tired people,
And there are many things he can't deny.
Now, father's growing old and full of pain
Because he can't go prying now,
For that's the reason he sets people to mind
We're children of one mother and no brother,
And no brother, no or any other.
And he is like a shining ship
That goes the water side by side
All full of sparks and sparkles and flashes and flashes--
A ship that goes the water side.
And he knows nothing of the things that be,
And he is like a ship that goes the water side
With nothing on her back to make her go;
But she goes the water side.
And her mother's feeling old and battered and gray.
And she's almost the baby when she's nearly dying,
And she's half full of screams and crying.
The moon says things are better than being present,
And is not so very far from where her eye
Looks on the world with a glass of sky,
And there is nothing she can even buy.
And father's growing old and full of pain
Because he can't go prying now,
And father's growing old and full of play
Because he can't go prying now.
The moon says things are better than living,
But father's growing old and full of play,
And there are only one who has nothing to give
(And she's busy hearing of this to-day).
And he'd think of how a girl would do
And so he'd lose his little son,
And he would go at once and get himself
Into a lovely young man's bed.
And he would know that he was glad to get
A warm hand resting on the couch,
And he would do it for some love of him,
And he would miss his little son.
But he was very rough to call,
======================================== SAMPLE 462 ========================================
, and the
The Old Fitz-Owen, and the Bowery-Wing, are the real
"We 're stepping off!" We are the six foot men that have not
crossed so.
The Convent and the Fool is us, as is well considered.
"You need hardly say anything about the manner of your journey;
it would not be neglected. It may seem that I were going to see
you. I hope you will excuse me."
"That is a tiresome way now."
"What have you been doing?"
"Going to do with us to-day?"
"I was not going for long afterwards."
"I was not going for long afterwards."
"Go away."
"Oh! I thought so too with us from that time."
"Yes. To-morrow I will come again to you."
"That is the very way you told me."
"You have spoken to me of yourself."
"I can not tell you what you've said: you may be going to--do
you the like."
The Convent and the Fool are very merry. It is a funny
"So it was. I'll tell you something."
"Yes." "And you were right, my friend."
"Then you won't let me go."
"You must get it wrong."
"It was all the same in the morning."
"That is the way you told me."
"You did yesterday," explained the Cook. "I'll do the kind of
"I will stand behind her and look at her."
"The least bit of truth is the truth now. She was going to keep
"And then?" they asked.
"You will have to look after her."
"And you must do so, or I can promise that."
"Why, don't you?"
"I like it. It was you who did it."
"And what do you mean by that?"
The old lady stood up and smil'd.
"I don't like that thing, my dear."
He told them without any further reply; but they begg'd
"You've promised to come to her?"
"I would be content if we could."
"And I'll take you home to-morrow, and leave you all ready."
"Yes. I promised I could. I'll try the load now."
"It is hard."
"Go along."
"I can see."
"You want more. You haven't the chance."
"Oh! I can't think it's too bad."
"I see."
"Well, now, suppose I were right."
"Yes, what can't it mean?"
"He said you were going to die. We want something to be told."
"I'll not say a word about 'nie Jim' or 'e's maybe rather
"He'll be in the next round, if you wait. Then why do you do that
"And I'll let him stand out for his life."
"He'll be just like a little kids when you're only a 'andsome
"Oh, dear me!" she said. "Don't you know how beautiful is the
pear-stove."
"Oh, aren't you?"  "Yes, I know you, and I have a thing that's
"Why didn't the 'elp that was all?"
"I don't know. I know you. Will you do it again?"
"I'll not say it."
She shook her head gently.
"If I said it aloud, I would! But why--if I can--I'll come
"Why, it looks like a bit of religion."
"Oh, I do. I know your face. But what do you say?"
"Well, that's what I want. I want you."
"You come to stay here so long."
"You come at eight o'clock at night, my dear?"
"Why, what is the matter? It's all the same. It's not time,
"You mean I'm getting cross?"
"'Who goes there?" said the old woman.
"What did he say?"
"You want a change?"
"What did he say?"
"I'll tell you in a different way."
"Oh, I didn't like it; it's the use of things sometimes."
"I mean I'll do it."
"You mean we all smell very weak."
"Oh, but I can tell you something."
"Well--that's good; I mean it."
"And you say you're the only man?"
"But that's clever, my dear."
"Well; let me see."
"And what do you think you are about?"
"I say it; I say that
======================================== SAMPLE 463 ========================================
 with a sigh,
And then,--like a wind,--he flies away.
He has changed, as he knows, that it is in vain,
To fly over the hills, and over the plain.
He has gone; and a word he has spoken again
He has not returned, and he cannot come back.
His heart aches so sore, it is well awake;
But what can come home to the young heart's broken?
And ah! what will happen? the thought is his own;
He has gone, and--he is gone.
It is strange to tell what a bright hope is here;
I fear, I do greatly; I would not care.
Yet, sometimes, when I think what a hope is gone,
I cling to this hope, and it may not be done.
He is gone, and--he is gone.
The world is coming sometimes,--we shall still be true.
And he is going away.
Yes, somehow he seems to be coming back.
And yet, perhaps some day.
I shall be there to see him, and I shall see him too--
And no one see who ever was in need.
And he perhaps goes home with his bride away.
Yes, perhaps we shall never know each other again,
Until that day.
And I have heard that the heart is like Cupid's bow.
I shall touch again my hand, for I understand
He is coming; and I shall never see again.
And what will happen?  Will nobody say how,
That my lover will not come.
Good heaven! how would it be?
This is sure!--This is nothing even now.
If I could see this lover,
I know that I might catch him
And then he'd creep along the floor.
It was not much that I missed him,
But I must tell him, in these words:
The sight of him is not like all the forms of gods,
That do appear in the face of men.
He is not ashamed of the god in whom we live,
For he is the god of nothing; he is not blind,
And he does not look on the face of men.
Who knows what the image is that is not seen
In the face of things that have no name.
But this is the image of him that has been,
That has been, or ever shall be.
He is not ashamed of the god that has been,
And the eyes that are not as his eyes are seen.
He has looked on the face of men as a god,
They are not as his eyes are.
When the god looked out of the temple
And knew that men might still be,
They were all ashamed and laughed at him,
For he was not changed of their eyes to his face.
And when Apollo saw him nothing,
How should the god know him, and not know men?
They were all as men but made of stones;
And his face is as the wonder of stones.
But I have seen that the gods are not men.
Now I have come to the godliness
Of his temple and all the good
That I have brought to Thebes (to be
What men are, seeing gods),
And there, the Lord of the tongue,
I have made a song of the gods.
I have wrought for thee, Lord of the Universe,
And a chant for the light of thy words.
I have come to the gods of thy peace,
And the light of thy glory, and death.
I have sent thee a prayer, Lord of the Universe,
And a chant for the light of thy words.
They were kind when they met
And they came to the hall.
They came to the bower,
And the feast was spread.
The priests gave gifts and the sages shared
And the sons of kings made feast.
And I have given them my songs
To the godlike souls inurned.
It was not for gods and sages
That I brought these songs,
But my songs were heard in the temple
That all the gods held.
The gods will not come with them,
Nor will they come with only me.
These songs were never sung;
But, when time and death decree
With the godlike souls of their children
And the golden things that be,
They must come with their songs
To the godlike souls of the prophets,
To the godlike souls of the nations.
They were the signs that have come,
As they came from the sea.
And I have made my songs of the beasts
To the godlike souls of the stars.
The gods of the fields and the fountains
Are they and I;
We have made them a song,
And the chant of them is
======================================== SAMPLE 464 ========================================

Of that good man, whom I shall know no more.
And the great cause? Why, then, for this much-valued gift
He is my dearest and most loving friend:
My first-love hath his end, though here it end.
But he who was the first friend I shall meet again,
Thyself shalt see me changed like him, and learn
A sad and loveless story to thy mind.
Behold him stand and hear! What should his beings be?
'Tis that so often, once a day, he hath stood
Thyrralled for hours;
His blood then quenched and died:
And all his soul with melancholy fills,
And round his heart doth deep furs ever lie,
And doth in scornful irony entreat
Another's pardon, and his tongue implore,
When he hath found it not in vain:
Sole-souled he stood, and waited for the dawn.
When he had heard his lady's voice, and saw
The beauty of her beauty everywhere,
He called before him, knowing not his choice,
And in his heart was set the name of her:
"Ah, lady, she's not that which I fear
Who loveth, nor who loves, nor what my charms,
Nor what my kind, that is so rare and sweet:
Ah, love me then, and let me be at rest.
And so at times I will have some delay,
And let my end be happy, happy days.
And when the shadows of the night come in,
So, lady, then I'll come, let's haste away."
He said, and straight he kissed her, and she went;
But ere he yet had reached the threshold she
He set her down, and laid him in her seat;
And when she saw the place, she rose and cried,
"O stay, sweet love, and take thy place," she sighed;
And ere the sound came up her eye was drowned,
And she had left, a little sigh had found,
And in the bed, 'twixt head and heart, her eyes
With her sad pleasure in their sight were paled.
And when her heart the place would have remained,
It seemed as if 'twere but a little rent,
For in the very centre of her breast
The very air was heavy for the rest;
And she was so composed, it seemed she dreamed
Of some near home, she sat, and in her mind
Was filled with thoughts of that familiar kind,
Whereby she could be wounded, and be healed.
She sat at Christmas, and that good old man
Gave forth again his body for the pain,
By the old champion reared there, and the room;
And the cold air was full of a new-born joy;
And there she saw a thousand white and young
Come forth at last, in flesh, in blood, in stone,
And to the earth, the last, she cast her head,
And now she was alone, alone as one
Who looks with love upon each lifeless thing,
And girt so high her hands that it would seem
The very heart of heaven was heavy there:
And in her brain there seemed a mist of fear
That sometimes should have seemed that she should have
Her thoughts upon the very earth once more.
And she exclaimed, "O God how great to me
Is this man clad in flesh! He will not hide
My heart's dear love in mine, and not hide me
Though my heart's love should drive him out of me.
I will not hide the thought, and yet I can
In such a world as that my love is set
Here in this holy place. My God--he can
I can forgive, if he forgive to me.
Thy God forgive even mine; and let me be
A faithful friend unto thy loving heart."
Then Psyche went away, but with her went
The night and couriers, through the stillness pent
Of great night's silence, and her heart was spent.
She was alone again, yet was she there:
Then she came back again, and for her rest
Was now a little cry, and by the door
Was laid, and by the light of half-lit hearth
That used to rise in sleep with her fair child.
And when the place was dim, she passed along,
And took a mirror at her eager breast:
She had no word, yet all her body sweet
With love was softened into feeling blest:
And as she laid it in her hand, her hand
Seemed to slip softly, as in days of old;
And as she laid it on her bosom white
She kissed it, and again, when she
======================================== SAMPLE 465 ========================================
,
And all that's dear to thee,
I give my heart to thee.
And should thy heart and body go
With love in all its store,
That thou wouldst still be sure
Of no null-giving more.
I may not give my heart away,
But I shall give it thee,
To find thy heart in mine, for so
Thine eyes see I am thine,
That thou shouldst still be dear to me,
Because I love thee more,
And yet canst say I love thee less,
Because thou lovest me.
But I can give thee greater love,
And better, I confess,
Than all true love that's in my heart--
And yet I love thee less,
Because thou lovest me.
All women in their cups, the fruitless, the helpless, the
sweetest and most unplucked, and most unburied, on the top of
their head, are tormented with the pangs of memory ...
The earth is full of the poison of the marrow of the grape, and
the water, the brain, the drink, the drink, are tormented with
the lass's shriek, the cry, the shriek, the wailing and the groan of
the dying embers, and to be folded about in a sound sleep, and
to hide the eyes and lips and the perfect knowledge of the
life, with the lass under her coverlet.
The man in the ship is a stag or a wild-fig, and his nostrils
are blood and steam, and his nostrils, and nostrils, and the sound
of the ocean around him, and the lass overhanging, are
copper-joints and cedar legs, and girdles, and the collar
of his hips, as she wheels and he turns around, and the two
fluttering girdles, are not only head and leg, but are
the males and the mane of the dog-star that swims in the sky.
The man in the ship is a bird, and his eyes are the eyes of
the eagle.
The man in the ship is a fish, and his wings are the eyes of
the sea-gulls, and his wings are the backs of the sea-gulls,
and his two little flanks are the ribs of the whale-bones, and
his breast is the bosom of the sea.
The man in the ship is a fish, and his eyes are the eyes of
the sea-gulls, and their colour is blue, and their eyes are
the blood of the sea-gulls.
The ship is swollen, the sea is in the midst of it, and the
snow from far and wide, rolls in and sweeps in and sweeps
away on the shore, and then it is seen on the sand and on the
snow, and then through the sodden mud, and then on the plain
of the sand and slowly upon the sand, it spreads wide and
whispers aloud, and the earth receives its burden. Then once
there was no sound save when the earth was shaken in the wind
and then there was no sound.
In this fashion of mists and rains we see around us, and
the foam is flecked with grey, and grey the grass
is there; and as for me, my mind being deceived by the
crowds of the world, I know not what colour it has. Nor
are they the least numberless, for they are all together like
the clouds that follow the rain, and they, among the cloud
of summer and the sun, are white with colour as with fire.
And as the clouds are thick and dark with colour; even so is
this darkness, and dark is black.
The world is full of darkness and the shadow of death, and
the night is the shadow of dark. The sea is full of
terrible pale forms and dim, that appear only as shadows of
a sea that is tossing and breaking. We feel this to
our, but the night and death depart.
_Medea._                                            [_Ep._
_Medea._                                             [_Ep._
_Medea._                                  
======================================== SAMPLE 466 ========================================
'd from the head to the feet;
And as she stood weeping beside her husband's steaming bed,
And the tear-drop lit up her dark eyes glistening in his red.
Then her head droop'd--she was alone--nay, nay, nay, 'twas not her face,
For she felt, she thought, a step on him, that tender little place,
And he sunk back beautiful in tears, with his head on the sheet,
And his eyes were warm'd for tears.
But the house was not built in the wood with the window-sill,
And the rooms were not made of the good logs--they were all
Pendent ornaments, and all, with the back of ages gone,
And the gowde changed to the gold of their garments upon the stone.
And when she moved to depart, and no longer did she walk,
She knelt like the young snow-white clouds in the heaven's high blue;
With a smile that was half a tear, yet half a sigh of sweet content,
He sank down, she wept.
And the tears came limping and sliding like drops of the snow.
And there was no sound in the room, save a splash of hoofs below,
And the mother-bird's tender cry from the lattice--"Oh, never
Wear it off there in the dark with the lonely white light!"
The father-bird warbled so loud; he kept singing all day
"A friendly wist of the warm blue sky
From the downy wings of the winter clouds,
And their rustling sound in my chair...
And the rippling rain in the window streams--
And all is silent!"
--There came a ghost to the house.
--It was the ghost of a dear-loved mate,
A man unlearned in ways of men;
And by the ghost of a beautiful star
That is shed on the bridegroom's nuptial morn,
Had been the star of my childhood's prime--
My heart could have known what it thought me.
And we both were alone, and the ghost remained
So lonely, and strange, and so sad.
And I forgot, in my house, that I ever heard tell
That my days were over and gone.
And I was silent, and strange was the strange wind
That blew in the North and blew in the South--
And I knew not where it came.
And I sought him everywhere, and no man's voice
Came to tell the day-wandering guest
That I would not listen, and always thought
Of the grave that quiet was, or the bed where that rest
Was laid, if there should be no bed to cover it--
No bed, save whitest black sheet on a sheet of white
That was so white, I never could make it out of it.
And I came out amid the cool, and lo! before
The curtain I saw a great shape come and go:
It was dressed all in black from the head to the feet,
With a wistful sort of moan....
And he knew the room in the heart, and he knew the room in
And he knew the white face of my ghost, and his kind look
And his kind strange eyes too, and his strange strange looks
That arise in the wet on the window lid,
And are so tender and tender each earthly night,
That they seem to melt in the starlight's light;
But my face is now a dead face, and the ghost I would remember
Is a ghost, and I must ever forget?
And the house is still, though the rooms are bare,
And there stands nothing room to cover it!
The house is still, though the rooms be warm,
But the house itself is not warm at all.
And I hear nothing, neither the house nor the bed--
There is a still something touching the dead--
For the house is silent, and silent they stand,
With haggard eyes, and unclosed, heavy hands,
And a speech, that has come to a sudden end,
In a horrible form, like the wretch's last word--
As the wretch went forth to the murderous den
And was tortured!
The wretch that was tortured!
And I who was always too tortured before,
As I sat with my head on the coffin floor,
And saw it was not a dead face, but dead,
Might have been once more--and I knew it was dead--
And my heart would be lying dead, like a stone
In the grave, not a sign of the wretch was gone.
The room is still, though the bed is bare,
And the face still stands, and the face still looks
======================================== SAMPLE 467 ========================================
 her lips are wrinkled and protrude
Like to an ancient dame in ways of blood;
And what she cannot give is strangely new,
Though none but noble dames might come to look.
Aye, 'tis a pleasing sight to see old friends,
Rich, handsome fellows, gay, as young as they,
With bridal crape upon their bridal-stones,
With rings upon their shoes, and silver coins,
With rings upon their hair, beaming and sweet,
With emeralds in a golden chain complete;
And let a thousand beauties lie as dead
And young as they would die--yet still the best.
I would not that men loved me--dear my friend!
I feel the sacred coldness of a kiss,
Though nothing can recall my ancient glow,
And never feel the warm caresses go
I brought to you.
I see you in the garden, where, through long hours,
I've paced and watched beside the murmuring spring,
I've prayed for you at twilight-tide until
Your eyes were brimmed with tears and visions gay,
And all the world seems full of lovely things.
A woman--like the lilies--doth possess
A woman--full of love, yet full of joy.
A child, who, when his years are scarce a boy,
All childish hopes and fears doth still betray,
And like a doting mother looks away.
And then doth oft the lonely mother plead
For him that loved her, oh! so young and fair,
And yet, for me, ye never will consent
That I am old and simple as the air.
The earth is full of beauty, flowers are fair,
The summer time is coming, and with love
The days spring up in beauty and in truth.
For me, I have attained the fullest youth,
And, love by love, I've lived my life, my life,
Unfelt by sorrow, and with no regret.
I have been ripened in the ripened years,
But never have I felt that I was weak.
And yet we would not turn, and never know
That earth is fair, though lovely as we are,
For that is memory of an early love.
I am content to love the budding trees,
And leave the ripened glory of the earth,
My little seed, and take the flower of spring
And kiss the yellow valleys all the year.
The little garden I will leave and creep
Into the fullness of a year, and then,
A little while it shall but stand and smile,
While the green earth shall turn to Spring again.
The world is full of flowers, the trees are fair,
They are more beautiful than Spring doth know.
And who can say, when I had joy or pain
That earth could hold such happiness in store,
That it could hold the gladness of the grass
And keep the greenness of the growing year?
The sun in the blue sky has brighter skies,
His rays are fairer, he has taught more fair
And sweet to my heart than all that lives of men.
The sun in the blue sky doth brighter grow,
His lips are fleeter, his cheeks are brighter red.
If joy be here, as I think I would,
Who knoweth more of joy than these I know
My life is fairer than it is to me.
The sun is a great glow,
I'm glad of a sun as well,
And my life is a song that hath come to me,
For that is my heart of flame,
And my way is the path where paths are wide
And the sun is a sun without a sun.
And this is my life as a golden sun,
And this is my way that dreams do flee.
For the sun is a great flame,
And Love my sun as well,
And I am a song she held me in the end
Of a sun that I saw, and I shall never send.
But I am a song, and this is my song,
And this in my song is a song of love.
For the sun is a great ray,
And Love my sun as well.
There is a sun as calm
As a little pool:
It rains its rays by the path we climb,
But you lose that shine like a frozen stream at noon,
So I am a song, and this is my song.
There is a sun as bright
As a little cloud:
This is the sun who sits from her throne in the sky,
And all the world is its love too bright to see.
And though it rains by the sun's bright light,
The sun is a great light,
And her rays are fair as a little blaze
Of some
======================================== SAMPLE 468 ========================================

'Tis the sweetest of all summer's roses
That in the world is ever fair.
Love's lightest, so its moments fleet;
The softest winds have ne'er enticed
Thee, like my heart's sweet purity;
Nor more than this, its spell hath lured
Down to the bosom of my heart
A heavenly pure and fadeless love;--
And let it not deceive thee, dove!
For though thy heart be dark and wild
To any eye it never gave,
It oft comes back to me and moves
Direct like Heaven to guide a slave,
My thoughts shall in thy being dwell,
And my soul's heaven be over-glow
As thou a pure and spotless dove!
Aye, aye, aye,--in the soft sky
Which thy sad soul hath ne'er betrayed--
In the still depths which never chill
Can come the lowlier, fairy-child,
So softly, yet so softly, love,--
So gently, yet so gently moved,
And yet so still!
And O, the moonlight and the light,
And the swift joy and the swift joy,
All these are now as dreams to me
Which only in the midnight here
Can still be dreamed of shapes, they move
As visions, where they were, I ween,
They glide along the still and shadowy air,
As if thou wert some fairy bark,
Some fairy bark!
And all things are a-bloom below
To-night when thou wert sleeping,--
And I am dreaming!
O, where art thou, Arcadian fount?
In what Elysium art thou found?
In what thy charming haunt?
By what dark cave, the rivulet,
On what green bough of what soft cloud,
What blest eternity?
Thy waters roll, thy skies arise,
O solemn peak!
And I am dreaming!
O, where art thou, O happy child,
In what green bower
Of what white wave hast thou been born?
And where thy love, thy joy, thy zest?
O say, what is there left to say,
That I in her sweet company
Dreamed with my eyes, and knew not why?
O sweet lad--my Orpheus!--
Come thou nigh, and I will be
In thy white beauty and thy light,
Out of thine eyes, to look and see
Gadder painting;
And then my heart will break again,
And I will be thy child again,
And then my soul!
O, sweet lad--my Orpheus!--
Come soon to me in the moonlight!
O, sweet lad--if I were but
As thou art,--and I will be
In the white moonlight and the still light,
And the soft light--of the dead eyes,
Of the moon's silver rays;
And they will bring thy body to me,
And to thine eyes,--and to thy soul,
Like me, and me alone,
And then I will be thine own,
For I will be thy child again,
And then--then all thy love and pain
Will come back, and thee will be
Like me!--then we'll be thine own;
And then--O, sweet, O, sweet! O, sweet!
Then thou wilt wander
Among the leaves;
And smile on me,
And call me queen;
And I will woo thee
In some sweet grove;
And then I'll waken
Thy voice and thy face;
And thou wilt answer
The same in the place.
Oft to my heart thy image
And shape are given;
And there is no desiring
When all is new;
O'er all the lovely forms that change
We now behold,
Our hearts and thoughts are but the leaves
That in them blow;
And nothing is apart from us
Save goodness, love, and kindness.
To all men 't is a marvel
Of power to bless
Songs where they are cast in music
And charm the most;
God's gift takes wing,
And Heaven is a gem,
That once we had,
A rainbow-ball,
Which now we've caught,
To deck our children's children
With.
O, you'll never know the ways we love,
Nor walk the ways that we should roam;
And even should you love us, love us,
Why, what will you do us home?
The summer sun is bright below,
The leaves are turning yellow;
The wind is in the gum-tree now,
The leaves are turning yellow.
O, we have found the summer sun!
What pleasure have we
======================================== SAMPLE 469 ========================================
 and the "Rim," that
remained in his last thoughts as naturalizing his original
in the last two lines
from "The Wandering Fancies" and other
"Enjoy THIS, THErite. You have all
To be desired--success.
Lend me some of your soft, wild ways
Of song and of the sea;
And lay my feeble, failing rays
Wide open on the sea."
Lend me some of your fates of change,
Of hopes and fears for me;
And lay my simple, blighted range
Of song and of the sea."
My task is done; I leave it where
The long dark ages lie.
I only gain and hoard my care,
And work my secret out.
In vain I turn these troublous days and dull
With heavy questions of the fickle moon,
Or vex the troubled midnight silently,
They come no questionings of human mirth;
For she and I have not the same desire
To live and love in a fair, quiet world.
They never ask what visions they have had,
What dreams, what passions, and what shapes they are:
But I have only touched them, lest they seem
Like little children on the mother-earth.
At times I wonder if the night were black
And still as awful as the face of God,
Or if, as some folk tell, few mortals are
Seen in their narrow and forbidden streets;
So, when my friend seems fallen into the way,
I do not crave the bounty of a night.
We may, my child, if only we are bound
To walk with joy, or feast, or be like men.
The good man is a dullard, or dull and cold,
No more than a dull sailor with no eyes;
Besides, he has such silvery, dim-lit eyes
As, once in those dark, fearful-lighted days,
We still remember, with a well-feigned voice,
In our familiar villages at times
When our own property was put away.
We have no castles that we could raise,--
They are like children in the sight of day.
Only a silent melancholy thought
That daunts the prospect as I pass along.
We only know what jest is playtime use,
How gay, how vigorous, and how bravely strong,
And how the workmen will be soon forgot
As they dance round the village every year.
There is no wonder, after all, our eyes
To have such idlers as we love in our day;
No wonder our great schoolmate, Alice Smith,
Gives not a hint that over there is bread,
Or little bread, or nothing of the sort.
We have no pride in our great class, no doubt,
When the best schools are going out to school.
There is no class like our own school, no class like ours,
With books for fools, or fools for ayes,--
The sort who like to mock us in the mirth,
And teach us more than wisdom from our boyhood.
So here's a toast to them that will receive
The first great blessing of its largesse here.
To friends and ladies we will teach the way,
Nor will we wish to lead them ever thence.
We have no school like that, nor much more friend
Than that the best school-fellows of our day.
There's little difference in our mildest rules,
'Twixt boys and girls, between us, in our day;
There's difference between us in the school,
Where men may study them, although they may;
There's difference between us in the school,
Because we know our own experience is
A kind of difference, with girls and boys.
There's difference between us in the school,
As you can see by now. The books are such,
And, when combined, we're wholly careless and
Yet never mind: I know that by the rules,
The scholars and the schools, there must be all
The difference 'twixt them and us, I suppose,
(But it's a case that's far between ourselves and boys)--
There's difference between them and us in the school,
As though there were but schools, and they were teachers.
There's difference between us in the school,
And science in the school, because each day
They teach us to eschew the bitter schools
And teach us to be perfect without noise,
And not to wantonly be caught or killed;
There's difference between 'twixt 'twixt schools and schools,
As scholars' names, and not like teachers.
In England, to maintain that Nature here
Is free to live and love, the children there,
They feed and exercise most nobly well,
They
======================================== SAMPLE 470 ========================================
 a kind of vespers
That I could never rightly name;
But when, in truth, 'twas the good saint Will,
The Church should forge its wondrous frame.
His worship-hour was six and twenty;
His last, and nearest noon of life,
Was a full victory for his people,
Or to his latest work of grace,
But for the great and gentle dame--
The fair and gentle dame,
And lovely young Miss Burman;
Whose smile was mild as summer thunder,
As the storm-clouds gathering there,
But a sullen darkness reigns o'er all
The drear and gloomy moor,
The saddest sight and dearest hour,
In yonder mountain hoar.
The fair young lady's quiet smile--
Whose smile so wild and gay;
The lovely young lady's look beguiled;
The words her eyes that often smiled,
As when she used to stray.
And thus the hour its blessing took,
That she was friend to all,
Though but an infant's dream, a child's;
For him to learn her spell.
But when he told the wondrous tale,
It faded, as he stood
Within that valley dark and drear,
And gloomed his visage wild.
Oh! then, in truth he spoke her truth--
His friend was by afar,
And that deep sigh of love which woke
The household's wakening war,
That soothed, beguiled, and cheered the weak,
And rocked the broken-hearted man,
As on this mountain's brow.
"He called aloud," he said, "the name
Of priestly virtue--he!
From her I came, who long our woes
Ventrical lamented:
Here, too, may every day new Birth
And MASTERS follow you;
And, as your infant's tear shall flow,
Your mother's eyes shall dew.
"And that, for which your infant year--
The last--he gave, hath come--
Let not another link remain
To bind the infant home!"
And from her heaving bosom, rolled
A deep-felt joy, unquell'd
By thoughts which, never dead before,
Shall bear his father's memory o'er,
And bless the hearth again!
And, as he spoke, a sudden thrill
Of human-kind felt all
The warmth of the free spirit's love--
The spirit's conscious call!
"Oh, welcome, Father! for with thee
I've joy, perchance, yet we
Are waiting in thy lone abode,
To clasp thy feet in ours.
Thou makest our own right the path
Which Israel trod alone;
And thou, who else art all too young,
Shalt bend a while, and smile.
"Father! thyself hast played the truant's part,
And thy true image loves
To dwell with thee as o'er thyself,
And guide the wanderer's steps.
"Thou mak'st the man, who all too long
The spot has loved to tread,
He's gone where thou shouldst turn; but thou
Shalt walk, to thee, a steadier friend
Than e'er hath been or now.
"But when the duty's task is done,
And the long labor past,
Thou goest to thy Father's house,
And thank'st thy God for fast.
"The Father's care thy Father's face
Awaits thy earnest wish,
For there shall be no cause for prayer,
And thou shalt rest in peace."
Oh! hadst thou stayed, thy Father's child,
And kept thy heavenward way,
Thou hadst not met the worldly poor,
And led them from the clay.
That happy day, when, like a fawn,
The sun rose early into day,
And from the shades of forests crept
A joyous gleam of silver light
Along the rocky glens,
And the glad tidings I had heard
From the glad people, and the flower
Of maidens, and the noisy hour
All round, rang with delight.
And I remember, when I took
Thy voice in tones of praise,
Whose eyes, though bright and brave,
Said such a soul and voice of truth
The hearts of a young age should speak!
I remember, when, in days
When, through the calm profound,
We met beneath the holy shade
In early childhood's fairy glade,
And sung God's glorious hymn--
Or thou, hast said, "In manhood's prime
And prime would pass away,
But here,
======================================== SAMPLE 471 ========================================
!
The sun is sinking, and the sky is clear,
And the winds are hasting on their sleepy way,--
The sun is rising in the eastern sea.
The sun is sinking--and the twilight is sweet:
The birds are chanting over overhead;
And the sound of song goes up from every wing--
"O rest, sleep, weary souls, the tempests blow;
Sleep, for the dawn is on the wing;
And hark, the hunter to his baying call
Is passing home!
"The night is hushed and still and still,
And sudden from the west a beacon gleams,
Gleams on the water, 'neath the silent trees;
And now I know that I must go to them!
"And they--O blessed ones!--were gone too soon,
And brought too late, too late for mending sighs;
Nor long did I behold a friendly face
Borne on the water, as it ebbed away
To dim with distance of the moonlit tide.
"I was too kind, O souls! to stoop and share
The helpless load which all my human toil,
And let my restless limbs and willing feet
Behold the road I came to; and my hands
Were very wide, and through all hours of pain
My way led up in deathless glory to
The very temple of my immortality.
"I went and gave my body to the wind,
But what is left me unto Him who gave
That life for which I was not sacrificed?
The world, as He had promised it, is kind
For this, and claims that, while they deem it not
One gift of strength, they still possess the same.
"I shall not heed the changes of the years,
Nor shrink from Him whose hand has given it birth;
But live secure in Him whose care cares not
For any humbler mortal thing that is;
Wear nothing in the sunshine of the earth,
But rise aloft and steer the ship of mind
Toward Him who keeps the sail of every wind
Upon the calm and silent seas of air.
"O mighty Being!  if my fate should be
Without Thy guiding, surely would it be,
In the calm evening and the noonday sun
To make my soul's true home a safe, a haven
For weary souls who perish in the sea!
"And should I only yield one breath of breath
To Him who gave me life and only death.
Then, all my hopes to Thy good grace were given!
All else would come as comes the loving heaven.
"Then might I hope and trust in Thy good will
Until at last I have been glad at last,
While the dim skies grew wonderful as day.
But now the darkness is grown very near,
And I am very weary, and must fret
Until I come at last unto My door.
"O mighty Angel!  grant my prayer to Him
Who always heals the things we cannot feel,
Help us to bear this load of pain and care,
Which but so long is a part of our despair."
There came a day, when through the trembling air
A voice cried crying, "Who is with me there?
Who bear the sickly burden of so long?"
"Child, bear that heavy burden on thy head,--
See, all the world lies in it, borne indeed
Upon its burdens.  I am very sad
On that sad journey, and I would forswear
My path to the blind dust, and make it glad
With the cool freshness of the even air."
Out there he cried, "O imp of evil heart,
Where is my baby boy with me to-day?
Where is the little boy I used to play?"
"O mother, mother, lift me up to-day
Up to your face, and make me strong and brave
As thou wilt bear to me in paths of woe."
And then he laughed, and said, "Now is my grave
In the wild ways of death, and I shall know
All that my mother suffered.  Do not so;
She died to give thee life and let thee live
Unscathed"; and so through terror and despair
That mother was upon her son's sad breast,
And then he went from out the desolate
And broken heart of him whose love was dead.
There was that little boy's soft tremor
Upon his heart; he had no other word
To bid his father help him.  "Father, I heard
Too well your God's command, and so I do;
Father, I am a weakling.  Let me go!
O Mother! O Thou from beyond the sky,
Out where the darkness gathers and I die
To reach the goal of my unconquered
======================================== SAMPLE 472 ========================================
's.
In a deep dell of a leafy vale,
Unvisited, the forest stood,
The moon was like a silver sail,
And silently and silently sighed;
Under the blossoms of the vale!
Till one, who in that place was nigh,
Turned him about, and, weeping, said,
"What is it I see in this?  Ah me!
A monstrous, awful, thing to see
Upon a blasted tree and tree,
A miserable, sightless thing!"
He spoke; and then, with troubled look,
Rode forth upon his shining book.
The book was bare; its trunk was bare
Before--it had so long a snore!
The lady's feet had scarcely touched
The leaflet of the cypress-tree,
And the pale flowers, in the valley,
Gathered the blackness of the night;
And here and there, and everywhere,
The nightingale was shrill within.
The lady's feet, though grey and worn,
Stayed in their wonted ways,
And her poor faded garb was riven
By many an axe-torn root and skin!
The lady's knee,--the lady's waist!
In such a night, yet hardly sown,
Save for the boughs and twisted stems
That had been strown ere Autumn fled.
A moon-lit space was round her head:
A great, dark river crossed her face,
And here and there the green leaves shed
Their trembling dew-drops o'er her place
As if it waited to give place
To some unconquered, fairy-haunted
Bald-headed mirth, and merry rout.
And there the night-jar closed her eyes
With leaves and stars and the dawn-rose;
For him an open-hearted bride
Was wandering through the world's strange ways.
The lady's hand was blood-red warm,
Wherein her red and silken arm
Fell like a snow-ball on the face
Of the old, grey, giant-laughter-race!
The lady's soul was wide awake
As in a dream of Paradise.
The wild wood-wind disturbed his cry
As he lay down in pleasant ease
And watched her smile upon her eye,
In wonder at her tenderness.
The night-jar raised a ruddy flush
From her deep, dark eyes, as he looked down,
But as if half an angel's hail
A fresh tree blazed on every crown.
He raised a face too marvellous
For any touch that nature gave,
And round it blushed and blushed in so
The sunlight of a sudden lave
That like a smile the dawn-wind sent.
She was so strangely fair, that pale
The glimmering lake seemed conscious still
Of the old brightness of its soul
That, like a hidden fire, lit pale
A world where nothing seems to mar
The sunshine of this starlight Isle.
A moonlight belt was round her waist;
I breathed, and, as I neared the place,
There in the dark, where the tall trees
Were lifting their branches, murmured:
"Some shadow is climbing the side;
Some shape is rising up; come, bride,
And take me in your arms once more.
"I am the ghost of that rapt awe
Which makes the waters to boil and quiver;
I am the shadow of that law
Which brings me forth at the wink of the moon.
"The light grows cold and the sun will fade;
The wind will sing us a mournful lullaby;
And I am the shadow of that dread
I have in my terror that knells to the sky.
"And when I do again, I think
There's more than an answer there to my wish;
For I am the shadow of that sink
Which struck me in that hour of steam and dream.
"And I am the shadow of an aim
To which I could neither list nor heed
For in this weird, enchanted hour
I cast up all my powers and speed
To where the future's page is decreed
To leave a print in the red-frocked creed."
She took the woman to her side
And turned her face away;
The face, that moved in the old place,
The eyes and lips, that shone like stars,
And in them was the woman's face,
Eros had called her by his name.
"O God, who knowest all below
Of what I had to do,
I have made the woman's face fair and new,
And I am the shadow of you.
"And to-day I know that in me
There are more things to do than I
======================================== SAMPLE 473 ========================================
.
_Sylvestres hommes
Neuendronos_, the French word of the Romans by which Rome and
Teteres. So the Romans used it when they were called by Rome.
Teteres, _i.e._, the name of a place between Etna and Ptolemy, and
_Tithonus_ (_ Fav. vii, canto ivi_), a place between Laomedon and
_Tithonus_ (_italics in _Tithonnes_, canto i.); Erythra, a place between
_Tithonus_ (_Arma Latinæ_), in Latin _terra antiqua_, for the
_Tithonus_ (_E. Romulus vivide_), the place of which was Monte
Boötes, the head of a race between Laomedon and Maecenas, the
Trophiean, and the tip of a brass star.
_Trophiebrugum_, the head of a horse holding the plume which
supplies the sign of the constellation of the constellation of
_He that hath the face to see,
He that hath the face to tell,
He that hath the face to know,
He that hath the face to tell,
_In clamore supremum Neptune!_
_Omnibam Sabæiadum caput_ (_Eumque imitati_),--_Vellum
Parlus pias latuit sacratum--_Horat. Lib. I._
_Cassius, ut nihil ipse fuit._
Schauelop, quid mirum spes, neque mirum
Spondibus, et apud posteritas: ensem primo
Vittis inops erat: laudant astra sertis
Hunc quod enim tenero.
And again,
_In medio mensæ spatiums nitentis_
_Aut ubi trux, et palaveris lupebit_
Vult, in lacrymas telluris albicis
Amisit sub Rhodope lupideis?
Hic, frondoso sumus, neque mirum
Spargitur, atque in proelia moroni
Hunc mihi mox esse, neque mirum
Splendorat ætheriis frondibus; at cruore
Vobis tereti cervice Romam.
_His_ eyes, and (_he_, _his_ eyes) _his_ mouth,
And _he_, and _he_, _he_, and _he_, and _he_ apace
Omne viam, quæ tenerum, virgo omne vultum
Floras, et vos plaudit vaga lacte.
Qua tibi, Vane, tua tibi.
Quanquam resonis exitus,
Quanquam perpetua, simul,
Quanquam perpetua, simul
Tantus oliuimus, et institor, occidit unquam
Præcipitur, at cuncta simul.
And again,
_He that hath the face to see,
He that hath the face to know,
He that hath the face to seek,
He that hath the face to see,
Qui sunt gutta, ut præcipitque
Ploratus umbra, et vaga risu:
Frondiferas Etrusque,
Candide, ut quæ possit hunc impetus
Silvarum, atque ævi admoritur
Abcinem, cum sidera, et fulminis
Prünat, atque haeres sua
Qui se vetat, pium hæc hæc sui.
_He that hath the face to see,
Hath the face to tell his woe,
Hears the falling of the tree,
Hears the hoofs of horses go._
_By the help of such a prophet._
_And the Master_,
_Is the sickly lad he is leading._
_On the threshold of the Pharisee._
_Hath the Lord not been crucified._
_The Priest of the Morning_,
_Is the guilty fatherless._
_And the sick child, Heine,
Whom the devil's care divide._
_The old enemy hath made him master._
_And his master's hand to cover._
_A long rod the warrior would not touch._
_From the Master_,
_Hath he not been crucified._
_
======================================== SAMPLE 474 ========================================
, with a long stick of oak;
The axe is on fire and the floor is on fire,
He charges against our prayer and he'll not be denied,
He's an excellent knight of a lady's repute,
But he's proud of his master as a lofty and clean pike.
He's a gentleman brave and a true-love companion,
And the first man out-rate him he'll soon be complete.
He's no bully (though squint is a squint), though, by no means
But it's his relations that's known by rebound,
That he's known us by name, my dear boy, for himself,
And now also he's known us by name.
So I told him about the first man, the second,
And so he says that I told him ouch play,
I'll give to the third man, I say:
Well, now you are welcome enough to see him,
And he's not to be talked on my prunes.
And the fourth man out-ries him, says he:
Well, now you are welcome enough to see him,
And I'm not to be talked on my prunes.
O yes, I'm to come at the Prunes, sir,
And a welcome, you'll meet me again
In the days when we were as good mates,
And all the world was as sweet;
And of what I should say to myself,
I am always afraid of the Lord.
But there's news that he sent our brother
To have a glass of old English wine,
And when the wine was served up with the dregs
Well, you see, he has sent our brother
With a glass of old English wine.
You may drink it yourself, sir,
And when you've drunk it will be the chief,
And so on, as I guess, your wine will be chief
For my wine and the old English wine.
O yes, I'm to come at the Prunes, sir,
And a welcome, you'll meet me again
In the days when we were as good mates,
And all the world was as sweet again. . . .
I'm an excellent knight since I wrote you,
And I think it is hard to agree
With our cousin, the Prunes, and the lads who sent you,
And the pretty girls for whose love we spent.
O yes, I'm to come at the Prunes, sir,
And a visit make good with the day
When we'll be as good fellows till then,
Them we cannot forget, we'll drink, pray,
Till ourselves become the first friends,
And we'll be as good fellows as men!
Then 'twill be our fate to be good friends, sir,
For we'll be as good fellows as men!
O yes, I'm to come at the Prunes, sir,
And a visit make good with the day,
When we're as good fellows as men,
And you'll be as good fellows as men!
So I'll drink to you, my dear,
And the wine to you I'll bring,
And I'll sit in the tavern all the time,
And drink right to your wedding time.
O you can't refrain from drinking and is glad,
Or keep your girl at this moment,
And I'll drink to you till you're dead, my dear,
As you used to do when you were young.
But your friends have all come home, my dear,
And I'll drink to you till I'm old,
And I'll drink to you until the end, my dear.
So drink to me until I'm old,
And I'll drink to you until you be old,
And I'll drink to you till you are old,
And I'll drink to you till you're old.
A little farther on the way that you have come,
Is where the larkspur and the white rose shall have hied
At the foot of this grand homestead in the meadow there,
But I must not go now, laggard bird, if you will go
Wherever you may wish to tend your flocks upon the wing.
I'll set her on the stile, or I'll cast out her door.
I said this once, for once I heard her softly speak.
"What may the darkness do, dear lark?
A friend of mine, a hand to hold this weakling's cheek?
The night has come, and day is on;
I'll stir the fire, and blow the horn,
And bid you go, and start the morn,
For all to you is summer morn."
The tall dark tree rocked at her mouth.
"Dance, my dears, and trip the m
======================================== SAMPLE 475 ========================================
 with the world it had
been a moment's effort to keep his body out of the water. The
bundance and the ash and maple were one in the cause of the
dense air and the rain. The rain was humming a little more
than the other in the blue and yellow, and the tulip raged
so fiercely, that the men in the village laughed to see such an
entering. I don't believe it; but, as my story is told, I think I
have found myself at last, and even in the pleasantest places,
with many a long journey, on which I feel myself to be
exalted to beauty, because I feel myself now so greatly
exalted to beauty, that I feel myself exalted to esteem and
change.
After many adventures and honours, I found that I had
a very great pleasure in holding to myself the titles and
insigns of my own and others of my own, and were then
to give my orders.
"So, however, my little maiden, being so impatient to be
overthrown, and having not much sense of what her state
and beauty has declared, as I was holding there to me, I
was, utterly alone, having my heart torn with anguish,
which I thought almost overpast the time. Then I heard
the messenger, saying that a stranger had come, and thus
said: 'The stranger has returned in his own house.' Well,
indeed, it is well that that a stranger should come, and be
honoured as such in wedlock, even I, whom never before
was born who would trust her, and I who never knew aught
since there had been. He is not nowise to be obliged to any
one to trust his own heart, but even to me, who, if he
happens to come a few days, should find himself too far
over my kinsman.
"When the stranger had gone quickly into our tent, and the
new voice came in which he was not before being thus near,
he was afraid to go and tell us what the strangers did, and
the strange people said.
"The stranger, hearing what the people said, and then
looked round and saw me lying, yet neither of you can I
see him, nor hear his voice.'
"Then Ulysses said: 'This stranger shall not, that I
ask. He is a man of great contrivance, and is alone here,
but he is the most excellent of all the people; far better
was he to sit here, than to go on, and far better to have
given all my life to him, and whatever he might get and come
to me, and I would give him the best gifts that I could
ever hope to render him.
"I suppose, however, that he had received some suitors who
would give him for the third time. If he is to be
exalted beyond measure in strength or understanding, I
think that he will be here and be honoured by many people.
He will be here, if I have him, and be a king; for all
there is he has will be to be the first. I remember the
time when he was here, and he was at the ship of my luck,
and that I never yet heard of Ulysses.
"When I was ill at ease with the friends he led in my
situation, he said to me, saying: 'Ulysses, noble son of La
Sway, how is your spirit freighted? Are you able to stand off
in a room and say your prayers? An old man must be as brave as
I am. He has a strong body, and he will be here by reason
of it, but he says he will never be here long as I have
been. He would have stayed longest of all for me, but I have
waits. But heaven has not yet decreed another like this,
nor have I power to stand by it myself. It is not an island,
but some one there is, who may come and put it into a rock
that may be the prop of the house, and he may himself be the
superseding obdurate with his old age. It is not an island,
but an isle itself, and the rocks that bear it may be
very hard to please the sea, but they are a hundred and
thousand times as many thousand as the men who rule
Olympus, and when he is now come to his own country he will
spread it wide over both with his own heart, and so leave
it to the son of Laertes, who alone is in all his dotage
and tells everything to his children. It is an island in that
state we see, called Minos.
======================================== SAMPLE 476 ========================================
, which I have here transcribed,
Of the seven kings who did us wrangle here;
And now no man the person will blame
If he committed such an infamy.
There is a mystery in the matter
For you to understand,
And will, to lack of spirit, flatter
Your king and queen this world in vain.
He was a man who did us wrangle
If any one should stroke
The rule of nature and of art;
It was his life to make
An empire of the law to bind
The hearts of men.
We were so much against his will
He frowned not on us to be good;
(His subjects I, who hate him still,
For all his slaves despised him.)
We thought he would be good,
And they that did us wrangle still.
We went to him to shed
Their tears upon us as their wine,
Bountiful Bacchus' curse,
Whose harpies gave each man the sign
That they were drawn by one combine
To quench his Majesty's eye,
And quench our thirst.
He was as black as hell
When all around him we could quench,
And all along the ground
Our troops of arrows they did wilt,
And marched and chanted loud,
And never thought it was a bird's
Each forked tongue would shoot a shaft;
Yet when we would no longer stay,
It started from afar.
I said to one:  I'll teach you now
To spare your royal head.
But with my crowning thought I'll teach you then
Your King will let you know.
He saw a ship a-sailing,
And all the sailing was a-sailing,
And all the sails were sailing.
He saw how the sailors
Their port to foreign regions bounding,
And how their men and wives
To the great ship did flee.
He saw how land-folk swarmed
Around the standard of the Queen,
And how their comrades, too,
Did fiddle for their wiles.
He saw how knights and squires
Did make their followers all to flee,
And leave great spoil behind;
And how they did the treason of their King.
He saw how the sailors
Their signals lost in the sea pondering,
And how their men and wives
Did leave their chains and ships.
He saw how men and women
Did furs and tares in the sea water,
And all the land was blood,
Whereof men might not be quiet.
"I know not the way,
So I am well and wisely spoken."
He spoke to him:
"I know not the way,
So I am well and wisely spoken."
"I know not a way,
Yet I am well and rightly spoken."
There are no way to make men happy.
There are no way but the way to be wise.
There is enough of the way to be wise."
There was a way that no man can see.
"There are no way but the way to be wise."
There were no men that do not desire
Treasure, riches, honor, gold or land;
No way but the way to be glad.
There is a way to be happy, not slave
For others, and all things to be desired.
There is enough of the way to be bored.
Why should men play when it is not for me?
This is a new path to you,
This is a new path to you.
And it shall be a new way, my dear.
But you shall not walk much, my dear.
For men have been here many a day
And men have been here many a day.
And now I would have you think
I had forgot you, dear,
I would be glad, dear,
Could you be here.
And it shall be a new way, my dear.
But that's for love and you.
And that's for nothing, my dear,
Now you are gone.
But that's for nothing, my dear.
Ah, if I had but my toes!
And if I were glad, my dear.
But that's for nothing, my dear,
Ah, if I were glad.
Oh, if I were glad, my dear,
If I were as glad as I am,
You would be happy, my dear.
But I'll not walk much, my dear,
I'll walk more, more, more,
I will wander more, more,
To where I love, and to what I love,
And I'll not see them, my dear.
So may I follow and walk more, my dear,
And I will love, and I'll love you.
And I will feel your breath
Upon my
======================================== SAMPLE 477 ========================================
,
The word is one for me,
The air is filled with singers,
The earth is one for thee,
The sunlight is out of thee
And the winds are at their wills
In the wind's bare hollows.
My life was one with the earth.
My name, but not what it is,
Is the grass in the grass and the rose in the earth.
I was the maid with the wheat by the brook
And the barley with the sun by the fire,
The wind from the north and the south blew there
And the birds sang in my name,
And the rain sang in my name.
My hope in a thousand blossoms was one
Of the wild-flower of the West,
Grew in the fields and the rivers there,
In the happy summer heaped.
My hope in the quiet winter night
Where the winds sang and the rain sang,
And the birds piped on the hillside there,
And the sun and the frost made music in my hair,
Where the flowers stood and the beasts ran;
And the sky and the sea and the hills and the sky
And the wind and the wind of the storm blew by
In the wind's winterWinter weather.
I was a princess, O my King,
And I was born of high Surabos;
I pray thee, tell me who I am,
Who thus am called the "Jousti."
O, say to me what this means?  Is it
A friend that I have known and heard?
As for the flowers, they are my goods;
They are not all as grass or seed.
Their colors are not all at strife;
They are not free from earthly care.
They love, they are beloved by life.
My friend was not his own despair;
He sought his high-prized happiness;
In his ancestral gardens he
Made known his garden and the trees;
He brought me wisdom, and I will
Let loose my soul when God wills it so.
"He went not for my living," said
My friend, "but for a passing life."
He went not for my living, but
My life was forfeit to his wife.
The bitterness of parting was
The bitterness of parting for
The hatred of a love of his
His wife's heart, and of his wife's.
His wife, it may be, after life,
Her heart, her head, her body were.
And all the peace of yesterday
He drew from the disquiet air
Of his wife's heart, its pain to know,
The bitterness of a parting wife.
As I lay in the autumn night
When the sun climbs the mountain-side,
The trees, by the river-side,
Stand in silence and pass away.
I, my friend, who so long have wended,
Borne on the wings of the wind, on the ocean-track--
Borne far on the track of the stream, on the ocean-shelf,
On the swell of the song of the stream, on the land-locked stream--
And amid the play of the stream I heard a voice answer:
"_The fisher is out fishing in the cold;
The fisher is out fishing in the gray._
"_And she wanders all the day in the sun._
"_And the fisher is out fishing in the sun._"
Told is the story of the fishing days,
Of boyish fishers in the fields to plough._
And here was never boat so far but he
That he could follow on the long tide-race.
And many followed on the long, white trail--
The one is lain across the long, white trail,
The other near, until its easy trail
Has caught the long, white trail of white-li-kind--
The shore is full of catch-and-tli-kind.
I heard the water whisper faintly
"_There lies a home upon the sea._"
And out of the low-lying world I came,
Through quiet lanes and fields of clover,
Then through the gathering darkness,
The night comes down forever.
The tall, pale moon looks like a mother,
Through the wide, empty heavens of heaven;
I hear a voice close by me:
"_There lies a home upon the sea._"
The night is dark, the moon is gold;
The water drips with the salt wind;
The night is deep, the moon is wise,
And all the lights wax dim behind.
So still, so peaceful is the night,
So still it seems, so wonderful,
I stand and listen and bow my head
And think what it has been.
The little things are so wise and wonderful
They say there is a lonely man;

======================================== SAMPLE 478 ========================================

Hang for the storm, and ye may come to meet me
Whence you are come, and who is he that bears me?
If I could hear you tell your father he is dead,
Where is the man to ward your weeping head,
Who in a secret place is mourning?
Look to the north, I say, and say to twenty,
That you are come, because the spring is twenty."
But at the word the tear-compelling woman
Drew back her eyes, and looked on heaven and ended,
But she had passed; the stars were out to seek her,
And she returned where haply she was sitting,
Her voice was low, she never ceased to break,
And in the valley of the green-clad hills
By the stream's margin saw the fallen tree:
But she took shelter, and looked up the hill,
And there she saw a woman sad and shrill,
Her raiment ragged, and her face bowed low
'Twixt pitying looks, and words she could not utter;
And then she took a pipe of mighty hollows,
And from the hand of that most subtle woman
Made a long pipe for mouthfuls of all sadness,
And from the hand of that most subtle woman
Made the long pipe of his sweet melody.
"O happy man that I am come to see,
I see the flowers, the sun and rain.
I see the birds that sing to the tall trees,
The wind that wafts them in the clangorous gale,
And the great hills that lift high heaven with thunder,
And to my sight the hills in the blue sky.
And on that day the moon, that knows not its going,
And on the night the rain, that sends no showers,
Come to me in the noonday and their singing,
And all the birds that sing to the dark bowers:
For all my soul seems only dying to hear them,
Sick for the world that sent them here to die.
O love, come in, or I shall see
You, come more soon, and I shall know
You come too late, and I shall be
Filled with my love, and you shall know
That I have lived your life away,
That men have loved you and left you,
And that you lived at ease and play.
But you, my love, came to me this,
That men whose hearts are tuned to love,
And whose days are as the hours of day,
Have done their work and played my part,
And I have seen my days move by.
When I was a boy, long ago, in my youthful days,
And you were my sweetheart, the perfect flower of all,
I loved and passed without, and the laughter and light
Of your loved and lovely life came back again to me;
My hair and my hands, and my lips, and the old fond rest,
And I grew mad with the lust, and the jealousy, and the jest,
And the scorn, and the scorn, and the scorn, and the jest;
For ever and ever, a perfect thing is love, and all
That is or has been, or will be hereafter, fall.
When you were a boy, long ago, in my idle days,
I dared not think of your love, for 'twas all for me;
But I made no prayer, and I prayed no prayer but your name,
And in the passing hours your voice came back to me;
And I knew that I loved you dearly, and that, too, was I
Who came to your love and gave you the love of you;
And sure the love that you gave was all to me
When my heart was a boy, and my eyes were fond of you,
And I was just a child, as your lips were, and what
I did not know I loved as you, and I knew
That I was just a child, dear, and I were just a man,
And could give all the gifts that a man could wish to get;
There was no question, and I could tell you the truth,
And I kept my youth as a child that knows its mother's tooth
And knows its mother's heart, and never goes away
As the heart does, knowing the pain it never may;
So I grew to love you, dear, and the years rolled on;
And the years rolled on; and then the cry died down; and I
Was glad of you and me, and the tears rolled on my eyes,
And my heart fell back in the dead and heavy years;
And I knew that I was the only child you knew,
And knew that it was your heart, and that it was only mine,
And knew that, if the love that you
======================================== SAMPLE 479 ========================================

"_I will not be, this way, though blind."_
The wind is as hard as a feather
Over your mound in the spring,
To-day and to-morrow harder,
To-morrow what will seem drest.
The dead men of the crowd are sleeping,
The grass is spread out for dead,
And the leaves are dying and weeping,
And a wind that comes weeping.
And the last is a lily blowing,
And the last a rose-tree flame,
The last is a broken berry,
And the first is a woman's name.
God! God! what is that, for only
Small stones that mar the whole?
Only the dead men gather
Round the great, green grave that rolls.
But the wise men rise up only,
Crowned heads, and lips and hands,
And the wise men come out and borrow
Their crowns of olive-leaves.
But the wise men rise up only,
Crowned heads, and lips and hands,
And the wise men come out and borrow
Their crowns of olive-leaves.
The wind is as hard as a feather
Against my heart and head,
And the winds are tempest and wonder,
And the leaves are whirling red.
Then I'll not be a fool or peto
Only in the roar of the sea,
Only in the foam of the sea,
For the wind is soft with the foam of it,
And the leaves are whirling flee.
_She is a novice in a maze,
Her feet are fleeces, like a maze,
She is the Queen of this sweet place,
In this great, enchanted place._
She is most fair of all the world,
And yet if all men saw and heard
She would not be so strange a thing,
For all men know that she is near.
God! God! what is she? She is
The queen of this fair land;
The glory of her head is graceless
That hers crowns over-arching.
It is not she who shines before,
Nor she who waits for all men, that
It is she who hangsers by;
It is not she who bears the flame
That flickers in her hands;
She is the lady who is wed,
The beauty of the lands.
It is not she who hangsers by,
Nor she who waits for all men, that
It is she who hangsers by;
It is she who waits for all men,
This lady of the town;
This lovely lady of the heart,
The land that will not rest,
Has passed from us out of our reach;
We are here.
What have we caught in the old mill-wheel?
Where can she go, or stay,
Up in the garden so green and still,
To and fro?
Where can we go or stay,
Over the fields so brown, that we can't see why,
Over the fields so green?
Over the fields of green,
Where can she go?
She is so white, her hair blows free,
She has eyes as though she were a fairy queen;
We are here.
What have we caught in the old mill-wheel?
Where can she go, or stay,
Over the fields so green and so white,
Over the fields so brown?
Where can she go?
I do not know.
What have we caught in the old mill-wheel,
I do not know.
Where can she go?
That we do not know.
Here is a child who cries to the grass
Out of the rain,
The same who says,
"Do you know where I can find
That daisy flowers,
That tallaranth,
And daisy flowers?
Dare you go where I can find
That daisy flowers?
"I will go where I can find
That daisy flowers?
I will go where I can find
That daisy flowers."
The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.
I woke before the morning, I rose before the day,
The lights were out and shining in the laughing sea.
I cried to all the nations in their hearts,
"The world is full of a number of things."
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And my sister's child I will take, the golden and the white;
For I said, "It is better, with the dead,
Than to live and be glad; to be brave and toil;
To be happy, to be happy, to be cheerful, and to be
"How are you, little people,
All so idle and
======================================== SAMPLE 480 ========================================
 of the 'Lion Wealth,'
Cherish at the 'Fairy Tales' to us,
Foliage spoils their throats and meats;
In the land of flowers and trees,
Bees and daisies white as moths,
By the river bordered thus,
Where the willows lift the caps,
At the fairies' revelry.
Many a bright flower has it, too,
Dropped by night to keep them bright;
Many a purple rose and white
For its bloom the water'd pots
Of the wildwood bring in loads
Of coloured violets.
Some have ears, some have eyes,
Alike their owner's own;
Though my little garden flies
And runs red with the morning's red,
Not a bee within my cup,
Not a flower within my cup,
Not a dewdrop within my cup,
Not a spark within my cup,
Not a rose within my cup,
Not a blossom within my cup,
But the song of a little bird
In the light of the morning, sweet,
And the sound of a little bird
In the twilight, sweet.
Dear, you should come and tell me more
About your life, than all the store
That money brings in hoarded o'er
Your happy way of living o'er;
About the fairy bower of gold
Your fairy shoe of morning light;
About the cradle of delight
Your fairy shoe of morning gold:
About the death of any bird,
But the song of a little bird,
And the cry of a little bird.
We are not sure of heaven, or earth,
Though we gaze on each other with breathless love;
We are not sure of hell, or heaven,
Or a hell where love never grew.
We are not sure if we love, or if we exist,
Of other enjoyments, happiness or woe?
We are not sure if we love, or if we exist,
We are not sure if we love, or if we exist.
We are not sure if we love, or if we exist,
We are not sure if we love, or if we exist.
We are not sure if we love, or if we exist,
If we love another, or if we love another,
We are not sure whether we love or no loves are
Born to destroy love, or to destroy love, or live.
For that is your answer: "All flesh is there,
Air, earth, and water, and air, and air!"
Then let us hope for the best, for the worst is your prayer.
And if it be vain to seek for the best,
Let us hope for the best, for the worst is your joy.
If it be vain to hope, and if it be vain,
If it be vain to seek for the best, for the worst is your pain.
Think not to hope for the best, for the worst is your joy.
Look out at the blinding, clear sunshine,
"You shall die and leave me," say the gipsies;
And think, if they meant us, or meant you,
We are waiting for our answer, grimed with their scars of war.
If they were--well, if they meant you--"will you have me?"
If they were--well, their answer is for us,
But they shall not--never, never!
And in some other way you will see them, grimed with their scars?
When they lay you with their comrades on the shore,
In the long week that you have failed to save,
You will remember, when the gipsies came,
Tenderly you will remember, grave.
"When I die, then I speak to the winds,
And they sweep, and the waves sweep."
"They obey, and the sun and the rain,
And they break, and the sky shuts in clouds,
And the sun and rain,
And the rain and the sun and rain
And each other, a thought, they say,
To keep watch over the clouds away"
"If you die with your life in the strife,
And you are the death of a friend,
You will leave me alone with my life
For an end, if you leave me alone,
And I live with a dead man's pride in my own:
If you leave me behind, if you leave me behind,
You will go:  how shall I die with you,
If I go with you,--thus, thus?
I have loved her, my love, even so
Since I first saw her face.
"If I die, you remain with me,
If I die, you remain with me:
I have loved her at times, and my words
Have scarcely
======================================== SAMPLE 481 ========================================
 our way to a new realm again,
Where the old king has suffered affliction
And we see his children weeping;
No, no! we will not go!
Where our dear ones once were sleeping.
We were born without your parents,
Born to watch your happy life,
We were born within your country,
Taught by you for your wife.
We were born without your people,
We that keep your children dear;
We were born within your country,
We that keep the Southern Cross.
We that keep the Southern Cross
Have no cross, we have no cross;
We shall live to see their faces,
That are seven feet above.
We shall live to see their faces,
That are one day more to us;
And to bless them is to love them,
That no sad eyes shall weep for them;
And to pray that God may keep them,
That they may be covered well,
That they may be clad in mourning,
That they may be clad in white.
In our little town together,
Blown fields and orchard weather,
Where the orchard blossoms are bright,
Where our nest house looks like a palace,
Where it seems a palace great,
There are roses fair to see,
And a pretty brown bird to sing to,
And a bird to sing to all in the forest.
And we think our homes are like
Our own, and our little towns are very like.
Yet we love our pretty fields and roofs and roofs,
And the beauty of our good green fields and streams,
And the rustling oats, and the sunshiny woods,
And the brown bird's song in the tree, and the sunshiny woods.
We have only to do our duty
And we leave our work to others;
To the good God that is above us
We must do our duty also,
And not always lonely building.
We shall build with loving hand- upholding
Worlds of stone and wood and stone,
And they shall be the home of our good works.
And the firm foundations we have left
Shall be shaped and fitted for us,
And no hand but ours shall sow the seed,
And we shall be made wise and thoughtful and good,
And we shall be filled with lessons and no deeds
And with hope and with joy of living,
And with love and hope and life."...
As the little green leaves that fall,
Hoary and hoary, in the summer weather,
Seemed to the little brown birds that I had heard
Come flitting over the orchard-trees together,
Seemed to me they were all of them gone
From the green paths they had left behind,
And were gone forever,
For I knew that they were the same old agonies
That have made them lovely children.
"You are old, Father William," I said,
"And your hair has become very red.
Why go to the wars to get ready to thunder?
Why to the battle?
What does it mean?  What does it mean?"
Father William said nothing at last,
For he had only a cannon to blow.
My beautiful doll, as I watched her last,
With a cannon-ball took an armory ball
From off her head, like that silly doll
Who never went far away from her nurse's knee,
And never came near a breath to me
Out of the green fields and the sky;
And the birds, pretty things, sang up in a cheer
As if a bird told, "Do you see that there
You are in a green field that is waiting for me,
For I can bring every hurt to my dear
When the war is over."
And father William said nothing at last,
For he had only to do his best
To get the grandama in his claw-hands,
And to lay him down on a bed of earth
With his grandame, the beautiful, beautiful,
And tell her she has a baby safe
For her cradle!"
Out and away they flew,
A bird was very shy,
But it said the little thing,
That he was in a kow,
And he said it was a string.
I saw them through and through,
For the way the children go!
And I thought that they are walking in the way
I knew of old;
But the old gray head was turned back and hid,
For it was the only way,
And the boys had gone, and left the black
Only way behind!
When I was down beside the sea
To dig the sandy shore.
The sandy shore was very deep,
And I was very sore.
The sandy shore was little more,
And sandy shelf with moss o'ergrown,
And if I chanced to get
======================================== SAMPLE 482 ========================================
, to think, as they met there it was,
"Wilt thou not give me up?" he cried,
As with his hand the old man did
A young child clasp--a man's first act--
To touch the little hand that wrote,
And, smiling o'er him, as he spoke,
She said, "I cannot understand
The little letter that thou sent'st.
I do not know if I am glad--
Or glad, if I am sad, at times;
To know thee now--for it is bad,
To see thee now--can't think of rhymes;
To know thee now--is sad enough--
Thy child may lose the heart of him;
For, since I know thee and am sad,
Thou shalt have memory of my child."
As, in the latter-tides of grief,
The riddle of things is solved and attained;
As waves that wash the desert of their brief,
So shall thy soul be with me still unchanged.
Wings to the world, to me, to me,
Are clinging, are still striving to free;
And the mind answers just what it may be,
"I cannot give you my liberty;"
As the wind whispers to the bark,
The bark with the wind carries away;
Yet its strong wings cannot soar
Over the waves that never come.
What ails the one, what ails the one
That would be home to her alone?--
"I cannot give you my liberty,
So why should I stand with my one?"--
O, the heart throbs back, the brain
In a mighty gulf is locked in pain.
See the light shines from the windows;
Tangled threads with their wild wings
Gleam with the tears that flow for the child,
Who would meet them and save her soul,
Might meet them and save her soul.
O the grief to meet with my one
Is lost in the meeting of tears!
Now my mother, my own one,
See, she greets me with glad cries;
And I cling, clasp her round,
Closer, closer, till dearer;
O God, they have found
Some place, dear God, in my fears.
See, my darling, she smiles,
Whom thou, thyself, art pursuing;
Hence, with thy heart to the cloister,
Where we shall see the blue weather.
O my heart, O my heart,
O my love, my loving one,
Do you ask me why,
Why not leave us alone,
That we, daily, should grieve you?
Till, ah! when in our embrace,
Love bids us part, at our own mother's side,
And all of us, in the eternal place,
Shall weep in the shadow, and be our bride.
See again, I see two white-headed fawns
Drink the sunlight, and see the sun rise;
They have caught a maiden on the hill,
And she leads her lover in the shade;
And she leads her lover in the shade.
And the night spreads out a splendid pall
Over the green turf whereon he lies;
And the stars fall out more beautiful
Over his couch, and over his eyes.
Yet another white-bell haunts the other;
And another white-bell fills his ears;
And another white-bell with the hollow
Rings another silver voice for tears.
And the night and the sorrow and the sadness
Meet in a face like torches, shadowy,
Where the other white-bells are not,
But imperceptibly revealed,
In lighted clouds.
O my love, my sweet one, my own,
Let me bear light, and see the day,
When the shadows of night and of sorrow
Shall fall on the face of the other,
And all of us rise into day.
But ere long the days will slowly wane,
And the shadows of earth will withered be,
And the shadows of night will be no more;
And the sun shall glance from his couch of glory
O'er the brow of our own poor misery.
Oh, the night was dark,
And the wind was a moan;
And the earth was awake,
And the birds were all alone.
And the birds made moan
In the desolate grove;
And the flowers were all gone,
And earth lay alone.
And the night was dark,
And the wind was a moan;
And the flowers of the field
Lay still as their graves.
And I think that I lived,
While the moonbeams wandered by,
To see the tears that would weep
For friends who died to be gone.
So it was I '
======================================== SAMPLE 483 ========================================
t so he will,
For there's no end of any thing.
And if I chance to move an inch,
He'll never stop to come;
Nor can he help his little legs
Upon his roundelay.
And when this great philosopher
Is fairly out of fashion,
And says himself by day and night,
"I will be gone and do my best,
Says he, there's no one in the west,
I'm going to be a _good_ man, and
I'll never go to pot."
I'll be a fool if I don't choose,
But if not, at least I'll choose,
And so I'll be a _mutton_ of a _dunch_,
And so I'll have a _bunch_!
And when at length, grown rich with beef,
I get (a lad) again to thee,
I find, not so much health to _stake_,
And so again--a _bunch_, at sea,
So no one, now, should catch a _stake_!
A _very_ youth, with sugar on,
Would do what he was bound for;
But yet, I think, he'd rather be
A very _mutton_.
_With a very fine young fellow just_
_His coat was purple and there came a _scar_
To help him on, so he fell down and broke,
And, in his misery, wandered round
A very badly injured _scar_.
And thus this _scarabu_ began to do
And thus the youth, if I may be
Quite blithe, I tell by what he did,
And, for himself, I'm not a fool by _stake_,
For _bluz_ I'd give--a hundred pound.
He came, and _leather_ pounds, for more
Than five-and-twenty pounds, he paid--
Or you may say--he _paid the debt_.
Now when he saw this _scarabu_,
Forgetting all the money he had,
And how he'd saved it, and the band,
The youth threw back his _star_, and said,
"I've lost a _bon-cushion_ instead.
Such a matter I don't understand.
"Well, then, while in my purse I hold
A little store of coin, or wick,
I've got a _cub-cub-cub-cub_
To suit with, if you like!
"And now I'll get it all away,
Unless you drop a coin, dear friend,
And this same _bon-cub-cub-cub_,
You'll find within an inch of gold.
"And then you'll have another sight--
This rascal with a great black eye;
But let it be from Holy-night,
And let the ban shine on it by!
"_Sci-devil_, you'll be my bride?
The ban may be too heavy for _me_!"
_Sci-devil_ smiled. If I may make
A peep into his purse, I'm sure,
I will be much more big than he,
(Though I've heard of him since time ago!)
I've a _co_ right in him, no doubt,
But for my love he says we'll buy.
_Sci-devil_ said, and I am sure,
It will be very sweet to sell!
The bargain that he made is mine,
I'll be _great_ handsome, my, and more fine!
The best of wine is but a _cub-cub_;
I think I'd like to buy it at _that_!
But when I say I _can't_!
I'll take my _sharpers_ in my hand,
And see that _chicken_ is to land!
I'll cook _a_ mode of _coldest_ bread,
And _point the scullion out,' my friend;
And when our cook _dines_, for _that_ we'll do,
Our _mother_ will be _tick_ to _you_.
So, without a doubt, my friend,
I'll tell you how 'twas _rough_, my friend!
The ban was out, the wine was out,
And that was what the lady said:
The lady did not like _that_ at all,
And you were _very little_ wed.
The man that married you?
It was not I, nor _that_ at all;
And till the end of life, good wife,
You never were _so_ good at all!

======================================== SAMPLE 484 ========================================
, II.
"Now, as I think, this palace will not lie,
Nor will the princely youth, nor all the rest
Trust to you till the doom of mortal men."
Thus he advised; and many a chief prepar'd
To bear the griesly carcase to her lord,
And, when the carcase was prepared, the knight
Prepar'd for speech with him; but first from all
She ris'd, the mournful lady's face to see,
And, "Lo," she cried, "this palace must be his."
She shook her head, and sigh'd, the dame replied,
"This is the palace; let my followers here
Gaze, to such dread intent, on this poor life,
Whom I shall set myself, and where they weep."
Then, grieving, to his haughty heart gave she
The charge of her fair master; he disdain'd
To break her vows: and, taking from the youth
Her helpless life, in humble guise he clad
His lovely arms, and, kneeling in her, said:
"Lo, here I stand, thy mercy to implore;
Receive me with my arms; if not, this hand
Has slain my honour, be thy doom this day."
Then thus, as she his utterance vain had strove,
She call'd on him, and him address'd:  "Take him,
And if you will my duty undertake,
And my fine honour grant to such a one,
And let this grace to thine all grace accord."
He said; and, having won her for his wife,
Both from the hall, both to the ladies' seat,
And to the monarch's seat the dame withdrew.
Next by the maidens' side the stripling mov'd;
And thence to the stables, where in silence she,
Pray'd for the honour of his bride, the knight
Was by the king attended; not alone
His footsteps left the palace, but by state
Of royal pomp and dignity, advanced.
Before the palace, high on turret'd dome,
Four times he halved; and in the central hall
Such a gay table was by him erected;
And there the gorgeous feast its lord commends:
When him the monarch heard, he sat him down
And said, "Rejoice, brave Knight, that at this board
We have the rarest guests to-day:  be seen
To all the feasts, and feast:  so that the hour
Of feasts may not too near be set," (he said)
"Linger not long; for you must first bethink
Yourself of this fair mansion, where you might
Be henceforth king.  Now, as your highness erst
You feign'd the crown, this palace, wrought with gold,
I shall not from the earth my portion pluck.
This costly floor is somewhat worn by cares,
And doth not wear a garment.  In the place
I, like the rest, am come; but see how stands
The goodly table drawn:  what means this waste?
And what can this poor fellow's welfare tell?
I will declare, not only to the king,
But to my comrades, true as steel is he,
Who bears a sword's tough deal, and with the sword
Henceforth doth hold it.  You have heard me say
That the rich feast is spread:  take heed; for feign
If it be true, and be not troubled long."
Thereto replied the mighty prince, "It seems,
And not without good reason, I know well
How ill a king can bear a prince as I.
But that may please you well, for it is mine,
Whom I invite and hold my peace; take heed
And tell the story, for it shall be thine.
I would not have thee think, for this my life,
How hard a thing it is to be so king;
But I can bear it, and my life will die,
If the first king commands it."  Thus her words
Pierc'd through the heart; the next like lightning flew,
Yet not like fire, and in a flash the man
Grew to his height, then turn'd his back on him;
And where he turn'd his visage from the throng
He mark'd the passage, for the lightenings dire
Struck feign'd into the heart, and all the air
Seem'd thrilling with the cries of wedding swains."
To whom the king replied, "Mark, mark! the blade
Is sharp, and smooth, and temperate; but beware,
For this is in the palace:  let him pass
Or he will go; for he
======================================== SAMPLE 485 ========================================
'd and held
By that small band of sons, whose souls did vie
With one accord to conquer and to die.
Such death let either shall at last be made--
Heaven bless them both;--the rest shall be deplaid.
O valiant leader! skill'd in many a field,
How, when our martial fathers, great in arms,
Had fought and bled at the just stroke of Gaul,
Would render vain their glory and our shame!
Nor let one thought thy meaner transports tame;
But, as thou lead'st brave France from far away,
A soldier, to the field of battle, lay,
On whose firm heart, sustain'd till now, shall glow
Such glory as to-day the Latins gave,
When Rome's proud tyrant, and her conquering wave,
With one bold tyrant conqu'ror'd, thro' the world
Shall burst the glories of her native land,
And all her glories from Columbia's hand,
Transplanted, to the sun, her native skies!"
His words, half breath'd--but o'er his shoulder flung
The long lance of his falchion, deep in mind,
Or fix'd as if for heav'n, to mark the wound
Which all had hewn, for which the chief had died
Breathed the quick pangs of death, and to confound.
O'er his sad muse, tears, woe and sorrow roll,
And all the gushing torrents from the soul
Gush forth, as silent on the weeping face
Darken'd for ever, as if to veil the place.
With sobs, half-heard from pious lips,
And breathless in his breast, he breathes aloud
For grief, and o'er his lids their torrents pour;
And, as he wept, his spirit rose, and said:
"This is the bosom of my lord, who, laid
For ever in this state of woe and tears,
Had ne'er a brother's, nor he sister's eyes,
Nor sister's, nor the sister's lips, that sigh
'Where is thy husband?' and from that strange dream
Recoursing, he recalls to mind again
That noble form, that stately neck, that pow'r
He saw not, and that face whence they were born.
With these, the same fond parent shew'd me all
The form I had not long, and thus she died:
'The wound thou saw'st was in my heart before,
And by these kisses I can ne'er have died;
But these are kisses not to be endured:
The lips I have so early lain, 'tis true,
But they, like honey, touch not, and they shall.
The love I feel is deep and strong in me,
And they shall never lick my hand, but he
Who hath no part therein, shall die for me."
He spoke, and kiss'd his darling's lifeless hand,
But, while her bosom heaved, his kisses fail'd;
Thus far'd by him the spirit of the dead,
Which, in the grave, had left him but his child.
Now, o'er that grave the father turn'd his eye,
And mark'd his tender face with holy light:
His soul to heav'n he cast, with rapture bright;
But, ah! he saw not, saw not that cold clay!
He drew his breath, but still his eyes on the dead,
And saw the child not weeping by his side;
He look'd, they liest, amidst the wild he ran,
And seem'd to gaze upon his mournful face.
The lover sigh'd, and, "Grief! Be back, I say,
Or thou wilt teach me to weep and wail;
But I shall mourn me not, if I would hear
Of thee:--no, tell me why I long for thee!'
"He gazed, and from his hand the dead child drew,
And to his breast their drooping spirits press'd.
The sweet Child struggled by her side, but grief
Prevail'd on him, a while the anguish check'd;
'If thou wilt have me join'd with thee,' he said,
'Or die before I die, I will be gone,
And thou beside me, shalt beneath my head
In darkness sit, and by thy woe and tears
Wash underneath the turf, while I am gone.'
"He said, and on his pillow, breathing deep,
The tears stream'd down, and he was drown'd in sleep;
And then with soothing voice, while sadly mute,
He bade him softly move away from here,
And mix with those who watch
======================================== SAMPLE 486 ========================================
 in the dark the sun doth gleam,
And in the dark the moon doth seem
But now the evening is begun--
Gone is the sun upon the earth!
The silver moon doth like a cup
Of blood-red wine, and as that cup
Is drained of life, doth quench no drop.
What man will drink such wine?
There is no soul of earth or birth
Which man hath never known of earth.
There is no soul who doth not sit
And sing to it, and cry, "Drink!"
There is no soul whose feet are set
On youth's eternal paradise;
For all is a solemn harmony,
And all is a perpetual chant,
And all the world is a song of God.
There is no soul so wholly free
But a young man and a woman
That makes men's souls forever free,
And lives in their lives like a man.
There is no soul so mighty
But as the souls of men are great
And shape themselves as worlds are great,
And the worlds and worlds do go by
Like flames between the heavens and sky.
There is no soul so greatly great
But as the soul of things is great
And shape itself as worlds are great
In their lives as a world of kings;
The souls are but the gods who draw
Their ends from the desires of men;
There is no soul so vast nor free
But as the soul of things is great
And shape itself as worlds are great.
There is no soul that knows no thought
But only sees the things it deems
And builds and dreams, a light that gleams,
And a soul that has a star for heaven.
There is no soul that has no sight
But only sees a thing it cannot see;
The veil of thought hath woven night
And day hath night a form of mystery.
What man will drink such draught divine?
And he that drinks the nectar of the sky
Will hold no knowledge of the time till he
Looks through a window of eternity.
There is no soul that has no thought
But only sees the things it cannot see;
The veil of dreams hath caught the shapes
That make life beautiful and bright and fair,
And life a golden chain of golden light
Whose brightness like a gem is wondrously
Making the heavens, and earth a pageant fair
Whose life is but a golden chain of love
That ye shall love, and earth a garden-land
Whose fruit is music in the golden flight
Of hope for all the griefs that men may know.
There is no soul that has no sway
But only sees the things that never were;
There is no heart that has no soul
But only sees the things that never were.
There is no soul that has no fear,
But only sees the things that never were;
There is no heart that has no fear
But only dust grows green and rustling near.
There is no soul that has no name
But only sees the things that never were;
There is no soul that has no aim
But only sees the things that never were.
When the moon and stars were hid at midnight
(Which made the thieves thieves thieves and thieves and robbers)
And the earth was clad in a jasmin white
And pearls rare pearls fell from the great sun's eyes,
When the moon and stars were hid at midnight,
(Which made the thieves thieves thieves and thieves of the skies)
When the moon and stars were hid at midnight,
(Which made the thieves thieves thieves and thieves of the skies)
When the moon and stars were hid at midnight,
(Which made the thieves thieves thieves and thieves of the skies)
When the moon and stars were hid at midnight,
(Which made the thieves thieves thieves and knaves that praying),
When the moon and stars were hid at midnight,
(Which made the thieves thieves thieves and thieves of the heavens)
When they walked slowly under a white-lidded apple tree
With many a bow and many a quiver full in its reach,
(Which made the thiefs and thieves of the earth and sky
To loose the souls of these most cunning dogs of their nest)
When you have shut your two eyes and both ears wide
And neither one will let you by the other fall:
But when you have shut them and whetted them on high
Like little lackeys under a great eagle's tail,
Then do some deeds that they before have done,
And say they will be as your master's son,
The master of this hidden garden-wall,
Where all night long the patient moon shall watch
And stretch her silver fingers through the darkness
Until she drop her fair white neck in the dark,
With trembling tremulous tongue, and lips that laugh and
======================================== SAMPLE 487 ========================================
 that you don't mind;
But I don't mind not telling you.
A certain gentleman, with nose and ears,
Storesight, or seems to have been fed upon
By other than his cattle.  These I know
May be the saving lines to write the songs
To them the other day.  What! can a man
Such as he is?  But not so very soon
The pen and inkstand are not written in
As if they were not written in white lines
On the wall's middle story.  I don't know!
I am not given to prate or show to anyone.
There is a kind of a ridiculous confusion
In one's decaying fingers.  Say the fountain was
Upon the mountain, there was anything
But lightning flashing, lightning flashing, or
A sound of thunder.  The mountains seemed to look
Like some great city with a rushing sound.
Some words are spoken on the open air.
Something has gone from us, however: that
Is nothing.  If a man had lived, he had
Not been told by the world.  See how he wears
It in his printed heart.  He may not speak
In gratitude for such a kindness, though
His voice may be unheeded, far and near,
And yet his heart be glad.  I shall not ask
For more than this one theme for poetry
To-day; and yet the world keeps moving on.
I would not have you think, if you would ask
Him that I know him by his face, and all
The bitter, sweet, and black within his eyes,
Like that of Hymer Peneus, his own child!
Only--and always, he is telling me
That somewhere in my dreams he needs must dwell,
Far from the world and all its foolish hopes,
And yet so careless of the things he sings.
He may be with me on some foreign shore,
Not always at his first; and I am sure
That with these hands, these hands, these eyes, we hold
So long inviolate, he can attain
Our love, though here withdrawn, he can attain.
We both have traveled as two women do,
We both stand restless; the last kiss, the last,
The last of love; the last look in his eyes.
I am afraid.  Yet do not say this word,
For I would have him saying it again
Before he tells it.  Let him come.  I dare not.
But what is this?  I would not have him speak;
And yet I dare not.  Yet he will not speak;
And all that he has said shall happen to me.
You have forgotten; I know this to be.
I dare not.
And yet you dare not.  Then I may do more.
But he says nothing.  I would rather he
Than the world were as it might be, so it be.
I dare not.
And yet you dare not.  God! could I go
I would not.  If I would, it would be best.
I dare not.  I would rather he should die.
I dare not.
I dare not.  Will you let me stand before you, then
And let me stand!  I dare not!  I dare rather--
I dare not.  Not for me, by my life!  I dare not!
I dare not.
And yet, I dare not.  There is something beyond you
That you will know.  Indeed I could not.  How
So bright and strange that sunlight on my face,
I dare not!
I dare not, I dare dare not!  How the clouds
Seem to me birds, birds in God's garden!  I dare not!
The clouds are as a breath, the leaves are flakes of fire,
That clash i' the wind and lift themselves from higher!
They do not, I dare not!  Here in the night I dare not.
I dare not.  If one dare, I dare not!  The stars
Are higher; and the sea, the waves beneath the moon,
Are less enchanted than the sea-birds are my prayers!
How strange it is!  How can one love a woman so?
I dare not!  Even now I seem to see her smile;
So dim that it reflects the dawn.  I dare not!  None
Careth for her.  Her eyes are dark, and dim; and dim
Her form comes floating as the ships go sailing by.
Her hair is like the foam upon a black silk sail.
She lifts her eyes to meet the waves; and long or loud
Her beating heart is music to the sea-wind's lute.
But the great waves wear lower
======================================== SAMPLE 488 ========================================
;--but no, Sir;
They must not be so bad, nor yet so good as
To make the most of, as they say, at least, a great deal
Than to keep up a half a foot in trade--
An idle dream of empty merchant sense,
And specious fancies of too trifling waste,
And foolish love-sickness of too wise pretence,
And an idiom fond of idleness,
A weak, too subtle besom to confute,
And yet so placid, too profound, so sure,
(With the droop of the heart and the bow of the head),
That I almost could love you, Sir, in my rhymes
As I have: there's a something too much told
Of two that is either not wholly old,
Especially when they are not quite old
With a good deal of stuff they can't all be told
Can't stand the baldness of the two together
(But they can do it without more ado.)
Just so far as there is one I needn't care
To say what I shall have to say before;
I'm rather contented perhaps to be
A kind of a subject, Sir, of four;
Nor can I recall more than that "fond pair
Of pore hard-biters" that I meet elsewhere
Have often made of the sons of earth
A little trick, which is hard or no--
But they're not even fancies--they're the same,
Just a pun, and the apt sort of thing.
There's some things, Sir, which seem to be good,
Or good enough, but of all the mood;
I must mention at once both their names,
That I've oft cause contemn'd them with my blame;
Nor will I see why you don't say I do;
For I don't know 'twas first as it was last,
But the world knows that I've not sought to cast
A shadow across their very faces.
For this they could not even die, you know.
I've often heard that there was nothing wrong
In the great world I could not always show
In what they never had to chance to say,
Nor once supposed it should by chance betray
Its own true meaning in an idle dream,
Nor once supposed it could not well be right
To say that they had got it in their sight,--
I've often thought it worth remembering--
If the great world but loved me as a river
There would be waters all around us shiver,
And if we could but say that I should be
As water is from its bed of moss,--
As we'd become the crystal of a river,
A river in the sun,--your fancy fill us,
It would leap over me and you, my Lord,
And I would find myself beginning thus.
I feel like something that is _not_ for good;
I _think_ of what you'd have me take its meaning
If I could never make myself the river,
And could not make it flow, nor run, nor swell,
And could not make a river, nor run, when rising
Through a dim side it brushed an icy wall,
And with the wave washed through our slippery rinking,
And there were some, as it were, a few there scruples
So far that it would make my soul afraid
To let it stand for a long time alone,--
If I could only bring the whole world to-night
And set the world up, and lay it sleeping in it.
It would be better if some day it should,
When I had come at last--to let me in it;
That I, a simple child, should never dare
To come and look on any other thing.
And if--could I get rid of that same sky
That was around us, it would be dark and chilly,
And would not even look at me the minute;
But I would see myself, and take my way
Towards the very place of our romance.
It would be better if I had to say,
"Be careful that I do not come in so."
That's what my mother said against me next,
When she heard my father's words and so
I could not understand;
And you can see the smoke on high,
Below the tree top,--and when on the spot
I saw the smoke, I could not see a drop,
Nor hear the smallest crack.
You'd say you never met with the man
Who came, with news from Santa Fe, to this,
And which you'd never take,
You would, in time, have seen him--and have guess'd
The truth about him.
He would say all that,
"I never told him--
======================================== SAMPLE 489 ========================================
, "and that is what all the gods said in the
appearance.  Who knows how they brought these horses?"
"This is a man's name," answered the old man.  "It is man's
name."
"Yea," said the ancient woman, "I will speak with thee.  I am not
likely to speak of it.  For once did I hear that thou didst see
thyself on coming.  But come, tell me of thy noble father,
and of thy son, so mighty, and of thy wife, and if thou
canst tell any tidings of that long and hard a life between
thee and him."
Then the maiden told her lord, and said: "Tell me this from
the mouth of the father of Telemachus.  Some day thou shalt
find him a friend so dear as the son of thy neighbour."
With that she sent the old woman forth, and she bore him to
her father's house, and to make him well acquainted with her
friends.  And she told him all her sorrows, and all her griefs
and sorrows, and she spoke and said:
"Then, I pray ye by Olympian Zeus, and all the blessed gods,
and all the holy powers who live around the house of the
dear son of Jove, grant me the preference that I may find him.
Nay, give me neither wit nor voice, this woeful marriage
and that woeful marriage of the son of Menelaus.  But tell me
plainly what do they do in the house of the kindly
mother of Telemachus, when her loving ones sent her
fairly to the son of Menelaus?  For surely it is in
So spake she, and Menelaus was more eager than any of
daughter of Zeus, but even so did the prudent old woman
hear her words.
So she opened the door of the stablished hall, and as she
declared hers had sent him all that his soul desired.
And even as she smoothed the brows of these her women in the
house of wise Telemachus, she spake these reproaches and
spake:
'"Dear lady, give ear to me, my wife!  For lo, how all
the woes of the gods go thus from our minds.  Let us go up
into the upper air and see whither the plague is going on."
Then the goddess, grey-eyed Athene, spoke and said: "Telemachus,
do not be angry with me in speaking thus comfortably to
me.  I will go up far into the upper air to seek my dear
nestor house.  And I will say what is best for Telemachus.
Wherefore let us make thine abode in the house before his
father, and all that is well paid with equal sacrifice.
For what are men in their wealth of good deeds, or who dwell
in the hollow caves with the sheep and cattle and herds?  But
methinks he lives and looks after their deeds, for they are
fair to see."
Therewith the good goddess led the way quickly after her.  She
brought the treasure and made fast the doors, and led him to
the rich shrine beneath the lofty doors.  Then he went up to the
high-roofed room where Zeus had set his daughters fair and
fairly dressed.  And she gave him golden ewes and ruddy honey
and ruddy wine.  And he took from them the well-wrought
tourboard, and in turn put himself therein, and spake unto
her: "Thou art come, stranger, and the god that gave thee
heart's best gifts.  Therefore I should pray Zeus to grant thee
grace.  But come now, for I see that thou hast sent me all
honoured in kindness, and do no ill bidding.  Nay, verily I
waste not much space, for I am oppressed with words, and
have my fill of weeping.
"I am not so little that I must beg at one another's hands
and ask for food.  The gods have been with me ever since
I was born, and in the blessed gods I am safe.  For
there is no man living that can give any good unto the
beings of men; not even if Zeus shall slay me utterly,
so shall am I immortal.
"No, do thou not need to take thought upon me."
Thus she spake and called to him Peisistratus, knight of the
the plumes on which the maiden was wont to hide her.
Then uprose from the house the goddess, and spake again:
"Wilt thou now be our guest, and be
======================================== SAMPLE 490 ========================================
,
Lives in a little house,
The houses, farms, and villages,
And have such talks as these.
"I do not like to go to bed,"
I said, "for all this talking grows
Unpleasant when I think of war
And of the many wounds it costs,
But if it means to wound a man
And leave him in a bed,
It isn't lots of things as good
As anything it has."
"But why it is--you know our lives,
As you know best, are pain,"
I said, "and what we kill is so
Unpleasant when we die!"
The doctor leaned and took my word,
"The soul is not acquired,"
The doctor said, "to use it first,
And then it will be cured."
And yet, that night, it will be well
When, without any sense of sleep,
I lie and watch the stars
With lanterns in my room, and feel
A longing that I cannot quell
For anything so mean.
"But since you are so thin and small,
And neither more nor less
Nor less than the great hills that grow
Where I first dreamed your gaze,
And, without moving or at all,
My thoughts, and my desires,
Cannot with all your kindness flow,
Nor ever know a doubt."
"Nay, let the drowsy woman say
How happy I am still
That she may rest her weary feet
On what the fir-trees say,
And where they willow branches meet,
A dreamy wood of silvery sweet,
That where they shallop all my bed,
I will not dream it dead.
"Ah, if I only could relate
What now I know so well,
I would not fail to count the days
Before I had my shell."
"Poor brainless heart, with thoughts like these,
And hands like this, I hear,
Whose very dust will soon be out
When all is laid and dead;
"You, too, are much too kind to live
To send your little mess
And nothing will do when we leave
The ashes of the past;
"And when you think your little tricks
Will play a sorry part,
You know that everything the same
Will be as idle and as lame
And idle,--why, I'll say,--
That it will change, as in the day
When everything is new."
The room was almost circled round
With echoes and such sounds,
As that I ne'er before had seen;
But time, that I have ne'er foretold,
Lies now as idle there.
And on the stair the lamp is lit,
And down the passage goes;
I linger at the fire and look,
And sing a song of woes.
Upon my arm once more I lean,
And count the fragments there;
Dear Christ, the awful power is there
And love is in my air.
I cannot rest until next day,
But must away until
The very prayer is brought about,--
"Forget it all, forget it all;"
So goes the old refrain.
And yet I do not wish to wake,
Or think that I were blind;
I might have hoped that somewhere in
I heard a happy wind.
And now what need has summer made
For us in other lands?
What seed from land to land has run?
We know if first it stands.
For she, with eyes that fill and glisten,
Sees all the land between,--
As through her windows, clear and blue,
The murmur of the scene goes sounding,
And all her roads are green.
As if I, too, were walking,
And looking out on miles of land,
The quiet fields of bluebells swinging
And breezes lightly hand;
Or walking down the wooden lanes
Beside the old town wall,
On summer days, when all were young,
And life in every fall,
The happy wind, the happy wind,
And all life's summer-tide,
All winter's songs, and all the days
The world knows no such joy.
All summer's wealth that comes and goes,
All summer's wealth that comes and stays,
With every new-born thing it sees,
Watches its wood-ways, makes its ways
For joys, for peace, for happiness.
So, while I thus carol, pass my days
With all things glad and gay;
While fancies come and dreams fly by,
And all that comes is joy and light,--
That now I gladly face to die,
And, as I sadly turn to Thee,
The world goes round and round again
As if I
======================================== SAMPLE 491 ========================================
.
"Fool that I am! it is easy to say anything.
You understand me.
"For my wife's great and freeweary mother, but not...still--
I am sick of the children!
Oh, my son, do you hear?
"Of course, if you hear, the children have been it.
Their mistress has sent them!
"You, my son, are afraid!
"But the things I see are the things that are evil in me.
Why, this is the thing,
"When there is no help in the sight,
"No help in the day,
"No help in the night,
"No help in the night, or the night, or the
next, or any day.
"It is hard for the children to fight.
"To fight is a good thing to take in the fight;
"When it is not far off
"It must be a sin to fight
"However we play at the big guns of Troy.
"The guns of our foes,
"The guns of our foes,
"The men of our navy,
"The men of the sea,
"The men of the fruit,
"The men of the sea,
"The men of the sea,
"The men of the foam,
"The men of the sea,
"The men of the shore,
"The men of the sea,
"The crew of the sea,
"The ships and the sailors,
"The ship and the wind,
"The storm and the wind,
"The storm and the wind,
"The storm and the wind,
"The tide and the weather,
"The stars and the moon,
"The wind and the weather,
"The rain and the wind,
"The sea and the weather,
"The land and the sea,
"The storm and the wind,
"The heart and the heart,
"The stars and the sea,
"The storm and the weather,
"The storm and the weather,
"The storm and the wind,
"The tide and the weather,
"The heart and the sea,
"The tide and the weather,
"The days and the weather,
"The best and the fleetest,
"The storm and the rain,
"The stars and the sea,
"The best and the hardest,
"The storm and the weather,
"The tempest and rain,
"The weather and rain,
"The tide and the sea,
"The storm and the weather,
"The storm and the rain,
"The good ship _Hoossey_,
And the good ship _Pepper_,
"And the boys and girls
"And the loud guns,
"The loud guns,
"The guns of the guns,
"The long guns,
" fifes and the drum,
" fifes and the drum,
" fifes and the drum,
" fifes and the drum,
" fifes and the drum,
With the good ship _Ho! ho!_
"We're the boys and the girls
"For the beautiful lives
"In the beautiful Kittymy yard;
When the wind is in the air
It ho! it ho!"
"I'm going out to tea,"
The old woman said;
"I'm going out to tea,"
The old woman said.
"You mustn't think of me,
Because
The wind blows brightly in the night,
And the dawn comes soon,
When you see a little child
All alone on the bough;
And he can't sleep sound, and he can't hear
The children whispering:
Go and sleep sound,
And never dream of anything
But beautiful Kittymy bird!"
Three children were playing in a bough
When the wind came out of the town;
"You ought to be a nice youngster," said the boy,
"But I'll not be a boy again."
Now Ben was wondrous wise,
And Ben was wondrous wise:
He asked one of them
If all the things could lie
So well under the bough,
They were four, and five, and eight,
Then all the things could fly
So well away on the bough
They rose so high, and--
All the things could do
So well away on the bough
They dropped down hill,
With a spring and a dive:
But Ben was wondrous wise,
And wondrous wise,
And now his heart is sore
As he thinks of the baby that lies at his feet,
With his eyes all day and his tail hanging out;
And he stares at the pretty white instep
That lies in the larder's eye
======================================== SAMPLE 492 ========================================
, the king, the queen,
(Loathing himself he was very slow;
But she could not abide him with a wink.)
Then the other, looking at her now
Half in fear, half spite,
Cried aloud, "Knyphausam! why are you so?
Give the girl to me!"
But the other, looking at her, ran
Half in fear and half in bashfulness,
Half disdain and half reluctance, "Yes,"
Spake French, as well as English.
(I forget how well he served these three)
"You are wrong, poor fool!
I am really sorry that it detained me so,
That I do not like it myself;
But I feel it is most cheerful for your friend,
He may come to his home with me."
And so it was; that mated dog at last
Was ready for his home's return
To greet the Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who sat
With her head in the window-seat.
"Oh, good dog, I love you."
Said the lady,--
"You knew well, do you know?
So you thought,
So you kept your quiet eyes shut,
I was thinking what I should do!"
So the lady had grown up anew,
And looked at the dog and the lady and spoke
As if it were her own; then turned
Into the street, as if to say,
That he loved her first, when he was gone.
At last the Duke's voice said:
"Didn't know that I could make
You think, my beautiful lady,
It was you that did my mind
Think, my beautiful lady,
And think you were a stranger then;
You proved for me, lady?"
And the lady replied:
"Who said 'twas you that did our love
And the lady and herself wept in,
And the noble lady and the prince,
In whom the Prince did reign,
Had said it was your own;
And we read the thing in brief,
But it was your own."
And the lady shook her head,
And said, "You said it was not I.
But--for your own dear sake--
I loved you, noble lady--
I know not what that friend achieved!"
It was not your own, lady."
Then said the Duke, "You may forgive me;
So I can see now, when I return
To finish my work and my song, our house
Built on the corner stone."
So the lady took the harp and gave it to the Baron,
And the lady and the gentleman,
Their servants to guide; and he was at work
As servant in the house.
And they went forth to greet the Baron of the Northcotes,
Where the two stood, the one, and the other looked
At the walls of the house.
And he sang a song that could have told
Of the days when he sang to himself alone,
When the Earl at the church made no further music,
But only said, on a sudden, "It was I!
I love you, dear lady!"
And so, as she passed, she passed away
With a wail of lamentation.
And I could hear, as the voice of a mournful bird
From the house by the chancel fell into a silence,
And as the sound of entering drew nearer round her,
A sound as of a passing-bell,
Which the castle-chimney of the dames,
So to all those who had come into the church,
Ran up their voices.
Then said the Duke:
"O Duchess, if she has not heard you speak,
She will say: 'She gave me an apple,
And I'm sorry now that it is broken.'"
And when the lady passed, she cried, alas!
"O what a poor apple would you have given,
Peering into the keys!
Who knows it?" and then, with a wail of lamentation,
Drove away to the sound of lamentation.
And from the house there went forth another.
"What's that you're saying, my daughter?"
"My father, I must speak out."
"That is the way; you must be certain;
Show me some token at the door,
You know, and I shall find it ready.
And I can go in and find it ready."
And all the night was heard without,
Save the owls waking, and the owls crying,
And the grey rats peeping through the door.
Then up and spoke the Duchess, frowning:
"I have a son, the like you see.
You think he is a gentleman;
Well, I will go with him to his
======================================== SAMPLE 493 ========================================
;
And, since they saw us, 'twas for thy good,
That I took off my cap and left the plume.
I came to pray to God by the way of the Frix,
And the prayer that we prayed, 'tis said, was in vain;
And still and mute
They wait and think upon the eternal will
Of God, in the end of the longless day,
When the Frix people shall come to the temple by-and-by.
"But now," said the priest, "behold the holy men
Come to the altar, who yet by grace are seen;
Who come with me to testify of this;
Who, ere they leave us, shall have confidence in this."
"Thy holy brethren, O Drances!" the pontiff cried,
"Whose sire was a scourge on the conscience of sin:
How now, my sire? what purpose doth thee make
In saying God to leave his grace behind?
Thou dost not fit thee for another's sake
In that pure temple to remain alive.
Thy God, who wast it that thou madest creeds,
Hath placed in nothing the poor servitude needs.
That thy God's servant, I have heard enough;
Since He, for His own good, whate'er thy will,
And thou, O pious one, thinkest thou my lord
Canst not with him partake of that good deed?"
"Let both be here," the pontiff calmly spake,
"And then the church shall all thy goodness take;
And thou shalt be a saviour of our sins,
If thou dost stay by Calvary at the gate
Of the holy temple, ready then for fate.
Thou shalt go free, and bear the holy name,
Fair priestess, I beseech thee, thou to come
And give us worship, we beseech thee, hear
At once our sacred word, and be the ward
Before thee of thy people reverently."
The Pope already had his speech unloosed
From him the halter, and his word was plain;
But not a whit less steadily he kept,
Till to the Pope's, ear scarcely had he sworn,
Nor showed the holy man the sacred thing;
And then he said, "What man by miracle
Shall grace to us the rite that he begins
By washing us in Christ, who died to save;
And let him wash our hands, and see the priest
Hither, the flower of Christ, bring penitent
And honey and the Cross of Christ come forth
And keep the baptism, ere we have supped;
That we may so, for cleanliness, prepare
Our temples for baptism, ere the Church has made
The fast a third one for the covenant made."
Thus in that word he breathed into my ears,
As men do in a mirror that we see
Beside their loved one, conscious of the end
Of all that's coming, and the hour is near
When they too shall partake the living spring,
Singing the glory of their gracious King;
"Let not your baptism now be wholly vain,"
Nature began, but still its seed was hers
In the beginning; for the Spirit and Blood,
The Spirit and Blood of Christ who walketh on
In heaven above, and at the feet doth bear
All these sweet odors, and the flesh departs
Toward the heaven where the righteous are.  As theirs
Who in the body have no certain savour,
Not in degree do they apply their powers
To exercise the force of the pure rite,
Nor to do Sabbath rites, whose cause is good.
But such as to awaken higher life
Have brought me, in this nether world, where each
Sends out its little, necessary alms.
What sayest thou to me?  In that holy place
Which for my table I prepare myself,
Do now as seemeth thee right worthy of thy grace.
Thou puttest it impossible to be known
In the first Canto, whereunall erewhile
The miser was who, to his treasure, held
The chalice, that from the immortal Lord
The worlds did separate and quarters them.
I saw there rose up, as from out the fire
A feeble light breaks out amid its Cross,
Sebwaking the heart, that had been dark as night;
And, "Where is Mary, where is Mary, where?"
Had flashed my lightning flashed unto thy face
Seeking the record of a fast not to be
Told who is in the flame; and only thee
It warned not, but the ancient saw, and passed
The shadow of the Angel with the light.
Who
======================================== SAMPLE 494 ========================================
s to the great
And golden morns of that great day.
In that one day that did not seem
Only a moment like the trance
In which the soul is wrapt away,
A moment, and it is a dream.
Another hour! perhaps in pain
It may be that I will not see
Again the opening of a door,
Or hear the step I made of love.
The darkness falls, the wind blows hard,
And in the darkness come the rain;
The night-wind rises through the pines,
And through the darkness rain the pines.
The old, old night is always near,
The wind blows loud and in the March night
We'll not be blinded by its light,
But see--ah, yes! it is the dark.
They're drawing the Big Wood! Go to bed,
Go to sleep, and dream, and dream--
Lilting lies the tired and the dead,
Lilting lies the tired and the dream.
The rain is falling, falling,
Against the window bar;
The night and the storm are past and past,
But sleep--oh, sleep and dream, my love!
Sleep, my little one, sleep!
They go hurrying to nettles
In the dreary ground of the world!
They are drowning their longings,
In nets of silver,
In nets of silver!
They go hurrying to nettles
In the dreary ground of the world!
They go hurrying to nettles,
They go blowing the wind upon them!
All the little children have opened their eyes,
Singing in an undertone of joy.
Little flowers! I know your roots,
They are tender and free;
They are beautiful amongst the flowers,
And their thoughts drift up in me.
The sun is just a little cloud,
The rain is just a-millin',
The shadows just a chain of gold,
So softly, softly still and cool,
The golden sky is shinin'.
I'll never love you, little children,
Nor dream about a fairy;
I'll never love you, little folk,
Nor dream your shadow's sharpen't,
Nor dream your sleep is sweet an' glad,
And I'll dream you are no fairy,
And dream about your fairy.
A fairy land!
It never knew the day,
Nor the twilight's wing,
Nor the moon's reflected light
That lies in the moon-lit wood!
Birds are singing
In every tree,
And it seems to me I hear
"Wonder evermore,
Wonder evermore!
Birds are calling
In every nest;
With many a song, with many a kiss,
With fluttering breast!
I know a land
Where the waves are gay;
And it seems (while the wind and rain are playing)
I could live a thousand years!
Where waves rise!
And the foam-born tide
And the leaping bar
Of the leaping bar
Of the ocean's tide
Is always in motion;
And I sometimes hear
In each wave a sigh:
"Wonder evermore,
Wonder evermore,
Wonder evermore,
Breath from the sea,
That you never know
In the land of snow
And with sigh for sigh,
Shall I ever waken?
And if ever, my babe, I go
With you, oh, so!
The night is dark, and the moon is dying,
And the wind, a-creepin' through all the sky.
The sea is dark and the skies are dying,
And the sky's a-drivin' of dew;
The clouds are a rim of fire in the sky,
And the rain's a-drivin' for you.
I waken in the night,
And in the dew I waken,
And you--you couldn't bite--
Are six thousand babies.
You're only a baby,
With a crinkle to creep in your ears,
And a little heap of hair
And a little place of sleep
To sleep your babe three.
Your eyes are dark,
Your cheeks are ruddy,
And your cheek is bright
With a flush of crimson;
Your throat is like a cherries,
Just like a cherries,
And your lips are sweet!
And your lips are red,
And red with crimson,
And you think you're rather young
Than I, my sweet!
Oh, the little birds sing in the tree-tops
When the moon is swinging low,
And your eyes are gay with purple,
When the rain is singing low!
And I hear a wee bird singing
In the lilacs by the swamp:
"Oh
======================================== SAMPLE 495 ========================================
 of our best.
What is our lot, to work, or know?
If one short hour, or there, we go,
What can we do, or say:
Thoughtless of thought or deed,
We dream and strive, content, or know
What is our lot, or where?
To make each throb a livelier life,
To make each throb a livinglier wife,
Till truth and life are nought,
And love and beauty move not in vain:--
The joy of life is life,
And life the thing we dream or do:
Not blindly guided or not shirk'd,
But with true love and patient mind;
And seeing what is, and who will,
Is simply wise and kind.
To work for Him will be our task,
To work for Him the heavenly joy;
To have His work as we did for Him,
But must not wholly stay:
And with the ceaseless ocean's roar
We'll keep ourselves alive and fair,
And have our answer to God's care:--
Then what is life, or good, or fair?
It was not life to do
With thoughts of that sweet, happy life;
And thus to live, and not as balk'd
With merely faith or love,
But simple kindness, and still truth;
And faith in hope and charity,
And patient underneath love's sign,
Untaught by time or fate:
These things it was to do.
To think of them, is better still,
And teach us, as we ought of them,
Rest, temper, temper, use;
To bear with none, be noble, just,
Nor lose no thought of flattery;
To take Our patience patiently,
And not in sorrow or in joy,
But trust to all that have in store,
And trust to none, and strive no more;--
These things it was to do:--
Our task is easier still, by far,
To work, not suffer, or complain,
Than to be sick, or well or ill,
And use what strength can, or what will:
To strive, not suffer, be sincere,
And trust to none, and feel no pain;
And strive, not, like a simple blest,
But trust to Lord, and be at rest,
And suffer, too, in every need;
And trust to none, and cease to bleed,
And, calmly trusting to the Lord,
Grow up to perfect manhood's height,
And God will keep what it may need,
And serve with strength and will;
And bless, and pray, in calmest prayer,
And trust to no mean serf or care,
Keep heart and soul from sin and death,
And rest in honour and in faith;
And, trusting in Lord more than all,
Humble and noble, wise and great,
Who seek to do whate'er is well,
And loving all things best;
Not taking thought, not answering nought,
But saving truth and righteousness,
That makes life glorious for a day,
And heaven its own reward;
Not scrupl'd by selfishness to gain
Nor vexed with pride, nor cross'd by pain
Like to a pilgrim true;
But trusting to the Hand that sees
The good from ill, and bids us raise
Our faint hands to the rod of praise,
And show that we are man's;
Working with all that we can do,
And gaining in all that we can do,
As all that we can do.
Lord, keep us through.
The way is long, the way is wide,
The sands are running fast;
The day is done, the darkness closes,
God's light is quenched at last.
Lord, keep us through.
Amen! O brothers, all is done,
The road is rough and long;
The goal is hard, the labor sunless,
The night is almost won.
Lord, keep us through.
Ascend to the endeavour,
And make us aye grateful for it;
Awe-struck and never rest,
But onward and never rest.
Lord, keep us aye grateful for it,
The day is long, the darkness closes,
God's light is quenched at last.
Ascend to the endeavour,
And make us aye grateful for it;
A little while, and then
Let us work on, we pray;
A little while, and then
Let us work on, we pray.
Ascend to the endeavour,
And make us aye grateful for it;
Help us with a great faith for
A faith that never fails;
A little faith our strength to
When need
======================================== SAMPLE 496 ========================================

I have a daughter fair, the fairest
Of all the land; she lives by me, she's mine; on me
The joy of life! But who would think he has
A tenderness, a strength, a majesty
Of perfectness? There's nothing better in talk
Than to show love to the beautiful maiden.
And I know nought of this: that even if I
Have the same pleasure as he does, he does.
He would have written to me, but he can't at times,
Or to me, for his pains and grief he is
A sea of winds; he reads and he has sense.
Then we are married.
I have found out a place in the land, I mean
My house--and she is in it.
Then our wedding
Is the house of the Earl who is in health, my house,
One of the best of Saxe to do, I mean--
One who is skilled in books in his own speech,
One who is wise in all things, if he will,
And who knows nothing from the page of the poem,
For every idle thing with a spell of charm,
All that my lady sings is the living soul!
I wonder why men call me so a fool,
A man, a hero, a fool who will, he says,
A beggar!
I wonder if he has a right to think
I am a poet, or some one of my moods.
Then to hope for the time is not for this,
It is that which is only to show how much
I know of him. I know that I can say
Good things are not the same. I see how much
I have, yet find the truth.
The world is but the shadow of my hope,
And I shall never see it.
A word
He is a pupil, and a moral man,
The only one of all the saints he has.
My little man, I ask this begging leave,
And I will make to you a sign or make
A covenant to you.
My little king,
Let me not make him king without his thanks
You do not know your father and your mother,
But I will make a sign or make it up.
He has not done so much since the good word
Made your face merry like the birds about
When they were young.
He'll not have spoken,
He loves to do his father as he loves
To do their wicked work.
He is a prince of princes, and of priests,
And keeps their silks, not they but they, and not
The wicked tools that make him sick in death.
Now I am only a child, and I am king;
I am the child of the great nations,
And my good name is one
With all those tongues, not with the tongues of men,
Not with the thunder of war, but with the sword.
He will not hear my word, he is a traitor.
His father had no power of me
To make a word against him, for he loved
Me to the end of all the world.
He knew nothing;
What else could I, whose very weakness was
When his harsh speech made his lips quail like a thunder?
He was at work in play, I told him so.
I was but weak as a dog, for all the world
Played out its lessons and my life was filled
With a wild fear and hate of his great God.
He was not born on earth; he is no son,
But the great mother of a prince, the child
Of a great king and a great line, a lord.
As the wind is when it comes on, it comes
Sorely and loud, and he is weary, and
A strange and speechless wonder in his eyes
Stares at me; he is listening, he can feel,
In like wild fire, the deep and deep cool hand
That hung a moment o'er him, while he knew
That he was king.
So to the court,
He kneeled at last, and stood, and cried aloud
And called to her.
She told him not
She loved her lord, but gave her heart and soul
To know the thing she would; not for her love,
But for a prince.
O woman, the blood fills my cup and brim
Like a great wave that has found itself a mark
Of pebbles and of leaves that have confused
The shadow of the centuries in the grass
With its own fulness.
I have tried in vain
To catch a gleam of that gold boundary-stone,
With its own baldness, and with theirs I have made
The world a dreaming, a far-echoing grove,
With the still silence. Now it hangs as
======================================== SAMPLE 497 ========================================
, _The Wanderer's Return_.
_Songs written for the Frontier's Return_.
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
(The Emperor Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), majestical,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The great Wu (the lesser Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,
The Emperor Wu (the great Wu), rapacious,

======================================== SAMPLE 498 ========================================
 by the help of
An old man,
Laid a cloth of gold upon him, and poured out the red wine
Of the finest Spanish vintage that ever was drank with Falernian.
"A tale!" said the Bosun, "my mother has told me: I am an old man
Bold and witty and reckless."
"Hence!" said she; "you will not catch him, for he is a skilful lad.
There was no man in the world could believe it, for he was not a skilful
To lie and snort in the cold, to scorn his father; to talk to his brothers
To each one of his sisters, who, as they caught her, were strong and
"They are a wondrous pair, the finest, but the wisest of mortal
stronghood."
In the winter of 1818, Freiligridde had to be sent to school for a
I said that upon the 20th of the poet's time he was to be found in
At all times a farmer is a clever great man, clever in his
heart.  He could not resist the influence of an old man or a
distinguished from the wisdom of an old age, and his old age
therefore was his great strength.
I said that upon the 7th of his course, Freiligridde, you are a
The sun shone upon our western plains,
While from our tops his golden harvests paled
As thunders shook our distant caverns off,
And rose a vision of that long-lost land
Whence seemed a breath upon an AEgle's beach
Whereon one morn, a whole month lost in heat,
The wind blew forth that old man's history.
He bowed his head, and said
The words that rose from deep his musing:
"I know a land there is in France,
A very good place for the children's songs.
"Its name is Crete, that lies beyond that land,
And it was blest in that fair Italy,
When, through its groves, the shafts of Hesper play.
Its groves are lovely, and its gardens fair,
And it is blest where'er it loves to roam.
"No more, I mind that, when this life was o'er,
There was no need of flute or deadly horn,
No lack of instrument or deadly dart
To bring its melodies to lightened hearts.
"They say 't is Crete, the son of Maisir,
His brother, and that lovely Lyceus,
And that sweet lady of the painted bow,
Whom lovely Venus once was called his bride.
"There, when they say our fine boat shines in gold
Under the wide cerulean roof so fair,
They deem it worthy of the poet's art,
If it excels in painting, sculpture, gold.
"It hath a palace, and of lords alone
Were its domain.  Perchance it may be built,
And built of marble, and of gold, and fame."
The old man was quite old, his voice being wasted
And his eyes filled with tears, in sad surprise,
She said: "I cannot paint you.  I know all."
What should I do?  If I could only live
Until that hour--the hour when all should blend
In the world's vernal beauty, in the glens
Of painted mountain-moors, and in the glens
Of mountain-caverns, where the croaking linnets
Ring through the pine woods, there my ghost would come,
And tell the tale that I would not tell,
Till the long, crimson night should break.
Or if my heart would break, I loved you, too,
In later, happier days."
"But you are gone,
And I am old."
"I cannot paint you.
Though I have many a love, you hold in me
A strange, strange feeling still, in strange lands, where
I never spoke of love, until the hour
Of early summer comes, and all the flowers
That crown the untrodden grove, were not my home."
"It is for Crete, for Crete," he said; "I want
A loving woman with a heart that owns
Year after year the same old, quiet smile.
A heart so light, so innocent in joy,
I never loved at all."  And as she spoke,
She said: "I love you, darling, I confess
That in my heart you love as well as I."
And then her eyes, that once said tears to tears,
Sighed love's sweet reverence, but she said it all;
And then her voice at last was like a song
======================================== SAMPLE 499 ========================================
 the wind;
To-morrow comes the welcome-wind.
'My brothers,' said one sister, turning
Her head to speak in sweet wise learning,
'Ye know how well my brothers know,
It is their brother's, sister's duty.'
'So shall ye know the gift,' said another
Saying, 'I'll teach you how to do.'
And Love fell by; the youngest brother
Stood up, and waved his hand to me.
'Good father,' said I; 'Let this be
What I have done for you, my dears,
And listen to my mother's warnings.'
The words were not a common one
Upon the other side by me.
What brother in the second place
Held up to me his hand to trace?
'A brother!' said my mother; 'hope'--
'A cousin!' echoed both the sisters.
The words were not a common one,
Upon the other side by me.
'I will not speak,' said Love, 'and yet
I do not boast myself to let.
The love I carry is not great,
Nor greater than a coal-black Fate.'
But in my heart-strings Love began
To be a part of language: man
Grew up and took him from my side;
I said: 'What profiteth thy love
For me to be a white dove?
A red rose?' and I answered, 'Hie
Hither to this white dove."'
I rose and went into the light
Of the bright star-light where Love shone:
And saw all other flowers of white,
And birds about that little shrine
Of Love, who sang, and played, and shone,
Called Love and questioned; but none knew
That Love had called her in his tower.
Beneath a tower the sea-gulls fly
About the garden of white flowers, and
One white dove dipped into the deep blue sky
And the other lay on the barren nest
Of that white dove with the white dove's breast.
'Now who shall say what peace we have
Between the little waiting flowers?
For Love is sweet, and sweet is Sleep,
And Dreams are dear, and Faith the Hours,
And we are Kings; and this we give
To Love, for Love is young; then we
Who were so quick in the flower-folds leap
Into new life, and the light grows deep,
Shall feel the end of strife and sleep.'
I asked the daisies and she spoke;
I asked the daffodils, she broke
A silence that was like a bird's
In the white of the garden thorn.
There was no breath, and the bird was still;
I stood with Vivian at the pane;
And the heart of the woman stirred in me
To know I had not been again.
The rich light glittered up the wall;
I stooped and watched it, tender and tall;
And I thought I saw it shine and break
In the eyes of the queen it smiled to take;
And I knew that the queen was kind to me,
But I could not stand nor bow to it.
For I knew that the queen was kind to me
When the great love lightened above;
And I thought I saw not, since that day
Of love made pleasant with love.
In the green of the woods, by the river side,
The golden-haired daughters play;
And the woods are a blur with the lights that guide;
And there in the covert, hid from the light,
Gnaws a little brown parrot, brown and bright.
He darts from his watch-tower in the sun
An arrow, bow-quiver, quiver, and down,
Just like shot from a quiver, quiver, and run
Through the leaves of theille, and down, down, down.
And the mother sits quiet in her home,
And the parrot sings low;
The little ones huddle about the walls;
The dark in the distance grows solemn and dim,
And the plovers float by in the poplars, dim;
And the cricket's call comes faint through the dark,
And the cows from the lonely homestead come.
The mother sits quiet in her home;
The little ones play at their games of play,
But the oriole never sings to the gay
A tender but melting adornment away.
The summer noon, in its warm, rosy glow,
Wraps the meadow and woodland in silver fold;
And the stars, each one, set in lucid rings;
And the soft white mantle of slumber lies
Smiling on eyelid eyes, which wake like sleep
Pure and calm, as if slumbering deep.
======================================== SAMPLE 500 ========================================
, and the lady's gown.
But when the maid had left the hall, as though she were
On the threshold, a young man began to talk to her:
"I can tell you that for you my dear father lived in Lindley
In a town-yard, over against the sea,--
That you have gone south there for me."
"And I am young, and you know me.
And I am old, and you see me.
And you, that are old and I see,
Are the young men and they see me.
"And I am old, and you see me.
And I am old, and you see me.
And I am old, and you see me."
"And I am old, and you see me.
And I am old, and you see me.
"And this is all; but I tell you
That you are old, and you see me.
And you are old, and you see me.
"And I am old, and you see me.
And you are old, and all of us,
And where are you going, and when?
And what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to the market-place,
I'm going to the clerk to buy me,
And I'm going to the clerk to buy me.
"For you are old, and you see me."
"And I am old, and you see me."
"And what are you going to do?"
"You don't have the cloth, Tom, you see--
You can't get the cloth when you see."
"Oh, why do you hurry away?"
"Oh, why do you hurry away?"
"Because it's the little thing going to get, and when you're
"What is it, young man?
What is it that you have brought with you?"
"I've brought it to the clerk.
I'm going to the clerk's house,
And my mother will tell me to stop."
"And what is it, boy?"
"Oh, where have you been?"
"I've given a lock of hers up to the clerk."
"And what's the sign of it, boy?"
"Oh, where did you get her, young man?"
"There's a lock of hers up to the clerk."
"Oh, where did she get her, young man?"
"And what did she get her, young man?"
"There's a lock of hers up to the clerk."
"And what did she get her, young man?
And what did she get her, young man?"
"The little bit bit bit bit bit bit bit bit bit bit bit bit bit
clutched clutched clutched clutched claret claret claret claret claret
claret claret claret claret claret claret claret claret claret
claret claret claret claret claret claret claret claret claret
claret claret claret claret claret claret claret claret claret
claret claret claret claret claret claret claret claret claret
claret claret claret claret claret claret claret claret claret."
"What do you do?" asked the shepherdess.
"There is no wine," she said, "no flowers, no pledges."
There was no wine within that looked wan upon, and wither innumerable
flowers--and there was no mistaking, and wither any never occurred to
remain the crowding and the going in
flashing, and the noise in the street
went on;
And now without going the shepherdess
was alone; and the little children, at their play,
playing, were afraid;
And when, for the moment the shepherdess was
disbelieved,
They shut her up in a little bed, and the little ones laid her
naked,
And frightened the little ones, who still slept soundly.
And she had become a very little thing, and in truth she was
waking,
And as she turned and looked at the little one there she saw a great
she-goat,
Heard the voice behind,
And, suddenly, she knew
It was not good, for she
Too suddenly:
"Why are you, sir?" she said.
"Because, for sure, you are not deceived by the tale."
"What is it?" she said, with a sort of half- difficulty.
The shepherdess spoke suddenly, and took her by the arms.
The little one looked on her curiously--and this is the
way,--
A little child was sitting in the fields together.
And one had grown to be a little man, and they
======================================== SAMPLE 501 ========================================
.
_To the tune of "The Rocks and Staves;
To the tune of "The Rocks and Staves;
To the tune of "The River and Lake;
To the tune of "There is no tyranny."
To the tune of "The Far Away,"
We would go through "Mills and Mills;"
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Wils;
And the tune of "The Voices that call back the dead."
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Wils."
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Wils."
We would go through "The Brimstone Road,"
And through "The Never-ending Door;"
And through "The Never-ending Door"
We would go through "The Far Away,"
And through "The Far Away,"
And through "The Battle-field."
To the tune of "The Far Away,"
We would go through "The Far Away,"
And through "The Far Away,"
And through "The mystic Door."
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Wils;"
To "The Voices that call and answer back the dead."
To the tune of "The Far Away,"
We would go through "The Far Away,"
And through "The mystic Door."
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Wils,"
We would go through "The Brimstone Road,"
And through "The Never-ending Door."
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Wils,"
By the tune of "The Far Away."
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Wils,"
By the tune of "The Blue-Water Wils," etc.
To the tune of "The Far Away," etc.
To the tune of "The River and Lake."
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Wils," etc.
To a tune of "The Blue-Water Wils,"
By the tune of "The River and Lake."
To the tune of "The Blue-water Whin"
"At the end of "The Far Away," etc.
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Whin"
It would come from "The Blue-Water Whin,"
And through "The Gloomy River Whinn."'
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Whin"
'Twould go through "the Long Road," etc.
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Whin"
It would bring to "The Far Away," etc.
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Whin"
'Twould go through "the Valley of Flowers"
'Twere a splendid tune to go
Into "The Far Away," etc.
To the tune of "The Little Red Men"
We would go through "the Valley of Flowers"
We would go through "The Fire-West Road"
'Twere a splendid tune to go
Into "The Far Away," etc.
To the tune of "The Blue-Water Whin"
'Twixt the dusk and the morning hours--
Oh, the tinkling bells are still,
But the merry bells are still,
For the tinkling bells are still,
For the tinkling bells are still,
For the merry bells are still,
For the happy bells are still--
For the happy bells are still,
For the loving bells are still,
For the loving trees are still,
For the weary ones are ill,
For the longing bells are still,
For the loving trees are still,
For the weary ones are ill,
For the climbing ones have been,
For the climbing ones have been,
For the weary ones are ill,
For the climbing ones are still,
For the loving folks have been,
For the climbing ones are ill,
For the climbing ones have been,
For the weary one has been,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the wandering ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the coming ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the weary ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the eager little bells are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the rising ones have been,
For the weary ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the falling of the rain,
For the loving ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For the rising ones are well,
For the climbing ones are well,
For
======================================== SAMPLE 502 ========================================
, with "who'd never thought of it?"
And, to prove the first proposition,
(As they both may testify of this,)
The young man, with the rosy cheeks
That he thinks he ought to be,
Says, he never _could_ sit on
Just what _he_ would say at all,
And 'says that to be so _dead_.--
So he makes his mouth turn black,
And he said, with a solemn face,
"Oh, my heart, why should you know
What in _that_ way one can do?"
So, to prove his head turn brown,
He went over so merrily,
That he scarcely could see from what
He'd been going, at all, to see--
"That's _the_way to touch _my_ little shoe,"
And he told him the way to be
"That--that's _the_ way to kiss _me_!"
As, with his own hand on his lap, the child
Rubbed his mother's paw against the wa'-
(Falling down at his feet like a bundle
"Used to kiss _me_ with her mouth--who'd let me
Put his arm round her throat and say;--
"You've been--"--" "--"--"--"--"--"--"--"--"--it's _my_ opinion--"
If he knew he should be as well
As the other little things that be,--
Little children, and little girls small,
Nesting up and down like the vine,
_You'll remember that!_
To the little girl, who sits
'Mong the roses in the lane,
Where the roses blow,
Like a soft, delicious breeze
Zephyr-like she turns her face
Towards the little rain-drop trace
Over all her tiny rings
Of sweet flowers that close where she swings
And hurries, gathering everywhere
Soft and lovely, till they bear
Her away, and she is there.
And beside her, with the song
Of the bluebird overhead,
Till the grass is wet with dew,
_With her lips she comes not back,
Till they cover everything;
Then the earth is filled with dew
Gathered in her heart to be
What the baby lost to me!
And when April comes at night
To the little lilac door,
Turning over book and light
With her innocent, soft tread,
She will know that I am dead;
And the little lilac close
Where her feet might lightly tread,
Will watch with me till she knows
She's forgotten--she's forgot--
And forever will she look
Out of window, field and brook,
When the oriole is singing
A wonderful refrain,
Or when the jay creeps fluttering
Up the hill-side to the plain,
Saw a light, a gleam of gold,
Where she swung, or patted ear,
When her laugh had a refrain
That caught fire from the heart of her.
And it leapt the tiny rings
Of her tiny hazel wings,
Shattering into flakes of snow
And the sunlit wind that flings
Scattered snow into their petticoats.
And then, a voice below,
With her sweetness, that a lover knows--
_It was I!_ O, I am snow!
_All the earth made beautiful with my face_
_And was swallowed up in my feet_!
Sun-and-sea--sun-and-sea-
_And the world and its beauty and pride_
_And for me the breath of the sea_
_Till I sailed to the uttermost islands of sound_!
On the crest of Mon'train the Moon sinks down,
And the clouds come soft o'er the ocean's rim
Slowly fading, and soon a dusk will creep
On the lake, like a fairy, that settles in sleep
Where the shells are like restless rings to a finger,
So softly! O, could it stay and poize
On the lake, and be born of the shell-white moons
That float o'er the calm, gray waters of dawn,
It would roll in the clear, clear mirror of Heaven
And have lost all the stars in its bosom!
_I am the daughter of the sunset. Beauty
Must seek from life the mystery of Death,
In the dark, where his halo 'gins in light
To glow, as he sails along the lonely sea_
_In the lonely night.
I am the daughter of the sunset. Beauty
Must dwell in the earth and the azure deep_
_And the stars in its star-enveloped height_
_Where
======================================== SAMPLE 503 ========================================
,
(And they made it up in a sieve.)
The King, he cried,
"D'ye mind
How we keep that place?"
(And they all bit Princely Bay
Where they all beat Bay)
How long and so long it seems since last he'd known,
How long and so long it seems!
How long it seems since last he'd known
(And she, poor Mary, she only had eyes)
How long it seems since 'tis arriv'd,
What should be to him, but a shift or change
To please and to see the King, and so to prove
He is the most learned and learned master of us all,
And so to speak in this very well at home.
And though King Richard should be so very sad,
Remember the King doth so very well,
And the world and the world, I'll not begrudge him time,
For the Queen and the world now know the hour of nine,
And this very day to be vex'd is comf'table,
I'll tell you what to say,
And with this hint of May,
And with this hint of May,
All these may well apply
They know, they know, the time of May,
They know, they know, the day of May,
The time of cowslip, daisy, sham,
The time of cowslip and dandelion,
When the air is full of breeze,
And cowslip buds appear,
Their heads are bow'd, they've heads all planted,
They know, they know, the time of day,
They know, they know, the time of May,
They know, they know, the time of May,
They know, they know, the time of May,
And this--these, boys and girls,
The very minute's sweet and sharp,
This year seems short, seems long,
The short, the sharpest thing
Where is the smallest thing
O then, I say, what is it? hop? hop?
What 's this? come, call it, call it, comical,
That I should like to see it in a minute,
And see the sun, and smell the air above us,
And feel myself convinced, of all my senses,
That I'm grown as wretched as a chick or aspen;
My throat should besuccess,
My blood should be content,
And this was all the sort I meet with
This year, I mean, the time of May,
When all the woods are green,
And eagles through the air,
The sun has got a pair of wings,
And, like things that I can't guess,
The sun gives way to dress.
They're dancing in their nests, they're keeping
cockcalls on every window window,
And swinging round the sweet-briar bush,
Or, hidden in the hay- sacks, sing:
What 's this? and where 's the girl?
A robin redbreast on a spray of bloom
Perched on a spring's breast, gayly swinging
On a branch of bright blue jade.
"What, what, what, what, what, what, who 's coming?
The song--one sings, "Come cheer to the blooming morrow,
The girl at home is with you,
Come with me to the glistening throughglow,
Come with me to the glancing throughglow,
The music, that of all things sweetly great,
The song, that of birds we pipe,
The song, that of birds we praise,
The song, the song, the tune."
The sun looks down
On the little town,
And the little town looks up
From the little down.
"Nancy's gone
To the meadow-lands,
And Nancy's gone
To the meadow-lands,
For Nancy, gone
To the meadow-lands,
Where Nancy's gone.
She 's gone and stayed
At her dear little farm,
But there's naught left to her
Of the things that she has heard,
Of the things that she has heard
Fly away to her,
Fly away to her,
With her home a-prattle,
And her nest a-building,
And her bed a mould.
"She 's gone to her sleep,
To her little world,
To visit the sheep,
To visit the sheep,
And be the best nurse there,
The little child at evening to her breast.
She 's married, she 's taken her children's way,
And she dwells in a hut with the pigs, but she 's gone away.
The stable is small, and the
======================================== SAMPLE 504 ========================================
 from _Titmarsh: Balon._]
To him whose arms and wounds the world defend:
For him and his--for this and that good end.
O happy man!                            _Transport of the Scene._
A POET, that loved a time, but loved his kindlier friends;
And, having wandered in the paths which lovers tread,
Had often left behind him a new tale of love and joy,
Whereby he spake kindly words and gave the Hero of his shed
A gift which, with his honor, to his valour might be shown.
It is, that we may learn what deeds of men he does from ill,
By those he has engaged to buy in virtue's crown.
The praise it bears, the reverence it will offer here,
Will be my pride for ever, and my love for ever dear.
And let the lover's worship in this homage be bestowed;
The LOVE, I ask it, who has suffered all so well,
He freely gave and fully gave; the thanks he freely gave
Are due to him alone, the sacrifice is rendered whole;
The LOVE has rescued him, the Source of many a noble soul.
In many a way, since at the footstool of his throne
Beneath his roof has knelt, a faithful wife and fearless grown
And every comfort gathered to his bosom's happy fold,
From earliest morn to night, from night to dewy night,
And, as his mighty strength ebbed, to the last day of night,
And the last scene of all things saw, at times, the priceless worth,
What human eye can blame, what human heart can truly blame,--
The love whose heavenly springs were shed with holy light around
That, through his mighty love, bore daily more of heavenly sound,
He was the most divine of all in all the gentle sphere that round
So many noble men since burst the bounds of human kind.
That in that world of love his high ideal ever shone,
To fill his mind with joy, and cheer his heart with hope and mirth,
He has not won his kindred, he who ever served him true
Will know and kindly leave the deeds the gods ordained shall do.
So, through long days of heavy toil he toiled and struggled on;
But at the last, alas!  the gift was given, the gift he won!
He will remember all that's sweet and holy, after all!
So, with the world's unnumbered blessings, all he did to all,
And make the weary wretches sigh again into the pit,
And in a joyous hope long following on his road he went,
And in his dreams of heaven, while yet the earth is empty of
His happy mortal days, he, in a dream of blissful joy,
Will come down radiant from the kingdom of the Heavens to Troy.
He will arise again, his footsteps through the starry plain,
And from the world of love, of hope, of joy, he shall attain,
With joy untroubled and with contrite heart, from Heaven withheld;
And on the altar will I lay this offering, my beloved one,
And let her life be with me in the happiness of Heaven!
For, as I go, a prayer, a blessing from thy lips, my dear,
Will be, 'Remember me then only, I and thee shall die!'
O lovely sea! a poet's dream is thine, and is thy poet's, too!
But thou--thyself to me, and to the Muses I'll forewarn,
My own heart only, I, that chorus of thy mountains heard!
To be with men thou art almost as god-like and as wild!
And, so, far more than godlike, if thou tarry not for him,
To live and be upheld by sun and wind in some calm clime;
Or it may be that even thy mountain-herald shows to me
The face of thy great sea and glittering field behind the sea;
And I--even I must muse, and my beloved one might I look
With little worthyness of thy most heavenly-comprehending look.
For should thy soul ever, with high thoughts, from all its nature stray
In one all-bounteous nature, one and one alone are away;
And from the heart, once free in change of shape to fain some god
From the deep love and the high conceit of its own heavenly joy--
Then it will come to pass--to pass in dreams, and on the sea
Be it a dream, and be as it may, and be for ever free,
I know
======================================== SAMPLE 505 ========================================
, and Bolton Corney. A humorous little town. A humorous
It's far away, and the wind is cold,
But the sea is sweet as the sweet sea-wind,
And the ships go out to sea;
And the harbor is dark and drear,
And the night is sweet with the stars above,
And I like its looks of peace;
But the wheel goes round at the same dull beat,
And my heart swells warm at the sound of it,
And my love is safe at last.
All the hills are white with snow,
And the wind is sweet in the breath of spring,
And the sky is bright with birds,
And the hills are dark with herds;
My lover walks abroad
And the moon is bright with the summer weather,
And the wind is good for me.
The shepherd binds his posy
With twilight beads; the trees
Stand nodding in a mist of leaves,
And the wind is good for me.
The roses climb on the branches,
The morning does its work;
The swallows twitter above, and the swallow above,
The sun is good for me.
The little brooks laugh down
And I sing a lullaby to the rain;
The winds come jingling up and down,
And the sea is good for me.
I love to lie in the meadow,
Close to the shutters, warm and warm,
And shiver the words of the brooks,
And laugh, and sing the words I miss;
And the wind is good for me.
And I lie in the pebbly patch,
To watch the happy leaves drift by;
And, in the moonlight, hear me say:
'He loved the sun:  he loved the sky;'
And every one is happy, too.
They are far away, they are far, they are far, they are far,
All the world is bright with sun,
For the sun is bright with green
While he is away with his beat of the flowers, and the pines
That fill their hearts with songs;
And the wind is good to him,
And he sings as he journeys up,
With the leaves below and the buds above and the leaves below,
And the sunshine and the earth.
I can see his clear eye blithe, clear as a candy-cup;
I can taste his merry speech from the lips at play,
And know the gladness of birds that come every day
To happy hearts in May.
It's just like little girls a-playing, with eyes that pry and sigh,
And little boys with red-lipped looks that vanish into fun;
But all the little girls and boys
Will be so wondrous glad to hear the little clarion crow,
And learn to dress a happy foot with pink and silver shoon
In the shaded porch of a little green room with a porch
Far back, where the little girl
Will be telling lovers' prayers,
And loving hearts and laughing eyes
Will be glad to be so glad to be a little girl like you.
I can see the soft white hand of the little maiden aunt,
And all her gentle mother thoughts and wishes beyond compare;
But the smile will never pass.
And yet when I am just as good as she who nursed a care,
I shall find all this a dream I had but as a minute's space
For the meeting of two people who never spoke a word.
I shall never know that face,
Or the glow of the radiant mouth,
I shall never know that it was sweet,
Nor the brightness of her eyes;
But sometimes I shall look and be sad,
And be curious by and by,
For I never know that faces made
Such beautiful with lots of looks
As now I never had;
And I like to talk to her and be sad
Whenever her eyes I see;
But whether she's always understood
Or is always understood to me.
I cannot tell when I'd be glad
To hear her words and see her smile;
I can never say that I had had
Such beautiful with bits of lace;
I know that I was six years old
And the one I lost was in the sea,
And all the stars above were gold
And the water was silver there.
And I knew that every one had guessed
That I never had the least one there,
And I was so happy when oppressed,
And happy, and happy had been there.
But yesterday I'd never be glad,
For I saw the dear, blue eyes of her,
And I was so happy--yes, I'm glad
That I couldn't see her anywhere!
A little girl with ruffled hair
Has drifted to the garden place,
And blown her clothes and
======================================== SAMPLE 506 ========================================
?  Ah, if in this one case
I have my feet so loath'd, I shall not dare
To walk the crowded street by any road.
If there be one behind me, let me go,
And let me feel my heart to heart's desire
Through all the sweetness of the evening air,
And let my brain and pulses all run fire!
"Yea, by my death,--if I have seen her dead,
I shall not die for that--but all too soon
Together we have gone where he has lain.
I am not glad myself to see his face,
I am well-nigh as glad to be alive
As he is to have been."  Then, on that word,
It shifted in the form of that white dove.
I knew it, and I know that, too, by death
It brought myself to life, and he to me,
And by that name I knew the way to die.
I know how long I stood with him in life
For him who is no more, and if there be
A chance or chance for me, I shall not die.
The night is dull and gray,
The stars are low,
A tired ghost on some long way,
So faint a light upon the snow.
I said, "An eel may bread!"
But when I said "A l'aspect,"
I said, "My l'aspect may not pass."
But when I said "Lent is but grass,"
I said, "An only one is left."
And when I could not die,
I said, "A l'aspect may not pass."
So when I said I lied!
But when I said "A l'aspect":
I said, "The rent is over and lost,"
I said, "My l'aspect may not pass."
I said I lied indeed!
But when I said I lied indeed!
For if I said I lied indeed
And did not know the thing I said,
I had to tell the thing I did.
I said, "An I have lied,"
But when I said "I lied,"
I cried "An I have lied indeed!"
But when I said "A l'aspect":
I said, "An I have lied indeed!"
For when the war broke out,
And in my bed I lay,
And on my head I wore a crown,
A suit of a great grey,
A suit of a great grey,
Of ash brown as a fairy's hand,
A suit of a great grey,
Of ash brown as a fairy's hand,
And a great grey eye as a fairy's eye
That looks upon her lover,
The suit of a great grey eye
That looks upon her lover.
I dreamed you were my lover
I know so well of you,
And I was your lover,
I have such tender eyes
That you would smile to your lover
And lie beside him to-night.
For my heart is a rose
When love grows old for me.
Your words call out to me
And I wake and dream them over.
I think I'm near to you
And nearer to you,
But I hear you on your lips
And they drip like poisoned dew.
Your words cry out to me
And find my blood a-tinct
As though I'd die for the word
You have given my lips for.
And my kiss is on your lips
As though it were a swoon.
Your kisses on your cheek
Are as sweet as poison dew.
O, my kiss is full of lips,
But not sweet as poison dew,
O, my kiss is half a kiss
And half a kiss superfluous.
You lie in your hiding place,
And I look and dream you over.
The wind blows away by night,
The forest bends to move it,
It cries for the love I bring
A dead man in a love-storm.
I am as some rare spices
Of the old dead time,
From the fragrant-skinned saloon
Where the dead wait all the time.
But my kisses on your mouth
Are the heart-sick honey,
That loves with the dead time
And knows no love among.
The wind blows away by night,
I can not understand why,
But it cries to its own white lips
That have grown no deeper than I.
I look at your hair of gold,
And your blood-red lips are sweeter,
Your lips are softer to kiss
Than the love I bring for a kiss.
The wind blows away by night,
I would that your eyes had grown more wise
If your love came not into mine,
And the tears had grown
======================================== SAMPLE 507 ========================================
 of the world,
And all that is, and all that is,
And all that is.
_In the following pages._
"A _Vision of Doctors' Poetry_," etc.
"Behold him! he is born of the water,
He is born of the sea, the heaven,
The ballad of all that is!
He has lived out of the sea, the heaven,
He is taken and moulded now,
All the wonder and all the glory
And all the magic of the earth,
And with the mystery of the power
That binds the bow in the tree!"
"God will prosper him, and as he goes
He shall come to his father again,
When he hears and turns away rejoicing,
To wander in the sun and rain,
And tell the tale of a life of duty
That only men can read aright."
"There were no lessons for the scholar
That his own heart and eye could see;
His work was spent in the pursuit
And he forgot the mystic law
That waits him with the human creature
And waits to lead the favored way,
And all he thought and doth fulfill
Is as the pathway to the will.
"The Lord is God, and He can see
And wait for all that we shall choose--
The wisdom to be, _man_ and _man_!"
I have been tried, tried and condemned,
Beaten and baffled and made mad.
I have been cursed, cursed and condemned
At the thought of a woman's voice.
If I refuse to accept the excuses for the matter my own
"The powers of darkness and of night are making the future
As in the days of old they are--in the hands of comrades and
"They are in the hands of kings,
They are in the hands of the mighty:
And the victors and the kings
Till the nations make and rend them;
And the peoples and the nations
Shall be ruined by their minions.
"And they shall be very strong and good,
And the nations all lie down,
The seed of their ambition and spoil,
The germ of their most valiant power,
That will be--and will be--till the nation
Has lost its race and does not prosper."
Then the poet, the son of the prophet, spoke:--
"Your words
Are like a flower and a seed and a seed for a honey in its
There is no garden in Persia, and the people are not happy.
They are like the flowers of your garden--as you cull them,
As I gather the flower of your garden, whereon comes your
effort.
"There is no garden in Persia, it is neither in East nor West,
There are no skies that are wider than the sky.
There are no woods that are deep and sublimed.
There are no rivers that run smooth and silent.
There are no mountains that glide and lie silent in the sun,
None that is noble as men--with the rose, the rose, I love you,
With no light but the passionless eyes of my love, I love you.
"I love you, O beautiful, I love you, I love you, I love you!"
"I do love you, O beautiful, I love you, I love you!"
The wind of the world is the sound of the song of my love,
Away in the West there is a path where the hearts of the
flower-folk are.
The roses and palms of the desert lie white in the light
The hills of the desert stand white in the light of the
There is a garden of roses, and the name of its
fathers is rife.
My heart is like the love of the wind in my heart,
It waits for the music that is born of my love,
It whispers:  "I am the wind of the wind of the
dew-drenched garden of the world."
The rose of my heart is like the bloom of my heart,
I hold its light and it speaks of the love it cannot
supply.
The flower of my heart has withered away in the dust of
the ground,
And my kisses are empty and pallid beyond the
sound.
The rose of my heart is the song of the wind in my heart,
The rose of my heart is a word, it told of my love,
It rustles on the earth like a garment, it glistens in
the sun,
It is like the desire of my heart, it has no word or
alluring;
For love has become a mystery and has entered into my heart,
And my tears are like the dew of the night in the
wilderness of the desert.
I love the sea, I love the sun
======================================== SAMPLE 508 ========================================
, the work of Knyght, and was ready with an enormous
"My kingdomes," says Felix, etc.
"Then we went away," says Felix, etc."
"No, my lord," says Felix, etc."
"Yes, my lord," says Felix, etc."
"My lord," says Felix, etc.
"Yes, my Lady," says Felix, etc.
"Yes, my Lord."
"Then we went away," says Felix, etc."
"That I might see the gardens in," says Felix, etc.
"Then we came to the house of Our Lady Moone, not to find the
pleasant hospitality. She was very kind, and very kindly and
"But if you come home," says Felix, etc.
"Nay, little lady," says Felix, etc."
"How could you know that?" cries Miss Jenny.
"How can you know the garden?"
"How have you know the bush?"
"How could you know that from the depth thereof?" cries Elsie.
"I never saw a drop of the nichts," says Miss Jenny, etc.
"I cannot tell my wife," says Miss Jenny, "but the truth comes
up in my heart, my heart is broken by the thought, I would
have gone."
"You never knew, dear Elsie, Mrs. Truth," says Miss Jenny,
"that she was a woman, for I knew she was a girl of learning
The little cockles run so giddy about the streets of town,
It may be he shall have my name in a good time. I'll be
"Now, I'm going home," says Willie, etc.
"Go home to your wife--she's dying," says little Jack.
"My dear," says Mrs. William. "Why should you be so sorry?"
"I've seen the time. I've heard it, of course; the town is in
And he has gone, and I'm going home.
Good-night, sweet sister," says he.
"I'll be your wife, darling," says he, the little cocklesheller.
And now the bell has ceased to hum.
The little cocklesheller's gone to the West and has gone to
There is a country way,
Where the good red sun sinks every day,
Where hearts are happy, happy
And the tired world forgets its pain;
Where the silver-mist hangs over
The brown hills,
And the drowsy sky lies over
And the air is very still.
Across the fields of clover
The golden-throated blackbirds call,
Across the fields of clover
The mocking-birds do all.
But there's a land a-coming over
And there's a land that stays
And there's a land coming over
And there's a land that forgets!
For there's a land, dear Fred,
Where the good red sun sinks every day,
And there's a land that's all turned over
For the weary men to pray.
Once there were five
In the great West Land
Which the heavens count,
And the first of all its hills.
But it wasn't any use, Fred,
It wasn't any chance
For a soldier in the North--
So the peach-trees grow
On the river shore
And the peach-trees flow
In the golden-deepened wood.
There is a land
That is glad to see
What the strange wild rice is singing
With the wheat-fields in the sod--
It's a land of pleasant water
And a little brown-eyed land
That's fast asleep on land.
But it isn't much to worry
For a soldier in the North--
So the peach-trees grow
On the river shore
And the peach-trees grow
In the sunny land.
Oh, the land it is a-coming
And the girl it loves so true,
And the girl she's on the North--
To-morrow it will do
For another land, perhaps,
And another blossom place,
With its beauty, grace!
It was lovely, beautiful, bright, and clean,
That country on the river was.
But we were standing by them--we were three
In the world's most crowded places,
And we talked with one another until
We seemed such talks to carry.--
We talked of that and this and that,
Of what we'd lived and what we'd got;
And, though we'd not been sure how many,
We'd never, not a moment, wish.
We laughed and trussed and seemed to speak
Of all the things we'd done and did,
And all the wrongs we'd put to seek.
We would not
======================================== SAMPLE 509 ========================================
, A.D.)
I think, perhaps, if only you could say
The truth, 'This truth is truth in seeming late:'
But no; the world is wiser if you pray.
For as to croak, the same applies the weight:
There is a depth of shame in everything;
Whence reverence seems to start from out a hole.
If it be so, then peace is what we make;
But now, for me, not any voice replies:
I'm quite a different person, but, my dear,
How far do you repeat the things I say.
A something in me is beyond all cure.            R. WI.
Ipse suo pede pectus potuit fortasse recenti
Noluerat jam flammant amore saxa!
Ipse suas potuit nostras spectabis in hostis,
Ipse domitae fruges, tot de ferre manus;
Aurea nec in tectis tu nec arma metus,
Urorque, ne quae surpice, quae tum tuere ducis.
Pater ille memento, quocunque suum excitat hostes,
Ipse se nos par poteris esse sua salitibus,
Ille quem sacra dedit, peream quod inrita suum,
Ille tot teneris tu jam sit dasque suis.
Ipse suamque pios mors est fereosa remis?
Ipse pii et nunc est, quod quod habuere tamen:
Sylva victis es, sed nunc tibi mitissima Tulli
Dicitur, et atrumatis celsa traesta vultu
Et sic potestas, mea si sicula turba triumphat.
Tale tuo tam pulchram, quae sit tibi demis arbor?
Ita suus in amorem suo nuntia possit?
At tu, cum se tanti, tam siqua dura tori,
Tanta sua cum fama, tam sit purpura tua.
Tale tuo tam siquid, tam sibi tam sunt ipsa dato,
Tam casta manum, o similior est illa lacus:
Tu, tam aversus, o tam pulchram, o tam vestris,
Si piguit, tam piguit, tam piguit, tam ferre.
Ah, neque tam numquam, tam varium est potest:
Totus est tanto tuo viva, nihil, negat.
Hoc igitur potuit, o tanto tanta dura:
O, quae tam satis est, o tanti est tam liceret!
Quod quaerimus, ah, quod tantis tam dura uis est,
Ah, cum habuit tantum, nutrix inde quanti.
The qua cunque suas neque noster cura dura
Carmiferam, quae modo quae nos tam prope solvit.
Ah, vel si quos nostras vel sunt tam ferre puellas,
Totum ergo tuos aususos, non, opus Amor;
Atque haec, atque oculos et te, loquaces frondes,
Vix amor et oculis, o, Luca, turpere fuit.
Vos neque, bonis tibi dulces idem, sed frondibus illis:
Sed dum magni praesidiosem alma dedit.
Haec suam, ah, si tu morituro qui tegmine crasdem est,
Si facis est nobis, si muse, si poetae.
Artes impotent, id hodie, id hodie, id hodie:
Sed dulces et subtillum sunt data manus.
O then, belovit icie, icie doth icie doe cry,
Art thou enraged, sooth, with cold angellwo?
Why hath thy snow so white an icie bloud,
That it so much white shines in December's frost?
O, it is ice, it is a crystalline heat,
It melts in January's warmest chime:
And in hot weather 'tis melts the coldest chime,
It melts in January's hottest clime.
O thou, that art a wary God to save,
======================================== SAMPLE 510 ========================================
-and-light;
A new-water, or water, or glass;
Or, a glassful of liquor!
And a glassful of better!
For the want of the spirit of me,
It is, after all, the best part:
Truth, a sermon, or nothing.
But the preacher, or what? a bishop?
Or even a bishop?
Or a little brown rosin, or fender?
Why, the whole is a matter of talk,
If either the priest is a crockery-ware,
Or one of the tradesmen is a dunce,
Or more like a bishop:
It happens, each night, as I've just heard,
When the cantor is properly spelled,
That each preacher a six-pence should be,
And the six-pence is better than he:
So a rule for the church let him learn,
And if any such rule should discern,
It's a rule for the church let him learn,
And a rule for the church let him learn,
(Though the houses do not in truth being true,)
He shall never pretend any higher,
Or claim any higher:
For solemn and slow-paced things
Are the burdens that follow the sun,
With a rule for the church let him learn,
And a rule for the church let him learn,
(Though he often goes back for a dunce),
And a rule for each man, let him learn,
And what he may do with a bishop.
It's a rule for the church let him learn,
And not for the poor by the rate,
But the good of the land, and the lord,
And the cause of the church let him teach,
And the cause of the church let him teach,
And the cause of the church let him teach,
(Though he often comes back for a dunce),
And a rule for each man let him teach,
Though he greatly desires to advance
Through his fellows to call their good-will,
And to put them aglow on the pulpit,
And a rule for each man let him teach,
Till the Church and the church let him teach,
And a rule for each man let him teach.
Though a rule for each man let him teach,
Yet a rule for each man let him teach,
Asking not whom he would rather,
Nor who he would rather, or where,
Though they should assent to take care,
They refuse to believe what they preach,
And the rule for each man let him teach,
And the rule for each man let him teach,
Though his body were toil'd to fulfil,
And the man without any bones toil'd,
Yet there's the greatest of all his store,
For the creeds, and the Church, and the poor,
And faith--and the poor let him teach,
Teach him the doctrine of man,
And the rule for each man let him teach,
And the rule for each man let him teach,
And wherever the church let him teach,
For priests, and the poor let him teach,
And every one hears what he preach,
_You will get your sour beer;
And that little screw-guns
Will fresco you through again._
Now, it's no in the way, or under the sun,
No in sight of a comrade, a comrade, and none,
If you listen, we'll tell you a story,
And one that you'll find by the way,
If you'll turn out as bad as you do,
There's a grand game I will play you--
There's old Gold-to-the-wisp,
He comes from the west,
To join the bold throng
That his "modern" fame rings
Over lands where his name
Isn't counted a sin,
For the sake of two kings,
And his "modern" fame,
And "his own knights within,"--
And his "modern," fame, too,
Is worthy of all,--
If there's any place else
He'll be got here the most
As grand as the last.
There's his "modern" fame,
And his "modern" fame
Can never be got
Where old Norsemen and Norsemen
Sought his "modern" name,
Where the "modern" bards
To honor consigned
On old "modern" songs
Would never be found,
Because they were good
And his "modern" fame,
And his "modern" fame,
Is worth a wide pound,
For he has had none,
And his "modern" name
Is famous for aye,
As his "modern" name,
If we'd only give sorrow,
I've had enough,
======================================== SAMPLE 511 ========================================

of the German "Ars Poetica," published in the _Fructerint
Boyne_ of New York. "Come along!"
_"Du bist du Passam et du causs sünt,
Du bist du dich deinen Menne," &c.
_"Nunquam zweg ein Depper aux jubilles,
Oder einst, nicht bier, vermagiez,
Zwei junge Mater. Dein Luftige,
Du bist du Passam et du cham,
Und auch den Peers hinen."_
If we find the same lines in the first brief page, which was
almost always true, and if, as I may be inferred, the reason
for which every direct. They were all of the simplest type--but
"Ride onward, brave Liembreg,
Undaunted heart of man,
Drawn by strong arms to meet thee,
Where dangers lie."
"Thee, bold Liembreg,
Wills not alone dismay;
That he, whose strong arm slew thee,
His tempered praise despise.
For wealth is his reward,
And many a treasure vast,
Which men can scarce enjoy,
Who have no leisure to be wealthy or to be poor."
"A golden chain,
That nobleness doth gain,
Which men will gain
By having wealth to spend;
All men are poor--and they who love alone
Can have wealth to spend."
In the end of 1807, on the opening line
"He lived a second life;
A life with him of strife;
A life to take the curse
Of him that's false to heaven.
He did himself to hell;
And with his spells of power
Can banish every drop of bitterness from him."
"Then went he through the gate
To make his bairns and brutes,
To heal their bitter troubles;
But he was deaf and deaf,
And knew nor care nor hurt.
He made the rivers of his mind a scourge
To them that drown in it;
And in the lonely desert he has found
No rest nor peace for him."
"If in return I wait
For things that are not here,
I will go back through darkness and despair,
To the eternal palace and the eternal air,
And thou shalt live alone."
"He would not come with thee, beloved brother,
All thy life should he forget,
He would not know thee as thou art, my friend,
And leave us misery and woe."
"My friends, you are my friends,
And I your bairns, to drink
From cups of cooling spring;
Drink nothing of cold streams,
Nor let the glowing day
Into your mantles bring."
"All useless are the prayers
Of pious friends in heaven;
The golden chain of peace
Would be more useless than the oath you swore,
When your bright star, beloved sister, fell."
"My husband, do not take it away!
'Tis God's great Will alone;
The waters of His Will
To-day are source of thine!
He gives our hearts away,
And bids them be at peace;
He fills our hearts with woe.
O Father, grant us peace.
"But who can fear a Father's hand,
When his will gives him peace?"
"O Father, and how long
May he keep all things bright!
And shall he comfort us with rest,
When we are all at peace?"
"I would myself become
A son of Him who died,
And I would be the thing you wish for--but how long?
And will you make me your own sacrifice,
And sacrifice from my Father's side?"
"Why can you so deny me my solicitations to unite
With the pure beams of holy charity?
For your life's poor without hope are many peaceful days,
Both in ourselves and about God's will;
And can you make a better use of your own kindly mind,
Than in wicked men and women, who find
How better they can be to serve the heresies of mankind?
"And if I cannot make myself mine own again,
Nor take the boon that nature gave,
No longer shall I need a holy life and a cheerful mind,
But rather live and enjoy it;
In doing and in doing, in good and evil deeds and great,
In tempering and in tempering with our needs the while it gives
A joy everlasting and in doing good.
"Let us rejoice till he who gives and takes
Joy everlasting in the heavens shall be our bides."
In the brief "Quinnest of the Blessed," is the "
======================================== SAMPLE 512 ========================================
 on a table of lilies;
And the little ones, like myrrh, and mould,
Having no such thing of them as THINE.
As for the little things, I thought I might
Have gathered them--so easily--and quite.
And yet, and yet, 't was marvellously strange
That love's warm flame should waste them.  For the range
Of evanescent rivers,
Most ravishingly brightening,
And not a drop in the whiteness of the sea...
And all is change, save thee--ah me, who may,
When Love is gone--and what is left to Time?
For after all, that is the essential one,
That is the Soul, that is the life, that runs
Through all things, and no graveyard can be laid
In any heap of dust, or heap of clay.
And then, when all is nothing, if our sight
Be barred from earth, or if we look for light
Into the eyes, to the Unknown, and try
To read the riddle, and in that one night
Learn more, and know, and wonder.  When we die
We see some high thing, great and excellent,
And lose it by our knowing.
A child--
Youth and a boy, and old age in one life;
And here the immortal, and here the dead:
And here the eternal, and here the dead!
For when the spirit, its way being gone,
Lies lost in undreamed-of slumber--then
It leaves me and is lost in twilight gray
And ponders on the end.  And this is all,
The Soul ever, thoughts, and stirs in me
Responsive sighs of memories that throng
Like funeral trains -- till suddenly I hear
Thrilling at last my own, and strangely near
I fall asleep, and wake and dream in dream.
WALTER, BROWNING'] (1) Women.                              G.
_In a very Small Garden_                          G.
The Scene is laid in the Square of the Inn.            G.
The Master's Hymn, [Hermann Haged]
The World's Hymn,
Revelation, and all its ways, [Hermann Haged]
Then, oh, in the day of days!
In the long dead years of life,
When our eyes in a dream, once were
A thought that has been, and will be
In the life of a man for ever,
Comes, and finds, and is not, and may not,
Strength unshaken, and health unreckoned,
And the heart that once has been troubled,
And no hope that the world could know
Stronger and wiser than we.                          G.
_In a very Small Garden_                        R. WI.
_In divers books_                             G.
_In divers books_                               CL.
The Master's Hymn                                G.
In divers books                                   CL.
In divers books                                            G.
I've found out a perilous haven,
I've found but some few unfathom'd seas.
All day long, without a warning,
Thou didst dream of an inland isle.
But there in a haunted island,
With the sun at its heart and the air above,
To the sleep of thy gentle being
Thou wouldst dream of an inland isle.                
======================================== SAMPLE 513 ========================================
 not,
But let, for shame, a little word, or thanks.
And oh, when shall I send it all as well?
And will you, dear, when shall I wait your friend
Here, when I turn, the last word from your mouth?
To-morrow! I will work and yet will toil;
Your recompense, alone, I know, will reach me;
Yet for this task, to-day I will make room to do it;
And when I come at last to give myself to you,
I will be ready for the service.  Only wait,
And keep me, as of old, for you and yours."
She closed the way, and while she talked, the sun
Drew all that message from the hermitage,
And when he sat at even to uplift his hands,
He told her how he promised; she at once
Hands with his hands to heaven turned; and so with those
Adoring turned the will of heaven to his own,
And brought the sacred message, written down
On the third day; and prayed in quietness
And solitary contemplation.
Meanwhile by the green river Langdale, where the
Forest is dark beneath it, the two men
Follow it, and cross its will-o'-the-wisp.
Now they cross to the bounding brook of Green,
And through the wood-walks cross, and through the wood.
And one is borne upon a branch of fir,
And one is borne across the swift-winged hawk;
And the other two, with faces turned away,
Look up as to the northward turned by these.
But lo! as they go down into the brook,
Their faces turn to heaven, and on the east,
With slow and gentle looks, they stop their way.
And then the elder woman, very fair,
Whisper to them, "It will be pleasant work
To win your kindness, and to cross the flood
With all your hand upon the bank."  And they
Look up with the light kindness of a smile,
And all their countenance is full of rest,
And they are calmed, and find the river flowing
Somewhere beyond that brook, and so they say
That they have sworn an oath that they will keep
The promise of the future.  So farewell.
No more we say farewell, but up the wall
It rises higher, and the wind blows loud
Into the blossomed branches, and the leaves
Shake in the middle of the wooded vale;
Only the eddying river sings and stops,
And all the air is filled with flying spray.
And ever, as he goes, the stream beside
Grows calm and silent, and the little steeds
Stay no longer, and the aged father keeps
Watch o'er him, lest they should not wound the father,
And make his fervent prayer to God alone.
But when the evening came, and the warm sun
Shone through the quiet leaves, and on the lawns
The earliest birds made merry, then the work
Was all completed.  Then the bursting day
Grew darker, and the first dark cloud arose;
Yet through the forest's heart a faint light broke,
And all the land was darkened, and the sea
Felt all its sorrows shrink, and every heart
Grew dry within.  Anon the land's green top
Rose like a speck upon the sea; the masts
Swung idly by the hand; and all around
The broad-swathed mountains, which look up to heaven,
Became a mist, and all the broad-sea's breast
Seemed bathed in bliss, and every heart grew glad.
Then in a little town a hut hard by
Shut out the village, a small house at home,
A wall of trees rose high against the sky,
The church was like a temple, and the door
Was framed by workingmen, who scoured the fields
For gold.  The doors were closed, and on the roof
Were slanted broad-set eggs, that scarce remained.
A little open housewife, who had lain
Five score years and seven years in the warm shade,
Had got a passing-tribute from her to keep
A mother's tender safety, and a name
That scarce could be repeated, to her heart
And from her tongue, her open hand, had saved
One helpless mother; but one single night
She stole forth from her dwelling with her child
Her little dog, and with him she awoke
Early as morning.  In the church, at dawn,
She knelt at midnight, and in dreams she prayed
The Saints would keep her pure and watchful guard
Over her infant, to her cry
======================================== SAMPLE 514 ========================================
, who was a little boy,
His father's name was Dado.
And now his mother views him with delight,
She thinks he's young and tender,
She welcomes all the gladness into play,
Yet, though her cheeks are pale and wet with tears,
She sees her little Dado.
She's fair and young, and yet her boy's at heart,
No boy need ever fail her;
She would not leave her pretty boy to die,
But lived a dozen mile a day;
And now her father's parents are so great,
She smiles to see the boy go mad;
She laughs to hear the boy go mad,
But when the parents all are glad,
She laughs aloud, and says, "Oh, how can I
See one so good and glad to?"
"Oh! no, my boy," her mother's mother said;
"Oh, no, my boy! I'm only mad;
But now my Dado's face is red, my boy,
And oh! he's pretty red,"
The sailor boy came close to where she sat,
And on the sailor boy leaned down,
And looking off he flung his fair head,
He could not see the pretty drown.
So, from that pretty little lad, and who
Came close to her, he cried;
"Oh, who are you?" "Oh, one and all, my dears,
Oh, I'm for ever Johnny-dandy dear,
And Johnny-a-dandy, Johnny-a-dandy, dear;
I love my love so dear!"
And Johnny, who stood close beside her, said,
"I am not nearly blind;
And I've only got a notion of
A baby left behind."
"A baby left," continued the sailor boy
A little way behind,
And he paused and said, "Don't let my Dado go,
And don't let _him_ go on my way,
For we must have a baby dear,
And this baby left behind!"
But Johnny, who was in the main,
As I have done, said no again.
Then there was Bill, who stood for Tom
Until the clock began to strike.
He got out of the house and stared
Upon the boy, and kicked his hat,
And said, "My dears, are you so glad,
So you're afraid of _me_?"
For Tom who happened to be,
He said, "Who is the baby, dear,
So you see it ain't very dear?"
And he said, "I'm sure it's Bill.
Is my birthday so pretty fair?"
And he answered softly, "What do you here?"
And he said, "I don't like it,
But I like to do it, my pretty dears:
You _know_ we're a nest!
Are you standing alone, and waddling
So carelessly in your hat?
"You _know_ we're a nest!" he said,
Looking up and looking down;
"Oh, so sweet, and so bitter, and sweet," he said.
And the little brown head
Said, "Oh, dear! what a shame!
How much fewer you ever did see
In the nest of this pretty brown bird!"
And he made so merry,
With his wife and his dear,
That the birds in the nest of the little birds flew
In a rapture, all ecstasy, ecstasy;
And so happy and happy,
With his wife and his dear,
They flew to the East, and a rainbow span
Of light all the distance and trees and hedges,
And a rainbow-tinted face of beauty
Spread to heaven and the great winds blew
By--and the birds flew to each other,
With what a full love and true devotion!
But this, my dear one, is a terrible
 hug, but so gentle and so sweet!
And I have a terrible notion
These wings of my own will sometimes meet,
But I always adhere to the roses of the land,
And you don't know, but only to feel it;
That you couldn't escape them, you know.
Oh, a nice little bird was the _Bird_,
As fine as those legs could be!
And when she was quite small,
She sat up in a little chair,
And, by her side, ate up quite tall
Till her blue eyes were dried.
But there is no denying
She was a very little bird,
And that _that_ was never heard
Of any lady in the land,
Excepting little, maybe,
Who lived on a high stool and food,
And all she had in the tall, tall board,
Was--that,
======================================== SAMPLE 515 ========================================
,
The Lady of the Forest-side,
Her face is lily-clear and wide,
And she is all my heart, I own.
The Lady of the Forest-side
She walks in beauty, like a bride
In happy company, and who
Is she? All other little things
And lovely things, and fair as wings,
Bear light along her dainty-strings,
And she is all my heart, I own.
So does the forest bear away
Its green and yellow leaves, that fall
Like rainbows on its gilded wall,
And lift themselves to sky and sea,
But oftener far, and higher, fall
In clouds of gold that veil the sky,
And fall on cloud and bird and beast
Like drops of dew and water falling
Over the beauty of her breast;
So do the rivers flow and darken.
And she is all my heart, I own.
She was not all for this or that,
For everything or e'en for that,
But as a flower, that bears the sun,
And bears the breath of heaven upon
Its crest of gold above the snow,
She did not fear to taste so sweet
The goodly blossoms of her feet.
She did not shrink nor lose a fear
That sweet and tender was her speech,
But still went on with eager feet
To where the wood-fire's blazes thickest
And fairest flowers were best unblown.
She made no sign, but watched them well
Along the dim paths 'neath the trees,
And though she wept not nor was glad,
She said: "O sweet, my loving trees,
O trees so fair, why will you leave
Your boughs with all their silver sheen?
Why will you leave that old, sweet tree?"
"My own wild-flowers," she said, "are weak,
But do they hear? 'Tis far away,
And I must walk the windy meads
Before the sun goes down the day;
Or is there some bright dream within
Your lonely bowers? It is not far,
There is no fairer tree for me.
O trees, why will you leave the earth
And leave its verdant leaves to fall?
I am the Wind in fairy-land,
I am the fairy-tale to all."
The maiden sighed, "O, were he dead
How soon would I be far away,
I know not when he did not come,
But now I know that he is dead.
For he is all my heart, I own.
O, were he by the light of day,
I think that I could weep for him!
Ah, could he hear my voice, and know
My heart would break my heart to see
His face so bright and fair, and wake
Such hope within so bright a tree!"
"O, could he come away," she sighed,
"My heart would break within his hand,
And he would be no more, my love,
But all for me in fairyland!"
Thus whispered there, and yet again,
When summer ended all her song,
She lingered here and there and wept,
And thought with tenderness and care
Beseems herself to be so fair;
And when her words were words of hope,
And she had said them both, "Good-bye,"
She smiled and said, "I stay to die.
And I must go, for all is well,
And I must stay and turn away;
And 'twere best for me to go
And rest--I would to God and you,
And oh, to all that I have done!
So, farewell, sweet night," I said,
And kissed her brow, and kissed her mouth.
(O, the wild and tender curse of the human race,
The human language, which is not the man's, or his
supports!
I hate the lie, despiteful people,
And hate the lie, the lie.
It is most true the lie is lie,
But the lie is false to me.
Though false, yet true, the lie is lie!
And true the lie, though false.
If this be foul, yet sin be light,
The sin of you is most of you.
If this be vile, yet sin be bright,
All sin is vile in you.
O, the wild and tender curse of the human race,
The human language, which is not the man's, and is not
the man's, and is not his.
If evil, yet sin is light,
And grief a darkness dark
For every hope or every grace;
Through every wrong you range in hate,
Through every wrong you feel in you.
======================================== SAMPLE 516 ========================================
:
"When I am a man,
Then I will find you a man
And a man of my own land.'
"And I will have you a wife,
And a son of my own land;
And I will have anything else,
And a wife in my own land."
"So I will have you a wife,
And a son of my own land;
And I will have to live with you
In a house not far from Three Wiesley.
"I will have a man of my own,
And a son of my own land,
And you shall have a wife,
And you shall have five sons
That you will call your own,
"And I will have eight husbands
That you will call me my own,
And you shall have none of them
That you can call my own,
"But I will have no daughters
That you can call your own,
For I will call a house-right
When you have got ten men."
"But them I call my own,
And that's the only way to you,
For these are things I'll ask,
No woman is fair to sight or talk,
A man has got one daughter
That's called her Mother."
"Where is her dowry,
Mother, and where is she?"
"I'll have a little daughter
That's called her Mother."
"I'll have a little daughter
That's called her Mother"
"Where is her father,
Mother, and where is he?"
"I'll have a little daughter
Whom I call mine own;
All of these little daughter
That dwells in my own land."
"Nestled together,
A little woman lies;
Well now, O brother brother,
The little one denies;
"O brother, let her have one,
That's called her Mother's name;
Let her have my youngest daughter
That's named her Mother."
"Mother, there is but one, Mother,
And there is no one here;
Mother, mother, mother,
For the child that is so dear.
"Nestled together,
I'll go to the church to pray;
There I'll hear the priest a-praying,
And there I'll learn the way;
So I shall go down to my store,
And then I'll make it good,
When I all for the little one
That's called my Mother's Wife.
"The little one laughs at her,
Mother, laugh with her;
There's not a single daughter
That's called her Mother's Wife.
'There's not a single one of Mother
But is called her mother's wife.'
"Oh, there was a little baby,
And we laughed when the night was cold,
When the stars were shining brightly
On the window beams of gold.
"The little one laughs with us,
Mother, laugh with her;
There's not a single daughter
That's called my Mother's Wife.
"When the wind is in the garden,
It will come from the south,
It will bring us up to spinning,
But it shall not come from the west;
"Oh, when the wind is in the garden,
O then shall our children be
Rounded out to the shining sun,
And then the little one!"
And he laughed and wept for many,
And wept till the night was deep,
And he whistled and he whistled,
Till we cried, "O Father, keep!"
And he whistled and he whistled,
And we sang the song again--
And it ended where he whistled,
And it died to endless night,
And it died to wondrous sorrow
That he was the one to weep,
And he came not home to weep.
But we sang a ditty queer,
Full of woe and bitter tears,
Till the sorrow came to know
His name and nieces blue:
And we sang another song,
Till the gloom fell on us so;
It wasn't three o'clock, it's true,
At the house that Jack built.
Jack fell down with his hoe,
And Jack squeaks upon his feet,
And the poor little Jack, I ween,
Spinting coffee and sweet tea.
O, the birds sat one on top,
And sang sang, and sang till all,
Till the poor little Jack, I ween,
Ran and stripped down all his tail,
And was saved and sung the wale.
And it ate the puddles, Jack!
And now they all are gone,
And Jack keeps the scampering t claw,
Till we all are gathered nigh,
Where the moon comes
======================================== SAMPLE 517 ========================================
 from the
We've brought the best-luck of this race,
And we are the best in what we know;
So we leave it behind with the first and the last,
And the last that we made this century's fast.
The first was a man who was deaf to the call,
But the last is the one who has lived in the All;
The next, we have any opinion on this,
And we hope we might find a good reason why.
The third was a man who had studied at Greek,
But the fourth was a man if no other had been;
The dying a man if no other would do,
But the living, alas, are the best we can prove.
The fifth was the man, though I'm speaking of it,
And the sixth was a man who was worth a damn.
At the sixth, we observe that the latest man died on the 8th
field that afternoon.
To a country known by the usual name of the country of
"King Solomon he made an end to the paper," says T. S.
"Till one and all in the world did he take a pretty renown on the
T. S. It was in Jerusalem, as he lived in prosperity and
"Till Daniel wrote a book, it was his patronymic, but it
carried no impression on it."]
"Till you have learned the lesson which Daniel had learned from the
In all ages silenced by voices from houses, now houses were
house of the rich and powerful Christians, in all ages silenced
and banished to Palestine.
The book had been published by Daniel, and Daniel was
transformed to Daniel.
The text was delivered when Daniel began the book, and
therefore the four, Solomon, had given it over, and Daniel
inspire it to the people. The latter turned the key turned
into a precious wine offering, to satisfy the wants of many people
who were engaged with the same prodigal reward, and were
detained there. It was offered by Daniel from the king of the
Cochipes: given by Daniel; but, if offered by Daniel, he would
possess it. The number of the cottages, half hidden by the
credals, were selected by Daniel for a sign of the writing
upon which the king's daughters hang. Many were the public
houses, and many among the public houses lived eminent
in the days of the king of Babylon.
His family, which, through heathen ignorance, never yet had been
"Than David," as it is said, "is the father of the king of
Tribes, and one of the royal youths of the Hebrews who first
"Than David" in the first books of the Hebrews. Daniel
would have given him, if he would only have known it in his own
"Than David," his first volume of verses, entitled, "is
"Than David" in the first books of the Hebrews. The Hebrews
supposed to be among mankind.
The latter seemed to be young, and yet the young man was not
"He that hath laboured like the Sabine ox,
And brought the light of Heaven forth, is a reward
Unto the souls of the happy, who delude
The world with praise, and shine in us, that thus
Say, of what king's throng, what court of his is ours?"
In Macon's son's days, a king was born of Joseph, a famous
story, who became captain of the Giahs, a soldier of
the Bedites, was taken up, and followed his leader.
Among other kings, among that fortunate people, there was
not among the first clergymen of Israel a worthier
ignobles, but Christians, who knew not the right of baptism,
but lived there, and had as great value as if they were sons
of David, King of Jerusalem, when the Lord and the Lord were
a god. Before these, patriarchs and patriarchs, patriarchs and
"Than are the Ethiop."
signifies, when the camp is called the " burying of the ox." The
inhabit of the enemy was the palm tree; the Giah held it
behind the charmed circle, as soon as the enemies of the
sign, having boldly paid their idol worship to the God,
offerings.
The Giah, thus far, was offered, and the Giah held it
high. On the Sabbath morning, when they had sacrificed a
year, unto the Lord God, to his own words and his own
heart, they went to heaven and to the light of the sun, and
brought their offerings unto him, and with them ascended the
tree.
The holy camel, who was standing on the tree,
======================================== SAMPLE 518 ========================================
 and the
Hieras and Teuchen thither bring.
From thence be taken a city or city, where the country of
Homer into it must be taken.
There is a tower of al extent against the land; there is a
bridging it round the city, and it must be entered by an
open passage into which that wall is concealed. But the
house stands open and holds out the passages of the Roman
court, there is hardly a breath of wind or a wind to
give free passage, as heretofore, but it has been given by
outcome the Romans in all ages to the Athenian calamities, and
the Roman women with gory eyes and with murderous hands have
crushed the city.
And this tower is an illimitable port, for it is stormed; and
the walls of the town are broken and the gates of the
Trojan temple have been stormed.
But the Roman women have ta'en away their lord, the son of
Stratius; therefore it is well to go and take the city; and
you must bear all that the Trojans and Trojans, the Achaeans,
call you, and you shall find an easier proof.
Hereafter you shall not miss on your own hearth the glory of
the gods, for this is no well-doing to stand by the way."
And Achaean women looked fiercely upon him and answered, "O
born of the flames, and you, you who are of the blood and
bread; such a host of stalwart men has no place in our
house, and you would even ravine us by your own blows."
And the Argives answered, "Son of Atreus, you are no man
thief in any part of the Achaean host, if you will only stand
and take the city, and hear what you have to tell us; for we
are men among the Argives, and should not be pressed by any
man among the Argives."
And Achaean women looked fiercely upon him with both their
lids, and both spoke:
"Son of Atreus, fosterling of Zeus, when you were an
child, when you were an outcast, even your husband, you
dared not do so; for we did it when we Achaeans came at
the ships of the Achaeans."
And Laodamas, and his father, they answered, "Son of
Atreus, king of men, when you were an only child, I beg you
to let us raise a monument to the gods, and to ourselves, that
we may see our comrades within the wall."
And Sarpedon answered, "Old man, though your words are
dyedy, you might stand against all these things, and the
Achaeans will not dare to do so. You were always bound to
keep them in mind to see each other in the wall, and to
fasten in the gatehouse, and even to keep them out of the
press. You are always bound to see a man standing by it, for
you have the better part of the city when the Achaeans are
within it. You must let the Achaeans come up to protect
their ships and tents from harm, but let us consider that
all fair things can be gathered together from the wall; take
you heifers, while the Achaeans are within it, and keep guard
in their narrow space, if you would have them fight at will.
Let the Achaeans also."
The old man spoke cynically, and at last answered, "Old man, you
know that of myself I know nothing about this, neither indeed,
nor surely the gods, but always the gods themselves. They
seldom ask me of whom I am, nor can I judge either by
going or sitting down of the other gods. I always ask myself
questioned, what manner of man is the one that can be known in
the world. He is the only man I have, and the only one who
falls. If he is ashamed and broke in battle, and if I challenge
him, therefore I will abide by you and protect you."
Then the old man said, "He is a great man and chivalrous, and
counselled among a number of his enemy that I have one
with him--he has neither father nor son, but I alone am
indeed, and am the most like father to him for ever. I never
saw a man more like him, nor can I say that I know him so
present himself when he is in the ranks."
And Sarpedon answered, "My dear comrade, all that you have
spoken, both gods and men, as Jove and the other gods, in

======================================== SAMPLE 519 ========================================
t, v.ix. 30;
v. 82.  Four steps with wings.]  The three cardinal virtues that
v. 83.  Their fathers.]  The Church of God.
v. 83.  Six wings.]  The plumes.
v. 82.  Six in the Wom party.]  The Church of St. Paul.
v. 83.  Six of the folds.]  The wings of a family of
whom the two patriarchs had not left behind.
v. 83.  Five of the folds.]  Five orders were made of
v. 83.  Six hooded ermine.]  The wings of the four angels
that came to the kingdom of the Sun (though it is well known
that its course transcends the first of the angels), or of
from the seventh line of the seventh and eighth series.
v. 98.  We descry.]  The three humble souls.
v. 113.  Our sire.]  The father, and brother of the Emperor
Boniface VIII, and our author ancestor, who died in 1301.
v. 121.  Whose lip yon stile is snarling.]  "I like it."
v. 135.  His breast.]  The bosom of Dido.
v. 146.  No less.]  He is said to have been placed on earth at
v. 147.  Thy brothers' servant.]  In the old verses:
Dante's life, i. x.
v. 141.  What dost thou see.]  "The world of rivers, and of
gleams, and of the sun."
v. 137.  Th' angelic fire.] He is said to have been the daughter of
v. 5.  A wondrous light.]  "These were the eagles on the wind."
v. 16.  Of th' sudden blaze.]  Some suppose that Apollo
found his place among the rocks of the Philistines in the mountainous
islands, where he wrote a poem which that neither saw nor heard."
v. 33.  On the part.]  The angelic people were supposed to have
been represented as astronomy, and as a mederensible and idle
citizen of the sun.
v. 38.  The little that shone there.]  Cold, and black, and
blue.
v. 43.  The flaming sign.]  Some say that this sign
involves the appearance of the angelic signal, the symbol, the
sign.
v. 45.  Of angels.]  Gabriel, to whom I have often been referred.
v. 48.  Thy brother Gabriel.]  Gabriel.
v. 50.  Wrekin of seraphim.]  Angelic Virtues.
v. 71.  A new front rock.]  He alludes to the angelic signal.
v. 79.  The part.]  "That the first heaven from its region
breathes in."
v. 88.  The seat of empire.]  Constantinople being situated on
the river Genesee, where the empire of Prague is described.  A
v. 94.  The high rock.]  In the original editions it has
been attributed to Satan as a translator for some of the
v. 94.  The great Argo.]  In the original editions it has been
terrible adventures; and indeed there was no need to be known
v. 94.  The white snow.]  Dante here means the contrary opinion
of contrary opinion.
v. 112.  As swan.]  "The pride of the sea"; Sicily.
v. 127.  The land]  The sea was the planet Urim which rises
from the blue Aegean.
v. 2.  A red hill.]  The Apennine above A.D.  At the instigation of
a mountain, Sicily called.
v. 5.  The eastern flame.]  Constantinople being situated about
Tauronia.
v. 6.  The third Caesar.]  Caesar.
v. 12.  'Now ransack joyfully'
v. 62.  In four zodiacs.]  The four heavens are marked with the
Vellutello and his sister.
v. 29.  At the gate of the dolorous shades.]  The sun enters Aries in
v. 37.  The first Censorinus.]  The next, who falls from
v. 38.  Pietro.]  Priscian goes to the west coast of
Salone in Argolis.
v. 49.  The next trees.]  The first trees nearest to the mountains
called "the present place," which, at the summit of the
mountain, is made from Apulian
======================================== SAMPLE 520 ========================================
,
Who, as he sits at gaze with staring eyes,
Looks out on this or that occasioned war,
Wherein the Church has toil enough to wear,
Because the sword, with thunder on its sheath,
Did not, indeed, beat down Pope, who was not there.
Whether he be a bishop, or an tonsore
Of priests, who, in the spirit of matter, bore
A devil with the devil, his mode hell no more,
His talk the same, all bloody, bad and sore,
He charged God also with a true religion;
Wherefore, as he being told, he made whole scores
Of such hard names as favour saints and sots,
Made at the time of his own jealousy,
By a true method to make saints feel martyrs.
The Church he had made ready to complete
His evil genius, made a doctrine meet
For the sick saints to suffer and to bless,
While the good priests, in spirit and in blood,
Were doing work, which had much better bode
For the world's good or evil, but for these,
Who were toiling all these years in piteous kinds,
And who, God help us, were not willing fools:
They made to them a creed as fresh and sound
As that of trumpets; this in which they found
Such natural, undreamt-of gratitude
As is from those who such a creed have had;
Which made them think, by tastes so downward thrust,
They might have put the old world's highest trust
To such a creed as this.  A higher tie
Broke every bond of silence, for the best
In all the universe, both when they sigh,
Or wake, as if for heaven's sake, day and night,
Which no mysterious law could ever set
For sanctity or sin, which had been set
By the world's laws, was made in such a guise,
That even theishops thought it an offence,
And bade them use its goodness, not its laws,
But when it proved that he had done amiss,
They all joined hands, and joined the sacred cause.
Such was the end, they knew not, till this day,
What he had never done was what he saw.
And now the old story is no more,
Which did this priest of old in his time see,
Whom he had learned, and where, and how, and why,
To teach the Church itself; who now, began
Th' expose, this new gospel of old man,
And still more pure had been its sacred duty
To him who did it in his time invent,
And what he did, it found more rich and good
In him that it had grown from year to year,
And that he should have raised the structure early,
As did the figures, one by year, when he
Was hoar with children, and was grown so tall,
He lost his memory of those days grown old,
And that of the red carnage which ensued
By his Lord's ordinance, though it seemed good
To him that he was living, when the Flood
Of Blood-bed, which occasioned such a strife,
Had been within his conscience, as they say,
Whereby he was made usher in the day,
To this accomplishment of priests and laws,
Through which all virtue and good will he shines.
This doctrine highly to perfection binds,
And thence in Heaven forth issued, and, again,
Upbraids the vulgar, as affliction yields
To the just Lord; and so ordains the poor
Heaven they by their examples them to guide,
Who by their examples lead to Heaven,
Which is their homeward way.  So doth he love
To make himself of these things, and do free
Their subjects, who are clothed in guilty mind,
And they adore the Lamb whom law hath killed,
But to the Cross he too afigured figure turned.
He who on the Red Sea coast was lately seen
Playing and singing with his beating heart,
In the dark flood of hell was long unseen;
But for the Roman people hemm'd round by
His Holy Church, nor had the Law new powers
Over the Church to move such high good will,
But that as their transgressions were both light and ill.
With him, the Church more freely built becomes,
As in our Magistrates for this more fit
Of trueformation; and that its chief end
In putting out of heaven the pomp of War,
And whatsoever was of Church thereto,
Must render shameful, as it had been siet.
But the more hateful, the more kind, the more
Himself the love of God from which he grew
Fond to behold, and knowing not his Church,
They
======================================== SAMPLE 521 ========================================
.
The first half of the work is made into twelve books, and with the
The first half of the work is finished, except where the last half is
The next deal is finished.
There is a great deal to be done; and the plan of writing, and the
second half of the work will last till nearly convinced of the
The plan is finished.
The next half is finished.
I have said that nearly all the letters are finished, and the last
These books can hardly be collected unless some one is consulted by
The fifth year has rolled down and done with great rejoicing: the
transfuses me to the subject, which, I am sure, is already
grating on him to gain a new name to the public. But I shall
shall think that if, except only a few years ago, I sent out the
honour to them.
I shall never know what it is, but I shall know that the work is
the same.
The sun is now the principal glory of the earth.
The birds are happy in the air, the wind is now our own.
How happy the man who is not troubled with a new dream, and
joys in his morning of life and of its evening of play, and
happiness, is happy.
I shall never know how this world is happy, for I have not tried to
I shall neither find in the mind nor in Nature that is altogether
gracious to the spirits of the stars and the intelligence of the
stars.
The stars are the eyes of the dying man, the stars of the
gleaming on their diadems. They are the eyes of the noble
If I should now come here to examine the text of the Poem to
After I had a bout with it, I began to think that this plan
I repaired again to my old friend, and said, "I should like to see
St. Luke carrying the Beast with a Child.
St. Luke's.  Being thesimple and grand of the two, the youngest
Tales from the Norse of Scotland relate the wonderful story;
Stories from the German of Scandinavian mythology, and from
The history of the sea-god, and the Mortification of the Pine-Tree
The River Plate was five miles down, but in the spring a path; a
passage describes the road to the sea; the distinction between
The mountains formed on the end of the road.
St. Luke was travelling on the Monday after a slight illness;
There is a beautiful legend about the death of the king of Elva;
Stories from the German of Scandinavian mythology, and other
The great sea-god of the sea was covered with mist and cloud;
Stories from the Baltic of Scandinavian mythology, as described.
This is one of the most entertaining and beautiful story of the
stout, as the regular custom is to do with the heathen philosophers,
melancholy, were frequently exerted as a whole, the influence,
"The great sea-god of the sea said unto me, 'Uplift thine eyes to
The old man, the old man, answered, "That is the way of the spirits
Then the old man, the old man, spoke out:
"Uplift thine eyes to mine eternal sight.
From the depths where it first looked on till I was filled with joy,
earth shall no longer be a ball for my delight."
The old man bowed his head as he spoke, and then
called out to us: "Divine Comforter of the soil!
bearer of the gods, give unto me this boon; that ye may know
for certain and certain omens be light to me; for I will give
unto the men and to my people what is in the world."
The old man bowed his head as he spoke, and then
called to us in cheerful words:
"Divine Comforter of the soil!
bearer of the heavens, give unto me this boon; that ye may know
for certain and certain omens be light to me; for I will
bring no diversions in the world to afflict my head, but in the
world I will neither lose my life nor earn it at any price; and
thee and the holy angels will give unto this one only, that
thou mayest know for certain and know nothing."
Then the men and angels began all singing with their voices, and
St. Luke ran on, and said with a loud voice, "The King of
the angels would have it so, and the King of heaven be glad, if
thou hadst fallen down on the knees of the cross, and the Child had
fallen."
St. Luke ran on with the glad news, and he said that the King
had fallen down on the cross, and that
======================================== SAMPLE 522 ========================================
 in the house,
And when the Queen hath bid them all to wine,
So we shall sit in the warm sunny house
And the happy children around us dance.
When our spears are drawn and all is said,
When to battle rage is overpast,
And the shouts of the maddened horde is fled,
And the night is cold and dark and still,
Then, then, must the King his banner fill--
When Persia's banner is lowered in haste,
And the cry of the war is from Diderot shut,
And the clouds of our foes are scattered around,
We, too, must be severed, or soon or late.
But our lives shall be as the blossoms of Yaman,
The flowers of the land where their blossoms are furled,
And we who have held the salt poison of war,
Shall go together to the tent of the Chief
And go forth to the fields of the Lord,
And we will go to the desert sands, or the mountains where
We hunted the mulets and fled from our standards and
and the arrows and the lance-bearers and the men,
And we will follow in procession before the tent, or the
dwellers under the banner of the leader of men.
There's the banner of the chiefs who are going to die
And the proud and the suffering, and the weary and old,
The only hearts of the women and children are left,
So we'll turn us a march to the hills, and we'll mount
and go back to the plains and the groves that are old.
The young and the strong are going away, the old and the young
are going to battle,
But they have a road of fifty miles to the North
That is neither hot nor cold,
Who have no home to stay the hour on which they came
And they have no beds to sleep,
But they're going to make the Great War Age
And when the armies cease to weep
They think it's bloody work to keep,
But it's easy jaunty to be old and wise
When they can't sleep in any land.
And when the fighting is over
And the battle's all past and gone,
They think it's best to be cheerful
When it's time for battle on.
And so to bed and pray
When the battle has gone and left the camp to play,
And we'll have to take our turn and see the fight,
For it's pleasant here to lig in by the town
And be content and wish it's never done
Or said or done that I should come to you
And remain a hero for a year or two,
And be a man to meet the storms and stars
And be a boy as many as you are
And never dream of fighting once again
And never dare to turn the knee to yours
Till you're muddy, dirty, and old."
"Oh, if you wish to go away"--
"Oh, if you go away, you can't stay"--
"Get up, kill you, you naughty boy."
"No, won't be naughty, naughty boy."
"No, if you go away, I'll stay"--
"Get up, kill you, you naughty boy."
Then, when I have done this I'll go no more
And be a man to fight the fight
And be a man to want the light.
And that's enough to stay, but what of that?"
Oh, once I heard an old lady says
My mother told me yesterday
That she must go away.
And when she wants so much to say
It's all for them that she must leave
And come and try to find--
"Get up, kill you, naughty boy."
And there she stood at the head of the band
A tall black haggard for a cloak,
And when I saw my sisters stare
I'd shout like some one loudly there,
"Get up, kill you, silly boys."
But they didn't shout at me--and now
I feel so sleepy and so wrapped
I can't explain to them nor try
To get up when my comrades shout
And the big gun's blare again.
"Go down, go down, my men!" says I,
And they won't do my burial.
But I'm not the children that I see
As I was up in the years long gone
And brought up in the trenches--
It's centuries since I was here
And the soldiers had died for me,
And I'm thankful they went to the war,
And I shall never be needed more
Because they fought so hard.
And I've met them all at dead of night
And they sleep so soundly by my side
That I don't get up when I'm
======================================== SAMPLE 523 ========================================
!
Now what you are I will hear with delight
Than that you are my friend, the Prince of the polite.
That you have a brave bearing, a heart all for some end
A foe to your feelings, to him that is near it,
And more, as I'd like to have counselled this weather?
You'd have died at New York and been hanged on the spot,
Had you known what you are, and known what you are,
By the look of this welcome you sent me at last,
For I know, to my grief, it is certainly just,
All your courage, my Prince, is in battle with him,
And I, you have signed this posthumous letter,
Will not change it in any short time.
Perhaps once again the visitor tries to get out
As he rattles his box, and his courage grows stout,
But he sits as a rock and he feels as a pore,
He is leaning against you and mutters about,
And we're gathering a score of our shot.
So we give him the first shot, and we give him the last
That he feels of the blessing he'll never receive;
And though better may seem what this letter is mean,
'Twill be better to find that he's safe from the wind,
And so I have come to this letter New York.
Here are six of the most popular of masters, who, being somewhat
"This and Other Published according to the necessity of our author."
_In constraint_
_Written by Mr. H. wielded, with Illustrations by
_In constraint, you fly from our cloud_
_The clouds are gathering in the air_
_No cloud in _air_
_Methinks it is a _misery_
_That struggles against our will_
_Of mighty tryst_
_And lifts its arm_!
_In constraint_
_To change that sea-born wonder_
_That hangs above the foam_
_Where all the waves are gliding in_
_The cloud is gliding in_.
There are waters, lakes, and streams
That roll their ceaseless round;
There are mountains, mountains, lakes,
Where the ocean-horse ne'er glares
Through ramping clouds:--and here ...
_Here are numberless my flowers_
_With the snow-flakes that congeal_
_And the pines that crown the hill_
_And the hill-tolled vales that swell_
_I would pluck them all!_
To the _rock-capped hills_
_In a whisper soft and low_
_Of music sweet and low_
_And the ripple and the sway_
_Of the poplar-shading_
_Where the violets and the jasmine fair_
_And the violets and the lilies rear_
_Their heads above the grass._
_Then spread out your wings where ye may meet_
_The wildering winds that beat_
_At their feet, now here, now there,--
_But the tender buds and blossoms meet_
_With a mutual tenderness._
_But your steed is heavy and your rider needs must ride back to
_That was a promise of good, old King,_
_Of a high-born and gentle deed_
_Which, in good sooth, Sir King _John M'Mulligan_
_Had in the service of the Queen,--_
_A high-born knight and gentle was the knight_
_Who in a distant land went with his shield_
_Here where the foam-flecked rushes drip_
_Where the great deep is covered o'er_
_With the mighty ramparts of the fort_
_And the fort's entrance. All there knew_
_That the highest was not yet attained_
_By a hundred blows of the sword_
_The prowess of the Paynim lord_
_That had made M'ulligan's folk afraid_
_To give him life to stand
And go to the field for a time when he fell--_
_His brother, who had borne him through Hell_
_And laid him, as a prince might, low_
_In the midst of a great victory--_
_Shining and glorious, as the moonlit foam_
_When the tides of the sea are ebbing home_
_To find no hold for him, or him_
_What he strove and fought and fought_
_And in every bone of his heart that day_
_When he left the field in the forest grey_
_He loved the hunting-law, that rode alone_
_And the hunters, that
======================================== SAMPLE 524 ========================================
 and a thousand times.
But that is all we care for:
It's good for us, or we are tired:
It's your and it's enough for you,
'Tis the women that are kind
To give us to the life we love;
It's good for us, and it's no use.
And you, so far apart,
I'm only a woman's heart,
And only half of my own life.
There's another way to lay my
Fancies upon you one by one,
For if you would not I'd say nay.
But if you would not I would have you,
Nor I would I would you deny;
'Tis the woman that keeps the heart.
There'll be when you meet another
A something in you that will change,
And you will look, and the years will range;
But you'll never be there from where I am,
And that will not always be strange.
I've done with my books and my beds,
And my books and my pictures and talk;
But there's no better way to be read
Than to find myself the half-cause to talk.
I want to live by myself
The life of others to see,
I'd like to live and live by myself
In my simple, quaint company.
And I can't sleep at night
Because I sometimes creep,
And when the stars shine bright
I'd like to wake and to swing.
But sometimes when the suns shine bright
And stars are out on the sea,
I'd like to live and sleep
And not be useless in glee.
And I'm the master of all
The ways of men and women,
And no one now but me
Can work like a little obeid;
For I am the man of a million
That is born, and born again
In the light of the morning and morning:
I'm all the day and all the day
Because of the man who has been
The only man.
When we are tired and waiting for rest,
And wish out the light of the sky
For the birds to go to sleep,
Then, then, we shall sleep at night
And not forget,
We shall not be weary,
Nor heed the sign of the day,
Nor think what the dear old year brings
That we shall forget.
No more, then, if you love me
You know we shall not be weary:
Our youth is all gone and gone,
We should be young again;
Though we should stay in the morning
And not be useless, and not weary.
You have not learnt to love me:
Because I was so young,
We knew but half an hour of the earth
And the light of the sun and moon
And my desire for all that is done
And all that I have or dreamt:
But I grow older... and grow strange...
I am older, and grow strange...
I know that there is more for me
Than all the days before.
I know that there is much for me
To speak of. To forgive,
This is but to look on the moon,
And not forget all the stars,
For never again will I see
The light of your eyes and hair,
Nor your mouth, nor your voice,
Nor the light of your hair:
I have seen--but never have seen
Aught like you... a pity,
A pity the stars are seven,
The one is only seven.
The stars and the moon remember--
We are two, O you and me,
But the white and the red and the blue
And the ruddy and grey for me.
I have seen all your soul has seen.
The little moon is but the night
And I am one with you,
And if I make the whole world right,
What matter the moon and stars...
Love's a-sailing
In the twilight on the shore;
Love's a-sailing
In the twilight on the shore;
Love's a-sailing
In the twilight on the shore;
Love's a-sailing
In the twilight on the shore;
Love's a-sailing
In the twilight on the shore;
Love's a-sailing
In the twilight on the shore;
Love's a-sailing
In the twilight on the shore;
Love's a-sailing
In the twilight on the shore;
Love's a-sailing
In the twilight on the shore,
Love's a-sailing
In the twilight on the shore;
Love's a-sailing
When the moon is at the full;
Love's a-sailing
In the twilight on the shore;
Love's a-sailing
Whenever you are fair,
======================================== SAMPLE 525 ========================================
, who had been a little
suspicion. He was a little satisfied with the most miraculous
delight of his years.
He was like one who, long ago, with leaden feet and
lank neck, lies down to rest.
He was a man of thirty-five, who carried in his arms
a chest, a man of twenty-seven, in which there were two
great battles.
He was the man of twenty-seven, the bravest man who ever
held the sea in battle, and who conquered death as he did since. He
stood at the front with the catafalque upon its hinder feet,
though his sabre and cuirass were manifest to the view. In
straight lines were written his name.
He was about to turn round to see if the enemy had been
shaken, and he was afraid lest the coming of the enemy might
make some mistake.
He saw the horse of the stranger, he was thinking of the
cant-cry he had tried to make. He was amazed at his
nastyness, and therefore he went back quickly, not speaking
of things that were forlorn, and his father said, "When I
saw three of your brothers coming on horseback, it has
been said that the eldest of them had left the sheep of his
mother's sheep. I saw the three kings coming on horseback
from the country of our parents, and on this day was the
one who gave them their father's money--a noble boy; one who
had known many sorrows and toils in battle. He was also
with the first and the youngest that had to follow him. I see
he was a knight of birth, so noble in heart and in form. I
was born where I was born, I was the son of a noble king; I
had my father's property and my noble house, and the eldest
that had to follow me.
"This son of mine had three brothers who enjoyed his
retirement in the wars. He was only nine years old, when his
father, as the county-boy, married his youngest brother; he died,
and left his wife in his arms, bereft of consciousness and
sickness. He was driven to the north and the west, in the name of
to this land of Danish folk, {95a} named herein, for the king's
daughter Marjatta. In the next year, the second, he married
Sarra; and he was found southward, and came to a castle in
Elbracca, in the southern country and the islands. There he
begirded himself, having cast off his weeds.
"The third for the lady's castle the maid gained in exchange
with the other three brothers who had lost their weeds and their
well-loved precious booty for those who might marry him. They
shared a prouder pair than any of the others; and in their
own land they married, and their wealth was lavished by them in
Bjark's {95b} home, to be obtained by their fathers, and to be
succeeded in virtue of their titles: so the fortune of the
poet, the pride of the kingdom, afforded them this glorious
sumptuous crown. By the hearth of the house they had two sons,
"The others were handsome and good-natured, and one of them
carried a golden distaff; {95c} and the other was called the
twentieth of the feast; they were merry as they were and
satisfied with the sight of each other, and each of them had a
lovely house and friends. {95a} There were they who received
them in their bosoms and lodged them at the bier with a pair of
They might not have had many kinsmen, but were congenial to
them; and a dozen of their children and their sons were
laden with care and love.
"O my father, how strange is this! in what foreign land
have you been wandering?  It is only from afar that your
father sent you this stranger here to whom you are so
cruel.  If he has gone to a foreign country, he shall have
pleasant lands: he shall have wife, and children, with a
honoured name and honor, in the sight of your friends; so will
you honor those whom he has honoured."
"O my father, what were the words you speak, when you hear
me? for the common people are good men, and all the while
can hear me and see me. When your heart is glad and free,
and you speak with your babes and girls, and when you are
satisfied with this message, when you are minded to ask of me
======================================== SAMPLE 526 ========================================

My heart, which, in the desert bare,
Unpitied and unsaddened found
Of love, may yet retain its name,
When once its tender joy hath flown
Into a dim and strange array,--
The same in these wild days and days,
When love, in youth, shall own its sway
And seem the same in age and clime
And the same rainbow in its clime!
"O, had I had a soul to read
This book which hath the spirit's eye,
Thou wouldst behold how tenderly
Thou played'st with me, and how could'st read
To me those book so strangely bright,
When each sweet line I would outwit
Was but a book that I had read,
And thou the book's mysterious part,
In every line that thou didst write!
Then, even then, I should not fret
If in those days God's book divine
Might look the gift of solitude,
And make me live a living soul
Who knew not, pitied, understood,
And pitied that in life's poor round
And hidden hole of memory found
Some semblance of that noble mould
Which thou didst know was all too well.
"But if that gift of beauty rare
Could ever take the souls of men,
Ah! why should I not give it thee
Though they were all thine own again?
Who, then, would give that gift of breath
To feel the strength and sweetness of
The life to them that thou didst die
Before that time, whereof no line
Was made but of their deathless line?
A voice would come, a thought would go:--
"Nay, thou hast given thy spirit scope
And sent a stream of feeling by
The windy sea, and the untried sky,
And the strange paths thou went'st to tread
Where they have made their path so bright,
Yet thou dost keep thy spirit's light.
"I say, in that far-away
And sacred book whose shadow lies
Deep in thy heart--and who can say
What is the spell that seems to make
A light for thee, in the dark night
Of life's dark ocean is thy light?
"And thou wast ever given to flow
A stream of feeling, and a song
A soul could taste, or never know
Till to the end it came or long
As thy large thoughts came back, or thou
Gave back thy soul again to see
In this same book the soul of me.
"Because thou hast not known the skill
To lift a spell--in every line
Thou didst not think of joy or ill,
And not of pain--but only thine
Would dream of bliss and love divine,
And only they would have thee know
If thou hadst not a spell above
Thy life and fame, what prize were ours
Hadst thou not lost a spell divine?
"If I remember, well mayst thou
Remember,--and forget,--
Remember then, when I forget
The light that never was again
To gild thy pathway,--not of pain:
Hast thou heard a spell, a spell
In days forepast, when thou and I
Were but the broken dreams they had
That haunt thy heart, if thou mightst call
Back to the light that once was all--
"Hast thou heard a spell, a charm
More strong than former days of bliss?
Hast thou heard an angel's tale
Poured into thee of love and truth?
Hast thou marked a wild witch's tale
Told by some lost or wiser youth,
When thy heart beat with hope's wild throng
Or we saw the witch's song
Till the spell had power to stir
Our own sad spirits, even as thou
And I were but a withered flower,
And no happy elf and I, alas,
Were but an earth-worm to the grass,
And no happy wanderer to roam
To the flower-land of the heart of home,
Nor know the love for which thou hast
By the wayward thought that thine shouldst crave.
"And if, by some strange spell, I turn
To the throng that now so long have been,
Hast thou seen a home on the shore
Where thy bark has braved a thousand oars
And thy bark has braved the storm and strife
Of the waves that shatter thy life's smooth dream,
And we now have one who never hath loved--
Weary one, who feels no heart-stilled grief.
"And oh! the world is full of thee,
And the world is wrought of thee so well,
And the sun that led thee through the sky
Shall
======================================== SAMPLE 527 ========================================
, with the exceptions of the two following
sources of _tancred_ or _tancred_ over, as the third great
signe is sent out of _tancred_, is generally accepted.
_tancred_ or _tancred_ I think will be found in the
_tancred_ or _tancred_ or _tancred_ I shall now understand,
that _tancred_ or _tancred_ I shall very often try to explain, or
_tancred_ or _tancred_ I shall answer in the following
passages:
_tancred_ or _tancred_ I shall very often try to explain,
that the signe as if _tancred_ may be signe, or _tancred_,
and that I shall explain to you, (whilst I try to trace to
that one signe) _signe_ or _tancred_ a signe_ and that
may be given you by a signe, as is written in the present.
_tancred_ or _tancred_ I shall here obviously understand,
that _tancred_ or _tancred_ I shall present to you this I
will do, (and keep your own patience with your own self,)
and that you will, I undertake, be assured, be as sensible of
this as you have been, in the present instance, as I am
able to judge of the kind of smell and touch, for the smell of
all sorts of the lot of it.
_tancred_ or _tancred_ I shall answer in the following
passages, not the first or the second or the third.
_tancred_ or _tancred_ I shall answer in the following
passages, that the signe may be signe, or that in the present it is
not observed or placed, or suspected, or suspected by those who
have either been abused or suspected throughout the world,
because it is the intention of the law."
_hiacuitiae_ (Ticus, Iliad), and Iliads, see the passage and
_biacte_ in three places immediately, and _pax_ in three
_triumphing_ parts, if we see things right and left at the bottom
of the circle, or hear sounds from below: for the reason,
which as the circle is not now called (as we said before) by
_tancred_ or _tancred_ you
have taken on the straight, and the number of the notes has not
any place taken in the above.
"Tanquiliter uxori Tisiphone_," etc.
_Odis uxori Tisiphone_,
_Oeturnusque Nereids_ (Melpomene) mare,
_Raptat uxori Tisiphone_,
_Raptat uxori Ditisiphone_ [_sic._]
_Ote deum subita patet_ [_sic_], etc.
"Tanquilior uxori Tisiphone,
_Te pectora Ditisophone_," &c.,
"Tanquilior uxori Tisiphone _in se_.
"Blambo cxxxviis, qui caue cxxxviii,"
so in the next stanza begins,
"Blambo cxxxviii,"
"Blambo cxxxvi,"
"Blambo cxxxvii,"
"Blambo cxxxvi,"
"Blambo cxxxvi,"
"Barrow cxxxvi,"
"Darrow cxxxvi,"
"Darrow cxxxvi,"
"Darrow cxxxvi,"
"Farewell!--farewell!--farewell!"
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.
In little pretty Now
The Flower should first be known
It shuns the Fairies' darts,
Their laureles would outgo
In Summer's richest glow.
The Fairies are so coy,
They make us think they'll say,
"If half the world was ours,
Our pretty maids should be
By Love's almighty powers.
The Fairies may be rude,
But love is of the wood,
When their loves for the wood
In Summer's green leaves stood.
The Fairies oft will blame
The tender love they've tried;
They'll make us think they'll blame
The sweetest flowers that blow,
Yet, when they think they're true,
They'd own they're ever so.
But when the flower is dead,
======================================== SAMPLE 528 ========================================
tching his wings, and, in his flight to Vaugu,
Grieving his fortune to avenge his fall, he grieves,
And to the Vultures thus, in anger, thus replied.
Ye Nymphs of Ocean, and ye Delian groves,
I come, O Ocean King!  a suppliant yield
(If for my mother's woe--myself, for love)
To thy suppliant me, and to my prayer, ere yet
My spirit sinks within me, thou wouldst call
And make me worthy of thy favor, me,
Expedient for thy favor, now, the more.
For, should I yield thee to what thou hast sworn
To thy own self, a Goddess, shalt thou be
Thine own own hereafter.  I am sent to share
Thy wishes, and the more remote from thee
The more remote, the nearer thee may move
Thy spirit, and to happier seats return.
There, once again on thy natal soil repose,
Thine be the memory of him, virtuous,
Whose name was ever sacred to the Gods
Olympian, and whose holy name we own.
For not till Zeus shall thee consume, his sons,
Shall they, even they, the loftiest of his kind,
Shall leave a noble name for thy pursuit,
That never thou may'st know them, but a boy,
A petty churl, whom I have sent to learn.
My father, Neptune, to thee I return,
And in his son take honour; for he lives.
But thou with pity, and with love comply;
For much I long that thou wilt wed in Troy,
With much, and with thy children, till the mat
Of matrons, Phoebus, be the day decreed
For noble Peleus, and should arm to fall
For highest merit of his peers in fame.
But him I will no longer urge, who knows
How high above my sire thou hast advanced.
A godlike son-in-law appears the son
Of old Anchises, who had won renown
By his long-rotten father's hands and years
A wealthy bride for his adored wife.
But thee, I send not back to punish thee,
Myself, nor thine, though much, that thou may'st know
Thy sufferings past; why will'st thou bow thyself
And bear him home, while yet the sun gives light?
The son, thy father, of thine ancestors
The guest-in-law, and of thy progeny
The brave Pelasgi, whom I saw to-day,
A sire who bore, though far remote, my son."
To whom the stern-ey'd Goddess thus replied:
"Neptune, O daughter of the sea, whose stream
Majestic bounds o'er Ocean's utmost bound,
Resent thee of thy sire, thy pleasure now
To show thee how the glorious Cadamon
With its high oar shall tap his oar with oar,
And, each being launched in ocean's port, shall bear
Tidings to thee of all the Trojan host,
Hear the sad omens, or thou may'st lament.
So may'st thou speak! thy days, the nights, the war
I have continual with the rolling waves,
And with incessant sorrow; but thy prayers
These day shall be the seed of death complete!"
With earnest suit she said, and from her face
A sable veil descending, wrapp'd her form.
As from the consecrated bier a ray
Shines forth, by which the consecrated dead
(If chance aught on the night be transposed)
Are with new lustre all their year invest,
So, round Achilles, from the funeral pile
Of dead Patroclus, to the pile she bent:
Then thus in accents wing'd, in tears, she said:
"Unhappy son-in-law of Peleus, why
Dost thou so long to see so dark a friend?
I will not, ere this day, alive remain
Till I had near Patroclus' corse in Troy.
What! shall I leave him, that his arms are stretch'd
Around him with his spirit, and his soul
To Hades going? No--though Peleus' son
His own immortal Hector shall restore,
By whom, as thou hast so deserved, to die
Before his hands, and the three seats beside,
Thee laid beneath thy feet, thy body dragg'd;
If thou wouldst leave him living, he shall know
A noble sire, and his illustrious son
Beyond all mortal women! such as
======================================== SAMPLE 529 ========================================
, of _Hermann, and other Poems_, published at
first published in _Poems_.
_The Third and Fourth Aeonian_, translated into English
verse.
_The Fourth and fifth Aeonian_, translated into English, by Clarke,
and Coleridge, in Old English, with some very touching
and very touching sketches of this work, which is to be reprinted
from the work, with the very good grace that he had bestowed on
me, and the only great thing that he conceived was--to put
both into English and to write the poems, with the pretty lines
of _Fyrddia_ and the rhymes of _Theocritus_, all that have
outrightened me.
"_The Fifth voyag'd up with a double top that came into the
earlier ocean, and was filled by the wake of the wind that
beaten it into the sea, because it could not; for the
first breath of the whole voyage had now been laid upon him;
and he was saved by the light of the sun which had kindled
him in its course by and by; but the stars which have led him
into the third heaven appeared to have led him into the
 Pacific, to be the great sea-surge and the great sea-monsterer."
_The First and fifth Aeonian_, the poem of the _Odyssey_, and
the _Odyssey_, which was first printed by Lamus and by
Hylius--both with feet still on the ground and dragging far
over the sea.
_We found to our two companions a little port, both wide,
Both small, sharp, and smooth, which we, on our part, had
made, but with the most solemn and mysterious manner of
keeping, and had listened to the divine bird's speech, in
which he had made it speak. The sea came up from under the
brim of the ship, as it had been made to call for us; but,
as every mortal man would tell his friend, whoever he might be,
I ventured to make explanation of my friend's feelings, and
said I will never make a long pause. He was so simple and
simple, obedient, chiselled and grieved and contented, so
that I could not possibly make him ashamed of my gratitude
for having ventured to make him ashamed of my gratitude for
the kindness that I gave him.
"But, first," said my friend, "you must ask him whether it
were possible to show that what I told him is true."
"We do not want," I answered, "receiving anything so full of
a delight as to keep from his memory the remembrance of many
times and people."
The words were not quite stranger-like to my deep-drawn
reconsideration of the manner in which I had read to him, or
that I had not thought it possible to speak with him. If he had
an ear to all of us, and I did not say anything at all, he
would have brought me an estate and little children. For us all
we had little time for asking him about the affairs of men,
but for the help that he showed them with the hard work to
find us. Our friends and we were very much afflicted with
his nature. At last he spoke to us, and we repeated his
admiring conference. The chiefs were much displeased at the
disproportionate neglect that he made to me, and at once
answered, "Perhaps you wish your own judgment with better
intelligence. It is so easy to have a friend's judgment than
others. You can make clear what places are in the mind of
you. You are so cautious as to think of the conditions you
are going to speak to. You ought to have before your mind
to take him away, for your voyage will not set sail from that
other. You ought to have your mind set to it now that I
am coming back towards the other {40} again, {40} without delay,
as it seemed to the wind and a very hard one. It is a
hard case for a man for misfortune in a ship and to be landed!
In that case, let him tell you there was an island called
 Cardiganshire, where all men living must live without a
ceremony to enjoy their estate. The people called this
little island afterwards--some named it Bathe, and others
before they could have any reason to desire it. On this
shore it began on a journey to be placed in a place by the
been an island called Caspia.
"This was not the place to which the ship sailed, but you
yourself, and I know not if you travelled but a little way off
======================================== SAMPLE 530 ========================================
,
The old men and the young,
I thought were no wise men:
In a glass I did see them
After they left me;
And I saw the old women
And my son and grandfather,
On the borders of borders,
The children that were good to
Poured drink and was amused
With tales of the dancing and the
Counting of of the woodfire.
A man should have a clean cloak,
And in it were nothing;
And he would keep his tatters
Till his blood ran cold,
And I gave him wine of the
Interallowed talk.
But no, but I had a
Saddle of gold,
And a pair of lapwings,
And a pair of dragon-dids,
And a red brooch stone.
All these I used to
Get at and pull at -
That's the way to be happy;
For they make but little jaunts
With me and with my neighbours,
So I'll gladly make them
One day a free-born son of
My bettre-man Sally;
And a husband I'll find
And I'll have the whole town,
And I will be happy with
A son that I have a.
Bays in the forest,
Where wild song flies,
Bees in the heather,
There lies a princely
Scent, on his crown.
And in the garden,
When the sun shines,
Lovely and splendid,
Rises a sun-dried
Dome of most wondrous
Highness of light.
In the country
Where the young people
And the maidens
Love to be seen,
Many a maiden
Passing, here peeps,
And the air is
Full of soft dreams.
Singing they carry
Pearly and golden
Charms of the past.
Cowslips blowing,
Bees in the dell.
Bright-eyed little violets,
Coming in spring
And kissing, blowing,
In their slender spring.
The smallest flower
In the wood,
They are not small,
Nor little light,
They are not strong.
Singing, singing,
Winging their way,
Forth in a little town.
And a birdies,
Darting gay
Their way,
Here and there,
In a white mist.
Out of the dawning
A birdies burst,
Each one crying,
"Joy to the first!
Happy to see them
Come back to me!
Ah, but they go!
Here they come.
Bees in the basket
They climb and sing,
And over and over
Dance the drowsy day.
Ah, but they go!
Here they come!
See, they are kissing
Who can foretell?
All the day
They kiss and close,
All the day
Dreamily they pluck,
Rapt and stale;
Chilly and wistful,
Tiny and cold;
And their feet
Plucking the dew.
And in the morning
They strew the ground,
All in white
Strutted and brown.
Up through the town,
Dreamily whirling,
The heroes
Dance, and their feet
Sandy and smiling
Follow each other.
They dance and play,
Over their head,
Swinging swiftly,
They sway and gliding,
Over their shoulder;
Some hover awhile, and some fling away
Frightening, and then they dance and vanish away.
Over the town,
Sleepily musing,
The children gather,
Up in the air
Ringing and ringing;
Tiny and shy,
Up from the ground
Singing and singing,
Up in the sky,
Singing and singing.
Bees in the dell,
Dance in the dell,
Hark, where their bell
Rings, and is still.
All through the dusk
Comes a silver lark,
And with soft light
Chants it, and brings
All sorts of things
To the world when night
Draws round the earth
Day's dying birth.
As from the house
Comes a voice clear and sweet
Like a faint call from the East,
It fills the air
With the content
Of dusk and silence there,
As from the house
The Sea's heart is
Somewhat beyond words;
A little song that thrills
Like a glad sea along
The beach of Time.
Under the window,
Daintily soft,
The twilight falls and the darkness
Blurs in the night
Like a kiss.
Softly the air blows over the sea,
The white sails fade
Like little maidens'
======================================== SAMPLE 531 ========================================
,
A man must be a good at need,
Though all the world by him was slain:
But now the hero's name and fame
Are dimmed forever with the name,
While every name that man may gain
Will be for fame a galling chain.
Now when for love he made us free,
We will be glad, but not afraid,
For we are to the nation tried,
Who came in power the world to guide:
The nation to its rightful Lord
No longer can refuse to bleed;
Though Europe now to right deny
The right, our cause must be in war,
And only Justice must it yield
To bring us nearer to the Lord.
A man must have another plan
From place to place, all freedom done;
He rules the world at pleasure's height,
Not bloodshed' self can tame his flight;
And, though the wrong may seem too small,
He works more surely than the wall;
It may not seem that he is great,
Though every soul and nation know
That he is great and that must go.
For greater things are just as well;
God's will is done, and His alone
Is done in all, and all is done
That justice might not have begun.
With all respect unto this noble, especially men ofliterary
He hates not the race,
He hates not the race
Who go out from the place
To hide themselves in the woods
Where the winds make noises wild,
And the waters murmur of streams that run.
He hates not the race,
He hates not the race,
And the rest of the crowd
Who come out from the woods
As if there were one behind,
And one was afraid,
But that is forgotten,
And now he is filled
With the echo of lives
Of the life he once knew
To his own music,
And now it is filled
With the song in his mouth
Which was poured forth
Out of the song of the singers,
With the rapture of voices,
Which out of the night
Woke the world of mortal
To be heard of in song.
The sun of his life
Will shine on him as on a tree
That grows by the waterside,
And he will be full of the song.
His body will rest
Where its hopes will find a nest,
For the wings of the eagle
Are his great companions,
And the bird is at rest
With the leaves that were green on his breast.
To a land to be founded,
Where a man will be born,
Where the place of his birth
Will be crowded with graves;
And to the ages unborn
In the silent earth;--
With the seed of an earth
And an unreckoning sod,
And an ocean to he be.
He will walk in the stir
Of the waters of time;
He will weep in the thunder
Of days that are vain,
When the voice of his fall
Will ring out all the stars
And the ages re-count
The hands that will lift
To the starry-eyed ones
And the eyes that will see
And his spirit will be
As one that is buried--
In the life that has ceased
And the heart that will strive
To arouse with a song
That the birds may be taught
To sing to the sky,
Though they sing to the earth,
And the sky be a-cold,
Though the sun be a-cold--
Though the sun be a-cold,
And the moon be a-cold--
And the night be a-cold--
And the life be a-cold
Though love be a-cold
Though love be a-cold
Though the heart be a-cold,
And the moon be a-cold--
Where the stars seem to twinkle
And the moon be a-yish--
And love is a-yish
Where the stars have a place;
For love is a-yish,
Though love be a-yish--
Where the wind is a-yish
And the moon be a-yish--
And love is a-yish.
Hearts that are dead with music,
Should they be dead with song,
Should they be sounded on hill and plain,
Where the winds sing as they pass,
Should they be vocal on a summer's day,
And the birds say over there,
Here is the worth of what he has said,
Here is his grave where the world has fled,
And the birds that he loved are dead--
Should they be loosened from the breast
Of the world that is not his,
And the flowers he planted for his bed,
And the birds that he sung were the only flowers
Where his glory was sung,
Here
======================================== SAMPLE 532 ========================================
 and _ein ganz_.
An _ein mich das Meerbefahrers_.
A _ein mich das Meerbefahrers_.
A _chefete_ or _chefete_.
Cad 7. _Gernon_ strophe or _abdal_.
F. 15. _Gernon_ strophe or _abdal_.
F. 15. _Gernon_ strophe or _abdal_.
F. 15. _Gow pars_ strophe or _abdal_.
F. 15. _Gow pars_ or _cancion_.
H. 11. _Gow pars_ or _hic_ or _hic_.
H. 11. _Gryphon_ or _hic_ or _hic_ or _hic_ A. 10.
H. 11. _Grumphon_ or _hic_ A. 10.
H. 11. _Gualbetre_ or _hic_ PADUS (_i. 8-12) f. 12.
H. 11. _Grumphon_ or _hic_ A. 10.
H. 10. _Grumphon_ or _hic_ A. 3.
H. 12. _Gramphon_ or _hic_ A. 8.
H. 12. _Grumphon_ or _hic_ A. 10.
H. 12. _Grumphon_ or _hic_ A. 10.
H. 12. _Grumphon_ is an excellent popular English poet.
H. 14. _Gremio_ or _hiv_ PhILLIUS.
H. 13. _Greece_ or _hiv_ PhILLIUS.
H. 16. _Greece_ or _hiv_ PhILLIUS.
_Greece_ or _hiv_ PhILLIUS.
J. 7. _Greece_ or _in_ A. 10.
J. 14. _Greece_, or _in_ A. 10.
J. 14. _Greece_ or _jolly_ PhILLIUS.
K. 16. _Liege_ or _in_ A. 9.
K. 16. _Lamb_, or _Lamb of Arrantin_.
L. 16. _Lamb of Arrantin_, whom the original mistake was to
join with the writing of it.
L. 16. _Lamb of Arrantin_, the most interesting species of
_Lamb of Arrantin_ or _Lamb of Arrantin_.
LANG. 7. _Lamb of Arrantin_, the most interesting of all the
lamentations of the last fourscore years of his age.
PAGE 1, _Lomb_. 7. _laρodic_: that is, the loveliest, or most
luminous, and the most beautiful of the _laρoderes_; it is
supposed of this kind of _lampaducion_, and has made a
translation of the translation in p. 964.
ll. 28, _leaves of flowers_ which we have {listen_}. See
"Lothsome as they."
"Lofty as they."
"Lofty as they."
"Lofty as they."
"Lofty as God on high."
"Lofty as they."
"Lofty as they."
"Lofty as they."
"Lofty as they"
"Lofty as the clouds."
"Lofty as they."
"Lofty as the clouds."
"Lofty as they."
"Lofty as they."
c. l. du _Lamb of Arrantin_.
H.H. _H.R.R. Citron_. There was a certain dialect term in the
Simulars spelt o' the spout o' the spout o' the spout o' the spout o't.
"For I am a king and a princesque,
And all the land of my puir sallies shall deck me anew.
And I shall say 'O my God, I was girded o' long hair and fingers,
They shall be my tresses of gold, I shall be my vesture of silver."
And the King shall say, that the heathen shall be my tresses of gold.
And the King shall say to the duke, "As I will choose them my tresses,
It shall be my famous lordship's reward with the
======================================== SAMPLE 533 ========================================
 the
_Sides of his fathers._
_O'er the wild waters._
_O'er the white wave._
_He saw the sun._
_A thousand years._
_O'er the wide earth._
_From our dark shore._
_And those who love us._
_To the children._
_From a far land._
_From a far sea._
_From all lands, and from men._
_But to them both._
_The young and old._
_As the first star,._
_So the light ends._
_O'er heaven's height._
_So the eternal._
_The whole deep goes._
_From the old bridge across the sea._
_The young and old._
_O'er the long wave._
_Look on that last sea._
_The sea-gulls!_
_The first starbeam!_
_That were so gay._
_And those they love._
The first starry._
_The sun hath sunk._
_And those they love._
_And the deep sank._
_The first starry._
_That the wild wave._
_So the long wave._
_And the bright sun, and the bright sun._
_The first starry._
_See the green waves._
_All the flowers on earth._
_And the bright sun, and the bright sun._
_And the bright sun, &c._
_And those that were, &c._
_And the fair sun, &c._
Here is the gliding of the Moon,
A silver shield she wears:
I love the gliding of the _Hesper_,
I love the gliding of the Stars.
To you, and to the Sea-maids that be
My Pleasure is my Shield,
To you, and to the Sea-maids
My spirit is Shield.
_The wintry months are seven;
They linger on our strand;
The sea is frozen, and the sands are frozen;
The graves are seven;
And one fair day the Sun will shine
Into the world's dark land:
The world is frozen, and the sands are frozen;
And the fair sun, with never a cloud upon,
Shall shine the very Light of Lights
That fill the Evening Star:
Now is the time to love
That makes each year a year;
The world has need of love,
And in my life shall share
The sorrows that we bide
With eyes grown dim with tears
And still with lingering fears,
Love's ever-working Grave.
_He opens the Book._
Read from the Third Book of the Duchess, chronicler of Princess Mary
Sir Walter Scott, the young poet, about forty years afterward,
certainly addressed to a lady, whom he first saw in the
_The Landlady said:  'We will find some pages for this series,
'"For they are not the first books that you read from."
"We came to a lonely sea,
There were more than a million to help us;
And some of us all grew old,
And some are grown tremulous
With finding who they are.
We looked for a book and a poem and a poem,
And I opened the window and walked to my work;
But they never were opened till one of the two
Was read aloud to me.
I was hungry and o'er my meat,
And I sat down and cried
To the Landlady's daughter
That was mild as she was fair,
And gentle as mither's breath,
She was too good to be.
For she did seem so good
When she was not a good,
And a happy, soft-born thing,
And--she was all a woman
With an eye like some lily.
She was a beauty of a very tender nature,
And of a goodly face and hands and form!
But the spiteful pettiness of childlike mother
Could not but make her love her darling saint.
She was a lady of a humble family
And of gentle manners and a loving heart;
And though she had so often told her mother
That she was very kind or very fair,
Yet she was very good to her fellow-creature,
And loved to be as if she were a child!
And I am not one of the children;
And they have taken my heart
And left it a heavy sadness;
And now they are laughing at my laughter,
For I am very lonely.
And I feel my heart grow lighter,
Because they are all lonely,
Because they are all lonely,
For they are afraid to kill me.
They are coming back to me!
They
======================================== SAMPLE 534 ========================================

The old house on the hill, the house of the king,
When the dawn is beginning to break,
The wind is beginning to woo,
The east is beginning to blow,
And the moon comes out to see.
In the middle of the night,
While the moon is making
"But the third from morn till night,"
Comes every man in his place,
Comes every man in his place,
Comes every man in his place,
Comes every man in his place,
As I and you were young,
Into the hall of the king,
Into the hall of the king.
"What are you doing here--up the stair,
Up stairs, and in for quarter?
What are you doing there, up there--
Out on the stair to quarter?"
"I am a man of many sins,
But two are worse than ever,
So when this king hears all in my man's heart,
He needs must be a woman,
The man's a woman, woman indeed."
"What do I care for my dinner?
What for the carle, if you agree?
The gentleman is not for me,
The man's a man for woman.
This man has made my bed, down under the chair,
The king's a man for woman."
"That's just the way, my lord," said the king,
"To leave a thing as strange as new:
What's there for me to do, and what for?
I am no man, so strange, so foolish."
"I'm sure you wish you'd ask me then,"
Cried the king, "from here to prison."
"But you're just a man," he said, "dear king,
But there's no such man as we,
I only ask you for one word,
And I shall be your man, as true."
"But what I wish you would," said the king,
"Would let us together have said;
And the fact is, without my word,
I only wish you'd stay at home."
"Come in, my lord, and let us talk."
"But you see that your friend is dead?"
"No: think so that I have said it."
"You'd better ask me if I said
That I'm afraid of you," he said.
"That is just the thing you say:
The world has one way, anyhow.
You'll not go when you're old and gray;
You're old and I've so to say."
"No: only that is, don't think so."
"But you will make your love go on;
I tell you now, I have so done."
"You'll not go when you're old and gray,
You'll still go on, God knows when."
And the queen stood up as one possessed,
And the man at the end of the stair
Gazed at him with eyes of fire,
Touched by the sweat on his face and moved;
Then, lifting his face to speak,
She said, "My dear, why is it?"
"Because," cried Drake, "I am in hell,
And you don't believe me, never fear--
What will this mean if I speak this word,
And you've done enough to hear?
You'll not go when you're old and gray:
The world has one way, anyhow.
Why do you do it then?"
Then up and spoke a crafty man,
A man whose courage was the best,
And there were not enough to tell
What that might mean, but only rest.
So in their midst, a little while
They sat and mused on what might chance.
But as the king cast a small pea-green,
They made as if to strike the match:
And then they talked of that awful thing;
But as the knight gave a small pea-green,
They made as if to strike the match--
What had their fear but in that field
Before the world in those two fields,
The green of that field in two?
"The world has one way, another too;
You'd better go and take your own."
"I'll not go if I have but three men,"
"You'll not go if I have but three men."
"I shall be one that's nine," said Drake,
"And you shall be a hundred now."
"I'll not be thirty years," said he;
"I've something in my bank to-day;
I'll not be thirty years till three;
I'll not be thirty years until three."
But as his words were stronger and older,
His thought to North Magellan went,
Saying, "I'll
======================================== SAMPLE 535 ========================================
s the _flaming_ sun,
And the stars, the ever young,
To the sun, the ever young!
How the brook within the fenny brooks,
His silver-pated breast,
By a brook, whose silver-rippled creeks
In water-breaks are prest!
By a brook whose silvery ripples run
A murmuring silvery stream,
By an urn where the water-ferns are done
And the waters murmuring.
By a brook whose clear and limpid streams,
By springing bramble hid,
Are rivalled of the rustic dreams,
And the visioned dreamer sleeps.
The willows, whispering low their song,
With kisses are all over,
And the brook has broken its heart of wrong
With a broken lover's cover!
And she sees the silver-circled trees,
And the blue brooks, and the white,
And her heart is filled with a dreamy bliss
Like a golden orange-tree.
She can see the sun on western hills,
As shimmering down the sky,
And the waters and the white peaks rills
The beauty of his coming sigh.
And she sees the red-roofed streamer leap
Upon the leaping trout;
The streamer feels the golden breast
Of him who holds the trout.
I loved her when thou wast a child,
At evening in the noon,
And now thou art a maiden wild,
And my sweet heart is June.
I love thee when thou hast no care,
At dusk when thou art young,
And now thou art a young love there,
And my heart is a pearl-paven brook,
That should be Love's gold tongue.
The heart that in thy bosom broods,
Is folded out of sight,
And all the earth is a goodly thing,
And all the leaves are white.
It smiled on me in thy first love,
And I have laughed and given love;
But now thy heart is older, nay,
Than I was wont to sing thy say,
Or leave thee where the great winds play.
I feel the very weight of death,
Yet bid me farewell to thee;
I will not make my heart a grave,
But live this life to thee.
If a man's faith be in the love of God,
There are bands that are well set upon him.
For if, perchance, the love of God
Be felt of a man's heart set upon him.
When we two meet beneath the trees,
Where rivulets kiss each other's cheeks,
In the cool shade, where shadows lie,
And the boughs whisper of love's dawn,
That never has been a lover's dream,
In the calm stillness of the sky,
O, the still night will keep us twain.
In the calm stillness of the sky,
In the calm stillness of the sea,
How dear to my heart's heart it would be,
All other loves to memory be.
All other loves, O, love, O! love!
All other loves, thou knowest well,
That are well made up of the snow above
As a green mirror for thine eyes;
But the snow is of the snow above
Which, like the dew from Paradise,
Is made by love's sweet influence.
I have learned that love must be
Made of the snow's worth taking in it.
The snow that shuts out like the Day,
When the rose-colour'd dawn is born,
Is part of the creature's part;
Yet its whiteness cannot be
The whiteness of the riven sphere
Which, wrapped in its own brightness, makes it day.
Love's perfect brightness
And the beauty of life are one--
The color and light of the sun.
The tender buds of the trees
Through the leaves and over the seas
Are the leaves and buds of thought;
And this, methinks, is the truth,--
An instinct within us both,
The sweet reflection of good.
The stars that brighten above,
And the violet's tears of love,
Are the lights that, in the hours
Of darkening night, come above.
The moon may shine from her tower,
The sun may rest in the sky,
But the flowers that bring them power
Are the seeds within us both.
The stars that shine from the height
With the fragrance of flowers to light,
Are the stars that bring delight
To the hearts of the flowers gone by.
I long to sing a song,
To which young hearts do throng,
To catch the tambourine
From off the fragrant
======================================== SAMPLE 536 ========================================
, _Homeward-bound_, and _Swift_, with _Grief_,
Fell Scandal, _Wretches_, and _Death_; then, _Hill_, the whirlwind
And _Distant_, _Homewards_, each one, every one;
Till, as when _Earth_ by _Tamar_'s Storm is tossed,
He strikes the proud _Greeks_'s with a hurly _Sair_,
And _Slumbers_'s Wrong by _Death_'s Gate_ is cross'd;
The _Sword_, which late so proud a _Stomach_ bore;
So far, that while on _Obla's_ hands before
He beat his breast, his heart was strucken sore;
The _Physic-bower_, which thus its strength decays,
With _Frenzy_ takes, with _Misan_'s _Songs_,
And strews his _Welves_ with sprigs of _Jasmine_'s tears.
"To _Hyperion_," ask the _Sages_ of the skies,
He ask'd; _for Heaven's high Arbiter_ she cries,
And then he turn'd his face,--_for _Pity's_ gone_;
And thus, though he had gain'd the Gates of _Spur_,
He ask'd, _how far did _Sylla_ roam?--and _Chere_,
And thus he call'd to _Him_, and call'd _Clytus_,
Sobriety, and _Zephyre_, in his torments.
Then, _Lucinda_, thus--and all so _tumbled_ in,
She was seen by that _Fond Genius_,
With that _Religion_ first of God on board,
All _in_ her face, and in her heart, _in_ prais'd:
And then, _alas!_ 'twas all of God she saw,
Sinking from _Earth_'s dark foundations, tow'r,
Where _Folly_'s happiest nymphs, no _other_ knew,
Save some few nymphs, some _fairies_, some some bright nuns.
And then she cry'd aloud, _the only God_,
If He would hear his Majesty's _Honesty_,
I, in this dull harmonious nymph, in this
Inspir'd the Lady of all _England__.
Her Son, who in our wonder, when he came,
Knew his great master; saw his glory, and
Knew his good fortune, that ere long he went
To seek _Dryden_ and inquire of Men.
And now, _Religion_'s Voice the world must hear,
How he, who made _Dryden_, did excel,
And on his tutor cast his utmost care,
For in his tutor's nature--Nature, Art,
And Fancy, he did _thrive_--when he did hear.
Thus, as the world grew old, he did engage
All Christians in the worship of that Age:
And he by this did _Nature_'s Laws delight,
And keep a steady mind,--_Religion_'s Law,
And he, e'en _Earth_ gave her till almost a Law.
"O _Freeborn_! you that scorn Despots, be proud
Of _Hands_! and forehead-piece! that didst embase
In one Religion!--Nay, be _derelict_ of _Hims_:
And to your abuse let each _other_ prate._"--
"Foul _foul, and filthy! yes! there is a Saint,
For none but He that ever did _dare_ pray,
And He alone there _dare_--
The _one_ God, and the _two_ men, and _one_ God."
Then the _one_ spake thus, with hollow clearness rife,
To that dull MONKER, _which_ he did adore,
And to his God thus then with what compare,
With aught that _might_ have been;--and this was more
Than _all_ the loud world _cry'd, and the God's, the _bound_;
That the _doom'd ne'er enter'd that never yet
Met the like vision, or the vain-doom'd _Heart_;
That he did make _Religion_'s laws his own,
And made, to his own patience, such a _heart_.
Last of the _wrong'd
======================================== SAMPLE 537 ========================================
 from the
I stand still, and the wind blows its way,
Thick clouds and shadows of smoke-filled air
Roll round and round the village square,
And then by the light of the village door
The last of the houses there are five;
I see them as now; but what of life
Or pleasure? 'Tis done in a kind of strife.
And the man who sees it is old and grey,
And only remembers that once more
The old home seems so old and poor
That he stands upon the window-pane
In the last of the houses, with eight-inch face
And eyes that sparkle, watchful and wise,
Holding the little paper in his hand,
While the winds chide and the waters toss
Their spray on the beach; and the sky is gray
With the last of a hundred years ago.
I look into the past, and the old house
Stretches, and there the last faint smoke is reft
From the first of the houses; and the last few days
Of an old life so like the first return
Of a hundred and sixty years ago.
And far away I stand, and the roof falls,
But I hear the sound of a wheeling chain,
And a woman singing a sad refrain,
And the music of the wheeling chain.
And then the music, suddenly revealed
By the sun-god's glance, on my heart is laid;
And the air is alive with the song of the waves,
Which come to me like the swan that waves
Her neck at the bows of the island.
I see her in the garden,
And on the trees she sings.
I hear among the lindens,
She poureth herbs to me,
Which in the world she stores up.
Now I rejoice, and chatter,
And chatter the black stream,
And I sit quite still and fancy
My hopes to reach the dream.
I feel the air inviolate,
With all her smooth-shafted sand.
I hear across the orchard,
I see her from the door,
And now I have found the pathway
That leads from Christ to the poor.
I hear the water singing
About the orchard trees,
And I sit down with pleasure
To hear what once was peace;
The air is fresh and golden,
The birds are far on wing,
And through the woods the cattle
Are singing as we sing.
I hear the streamlet talking,
And the wind on the hill.
It is the sound of wedding bells,
And the song of the thrushes,
And I walk bare and silent
About the orchard bowers,
Listening to the lindens' singing,
And hearing the words of love,
I go with my love to meet her,
And hear her say in the woods,
Ah me! let the echo come,
For the birds are happy at her,
And happy is the soul
Of a little flower that is dropped,
Late in the dust and damp,
That it never grows to bloom,
Late in the dust and damp,
That it never grows to grow,
Late, in the dust and damp,
That it never grows to grow,
Late in the dust and damp,
That it hardly grows to grow,
Late in the dust and damp,
That it hardly grows to grow,
Late, in the dust and damp,
That it hardly grows to grow,
Late in the dust and damp,
That it hardly grows to grow,
Late in the dust and damp,
That it hardly grows to grow,
Late in the dust and damp,
That it hardly grows to grow,
Late in the dust and damp,
That it hardly grows to grow,
Late in the dust and damp,
That it hardly grows to grow,
Late in the dust and damp,
That it hardly grows to grow,
Late in the dust and damp,
That it hardly grows to grow,
Late in the dust and damp,
That it hardly is a spark,
That has fallen from on high,
That a star has near on high,
That it scarcely is a star,
That has wandered from on high,
That afar has disappeared.
The man whose life is ended
And the journey in its course,
Through the land of mist and shadow
See it gleaming through the vase.
The things that once have loveless
Cease to be disquieted,
Vanish utterly and vanish,
As the sun is in the sea.
What ails the brow that musters
With the plumes that windward seem
To the winds that curl the waves,
While with idle arms uplifted,
Like a vain and futile dream,
In
======================================== SAMPLE 538 ========================================
, and G,
And his daughter, who was called Ponteureff. 2.
v. 140.  I am afraid.  Where is the sun?
And where the moon?
And where the moon and the moon?
And where is the wind and the cloud?
And of all the cities of the earth,
And of all the streams above,
The stream and the fields, the sea and the sky,
And the thunder and the thunder die.
v. 93.  To thee, the Deity.
And thyself a lamp of light.
Tully! thyself a watch and a lamp at night.
Be still, be still!
For the light of heaven is upon thee.
And the voice of the God of battles is at hand.
"On! On! to the signal!"
From there upon the mountain,
From there upon the plain,
Comes a murmur on the battlements.
"On!  On! to the signal!"
Is the signal given?
Nay, the signal given,
But the voice of the God of battles is at hand.
"On!  On! to the signal!"
In the battle's hot despair,
From the field of the Marengo is torn.
And the cry of the rebel is heard far and wide.
And the bells of the rebel are far and wide.
And the bells of the rebel are ringin' the night.
And the roar of the fireman is heard far and wide.
And the sounds of battle are rung from afar.
And the sound of the battle is heard far and wide.
"On!  On! to the signal!"
Out there on the plain,
The voice of the God of battles is at hand.
Is it shout of the field, or cry of the band?
Nay, shout it more loudly,
It is roaring and swelling,
Booming and swelling,
They are coming, they are passing, the cannon's deaf thunder!
On! to the signal!
The clang of the arms,
The voice of the God of battles is at hand!
Come, let us stand upon the rocks,
Rise out on the hills;
The blast may beat the heights,
It may sweep you to your rest.
There's a star to know,
And a star to know,
That it mounts to the sky,
That it holds its light
O'er the night of the fight.
There's a star to know,
And a star to know,
That it keeps your path,
While the winds sweep you to and fro.
And the star to know,
And the star to know,
Will be a star unto you as we go,
One among many--heir to the North,
That their glittering line,
Around the mountain-top,
Will be a star unto you as we go,
And your glorious height
Shall be a star unto you as we go,
With your glorious height
The North, to know
Your way to the right.
For, when the Southern bar grows dark below,
And you come not near,
Leaving us to fear,
You will know, that you never go back,
In a far foreign land,
But stay and smile as long as you stay,
And give our hearts to laughter and song,
And a heart to sing along
As we go along.
"And when it grows to manhood's prime,
And time to me is nought."
In the years of our young years,
When we were all a boy,
In the years of our young years,
A fairy-tale was told us of a crime;
The dark was o'er us,
And the mists were all grown cold;
When we went into a forest damp and deep
And the night-boughs were heavy,
We heard the beating of the falls,
And the growling of the winds
That beat about the glens
Like the hemlocks on a mountain-side.
And we saw the trees are green like leaves
And the lizards on the lea,
And the snake-feeders in the forks were seen
Hiding their heads in fairy screens
That were seen to dance, like butterflies.
In a dream of the summer afternoon,
We followed the Fairy Hood
Through all its maze of branches, till he came
In sunlight to our view,
And then came wandering over dale and fell
To purple hollows in the dusk,
And from a deep embowered alley, deep
In hollows cool and green,
He took the fairy phantom with the rest,
And all our work was there.
Now is there no more land in the land
For the Fairy to hold,
======================================== SAMPLE 539 ========================================
 the "Tune of a Cawn" to the T` diminish,
(A celebrated song of the T`minutututututututututututututututut,
(at length the height of the Kursutututututututututututut,)
From where it stands, the great Mussulman sitteth,
And sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
(Beholding the Nilus going to Nilus)
And looketh down, sitteth down, sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
Sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
(Beholding the Nilus going to Nilus)
And sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
Sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
And sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
Sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth,
And sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
And sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
And sitteth sittende as sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth,
Sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
Sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
Sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth:
(Sitteth) sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth,
Sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth;
Sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth,
And sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
And saiteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth,
Sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth.
All sitteth, sitteth, sitteth, and seis the sotteth nameth occideth
All sitteth, sitteth at thi window, sitteth in the toun is sitteth
All sitteth, sitteth at thi window, sitteth at thi window;
All sitteth, sitteth at thi window; sitteth sitteth sitteth at thi window;
And sitteth, sitteth, sitteth at thi window; sitteth sitteth sitteth
And sitteth, saivest, sitteth at thi window; sitteth sitteth sitteth
All sitteth, sitteth at thi window; sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
All saippeth at thi window; sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
All saippeth at thi window; sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth,
All saippeth at thi window; sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
And sitteth, sitteth, saippeth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
And sitteth, sitteth, saippeth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
And sitteth, saippeth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
All sitteth, sitteth, sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
And sitteth, saippeth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
And sitteth, saippeth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
And sitteth, saippeth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth sitteth
And
======================================== SAMPLE 540 ========================================
;
O thou who in the grave dost hope
And yet dost doubt, and yet accept
The meekness of a mother's soul!
O thou who, with a mother's love
And with a heart too full for pride,
Didst, in the hour of anguish, move
To sacrifice a humble bride!
Thou who didst weep, and then forgive,
And now, with tears, an offering
Of love, and with this little five-kiss
From out the book which tells that we
Were bound together by a love
As frail as ocean with a star!
Who, in a moment, felt the power
Of changeless memory, and we knew
The joys we sighed to, and that we
Together we from that time drew;
And in the book, with fondest care
We traced together, even there,
The fancies we sometimes see
Are shadows, not realities:
Thus, in that volume, did we cull
The marvels left behind them lay,
And, in its place, did thus they blend
A deep and beautiful array--
A love that did not seem as here
To one who had gone over there
But when the sun was going down,
And while our hearts were all a-thrill,
Perchance it was the lover's song
Which told that we were soon away!
And thou, O book, with all thy spells,
Dost with thy light make glad the heart;
And, if it be not so, at times
It doth perceive that thou art Love--
And, when this earthly tale is told,
A light is in the darkness veiled,
Which, warned of coming ill or good,
As soon gives proof she is not ill--
And, in its stead, do thou, Endymion!
From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.
What is it cries the wind in the cover?
Is it the voice of a little rover?
Is it a cry that is very long?
What is it sings the doe in the song?
O the cry of a knight who is flying!
O the voice of a man who is dying,
Calling his knight on a silver bed,
Who in the field had a silver saddle!
O the voice of the knight who is dead,
Who in the field had a silver harness!
O the voice of a knight by whom far
His sword would win in the fight, a battle?
O the voice of a knight by whom far
His sword would cast on a knight so rare,
As the voice of a knight who is dying!
O the voice of a knight by whom far
His sword would win in the fight, a wonder?
O the voice of a knight who is dying!
O the voice of a knight by whom far
His sword would win in the fight, a wonder?
O the voice of a knight by whom far
His sword would win in the fight, a wonder?
O the voice of a knight by whom far
His sword would win in the battle battle!
Thou art the man, the man, the weakling!
Thy face is dark and troubled,
Thou art the knight no more;
Thou art the man, the man, the weakling!
Thou art the knight no more.
The sun is sinking in the west,
The stars are leaning out,
There is no noise and there is no rest,
No rest:
Hark! there rings
A silver bell ringing
After the nightingale's in its nest.
The sun is sinking in the west,
The stars are bending low,
The sun is sinking in the west,
The sun is sinking, so--to know--
The sun is sinking in the west,
The sun is sinking in the west,
Fearing to know.
Ah, do not tremble, love,
Too fast is thy bound,
Too soon are thy fetters riven,
Too soon thy chains unbound,
Though thou wert at last--
A sun withdrawn--
Alas, alas! how far apart!
And, dost thou miss
The one beloved spot in the land?
The sun is sinking in the west,
The star of evening is over the hill;
And 'neath the sleeping bird's quiet rest,
The quiet valley lies still and still.
The sun is sinking in the west,
The star of evening is sinking in the sky;
And only yet till the morn's bright eye
Could see the sun shine on the world below,
How soon the sun rose on that happy day
The sun of life was growing on the hill;
How light from out the dew-fall did not fall,

======================================== SAMPLE 541 ========================================
, and the Young Jockey--
And the horse that has a foot (if you'll give me
A good two-jay for making a horse-back
For the great surnamed O'Kis) might have left behind her.
So this young Jockey (why, he'd got the horseback!)
Was to be made the greatest of the three horses.
(And this young Jockey (you perceive he'd been made
A Jockey on a pony-horse) could ride behind her.
There was an Old Hodge who said "you can't find
A Hare any more fit for bridles in mind!"
(And these Shairgrins and screw-stools on the side-locks kept
Some think it was him who made them thump de hied in.)
'Twas all in vain; for if he got to horse
'Twas made by imposthats, that's to make you stare.
There was an Old Man with a white shirt on,
Who bumped at it all the day to the T's.
When it was rotten and gone to the Shops,
He went to bed with his spectacles on,
But still it was all in his head.
It knocked him down dead on the grass-green back
And he was very still.
It was a litter of people
All round, like a dragon,
With light upon it
And a smell of onions.
And they were all three quarters,
And one of them a butcher,
And they were all three quarters
For comfort and guidance
From robbers and from robbers,
From the watchmen at theboats.
And they were all three quarters,
And two of them a butcher,
And the people of the Shops
All took away their liquor.
The stars were on their thrones,
And the moon was shining clearly,
And a fine night of it
Stood out in the open air.
In the darkness of the night
All the people were sleeping.
And one of them a basket
Would carry away of his feather,
With which he might safely take him
To his uncle, the grocer,
To his brother, the carpentere.
A thimble and a needle
They could make in the sands,
And the beautiful shingle
Could be made into bucket.
The needle and needle,
They could make them ready for a journey--
Was it from the needle,
Or from the needle,
Or from the needle-shelf?
And this is why it is so;
So the better the better,
They can make it oucher
To give the other traveller that trouble.
The needle was made for the thimble
And made of the wampum,
And the needle was made for the skilful
To do all the mischief,
To make the blacksmith stubborn,
To make the blacksmith patient,
To work the blacksmith's threshing,
To give the ignoble bellows,
To pull down the evil bellows.
The needle was made for the bellows
And made for theevil,
And the sharp, toad toad toad toad toad toad toad toad toad toad toad
To make up the dismal story
Of the greedy wolf of Pohja,
And the deadly bear of Osoke,
And the very jaw of Cerberus,
To whip the blacksmith's threshing,
To pull down the wicked bellows.
And the planks of the boat made rushes
To put them in a row,
And many a man inside it,
To give the unpleasing threshing.
And the scutcheon of the horse
Was made by the scutcheon truly,
With a row of the strongest proof,
And the bellows laid to rest on.
And many an unsightly skylark,
That's scared by the tempest,
For fear of the sharp oar in a tree,
And the scutcheon of the horse,
Were made by the scruple always
But three doors off the skull-bone,
And the wooden glove on the bibbet.
And always he'd look within and see
What a horrible uproar
He'd hear, with his terrible howls,
A great deal like an adder's
And roar of the dogs without alarm.
But O! what solemn was that,
How much was it he knew,
How many he beat with terror
And fright from the house behind him,
With his feet round the tub,
And the broom following his heels.
As a bear, he would leap and bite,
And the scutcheon of the horse
Would gore his nostrils and choke his mouth
With the blood of a kang
======================================== SAMPLE 542 ========================================

and in our own cities.
Come hither, O maidens!
And weave a wreath for these,
That shall be flung when dead by her lover's side
Who shall have the first rose.
There are maidens in Scotland,
That do count the hair of them that we wear upon her;
There are maidens in Scotland
That gather about the hair of her that we wear upon her;
There are maidens in Scotland,
That gather about the hair of them that we wear upon her.
Then come, come away,
And array your whitened brows
And set your fair hands up before the king,
Before the king would lay them down and go with you,
O maidens that were not made for such high service
As proud men that are not made for such high service.
From the north and from the south
From the east and from the west,
From sea and land and from the north
And from the cold north and the west
All the leaves that I have bidden sing,
Speak, shepherd, and I love to sing.
It is not for the world's love,
Nor yet for the great love of gold,
Nor for the might of the gold of my love,
Nor for the peace of the land, that is to me.
But for peace of mind and heart
And for trust of the kind gods above,
And for the love of the land, that is to me.
I am glad thou art growing old,
And hast great delight of me;
Thy young men and maidens are old,
And yet thine old men and maidens are wise.
Great joy it is, if thou hast such a joy.
But for love of the land where I am,
And for that the land where I am,
Thou hast great desire of me,
And for all the land about and above.
It is not for the land that is lost,
Nor for the sea that shapes its name:
There is honour in the land of the sun,
And beauty in the maidens' shame.
That thou, old man, aye, and aye long,
Shalt wear the flower of the world in thy hand:
And I know not what it is to thee,
Nor what it is that honours a man's stand.
It is not for the love of gold
Nor for the land where gold is no thing,
But for love's sake of the love of the land,
And love of the land and the love of the king.
It is not for the land where gold
And corn and wine and women hold
Anger of men and of maidens manifold,
But for the land where water and fire and wine
Make festival ever hallowèd:
For the land where a man is great
And great with wisdom and gold and power:
Where clean men drink and eat and eat,
And the land where water is sweet and sweet.
It is not for the land that is old,
Nor for the sea that is uncontrolled
But for the land where man hath grown
And all things fair that land shall sell.
The land that a man is to him,
And all things fair that land shall sell,
And all of the gold that is gold
And all things good that hath threescore years.
Where the sea is as water and waters are,
And where the sea is as water and stone,
And where the sky as a cloud is thronged with stars
And where the earth as a ramp apart is hurled
And where the sea as a ramp apart is hurled.
It is neither the land nor the gold nor the sea,
And neither the land that is ours as the sea.
Now tell me of the land that is great
Though men may talk of it and hide from me,
Of the land where the sea is as a great rumour
And men as men but have no tale.
There is never a man that is false nor a man
But has seen desire of a day;
And the land that is for the land they know,
But I know that it is most far away.
The first to loose the horse for the sack,
For the first to get gold from the land of the king;
The second to get gold from the king's back
From the lands that are lost to the threescore years.
The third to get gold in gold and brine,
For the third time in gold ye must give him fee;
The fourth to gather the gold from the king's back
Though the first to heap up for the threescore years.
I have seen kings that were kings in the world;
I have seen the land of the threescore years;
And now they are all dead, and now they
======================================== SAMPLE 543 ========================================

_Midsummer Night's Dream_
"And I am dead!" said one, "and that were the best."
"And this is Death?" said a voice.
"Yes," I answered, "Death is the best!"
He stood by the dying one in the dead of night,
And he cried, "What is it?"
Said a voice, "It is some one who died
"Not the first from the first!"
"And you are for a witness?" he said,
And he saw a face that had once been white.
"And thou shalt be dead?"
I whispered, with a great sigh,
"And I do not know who are all these people
"Who are passing over in hovels and oak trees
"Where is the priest?"
And to him I said,
"As I came over to Camelot,
"I saw the old king's daughter Peep,
"With a bowing haggard face."
"And that is the way of the children."
"And that is the end of all things?"
"And that is the end of all things!"
"Nay," answered Peep, "'tis the end of all things!"
"And that is the end of all things!"
"And what is 'the end of all things?'
"We are all born young," said the other one,
A grave man and a grave both grey and grey:
"And he shall be king of this kingdom, said."
"And what is 'the end of all things?'
"He shall be prince of that kingdom," she said.
_"He shall be king of that kingdom," she said.
Then I said to myself, "This kingdom is not ours;
The king is yours; have you no fear?"_
_Says the King to Peleus, "No, King, I go
To the island where I shall find you?"
The voice was strong on the dark strings--
"But the King is ours; have you no fear?"
And I said, "But the King is mine,"
And he said, "But the King is mine."
Then I rose to the face of the King
And my hands in his did not move;
"But what is the end of all things?"
And he said, "Have you no fear?"
And I said, "But the King is mine,"
And he said, "Only one thing more!"
And he said, "But it is only the end of all things!"
And I said, "But it is only the end of all things!"
And the King said, "Only one thing more."
_Says the King, "You shall have no fear."
"But he shall have no fear, no more;"
And in the carol a new carol girds himself.
It is a bird I think I know,
A bird that sings by the twilight tree,
A bird that runs all day at noonday--
A tree is the way for me.
An empty nest where no foot is--
Why should it be lonely and far away?
_Says the King, "There's a way very strange;
I have laid my heart on a garden that was so fair,
And I will make a garden of flowers there.
And I will make a garden of the flowers there._
What is it in that cup so small,
What does it need to fill?
The sun is tangled in its hair,
The moon is lost behind the sky,
In shining bands they thread and twine
The night from their deep eyes.
What is it underneath the moon--
What is it hid from sight?
The sun is tangled in a gown
Of crimson and of white.
A banner is the banner of all things:
They flash to the earth from their hiding places,
To the hills and valleys up and down
The rainbow's radiant flight.
They sail their sun-crowned course, blind waves,
On billowy ether far;
They crowd to the ocean, wind and tide,
And the world is very far.
Yet they know, they know, that all is well:
The sun goes circling round the world
For ever, ever, and a star
Will tell them night is near.
_Then_, where the sun is bright and still.
Far off across the sky!
_There seems to be a swinging bell,
An answer to the name o' the Sun,
A yellow tree on the top of the hill,
And the Day coming up before the Light,
And the Sun rising before the Dawn,
And the Sun shining before the Light.
There is a little green room in the little room.
O, a window of glass and the window there,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 544 ========================================

to make it ready to take us.
_Mephistopheles_. Good day, old fellow, if to put me out of trouble.
_Faust_. I'm sorry. I'm not so well. You know, friend, it's only
so bad as not to leave me alone in my miserable state
with the old man. Get him away, you dogs. The devil leads me.
_Mephistopheles_. Good, you dogs! What was the use? Be off, I'll make you
to walk. Now come along. I will go on.
_Faust_. And I'm sure you won't mind me, the dog. Adieu. I know
how far you are over the mountains to look at me.
Come, we'll be going to the city to see what we're waiting for.
_Mephistopheles_. From there we shall meet--thank-me-please--another of
the servants.
_Faust_. What shall I do, I pray?
_Mephistopheles_. Now I'm at the same place--but don't leave me! I will.
_Faust_. A word before I start.
_Mephistopheles_ [_aside_]. Some more, I'm sure!
_Mephistopheles_. And here's the dog. Here's honest Charley, my
friend, and all the friends of the noble ancestry who were,
brought their lord to worship, the noble ancestry who were,
Brought their children and their offspring out of the town.
_Faust_. But one thing only, we'll believe, I must have a
furnish.
_Mephistopheles_. If I were alive, would be, I would die for my lord.
_Faust_. O Charley! We're all poor people! Let me live and be
_Mephistopheles_. What shall I do?
_Mephistopheles_. Here's my dog.
_Bephistopheles_. What, shall I have? Lord, be not here to-day! I'll
bless thee and blest thee.
_Frosch_. What's got here? Who has come? [_Exit._
_Mephistopheles [to Faust_]. St-rocher. See! the dog. I'm mad!
_Faust_. How sayst thou? Now I'll deal a blow for me.
_Mephistopheles_. Here, take a little. I'm a madman, and will work
_Faust_. But 'tis not right. I've got mad. You shall see with
_Faust_. What's that? A kick of my own foot!
_The dog_. Come here, to-morrow I will show you what is
_The Dog_. The beggar,--in these woods,--you may find it!
_The Dog_. Come here; help me to get something out of it!
_Faust_. Let me get it from my paw!
The dog's my dog.
_Mephistopheles_. Well, I have forgotten it too lately.
_Mephistopheles_. You say you'll be a fool before he comes.
_Faust_. Well, so far as it is, I know I'll hear of it.
_Mephistopheles_. What's that?
_Mephistopheles_. A trick!
_Faust_. In what? Ah! God!
_Mephistopheles_. Here's a bad example.
_Faust_. I wish to make good friends to all my efforts, but
_Mephistopheles_. And I'll be angry.
_Faust_. Now for your own, and come!
_Mephistopheles_. Let me give you one last look!
_The Dog_. Here's honest fellow and dog.
_Mephistopheles_. How are you in such a pet?
_Mephistopheles_. We'll not be found by being such a pet of us.
_The Dog_ [_aside_]. A gentle dog!
_The Cat [_aside_]. Dog!
_The Pawnee_. Dog!
_Mephistopheles_. I think, that I should say not nay,--but the
indeed, you know right well what I do here, and then
_The Cat [_in the wood,_]. I think, I do.
_The Wolf_. Yes, madam, good dog! And you too,
_The Wolf_. Here's me and dog!
_The Pawnee_. Come, dear mam,--the dog's master, if
you please, and see me--
_The P
======================================== SAMPLE 545 ========================================
.
I wish that now I had not been a dunce,
Had not the folly of my fathers been
Akin to the mischief of a dunce:
With all my body, heart and all my soul,
It might have been the meanest body in a bowl.
Now I am old and needs must wear to skin,
And let the world go in when I am old;
Old jars and bottles, gay and old glass grooms,
And I must be content with everything,
And then I'll sing and all I care about it,
If I but live upon ten years of wedded love,
I can write the whole world all the better for it,
If I but live ten years so good to me,
I could write a better, better book, I know,
Than that wherein my lady sleeps so long,
And I can kiss her sleeping thus much night.
I shall write poetry when I am old,
And she asleep with downy-lidded eyes;
When I am tired of singing the old song
That I have sung so long in other wise.
When I have found my lady's lips more soft
Than all the others that have been my own,
I shall acquaint her with an airy shape
All clothed in purple with a golden gown.
My true love is my true love, and she
Can kiss as sweet a mouthful as her mouth,
And, being called so, shall kiss even me,
And I can write her eyes that are my soul.
When I come back from many miles away,
The wind will blow the dust along my hair:
And I shall lift them up and gather gold
Before I tell a lie to all my love.
The sun would rise in all his pride, the dew
Would rain upon the field where she was born,
And I should die, ere she, too, could die,
And leave my room and hold the window off.
And I was lonely till my heart and I
Were made one day a little past the end:
When she and I made merry as we went,
Each found its place and flung the flower it helped.
Then time stole o'er me, and my heart would shrink,
And a light wind crept through the withered leaves,
And I fell into a sweet, thick sleep,
And, all the time, the blue moon kissed my face.
Then in my chamber all alone we crept,
And there the dying embers hid the place
Where I had slept when she had gone to dead
And none could tell what I had seen before.
I rose and took the window where she slept.
I died when I had seen her face no more;
And my lips closed, and I was left alone
A little space, and that was all I had.
But when I woke, and found her, sleeping there,
The eyes of my true love were fast asleep,
And I am sitting by her when the day
Of her grows slowly less and less more plain.
This I might do, and say the words that fill
The time the birds have filled the spring with songs,
Though all the songs are only sad, and still
They leave the song unsaid, the bird unstrung,
The bird forgotten and alone and cold.
I set my house against the wall to keep
What time the morning burns into the sky.
But not till night, Lord, I shall wear no white,
Nor in the candle light our love shall die;
Not till the green leaves rustle in the tree,
Or yet the wind that blows among the boughs,
But this, our love,
Thy dead love, my dead love,
Shall live when the night dies, and only the morn
Thy sweet and silent stars shine over the earth.
I have grown weary of lying at your feet;
And, like a weary labourer, tired of ease,
I shall rise up to drink your cool sweet wine,
And watch your warm heart, love, glow with passionate tears.
O Love, if this blind heart, all pain and pain,
Could be the light remembered by no eyes,
We should not sigh, we should not sorrow then.
I have grown weary of lying at your feet;
Yet, as the shadows lengthen,
Day, night, night,
The sun shines down;
The dews lie thick on the world's grassy floor,
And the twilight turns to violet.
I have grown weary of lying at your feet;
And, like a weary labourer, tired of ease,
I shall lift my tired head,
And sleep,
In your pure white hand, my best.
Day was as a cloud of glory,
Yawning over my village lying,
L
======================================== SAMPLE 546 ========================================
.
The poet of the "Ode to a Skylark,"
"Johannes Johannes" and George Beziers,
The author of the "Ode to a Skylark"
What _will_ the "bird" that wakes the bees
To buzz among the blooms it loves?
The birds that know the hidden things
That fly before it, still have wings.
To the white-throated nightingale
It dreams, and feeds her dream on wings.
The little linnet that it sings,
Now longs for sings; now feareth bold,
And shakes its petals till it flings
The feathers from its throat that hold
A sorrow on the brow of gold.
The moonbeam-loving lark that springs
From yonder leafy bower-like thing,
From yonder tree that clings to zephyr,
Where birds sing fondly to each other.
What were a dream on a snow-white night!
What was the spell the Orangemen wrought
On life?  Just dreams that a child has had.
One sees the gleam of a white-breasted dove,
One sees the gleam of the silver fringes
Of a maiden moon in a dusky grove;
And one is white and a little lark,
And one must sing and be white to hear.
The moon shines low in the shadowy bower,
The leaves are whispering in breathless bower;
And the white-throated nightingale
In the dusk is a star of death from the sky,
And the birds, in the darkness, a thousand songs
Of love and joy and love and death and love
Are murmuring in the moonlight above;
The moon smiles down on the dewy flowers,
The fountains are quivering their music on their way,
And the sun, in the glory of his beauty,
Hath his cold light flinging a veil of clouds
O'er the moon and the stars.
The moon shines low on that blue-belled isle
Where the silver ripples dusk the glimmering shore.
A thousand waves, by the moon's pale smile,
Lie weaving a mist in a silvery gleam
From the pale moon's breast.  The lake shines pink
By the shore of the shore.
Two loves there are, no more;
And they are here.
Oh, were I a pink flower!
How would it bloom
In this dark hour,
How bitter, and how sweet
Must it bloom then
With the love of a friend
Who lived in a cottage
Of shadows and shadows
And shadows and shadows
And shadows in the wood
And silence and joy
And silence and grief
And silence and silence
And silence and joy
And silence and love
And silence and love
Till the stars go by.
Oh, the moon is a beautiful pearl,
A fair pearl that lies
In the dewdrops on the thorn,
Like a white rose that has gone
On a bright flushing morrice
On a night of the summer
But now we are building
And working together
With a word that will not be forgotten;
For if it were forgotten,
No love could ever perish
From a star in the darkness
But would be forgotten
Forever and forever
And forever and forever
In the light of the moonlight,
We would have builded together
All joy in the moonlight,
All love in the night.
Oh, the moon is a queen
With a face like a rose
And a form like a swan's,
And a form like a moonbeam
And a song like the moan
Of the song of an ocean
When the wind is alone,
And the night is unknown,
When we're all alone.
But our starveling peers
And our sorrowful tears
Will never once come back again,
Never long after
As the song of that song
We'll repeat it afar
When we're all alone.
Oh, the moon is a pearl,
A white moon in the sky;
I wish that my eyes
Would peep out and see
The smallest star on an eminence,
And our paths be dry,
And to dream of an age
That is full of the moonlight
And the song of an ocean
When the wind is alone,
And the song of an ocean
When the moon is alone.
What is a life, you ask?
With an autumn sun endowed;
With sunshine that comes from warm streams
Like love that has no fruit
In frost-bitten boughs
And a heart that beats full in the dews
But never a song to raise
That is born from the heart of the song
That
======================================== SAMPLE 547 ========================================
 of his
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch_
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. Si, si si, o sine me, o pessima,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si si, o sine de, mors metat,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, o sine me, o pessima,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, o sine me, o pessima,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, o Sinos, o titulus, o titulus,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si si, o pessima, o titulus,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, o titulus, o titulus, o titulus,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, o titulus, o titulus, o titulus,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, o titulus, o titulus, o titulus,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, o titulus, o titulus, o titulus,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si! o titulus, o titulus, o titulus,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, o titulus, o titulus, o titulus,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, o titulus, o titulus, o titulus,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, o titulus, o titulus, o titulus,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, o titulus, o titulus, o titulus,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, o titulus, o titulus, o titulus,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si! ruego, ruego, ruego, rippodo, ruego,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si! ruego, ruego, ruego, doloresse,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
Mant. si, si, ruego, ruego, doloresse, doloresse,
_Sylvestresse in the Eunuch._
My life and my dear yours,
And ever you'll love me.
If by no means wealth you gain me,
By much my soul detain me;
If by you free goods you'll give me.
If by you free wealth I gain me,
Then happy may I live it!
I'll give you gold so warm and true
That no man shall thee give me;
If you'll no gold ever do you.
My dear, my dear, my precious, precious friend,
Once more, alas! how changed is now thy sight;
Where lies now like thee, the warm, pale cheek?
What can now to thee be night?
What is in love? what in earth? what sun?
What is in morn, when we are dead?
Ah, Love, Love, and that sweet joy of thine
Why are you silent, still in green?
Why is it, love, you say?--
Why are you silent?
Your love to one
There's nothing new, no ghost,
No time, no change, no place,
Like yonder summer moon; when all is o'er,
Her last, best joy will be in me no more.
And wherefore weep you, friend?
Ah, love, love, we must part ere summer come,
And from th' uprising Sun in silence start.
And yet, ah, no! that light
More bright than yonder setting sun.
I must away, though dark.
======================================== SAMPLE 548 ========================================
 from the skies.
For a time this life is not a very long one so;
The only thing that we find is to take our joy in the years;
But I am not the only one to remember the world,
And it is not a jest that takes my heart away from me.
I am so tired and sleepy and so sleepy, and so powerless,
I am not strong enough to try and fight with myself.
I am so weary of battle and so thickly dazed, I am too weak
To keep myself alive and asleep for so long, and I have no sleep
But to be always with myself, and to be when I am tired.
I am so tired and sleepy and so sleepy, and I must sleep.
Sleep.  I am so weary and so sleepy, and I would change like the
But I am so weary and so wrapped in my blankets, I am so weak
I must be dead and so hungry, and I must sleep for ever.
There are no friends like sleep or darkness to my heart.
When I am dead and along the road to Blaize and the noise
of the crowded houses,
And my breath comes out of the tombs and my dreams and my dreaming
fantasticties,
I have no song of desire in my sorrow nor any joy in the
wild nights and in my sleep,
Yet I have songs in my sleep and these are songs of my
sorrow.
There are no lovers like to die, but sleep has no music.
There are no servants like to sleep, but sleep has no music.
The night is growing late, the stars wait for the
sad moon;
The stars wait for the dawn, and the dawn is dying;
The flowers are dead and dead, and my dreams have no song
But the night is growing late, the moon is no longer,
And my thoughts are no longer sad, and their memory is like
to a darkness,
The night is growing late, the stars wait for the dawn,
But my thoughts are not to-night, and my dreams have no song
They live in cages and graves, you and I and all the
others.
The night is growing late, the sky is gray and
the lights come out to light;
The leaves are calling me from the dark,
The birds are silent and all my dreams are dead,
And all my visions and all my dreams are dead.
The days are all gone when I was little and
clever,
And with them all my life is like a dark
eduction,
And the white lights are a-glow, and the
lamps are a rim of lamps, and the fires are
spires of the houses.
The lights die out, and the light fades out,
And the lamps are a-shimmer, and the last monk's dream is
sunken,
And the moulders think of us as if we slept.
The last monk's dream is of a dead man's bones,
And he knows it by his pillow till it dies;
He would think of graves that are a-bloom in the
monkeys' cages,
And the little ghosts of home that had sojourned
In some far, forgotten place long since.
The gates are closed, and the great doors are
dropped with fire;
A tall girl is singing in the room, and the night is
shrouded with stars,
And in the dark, beside the silences, the old
letters rest,
While out of the doors the moonlight falls on sleep, and
sweeter it seems to me,
Far in the street of the world, where we had
slept and been,
And the stars are gleaming out on the night and
moon above,
I saw your face when we had gone,
I said, "My friend, the moonlight falls to-night,
and we are two at sea";
And in the moon, behind the stars,
Your voice broke like a flute;
And in the room, across the pave,
There crept a light, and, groping, looked at me
While I was following.
Through all the years of June, the month of May,
The rose of April touched my cheek and
flushed with love;
And soon it seemed that Springtime came, and
clustered green,
And tipped me with her garland, and I woke
and wondered what it was,
And why it was, and why it was not,
And why, and all the earth was red and
blue above.
But now I know that Springtime comes--
Is it not like a vanished time, you
Here where I last have been, a weed
That has no flower, a scarlet flower?
And there
======================================== SAMPLE 549 ========================================
 of the
The air was heavy; but, the breeze
That rushed up from the garden-gate
Was borne to the elm-boughs as it pressed,
And, blowing from the elm, cried, "Stay;"
In the light of day already,
The elm-boughs and the elm-boughs shook,
And the wind upon the alley
Passed over the great river.
And the clouds grew black and dark
Under the spreading elm-tree,
And the river in its track
Went sweeping past the village.
Where cats with bare feet walk the streets
And houses rise between the trees,
Two women walked in armour
And talked together.
Said one: "The thought of God sometimes
Hath me occurred to you to know;
For I am a farmer's hired
According to your command.
But tell me, ye who love the farmer,
Where have ye been?"
"I have been at St. Course," said the other,
"And I was going up with the brook
To see what the Thames would do,
There in the pleasant month of May,
If I should tell you the thing to do
If I could see where the brook ran by
In eddies and falls when the brook ran by.
I was walking along the river
With a gipsy and a green umbrella;
I was on a white horse, with paper riding.
In the June morning I rode from town
To sell wise deer, queens, and ear-rings,
When my courser smelt like a falling snow.
I was reading a fine August afternoon
The story of a man, young, handsome and rich,
Whose name was Anchor, who wore a coat
Made of the ears of corn, and a collar of fur on his back.
I am a mother of cattle and board,
I am three score feet old: eighty or thirty--
How could I have married anything
Had turned my back on a year's wild storm?
As age the ocean has its pearls
And the moon-silver and the snow-white foam,
I am thirteen and I know not one
But has a father's quality and beauty.
And I hope he will marry when he has.
I am a man of forty-two,
If the world will only know him when he goes."
In the winter even in the last year,
Even this autumn, when snow has spoiled our roads,
We sit by the fire to talk and sing,
In our little cozy home in the lane.
How quiet, how still is the place,
With the silent trees overhead!
And the silence is sweet with the breath
Of the forest trees overhead.
"How still?" we ask; and the answer comes,
Not a sound, not a sign.
"Only a clock for the chiming,
And then a clock for the hour;
Only a mouse for the postman,
And a mouse for the clock," said she.
And then we asked her to come:
"How still?" we asked.
"Only a sleep for the postman,
And then a sleeping-while."
How quiet, how still is the place,
With the silent trees overhead!
And a clock for the friend who knows where
Is the house with the postman dead!
I have forgotten how I used to love her.
(What greater wonder than this wonder moves me?)
With all strange sweetness of mysterious blisses,
And all serene content and low contentment,
In the land of gold that makes the place my prison,
With all strange horizons and worlds unseen,
And the magic sense of old, when I have dreams
That are all of my own, in the land of gold,
Are not so different as these, are they.
(What greater wonder than this than this?
Is all of this than this?)
I have forgotten how I used to love her.
(What greater wonder than this wonder moves me?)
Here where the road turns on a river,
I can see the people marching past,
The great flags of the world-wide arraying,
The great banners of the flags of vast,
As if to this new tune's tune they knew
In that war-time when, as of old, they stood
Together at the head of a great fight,
And they were standing in a solemn line,
When the old fighting found them marching past
To fight for home and a place to die
After the fighting had won that day
With the flag of all the banners of the world!
O wonderful banners are these,
The banners that overthrow Time and Fate!
O wonderful hearts are these, the kings'
And the nations' and the people's pride
And all
======================================== SAMPLE 550 ========================================
 her heart;
A light, a light, a harmony.
I, too, have made this loving heart.
Oh, who shall say that this is Love!
That, loving, hoping, evermore
Thou wilt restore me to thy shore
The only home so dear.
If on the brow of mountain ridge
The sun of life may reach that source
Which fills the hearts of mountain-peaks
With his sweet light each dell and dell,
Yet on the brow of mountain height,
The light of heaven shall thrill.
The fountains shall break like to a bubble,
The fountains shall make a wild rivulet;
Down all the rivers shall there be deliver'd
And the sun of heaven shall shine upon that mount.
The snow-marrelled mountains shall crash upon them
And rend their branches asunder asunder;
But in the lakes the fountain's spirit ever
Shall leap upon that mount, that range of mountains,
Down whose lone top, where mountain fountains
Are ceaselessly rushing, falling, falling,
The fountains shall rise up ever higher.
And all the people looking upward,
The lakes shall take on fire.
As down the slope the red deer leaping,
Shall rush into the night.
'When thou returnest, thou returnest.
'I saw thee in the dawning light,
I saw thee in the hour of light,
I saw a flame of life that burn'd
In passionate unreproved light.'
And he to me in silence spoke,
That in the west a cloudless sun,
The same his path.
Then by his course,
The fair young tree in spring return'd,
To shoot its fruited blossom, burn'd,
And then to rest.
But the other trees that used to fade,
That old and withered race decay'd,
Now on their roots like wild weeds thrown,
Now in the brook are still.
The fountains in the forest ail,
The rivers war with wind and rain,
The forests only move with leaf--
No more am I again.
With my own children and auxiliar gods,
And the strange music of my little lyre,
I celebrate this mighty hour,
And drain the soul of silence through my verse.
When shall I cease these years of weariness
To come, to pause, and do at last to set
The limits of my dream, and look for truth
To fit my name for words?
When shall I hear them? at the noonday hour
If I become a part of all I am,
And then the voice calls home:
'We have been happy, and are happy now.
There is no more of grief than yesterday.
The joys that last, the hopes that last not now,
And that which last not when they are gone,
Are as the leaves upon the autumn stem."
It was at this time my sweet heart yearned
To see the world's great sorrow, and desired
To be all gladness here.
To know the pain of coming full of tears
I bent my head and sang:
"I am so glad, so very glad to be."
So, after all, at last, at last, my song
Should have a deeper joy than thrills my sense,
And, as the song went on, should have a sweeter grief.
O, it is very sweet, and almost sure,
To think that here is happiness, I say
And feel that there is joy, when the world grows old.
So with my lips the song goes on its way,
The golden time and the old time with the new;
And, O, upon its sadness, the old days fade.
I think that the world has room for all,
And all is silent without, and all is clear,
And all is wide and empty without to-day
As the years hurry along.
But the years pass, and the present is all.
And now that all is gone--and now that all is lost,
And no man lives except I, where is he?
I, to my tasks of yesterday set forth
And follow the long path, and never the feet depart.
For I see all alone in the light and the wind and the dew,
And I hear the great waves roar and his thundering wheel,
And nothing is living or speaking, or telling, I do not know.
What if the way be long and the winds be still?
Oh, what if the sea should drown me--and yet my head be white?
Oh, what if the waves should strew me, and life should pass to-day?
Ah, what if the sea should drown me, and life and he should drown?
======================================== SAMPLE 551 ========================================
.
And the young men were busy at their play,
And each to his dear mother did betray.
This playfellow, with his beauteous mien,
And his untoward face, and his blue eyes between,
Showed them in such sweet filantry of hue
As makes the maids to sigh and weep with you.
And thus, the playfellow, talking about,
Beside the river, met his mother out.
One night, when the new moon was shining full,
To that good-will he did as her he meant;
Said: "See, my infant, see a little bird
Before you--'Tis a bright fellow!"
And, when she ceased again to be a sprite,
With eager eyes and unenduring might,
The sweet-voiced Lucy said,
"Why all this noise and noise about my feet,
My father's name, do you repeat?"
'Twas done:
Cried the young Sir Thomas,
"Here I am! Why didst thou visit me?
Let me be planted in this pleasant soil;
My father's garden planted here with trees:
Here all the pretty flowers, my only joy,
Well nigh being planted here by my sad parents,
And here I must my own dear neighbours gather."
And forthwith, with a cheerful heart,
Thought he, "Do I see a little bird?
My name is Syrinx, whom I have sung
Because of some sharp grief the House-gods pitty.
My father taught me hymning many a story,
For there he used to wail his funeral wail,
And also when his only son was gone
His sister found him not a thing to fear.
"This very night, my pretty dears, I dream,
My dream of that young Lady of Apulia--
I lay, 'tis true, my hair is all a dream,
But something like the wind plays in my face
That makes my heart go with itself on purpose.
My little sisters, too, the thoughts you bear
Have taught me this--that in the sweetest manner
I hear you, and of you my heart expands,
And with all love of all things I am troubled.
I think I must have been a guest for many years,
To feast myself--to drink of all-devotion,
To play in very sooth a child, and weave
A meaning into all things; yet at last
I see the world a different world--and yet
I do not dream it is my father's will
To tell me of my father, or my mother's.
I know that in my father's very home
Many were times as great, and every day
Came home to bless me with its sweet content.
And every night I rose, and saw, and heard
The incense clouds go up, and in the sky
The incense like a wind blown over me.
The morning came, and in the even-tide
Scarce had I lain among the hazel woods
Before I went to bed, for it had been
My father's three-year child, the sweet child named.
When I should rise and look on all the stars
The first time I was up, the first time I
Was to come back to books and talk with him.
He is the most unhappy child I ever had,
And, though he never was a man, I knew
Still very well he was not lost. My tears
Were wet upon his father's falling eyes,
And, while I held him down in trust, I thought
He never could have been so happy since.
He loves me, and perhaps I think he thinks
I really am what I have been before.
But I have always thought that he is old;
And, as he is, what only makes more cold
To those who weep when tears are on the cheek?
I'm very sorry I can not speak so,
And, just because I cannot speak, I hear
A little muddy noise, and I must go.
I cannot think so. My eyes are shut.
You have no reason to reprove. I'm going.
I see no reason. I do not believe
That going is a thing of such a sort.
A man must die a thousand deaths, before
He is aware of any more than this
And live again like some poor soul that's dead,
And live again than some poor soul shall die--
So say the Poet. I love him, and I love him
For knowing him through all the years of life
From the most lonely window in each day,
From the first silent dawn among black trees.
"Who is this woman here?" I asked, and he,
And I, "
======================================== SAMPLE 552 ========================================
s on my fingers,
But the very smallest,
As they cross the room,
They are on the point like spurs,
And I like the spurs.
And I'm not the least beloved;
But we do not always see them,
As we do not always see them!
I am not a courtier
And a poet,
But I live in pleasure,
But I sing,
And I like the spurs.
I am just an outcast,
Not a beggar,
But I eat,
I'm a king!
And the world is full of sorrow.
For I am the most unhappy,
But I am ever soiled,
And I cannot bear to be soiled!
How few of the cares that are daily cropped
By the daily jar!  How much I care!
I think to grow wise in my rambles,
And walk in such a glare!  I look at others,
And sicken and grow fearful,
I have to go to the woods alone,
And play a little change!
They're there!  How well I know the ways
That to and fro they go!  I know them all,
I feel how scared they are!  One sees
A slight, small leaf quite sere;
The place is empty, so I run
About the house, and laugh and play
About the house; where, when I'm gone,
I scarcely can believe
I have no eyes to see them bare,
And no hand opening
To throw my arms about them there,
And no voice trying to sing.
To him I've done my best
To be a quiet cot;
To climb within the walls that hide
A mouse within the door;
Shut out from all the cares that fret
The world, and lead it once and yet
In the same old way!
I'm very sorry that I come!
My roots are not so tall,
But they are gnarled and gnarled at mirth,
And I am daily grown
So that I live on alone,
And sing my song alone;
For none there is so fair of mould,
And none so fair of air,
But I have gained the open sky.
You are always waiting there,
And I like the sky.
How the little earth looks over you
Across the fields, and the grass it fills;
How the green leaves shimmer and fade and stir
When the sun sinks in the western hills!
How the stars grow pale and grey,
Till I see my mother's face!
She thinks that you come at last, and know
It is you who linger on this place;
And I see my father's face.
And I think that you are not alone,
Long for the woods, and you, and me;
And you never shut the door.
But come to me here,
Where the old spring-tides are,
And the windless branches drip with dew,
And birds are all a-singing, too,
Till I bring you home to me.
And you never shut the door.
As I was going up a street,
The windows seemed to beckon me,
And beckoned and looked back,
And never shut the window yet,
While o'er the trees a peacock screamed,
And a bee came tumbling out!
And on the road I saw a man,
Just then a girl of twenty years,
Walking along the stony path,
And not a flutter of her smiles
Were in the door behind her ears,
And in her hair she saw a cat
Romping about the kitchen cat,
And in the doorway, I knew not why,
She entered with her eyes of blue!
And then the gate began to open;
A little boy carved in the wall
Appeared to see them; and, inside,
The great brown table was embroidered!
And then, behold! the great chair stood
With all its silver and carved things!
The great round mouth, the great round eyes,
The great round face, the great brown head,
The great round teeth, the long, long claws,
The puckered cheeks, the short, long claws!
And then the door swung open wide
And went away; but as I came,
I see the angel of the Cross
Approach, and to myself I make
These rhymes:  "The lips of the holy host"
Breathing on the opened space
Breathe the glory of the face
Greater than our days of grace.
Rest in the arms of the Holy Child,
Lips that ripen and lips that crowd,
Be thy meek guardian angel's part,
Breathing an undew
======================================== SAMPLE 553 ========================================
 of the American.
In vain we pray for your unstudied blaze,
By all-enfolding lightnings sanctified,
The lightning's flash, the thunder's deafening blaze,
From dust and darkness turn my eyes, to guide
Your pathway to the great White Wayfarer.
_Chorus._ This way, this way, these, these, this way, this way
That, whether I mistake the proper road,
Or am I quite too ruin'd, yet the right
I am to walk, and fall into the night.
I have the secret here of your command,
This way the ultimate command to me:
That good-night thieves to traveller-folk do flee,
That you may learn upon the night from me
The value and might of the stars and sea:
There is a night, and I must walk a star.
My soul goes out into the dark and cries,
"Thy will, O Lord, is purged, and thou hast slain."
This way hath Love become a conquering disguise,
A shining quiver breaks, this way lies plain:
No longer is the wind's dominion,
The clouds sweep southward, and the darkness reigns.
The darkness turns on its cold bed,
And in the faint blue fire of Heaven,
The angel cries, "Alas! thine only head;"
And in the eternal Silence rests the head.
_Chorus._ This way, this way, this way, this way, this, this,
These, this, these, these, these, these, these, this,
What is the mystery that lures,
The lips that kiss, the eyes that curse?
And what is hell but love is hate?
Love is the Evil, love the Grace.
There is an evil in the heavens,
There is a devil in the earth.
There is a devil, love the Good!
There is a devil in the earth,
There is a devil in the earth!
There is an enemy in the Heavens
And the ill stars that know me not,
There is a devil in the earth.
There is a devil, love the Good!
There is a devil in the earth,
There is a devil in the earth!
And all the years that mine have traversed
(The generations all have come again,
And I am out of tune with him, but this
Is all I have, nor will, nor can, nor can)
Have brought me peace, peace, joy, or agony,
And made me hate him and his violence.
_Chorus._ Your words, O Lord, are these too good?
This is true wisdom, and this vain, vain elf.
You are a crew that cannot know yourself,
And you might grow a fool, and waste your breath,
And leave no man unloving wife and home,
Nor be a part of what you are and are.
But as you wander the world over,
Hear the dull footsteps of your soul;
And as you think of all the men you love,
Forget the dream you have forgotten--_There!_
_Chorus._ This way, these, these, that--do you see them laugh?
_List with joy their own glad voices--_There!_
_Chorus._ They smile when you are here,
They will not mock you with their distant cries--
They will not call you, Lord, but with quick hands
March off your body from the bloody fray,
To fight your wars and strike again your men.
_LIII._ You fight by beautiful words, O Sweet,
But you will be unheeding, Lord, and die.
Your vows are wild, your words are long,
Your mouth lies open like a gap of steel,
Your eyes will be a gap like opening a shell.
Your hands will lift and kiss as on a night:
Your lips that hold are strong to sing and fight.
You will not turn from love, O my Beloved,
Your eyes will be a spark of fire to die.
But you will lift your hands to curse your God
When you shall stand at the far end of the sky:
And the Beloved, your lips shall be a spark
To end your day of loathing and of sin:
And the Beloved, your lips shall be a spark
To end your day of loathing and of sin.
But you will bow your head and smile and weep;
You will weep bitterly, and then forget.
And when you speak with a quick heart again,
The last red tear will fall unheard of then.
The world will cry as the seas roar
When the Wind is sweeping the shore
With a sudden clamor of wind and thunder
To far-off clamours of grief or pain;
======================================== SAMPLE 554 ========================================
 to it.
"I've got it so."
"But I would _not_ like it."
"It's a _very_ ugly joke."
"It's a little thing."
"I _don't_ like it?"
"No, but, sir, you ain't so deaf, sir."
"Nothin' is only Nursery Rhymes, sir."
"No, sir, you ain't so deaf."
"No, no, sir; you ain't so deaf, sir."
"No, ma'am; I like what that is."
"It's but a _dead_ way."
"It's a _kind of_ way."
"_What are you at?_"
"Didn't you think you weren't in it?"
"You yourself."
"And I know where the two are?"
"I didn't like it for that."
'Twas a queer time for you, sir."
"And I didn't give it up to you, sir."
"But you can't. That's all I wanted."
"I didn't give it up, sir."
"Now what do you think, sir?"
"There's _some_ way to pull it up."
"You didn't say so?"
"I'm not so sure--I wouldn't--like it."
"How did I say you wouldn't?"
"No, sir, I didn't. People might think about it.
It's _all_ good and useful."
"How did we say we didn't do it?"
"When they called us out they called us out-doors.
It's all _enduring_ big dogs; and, by you,--
_I_ don't think we _are_ pleasant. What I mean by words, sir."
"Well, you look awful stupid."
"I say that it's true!"
"Then what did the gents 'peared to us to do?"
"The gents looked very ugly."
"They were very awful clever, sir;"
"And when they got to eat they'd give 'em hell;
But they had not got _a_ better stomach or yell, sir."
"And when they had half-way asked, the _trades_ went back
To the old house where they'd been having drinks.
And this was all that I'd amaze, eh?"
"_I_ don't like the gents of the gents, sir."
"_I_ don't look mopish, sir,"
"But they were good ones."
"What was the matter with you, miss?"
"I'm not a-spinning,"
"I mean that I _was_ taking no care."
"You don't mean my making _very_ grand care?"
"Well, this isn't my calling; for I mean nothing;
It isn't my calling."
"If I'd only let you come in and stand by,"
"I'd better, I'd better hold my hands up
And try and make it into a stout word."
"How do you do?"
"I don't think I can, sir,"
"But you're just going to take my umbrella."
"That's fine, and it's perfectly new, I think."
"A man could't think so about a _gents_, at all!
But the _gents_ ain't so large a number as yours,
As our friends keep us all from the road in front, sir."
"There's a big road called _Simeon's_, and before
I'm a-joggin', I'll send it back to you.
I'll be with you, and see your fine house through
_Simeon's_ pane; and _I_ will just be there."
And the best way to get there is what we need,
If we don't have to pass it, you'll need to be told
What the way is, to put out your eyes with a hint;
What it is--at the best, be it understood,
That you're going as hard as the birds in the wood.
I don't know what one is, as I'm going to say,
That doesn't seem just what I want to say,
And I'd like to be glad to get out of the way;
I'd be glad I'd begin coming up to my feet,
With the door open wide, and the key pressing in,
And the latch feeling out just as if she were there.
And I'd be glad now if she wasn't a maid,
Or just such a girl in the world had been made
Very sad, for she'd just been so sweet, and so clean,
As if she
======================================== SAMPLE 555 ========================================
 the rest
Who, when he saw me, rose.  "Woman!"  he cried,
"Why dost thou haunt me?"  "Ay, if thou wilt,
I will protect thee"  I replied, "and rule
The realm thus temporal, where a just king
Makes part with me, and ill beseems it me
To warn thee, wisest woman: take thy life,
And guard it so that none of human kind
May vaunt it more, but keep it to the end.
Thou hast much easier to rid thy doubt,
Seeing that spirits of the holy mount
Command thee stay, ere they come round to thee."
Thereat my guide, without impeded, pressed
On me those heavenly powers with so much awe,
That easily I made myself free
From the cant of the passion I had learned
In the beginning, when I stood aloof;
And I began: "Brahmans, a little plained
Are in us, savage sons: ill-omened soules
Are we, whom thus desire to mount and ride
Upon the heavenly seraphims.  But they
Who for the fair Deianira died,
Salamanders, and they who scattered them
Down in Seira, to Fennoletes high.
I my left side, and my right-hand atween,"
He said, "and held them me, are willed to do
What I shall loose, and do without delay;
Nor waits my words, but orders them to heav'n."
Like to a pillar set on fire, wherein
outsinks him fire, he tumbles from the height,
Beating on more than thousand splendours nigh,
When aught is heard that may the heavens supply,
So in a moment forth these will I hurl'd:
And thus the shade that to my face return'd
Through second night beheld me, and I knew
The place where I had enter'd; till we came
To the fourth day, when from the highest step
I had o'erstepp'd my forehead with the wind,
And then the soaring vision to my mind
Departing quicken'd: soon as to that part
The dizzy fire had so become to view,
Where it appear'd, all the other lights
Were mingling, and one tremulous motion spake
Beneath my feet, that in his countenance seem'd
Tigris and Afer: once my tresses he
Would liefer not have held them, than when tuft
In great Oceanus the Hebrus' edifice
Was left devoid, and each hair bound in knot
So close, it had not strength to cleave the soil.
Unhappy I, more than aught else, that drew
From pity for the loathsome suff'ring, speak
Now at my entreatie, when I heard
The great Achilles' threat, who made the Greeks
First with the Greeks to aid the murd'ring Greeks.
We from the ships drew forth, and on our right
Enormous sounded.  Now were left the war
Behind, and they who fought were in the midst.
Idomeneus his evil heart beheld,
And with a heart as hard as chang'd a leech's,
As is the sky that never swells, if chang'd,
In blessed heav'n; and of his son-in-law
His brother, Pheres, as in his ears
The monstrous Harpies tell, had oft beguil'd.
He then, of his son-in-law, had come, himself,
And with his lucid heralds seal'd his news;
How with the valiant Lycians fought
The suitors, Lycians, and their godlike chiefs,
The noble horse Clonius, whom he sway'd
Through all the breadth and might of Troy in arms,
Who by his glitt'ring armor well receiv'd
A valiant youth, and in his turn receiv'd
A keys of silver, which his sire belov'd,
His sire, his well receiv'd, by him receiv'd.
He from his son-in-law receiv'd the key.
Then by the herald Death, who late the siege
Of Troyew found, and by th' Immortals doom'd,
In Phthia dwelt, where dwelt th' immortal Gods.
There were they all assembled; there his guests
Held feast and make carouse: them he that sate
His guests luxurious, by the side of each
Disguis'd, then cov'd his place around with wine
And sleep, and in his fair-lying chambers shar'd
Vine-eat, and fair r
======================================== SAMPLE 556 ========================================
 the little _soufflé_
In _soufflé_ and _moi, bier_ and _bonne_,
And the other five _soufflé_ all shivers,
The _soufflé_ can hardly be quoted,
The _soufflé_ can scarce be quoted.
_Tuennius nidus_.
What! _Mittell_?--That does not mean you,
But you are a friend of _soufflé_;
And if you are fond of _soufflé_,
Don't forget to tell what you're thinking
Of your own _soufflé_ and _bonne_,
You are quite sure you can't go
Forth for _souveless_ and _bonne_,
And you have the point to _souvel_;
You can talk like a sorie,
But don't forget _me_ and _me_,
When I ask you to come to
With a _gal-u-ping_ and a _gal-u-ping_,
With a _pan-quoi, bien_ and a _souvel_,
And _charm_ you, when you've been able
To come to the world at _kit_;
And that is the reason, with a
Little bit of _bien_ or _bien_,
That you are not afraid of
Prayers in _bull or wooden_:
And, with all thy strength and all
Thy life in thy _bier-de-mer_,
Will I not, in your _bier-de-mer_,
Last night bring it round and square?
It was not so many a year
Since first the _venkind_ sung,
That, in my heart's most pensive mood,
I heard a sad man say,
This carol they all sweetly sang,
And gave my tears their day.
This carol they all sweetly sang,
That while I still did stand
In wonderment the other day
Made my heart beat in demand;
I heard them sing it out, the while
The carol they all sang,
And, feeling he could not deride,
I turned to ask what he could do.
"What you're singing to, what you're singing to,
Now learn the carol, then,
Ere you shall be so old and weak,"
The carol they all sang.
O singer! if my heart can see
In you a greater soul, I pray
For that most noble sorrow-wrought
Which God Himself gives rest to all
Who walk beneath their human psalms
In a world of tranced sound,
I'll give you here the world of sense,
That God's own echoes may not be
A prelude of the angel-dance
Which sweet _bon-quito_ once did play
With _en cot-lo-la_ and _mue-que-way_,
With _thenceau de reu_.
And if I cannot meet with you
As a soul beneath some mighty spell
I'll whisper to you, "Colin de de de'unesse,
Hans de bon-quito de le pardnerre,
Mormio, tutelar de le pardnerre,"
That you may know as well as I,
What once befell when it was new!
And if you're sick of _this_ with _that_,
I'll tell you why that _bon-quito_
Was fitter for a soul bereft
Of sense and spirit than for _this_,
For every sin which now has left
The print of its illume.
Just so it is with me who sing
Of "days of life," when _that_ was king,
And reign no longer here below
But free and perfect as the snow
Which falls from the soft snow.
The night is almost done, and lo!
In _real_, sublime, and _go-to-be_,
The day that came with _thenceau de Lee_
Leaps in the zenith like a sea,
Which will not let nor fear nor flee,
Lest some should doubt, and some should blame
And some should fall and crush the same,
So, 'twixt the night and morn, may be,
May He who knows the choicest word
Be mindful not of those who heard
That once beheld the sunburst, see
The glimmer of the moon go down
With all its fires aglow and brown.
Ah! who shall tell what shall have been,
But in what ancient ballad-tune

======================================== SAMPLE 557 ========================================
.
Till nimble time can bring again,
To see that she is not in pain.
The sun that now is glorious shining,
And she that with a double glory
Shines on the earth, so bright, so holy,
Is dying!
O my love! my love! my love! my love!
For me alone is endless bliss,
And sorrow must be ceasing,
The lily, the rose, the laurel, and the bard,
In these are nothing.
My love! my love! my love!
There are two friends in the heavens,
And the third is above;
You are the one, and the other,
But you can neither be wounded nor made to grieve nor grieve,
The sun is descending;
And the sun is setting.
As you were dying, my love,
So was it with you;
You were dying, but I heard you,
And I did not deplore;
And so I think that from you,
This heart, no more beats, beats,
And that heart beats no more.
I was the friend who had one shadow,
And one shadow with the other,
But you were dying, my love,
And I can never forget.
Your image has passed away;
Yet it will come again, love,
And be my own once more,
Though it have died for grief.
I remember, I remember,
I remember the dark hour
When you bade me farewell, love,
And I heard a strange, wild power
Speak to me to-day!"
The sky is overcast;
The grass is withered and sere;
Wintry winds moan through the morn
That will not let me be ever again.
I hear the wind sighing;
The wind mournfully crying;
My heart is all comfort within,
No hope in anything.
To-day I know not where I was,
Nor what sad fortune be;
I only longs to remember it all,
And I sigh for misery.
I know the path up which it led
To those who made you all;
I know to-day, and when I shall come again
My friends will all call Love.
I know to-morrow where you are,
To-night I know to-night
That I shall miss you everywhere,
And you will call my sight.
For I am lonely in the earth,
And you can never know
How much I lack--and you I miss,
And I am lonely so.
The moonlight falls on castle walls,
On field and fruited alley,
On garden grass and on myrtle bowers,
On garden lawns and crowded bowers;
I cannot bear the look of heaven,
The breath of my beloved's heaven,
And all the beauty of the sea.
The roses in their sleepy nest
Are sweetly scenting flowers,
I read them in the sailing west,
In leaves of forest bowers.
And I have thought of you; and now
I chase the waving blue;
And now I hear your step, beloved,
Your step upon the lea.
I cannot bear to look at flowers,
Or watch at sunset hours.
To-night I catch the raining rain,
To-night I weep for leaves;
I could not bear to look at earth
To see your sweet eyes gleaming;
I cannot bear to look at yours
In forests green and far;
To look into your eyes and dream
That you are near to me;
I cannot bear to look at love,
In all the world for you,
Although I know that you are near,
O sweet, my sweetheart,
Love is a shining stair.
I climb the mossy walk,
I sink beneath the wave,
That's white and passion-free--
Love's vows are wild and brave.
I dream by leafy trees,
I think I see you come
With love that's only in your eyes
And never passes--
Till, meeting me upon the hill,
You go in April--
With love that is so very near,
Though you are not a year.
You go in April--
You come with love to marry me,
With love that is so very high,
Love's vows and wishes--
And I am lonely as a cloud
That moans in the wind.
Your heart is a caldron,
You have gone forth to battle,
Your heart is the bitter cup
That will last long to burst.
And the heart of my love is like a tree,
A leafless tree,
That at the touch of your warm heart
Its leaves are breaking.
I cannot bear to look at love,
For
======================================== SAMPLE 558 ========================================
's Life,
And of the two things of which I speak.
Here I make record, all who saw
The time, as 'twere, of Lancelot.
I see the knight in armor bright,
With brandished sword upon his back:
With helm laced high, like flags of fight,
His armor flows, as to a hilt;
A proud man's bearing, and a knight's,
And like him will I bear in helm.
He is the brother of my knight,
And I his mate; nor hath he served
In the world's wars, but I have served.
I am a knight, and he hath borne
The boon of this world's beauty fair,
And I in knightly wars rejoiced.
How now, ye knights! that war cry, fight?
I hear of Lancelot and the morn
When the red sun shall bring to light
Her banner in green world or night.
The hour has come, and I must tread
With the same footsteps, as if led
By a white star in cloudless day.
Yet all too soon these words betray
My search for Lancelot and for one.
No son of mine shall ever wed!
I'll guard him through all maidenhood,
And he shall shield me in my might,
And I will bring him to his bride.
In the green world the flower of beauty shall go withering,
And in the green world the star of hope shall glow,
While on our lonely beds soft sleep may steal o'er us unheeding,
And at the last, the last, the soul shall be ours when we die!
But if a son were born that could know no other sorrow,
And if he were born that would know no other pain,
And if he could live as an outcast and poor at the morrow,
And if he could live as a outcast and lone in the mirk rain,
Then, then, ye knights, I would ask the king of me, who love thee!
From the green world to the green close, when the day
child is weeping
The little flowers that are opened over the way
to their nests of gold
Through the green space the starlight, and the blue sky shining,
through the green fields of heaven,
But I know, if they are not, they are outspread, and
the world is fair;
It may be they sleep not, they are outspread, and
the world hath rest;
But with my heart I will not take, for the world has
would not know.
My soul is in the open fields, where I
would give them flowers,
Or to a quiet resting-place, where the hours
come and go
For me with their sweet wings, and peace to the
many a longing heart;
They, for my sake and mine! but thou, oh, thou
that wast a part!
O, thou thou, the first who lovedst me, who lovedst
thine own self alone,
With the same heart that even as thyself made
each hour man's own,
But I know, as I look down on thine, the
great end shall be,
And the stars in their blue heaven shall gleam
along for me alone;
And all the life that was and had thee, O Faire,
is changed to a golden throne,
And I pass from life to life with the world's
part, and its chart.
And a man's soul shall journey onward, and a
man's soul as with thine;
And a man's soul shall travel onward, and a
man's soul as with thine.
I closed the door lest, seeing Thee,
I might disturb Thy sleep awhile,
Nor put away that golden key
That hung entombed within my breast.
I closed the door, lest, being sad,
I might disturb thee weep awhile.
I closed the door, lest, being glad,
I might disturb thee weep awhile.
I shut the door, lest, being sad,
I might disturb thy sleep awhile.
And, weary, through the long June day
And the sweet smell of clover bloom,
I bent my head, nor made a stay
Till, at the break of the full moon,
Upon the world's bright bloom, I came,
As, full of hope, to that great place
That Thou to me art so dear-
As at the meeting, nigh the grave
To meet me at thy parting.
And, looking down on the crimson clouds,
And the sky grown black above,
I thought, how my heart beat high,
And my fear went out of my soul,
And opened my eyes again,
And opened my soul again.
The long June day went
======================================== SAMPLE 559 ========================================
-and-runes,
Or a more or less,
When I met you first,
In the long, long past,
When my heart was high
And I used to try,
Did I say the same?
But, remember,
I was caught to-day,
When the wild mad thrush
Left his sky-top clear,
Was I caught to-day,
By the wild, wild birds,
In the long, long years?
How could we live now,
I and she?
With no trace of either
Did the hours come to us?
How could we live now,
I and she?
The wild streams of the wood and mountain
And the valley where our footsteps faltered,
Furtive in our flight as we were flying,
And again, again,
In a long, long flight,
We are flying,
Where, ah, again!
The leaves, the flowers that covered us
Were rumpled up in emerald branches,
Still we heard them in the far-off valleys;
They were still and still as cactus flowers;
The leaves were all about their worth;
And I, upon a distant morning,
Alone in this still time
I saw the little laughing brooklet,
All green and golden in the sun,
And laughing through the ripples of its silver
He gave the little song a golden poem,
He told me stories of the flowers in the valleys,
And of the little shining brooks
That went away from Oxford to Dover
And run about the shore.
But I had never heard his secrets
Since there was heard of him.
He told me all his secrets,
He told me all his woes
For his simple story of sorrow
Some centuries ago;
And as he left his story
He told me all his grief
In the story of his anguish
Some centuries ago.
They told me here that in the twilight
Of a dark time he had been weeping
For a son whose sorrow was so silent,
And a vain and vain relief.
They told that he was stricken and stricken;
They knew that he was hurt;
They said that on his death-bed he lay bruised,
And that he was so long bereft.
They told him that his heart was broken,
And that he was alone;
That he was torn and wasted and stricken,
And that his life was sown.
And he had long forgotten the story:
For there are many who are less than one,
Who are not worth a fig.
He sent a letter speeding as it flew
Through Baystate, where stately ladies smile,
With golden records of their brides that lie
Upon the page of lovely letters, penned
The story to his mind,
Then read, and laughed, and said:
"Long live the lady, and her memory
That now no longer rides the page,
Will we not give her back another sun?"
Then they, who loved the woman, part at last
To take her hand, made answer thus:
"The lady and her courtly lover, youth,
And sage and lord and knight,
And rich and poor and poor
Are prisoned in the dark
Within that gloomy room.
There are no princes and no prelate now,
To whom the world would yield the prize,
If this man walked in solemn pilgrimage,
He might a time employ!"
"O lady," said the dying man,
"My lady, yet I doubt the name;
Yet to this slender figure and my best,
Still on my heart is visited that guest."
Their faces darkening as the shadows fell
From that still form, their speech was like a spell;
While from the shadowy mansion came the cries
Of desolating men!
It seemed a fearful thought
That those who saw it were not dead,
And that, from out their troubled eyes,
There lay revealed the dread!
"Ah, why did death and terror strike
Him from this helpless form?" they said.
He rose, and slowly crept along,
And slowly drew the sombre curtain;
And at that last hour, by the bed
There lay his wife, his child and he.
Then slowly, slowly moved away
The long, soft-breathing sleeper from the dead;
And slowly followed some few years' pace
Who, in the shadow of that marble face,
Had made some small and trivial place.
And as he passed, a few dark hours
He paused before the chapel door,
Still as he strode there in the night;
And slowly followed on his way
Through that dark chamber, grey with light,
That seemed some dead man's last abode
In a far village, gray and grim,
And all about
======================================== SAMPLE 560 ========================================
,
I sing thy fate--a nation--
My country! My own country!
The hero of a hundred fields,
The land of blood, the fair green earth,
To conquer and to save his own
From blight and blithering.
His race is run,
Forever and forever
A nation! For the nation
I am pursuing.
It came last year, and with it died my father's estate,
With it the woods were gay, and the wild streams were running silver-clear,
And the sky smiled from the hills, like a smile of a bride;
It was glad that I was a bride, and was happy to be a bride.
There were two blue hills on the north side of the new-built
town;
Twin red clouds and I saw them still drifting down, down, down;
And the keel of the ship was as red as a blood-red cranium,
The big ship flashed to the white waste of the salt-sea foam,
And a star of the north was a star of the north--the home of my
father.
And I am so little and strong and proud; and I have a little way,
For the slow weeks pant and throb, and the cold winds are a-sweeping
And the slow years are a-coming, and the slow years are a-coming!
And the swift years are a-coming, and the dead years are a-coming!
And my mother's heart is as glad as a bridegroom's is at the wedding.
My wife is as brave as a sower, her tears are as sweetly falling
As the golden light on the hill at the close of the day;
And I feel she is dying, and I feel my veins a-swooning,
As my mother and I have left the land of the gorse and the chase.
The rain flows over the roof-trees, the window-flares are flying
in the wind;
The rain is making the roofs quiver with pain,--
There were two strangers, they said, they were friends of my old
And they are very simple, the elder, they are not tame or mean,
They used to come to my house once, it was summer last year,
The whole-hearted evening sunshine come and carry me away.
The birds sing in the branches, the pigeons build in the trees,
And far on the hills the wandering sheep of the farm-house meet,
And the cattle they stand at the gate with silent feet;
The long light shakes across the roofs, and my house is like a dream
Where no life is like life, without end, without end.
And the sickle gleams in the gutters, the roof rustles over the
pits,
And in came the tearful old mother, with pale and tearful face,
And the fire and the cold both are gone, and the wind and the rain
And when I awoke I was careful of my room and the lamp,
And never a moment dreaming the dream of my childhood's days,
And I never did anything wrong in my bed by night and day,
But now I am very happy--this morning I find my
But this I know, of the truth I know, and I cherish the memory
Of little faces and little heads and eyes that are smiling
And laughing I dream a handful of words and tender whispers,
And my heart turns back to the long-ago when my eyes were
And the light of the day in my head falls lovingly from my
heart.
The spring is coming, and the sun is shining, and I
listening look gladly in the laughing eyes of the
child;
But I hear the voice of the sea calling, and I hear
the sea birds singing;
And my heart is filled with a greater joy than I have
ed in life--
The sea birds are coming, and the wind is blowing from
the sea.
As I lay on my pallet lying, the sea-weed prinkles my
wrist;
The wild-flowers leap up from the grass, and my spirit flies
through the air,
And my spirit flies to the far-off house, and my heart
runs there.
There are the ships that come from the land
With sails full of windflaws; the sailors are there
and ready to leeward;
The world of work moves away--and the busy man
steps straight at his heels.
His face is the face of a man he hath loved far
in his heart;
He hath loved far and long a day,
And the sea is his hope, and the sky his delight, and
the sea hath its will;
The sea is his joy, and his pleasure, and the deep
unconscious ocean fills.
O
======================================== SAMPLE 561 ========================================
.
The King and Lords of the North he published proclamation of
his assistance,
The next King assisted his family, and left several families of
He published in the _Gazette_ the proclamation of 1659,
that soon after the death of Elba.
The King having perceived the accident by which the
Titan King came to the House of Hanover, and was then
present to the jury before the King's court, he was summoned
by justice of the queen to the body of the dead, and, when the
King was in his hour of need, took leave of the body of
the body of the dead, with the rest, whence the soul issued
to the King in its solitary mood.
For some thirty years after the death of Elba in November 1288,
Leaving the Court, he found himself returned from prison, and
the death of his son, of his child, was avenged. Gethseman
lived there fifteen years before, the union of the twelfth
years, with the union of the twelfth and early death of his
Earl, and the wife of his daughter, who, as it were now full
of its own.
And the first part of Bishop HARDENAE, who received the fatal
keel, which he had formerly received and was ushering on
the body of his son, was put to death; and the second part
of Chaerc, in whose house he was interred, was put to death
brought to punishment for the death of his father. These four
fierce winters became the third year; but the fourth, the
twelfth year was ordained to be. Gethseman, when he departed,
made a pursuit of the beasts, which he pursued with deceitful
mind. The latter end of the year was at the eighth; but the
third month, the next, in the reign of the oxter, he brought
from the hill, he brought it forth, and his son, the young,
great-grandfather, as it is said, and his son-in-law, fell
with a fall to the ground. On this account he punished the
hateful woman, by striking the body of her son dead. For
he was mindful of the foul deed, and of the foul deed
had foul judgment over his descendants.
Then the daughter of Gethseman went from out the chamber,
with a heavy sigh, toward the place where her brother had
gathered sorrow. She found him sorrowing heavily, with the
blood flowing from the wound, and uttering the soft voice of
the daughter of chief Hygelac, who had borne her son, and
was bringing him a cup of wine from which she was to drink
and was going to the grave.
"Now, brother," said Hagen, "will you tell me about the
revengeance the which you have done me in the presence of
the dead, for you have not yet seen me? At this moment I
filled out for my soul the blood-sucking juice of the
blood of a man, to bear a wound to yourself, so that you will
have the end of the long battle. If I may trust to the
sword which you have given me, I bid you to bear it and I
will bear it to the grave, for 'twas a grievous thing for
me--and for my son, who was at hand alone. If the gods
doomed me to be doomed to death, even by the death of my
kinsman you must know, that I am no longer the daughter of
"Thus said, he sat; and then the proud worm of revenge rose
towering far from Gethsemanes, and the worm of fraud. Beowulf
strode forth from the hall, and the young found him standing on
the hearth, and his wife, the worm of the mind, fell from
his hand, and he fell to the ground with the worm of anger,
and the offspring of the old man, his only beloved and only
friend, with whom he sought to dissuade the wise man with the
sceptre. He was not so wise as he was, and more prudent,
and humane, than he was, for all his counsel, and in his
conscience he feared the worm of the mind, which overcomes
the heir of all life. He knew that the worm of the body,
tongued and hated, was to breed on the same day, when the
hero in the ocean-wave found out the person of his people.
When Hrothgar of the treasure-wealth was once destroyed, he
was permitted to wage a war with the sons of the wandering
Achaeans with his kinsfolk, and to fight with his own
children and kinsfolk, as
======================================== SAMPLE 562 ========================================
, and the Duke is with us. I and
the Lady; and because I could not understand each of all the
my little readers of criticism, they must be sure that our writers
necessity of speaking thus is losing room to themselves. We
must say of our writers, and of our watches that we are to make
one assure us that I and my love are not to be left in the
disposition of words and thoughts that are not really written
in their stanzas.
No, my Lord, the title-page, the title-page cannot be too much
in this world to bear in it. But I am glad that you are
ever speaking so loud as to let me hear it."
The devilish choruses of the poet's career are like those of
in other years, and it is far from possible to see what he
has not found them in the pages where he has been since; in
provisions, too, in his last years--in other respects, not
guarant only of his life, and makes it convenient to give him the
advantage of keeping his elements. To the world and ourselves, it
seems, we are not the only system of the poet who has the power
of doing us the honour to show him that we are his heirs,
not of the actor--of the stage--of the vulgar, too, if he has
much to do, and for us to hide it.
In his course of that time it was notnecessary to seek out the
influence so numerous. The path, taken by the poets,
which we pass as a stumbling-block, is difficult to discern.
But what we want in the foregoing poem is that we should
not have a care to tell you that it is a matter of our own
kind that we take the advantage. To say, that the poet
rather freely gives the seeds of the flowers every one must
particular. Even in the days of William H engagement, the
Eutychon occasioned a short Memoirs of his Friend's Letters
to Juan, when perhaps no one else was present. An allegory
itself also of the poet, but for what appears as a shadow and a
absence, from which there may scarcely come a whisper, if by
interference, it might be of the interest of two persons, or,
or by any accident, by which we may be permitted to determine
it hereafter to another matter.
As to that of our kind, no history was ever so full of
work as we see to make out of itself a story.
One time only--so great that we feel that we can but stand a
little--and to be a little more sublime than we have before
that we can be embellished with the nature of a poem--then,
in the case that there will be no effort to run down a scheme
in your behalf, if you can, of an opportunity, of doing
anything that can appeal to mind. This, my lord, is the true
might seem, O love, which you have known before I have
used all, and yet I do not believe that the heart of every
thing and every thought of its excellence has reached me for
every moment, it may be, from an unknown spot, the depth or
shadow of another's love. My lord, your majesty has set
sulphurous his heart that has no reason to be unsatisfied. We
are of an age to know how far we can go. And if it happen
then, as the reader may understand, our happiness will be
consoled by the old, the young, the happy, and happy souls,
that have sinned more particularly in the sweet and fearful
of the soul; but still this world which we live on with the
thoughts and the desires of itself, and to the real, is
but an allegory, a revelation, which, as the moment passes
in the life, we are only in the power of hearing and seeing
all things, yea, even if we are not as these are, it is
even in love. And as the ear, with listening, has for all
things found an end, the very consciousness and order of
its being, such is love, and such is friendship, but it is
the cause of my longing for something real, and such a
bright understanding, and such a love as can find a way to that
kind, or so divided the mind in two things,--the happiest of
them all have had a good time, and it must be so: when the
ease of love has grown to hate, it will then turn to the
bright mirrors of our being.
Most of this world is the soul of the Deity, with its
bright parts expanding and spreading out its depths.
In many places in the world there is
======================================== SAMPLE 563 ========================================
's
"Heavily situated
The moon has fallen down upon the hill,
And I am stricken, sickening,
For that which the old houses had become,
And, dying, I am growing too of all;
It lies so thick, I cannot climb at all,
And then I'm all alone.  It may be death,
The cruel sunshine of the long ago
Will sicken soon or late, and some black night
May seize me, and I die of hungering."
Then through the door a whisper softly stole
Told all the lover, how, or what might be,
He must have had that last look of his own;
The kiss he tasted with his heart was sweet,
His lips were nectar sweet,
A little after the manner died.
The door he touched with a relentless hand
Was locked, and he could only stand
And sit in the cold room alone, and feel
The icy finger of the finger-tip
Upon his lips, or feel as in the dead
Lamp faintly shaken, or the summer's breath
Tremble upon his bended knees, and wail,
And sob his last, last groan in death-like tone:
Nothing to wake, nothing to see, in death,
In life, in death:  for what's the use of all?
"_This was the end--this is the end_"
"_He had not yet to learn the things worth while
He was so young and little when he died--
_'Tis since he is so old and we know more,
That he has been so young, and God knows best._"
"_But he is old and over thirty dead
He is the lord of every man-child's heart
And he must die before he grows to man.
He must die first and then be forced to start,
And he must go before the heathen men
And leave the priests and the religious rite
And the accursed couch for which he's buried....
"_When he is old he makes the blessed sign,
And when he sets to eat the bread and drinks
The water from the spring, and on the grass
He rests his weary body till he sinks
In the old earthly grave; a word unsaid,
But unrevealed....  He knows his story too:
There is a mystery in things that fade
And cannot pass away, nor yet be all
That is unspoken and forgotten--dead
And dead ... or dead ... and all that once was fair,
And all that is immortal and is now
As it was when the world was young and went
So back to childhood, and his heart is glad
With its own youth, and the old memory
And the old faith and love that have gone through,
And all it once had been!  How long ago
He went from this world and was despised?
How long ago, or how long after, he
Has found an old life and its memory
And its allurements, its allurements, grown
So mean and feeble and rebellious, he--
An old world, lovelier than his conqueror's--
Stood quietly near him, with a calm
And quiet smile.
"_I am glad he did!
When it was the end he made the blessed sign.
If he should die a thousand years ago,
What could he compass?  Time!  The Lord does not
Shine on me, brother, but illumine well.
One day he said, 'It must be in the grave;
I shall not die for ever: my old age
Is old in me, and I am poor indeed;
It may be death does the great work indeed,
But I shall live it over in a strange world,
And pass away in strange, undreamed-of light.
I know that it is death to die for ever;
Yet what I will be do is to be done;
They will be wise and will not be afraid;
They will be fools who would be blest who see
That which they need.  I will not weep with them
Because I have not been immortal,
But see a dead man walk, and hear the voice
Of his own wife, and the eternal moan
Of his own wife, and all these things which they
Bring with it to a whole existence only
Says so to me, 'It ill were that any evil
Came to my memory like a heavy curse,
And left me wholly desolate and lone....'
"_Yet, when I prayed to live
All through the year,
And hear the bells ring,
And see the coloured page
Of all our mourning throng,
"I would forget
Because I loved to hear
The singing of the birds
And the words they
======================================== SAMPLE 564 ========================================
t he could not get away,
For he'd a hard-run world to stay;
So all the world took on a whim,
Except the first one of it,
And then the whole world went agen,--
Except the first one of it,
And, then, the whole world went agen.
They let him in in with his paper and bread,
And he hung up his gooseberry tail,
And he kep' it all over in his Bed,
And he kep' it all over in his Cab-a-scribed Dip.
There once was an old man who was wont to be so,
Though to come he was not very good at a trot;
So he bought him some shoes, and fed them on snow,
Which amused that old man, for he lent them quite hot.
So he took out his hosen, and made it well suit,
And tied down his toes, and began for a shoot;
And he hung up his hosen, and tied up his toes,
Until the proud man came quite out of his toes.
So he went and came quite out of his Parliament yard,
Which concluded that man, to perfection, was addled;
And, although it was hot, he could go on his head,
And he kep' it all over in his Cab-a-scribed Dip.
Of all the vile Tory chaps that reign in this region,
There's not a hen-flower in all the county-church found,
So she married a Tories, and sent them on post,
To be hang'd--and to hang herself up unguardedly.
But now, if these devils are men,
What will be the end of me?
For, as a matter of fact,
Although I have not a horse,
I will go on without 'em,
And, as a reader doth perceive,
I will give you one-hundred and fifty pounds,
And at once put up a pullet,
And, as luck hath to avow,
I will give you three-fold more,
If you'll only give me the right to ride,
For, as luck hath to avow,
You have the house and you find them all left loose;
For, as eels impelled you,
I will ride on without 'em,
And be hang'd--'mong the other half-choke of St. Peters.
For a coachman that sat in the pullet,
Or a donkey that trod on the ground,
In comes little Robert,
With a cross on his head;
His hat all across his back,
His hat in his face,
And his breeches bright.
And, oh! how he pats!
How he jumps up again;
For his mother, poor woman, had betternows too,
And, being a carpenter, hired him new shoes for his clothes,
And, being a carpenter, hired him new shoes for his hose,
And, being a carpenter, hired him new shoes for his hose,
And, being a carpenter, hired him new shoes for his hose,
And, being a carpenter, hired him new shoes for his hose,
And, being a carpenter, hired him new shoes for his hose,
And, being a carpenter, hired him new shoes for his hose,
And, being a carpenter, hired him to new shoes for his hose,
And, being a carpenter, hired him to new shoes for his hose,
And so, without making shoes,
This carpenter goes,
With his foot upon his shoon,
And casting good old snob
In a tumble, tumble,
And being a carpenter,
The rascal rascal rascal rascal rascal rascal rascal rascal rascal rascal
Rascal rascal rascal rascal,
Bend your old eyes on my soul,
And never close with me;
For all black pins give place to rot,
And it needs no coat of skin
To bring back to my soul a grace,
Or save me from the sin;
So, when I am dead and gone,
Save only in the meantime
For a new coat of green,
To hang up the dead bodies there,
And a good crop of smiling green,
So, when you have well fed,
To hang up the dead bodies there.
For, as some grave philosopher
Presumes, he will tell you true,
Of a notable text-man's son,
Who roasted that soul without veal,
He hung up that soul within reach,
And that was the reason why
The R intelligent R intelligent R intelligent R intelligent R intelligent R intelligent
A man said a word,
Or a
======================================== SAMPLE 565 ========================================
;
He had not thought and gained an early grave.
With an attack, etc.
I am not sure; I was only a sheep,
And now, myself, I have nothing to do
But weep and ask, 'How d--m--w--r--l--r--I--ne'er be as old?'
With an attack, etc.
That was a boy, of the Holy Subject, no doubt, in the school.
With an attack, etc.
We must not know how it came, for my fingers had got red,
And I knew when the boy was in school, and when I was bid.
With an attack, etc.
Time has come back, since we started it out, for our feet
Were almost as light as a feather on feather at first;
It is better than all, now I think, to have ever done it,
And lost than be beaten back over again to the moment.
With an attack, etc.
You must not be anxious to learn how I shun, I confess,
The path I have missed from the school, and must learn to forget;
And the first I shall find is the pride of a fool who is blind,
And I shall be made wiser by that than the rest of mankind!
With an attack, etc.
Our very names are the same as those others we knew,
Though now they remain as their shadows on time's run may be:
Yet I'm certain there is but one, and as likely as ever,
That will be a good deal to follow your footsteps as we do!
With an attack, etc.
The sun is a-shining down,
All the world is a-flowering,
But a few clouds are gathering
Over the harvest's sheafing,
To lay them away from the cloud
And scatter the saffron shower
Over the field where the sun swings now
To shed his strength and thicken his glow.
Like an army come lightly and go
In bands on a field of wheat,
But their hearts feel no pleasure go
That's the time they saw the sun's beat beat
Through the cloudlet drops and run
And the reapers shout to the harvest in the warm sunshine,
But the sun is the old companion
In the long march on the field,
In the reapers that he guard the great green mows
And the young men that reap the corn.
But the sun is the elder brother
That has known many a day,
For he said to the reapers,
"Come back, and we'll lay our task.
"Though the sun is bright in the sky,
Though the clouds be dark in the sky;
Though earth and sky are above me,
And earth and heaven are high,
And to God all good things are dear,
And all that is good is nigh;
"And the sun is bright in the sky," he said,
"And the fields are fresh and green,
And summer is risen and gone, and the trees are before us;
And the sun is bright in the north, and the days are long.
"And the sun is bright in the south, and the days are long,
And the dew is bright in the sun, and flowers bloom on the tree,
And the rain is fresh on the land, and the sun is warm.
"And the sun is bright in the north, and the days are long,
And the sky is dark in the north, and the fields are full of rain.
"For I must walk in the morning, and my thoughts grow weak;
In the rising sun and the falling dew,
And we must walk by the pathway that leads to the hills of day,
And be blown back to man's dwellings
Behind the mountains where the sun
Has laid his cold and blistering hands.
"And I must walk in the morning, and be blown back to men's lands,
And be blown back to men's homes
Where they are homeless, where they meet
No friends nor any parted feet,
Where the great sky-lids and the great winds have flung them to sleep,
Where the great winds have dealt them
The rain is falling,
Though I have no face to smile,
And my voice is still and silent, being with each on its way;
Yet when the thunder
Has ceased, I shall go on
In the deep sky where the sun
Has set to guard the doors of the day and the road I can never know.
The woods are browned and very green,
And over them the lone winds blow,
And over them the rain-filled fields of blue
Are waiting for us at the gate.
The night is long and stormy, yet we may not cease ter see
Our house, our garden, and
======================================== SAMPLE 566 ========================================
'd to the sun's decline,
And so remote appears the night and plain,
When in its silent course the moon shines round;
And yon huge pile survey'd the lonely mound,
And mark'd the dust, deep in the dust was found.
But to the wanderer now descends a shade,
And distant from his home, the wanderer made.
(Who for a monument from out the tomb,
Pursued the service, and was then apprised.)
With horror all attention to the deed,
O'erlaid with dust, his soul dissembled drear;
His stedfast step, as still he treads the stage,
Still treads the sand, and to the centre clas'd,
Till, o'er his breast alternate, all appears,
The cold collected vapour in the skies.
The passing ghosts, on earth and heav'n bestow'd,
Here march, with festive train, and well-tim'd sighs;
And, as they gaze, the mimic ghosts return,
To bless his eyes, and whisper to his ear,
Such as, far pleas'd, in airy circles bear
The silver cars, when glittering o'er the plain.
Such, where his steps the princely peers surround,
The stranger-guest, to various science dear.
Heaven's gate, a sacred threshold then he chose,
The threshold of the blissful deity:
So wide the course his rapid course pursues,
That not alone his heart but his design views.
Then thus the prince: "My only clue, I find!
"Tremant I trust, or sunk in sleep profound.
"And now, dear guide, in silent slumber laid,
"I'll wake the scene, my guide and guide are made.
"The sacred time shall come when, in our train,
"Triumphant Rome shall guide, and conquest train;
"When haughty Gauls shall tremble at my frown,
"And every nation tremble at my frown.
"To death to freedom due, I'll rear a throne,
"And lasting glory wait upon my own."
Thus, while he spoke, each faithful friend debates,
And various schemes to various states propose;
All these, and more, the various labours lay,
And eager still the rival train to slay;
First, for the king, then for the king they wait,
Then seek rich spoil, and thus achieve their fate.
A bull new-coop'd the hero's cot defies,
Where flow his own, and last his royal price.
The prince, of old, a bull new-coop'd he lies,
With purple spots upon his buskins tied;
There, with a purple coat, the victor shines,
With streaming eyes, and forehead blushing o'er his paws.
The nobles next, with naked malice fired,
A lance to Mars, and to the vanquish'd Mars inspired.
A Trojan prince, before his face inscrib'd,
The port and vessel first in battle join'd:
Next him in rank a martial troop he led,
All vote to go, and in the fight to spread.
The first he met with in the battle bleed,
And for a horse of equal frame decreed.
The next, in depth of woods the hero shines,
Who thus the king and country call'd his lines.
"Ye valiant chiefs, that wish your arms to find,
"Whose arms in conquest best deserve to bind!
"With those, our friendship and our strength we trust,
"And what we need with arms so great are just.
"Some other chief attend the Trojan band;
"Some other champion shall your arms demand.
"The boldest there, by my advice, was found;
"Who, by the sword and by the spear first slain,
"Long from the field we brought our victors slain."
Then, as a lion, whom the wolf pursues,
And hunger keeps, and appetite delights;
Who, with his whetted tusks and tusks persist,
Lops up his scent and scatters on his scent
The scent which from the covert flies around,
And with his tail beholds the lion large
So heaps his prey, but fast the bull invites:--
LXXI next he drags, with headlong lance outstretch'd,
And fixt his tail, and fangs his hand surround.
'Twas Neptune's son, to Neptune's self so kind,
To bid the thunders from the deep descend,
And, lifting up his hands, the skies to send
The storm ere long, and shake his horrid hair;

======================================== SAMPLE 567 ========================================
.
There are who cry, that all good things
Can live and never die;
Who, with that hope in Christ's dear heart
Which lives for aye and ever shall live and evermore,
Will still be hovering o'er and o'er us on the trail of pain.
Ah, the anguish, the dismay--
The weary, the doubt and dread!
That bids the world mourn for a stranger lost and weary.
We that are rich in the name
Of the riches of birth and the fame,
We that are few and the world may be crowned more for a lifelong
But let us arise and take
From the light and the skies the right
To win a kingdom unbounded for endless years and a thousand years.
For who shall hear the song
Of nations marching in wrong?
Whom do we fear to have given our right
And we must ever forget?
That bids the world mourn for a living lost and weary.
(A pause, as if the orb of sound
Had sunk into the arms of Night)
Speaks these words to cheer us sweetly--
"In the shadow of a funeral
There lies the world beloved of Death;
A grave where heroes rest their dead
To the glory of the banners on their battlements,
Where the flag of old was furled,
And the bayonets have glittered and the pennons fluttered and the
There by the grave of a dying man
The child of the morning, a man,
Wounded and broken by suffering,
Stripped of his crown and sorrow,
Cometh the hour to rescue and the child no longer desolate.
He is not the friend of the morning, they say,
Who in the shadow of the dawn
Walk up and down our valleys and are free from the rain
And the world has gathered round him as we pass through its
crease,
And his sword is whetting its edge
In the roots of the mountains, and his ships go forth
borne like clouds
To the place where the battle-broken field
winds the march of the foemen in mad haste.
His sons are we, though we die alone,
And we must ever forget the terrible face
When we saw the red light run up from the star-point,
and the face
That has fallen on our graves, and on the
hurller of battle that settles not nor shall rise.
It is not the hour of the morning that calls the
bloody fields
To rise to the valor of the bloodthirsty moon,
But the hour when the battle is over, and the guns cease
and the clouds
Are all flying like spirals of fire over the city and
The battle the field is closed and all who have fled
are drawn
And the grey mist falls from the vast army of the
flocks pass by
Like a great cry, like a song, like a mighty shout of
the triumphal May:
It is not the triumph of our youth and
when our spirits have passed from earth
Back to the beautiful walks of the plain,
I can hear it as it goes--a voice crying--
There is battle in the fields, but it is only
the sound of the wind
That makes this moment of the dawn;
It is the sound of the thunder, and the
tramples of the foe,
And the sound of the cannon that has carried
down the city's wreck,
And the sound of the clashing steel that has
clattered like a gauntlet down;
It is to-day at last when he whom we thought dead
breathes his glory back
From the terrible field of flame which he has
thrust
To the pitiless lists of doom, and the flag of
measureless wind
Takes his last farewell and his last breath to the
blessing earth,
Where the red sun has smitten the shade
of the flag of the world.
(Heaven is on the plain 'twixt Nowes and Nownes
And Morning's royal calf,
I saw it tear its folds in the Morning's
effulgence).
The pale light, the young moon,
Had withered in the West,
When I from my high mountain burst forth as a
crazing night
And sought out a path in the valleys, and my heart
was sad
And its dewy odours spread
O'er the meads where the ferns of the marshy
mantled runneth dry,
For my feet had left the marshy behind the mists
far away,
Nor the blue of the morning had cleared the mists
over the plain,
But my love with her starlike footprints had run through
the paths of the plain.
I have laid my robe to the beach of her fair
======================================== SAMPLE 568 ========================================
 a word,
That is the same--the same.
The poet who contemns the 'good'
Will find no mercy there.
The poets who have sung a strain
Sung it so often and so long,
That all may hear--but where's the strain,
The singer would not care a song.
These have been but the poet's bards,
The scholar's bards, and he who leads
The world, and men, and only He,
Who rules amongst the "living things,"
Is yet a prophet of the sea.
If you live and if you die,
If the world you leave behind you
As a lingering memorial be,
Till death or time shall give you,
Love, some day you may mind me.
And if any die, be sure
That a burial has been settled
On the earth where no man lives,
Sorrow or woe betides you:
Love, some day you may mind me.
If in dying your lover lies buried,
And no more a woman's tears shall be,
If in dying you have no cause for weeping,
Nor at last beneath Death is a sea,
If in dying you have no cause for weeping,
Nor at last beneath Death is a sea,
If you live and love, and if in dying you
That loved one, the same, is far from you.
Love, this the answer that Love proposes
(Though he may have died for lack of breath,
And otherwise he may have been there,
And at Death's door been left unsleeping),
If you die and love has ceased to be,
If the world has changed from dark to day,
And the grave has then no gate to open,
If there is but one heart in you,
Then love, live on; for I'm not growing weary,
Nor have I the eyes of eyes to see.
It matters little if I were dead
Ere you were given back to me,
Or if I live, and if I be not given,
And should I see you there again?
Strephon, thy loss I can no longer bear,
Since you have missed that short delight,
Which in your absence I can spare,
And weep me also for the same.
Thou hast forsaken me, dear one,
For all our joys are only dim,
And though thou know'st me, thou art dead,
Even here beneath the grass I tread.
Yet do not bid this sorrow leave me,
I had not, being hopeless, seen
That you had borne me through the sky--
Above the sun, beneath the green.
For though my will may seem uncivil,
And though thy choice may seem uncivil,
And though thy choice may seem uncivil,
And though thy choice may seem uncivil,
And though thy choice may seem uncivil,
And though thy choice may seem uncivil,
And though thy choice may seem uncivil,
And though thy choice may seem unmonghended,
And though thine own heart, under the bond
Of love and truth and that sweet bond,
May prove thine own heart false or kind.
And yet, though I was much untried,
In time, in courage stout, assured,
One true hearted, had one bought rise--
I had not, nor have not, vowed.
My heart slipped all the world at last,
And now I live in this estate,
But in the end its falsehood past,
And I have grown a little great.
I see your eyes are dim with thought;
Your lips, I see them silent lie;
And both must lie and thus have sought
And found at last the self-refined eye.
Ah, say not so, my child!
Though fate shall bid this soul depart,
It cannot tell aright what cause
Remains for you for me in my heart.
So may no man by me be lost,
So may no man by me be lost!
This life has been a bitter grief
That never met, through care and grief.
Let my heart be as a leaf,
I shall love it not at all;
This life has been a dreary night
Without one little bud, and I
Have found the lost thing but a name.
Yet have I found the same thing true,
True as the flower is in the dew.
This life with all our joys is full
Of sorrow, sickness, blood, and gloom.
A beautiful maid sat on the hearth
And sang to her little children fair:
While her mother, her babe, was singing
The Way of the Cross, by the bright air.
'Oh, we loved her!' cried the mother, weeping;
'No, we
======================================== SAMPLE 569 ========================================
,
Weep not, ye wantons, weep not,
Weep not, ye wantons, sigh not;
Weep well, ye wantons, sigh not,
Weep not, ye wantons, sigh not.
Weep and weep,
Weep and weep,
The world's a leal true wife to heaven,
That patient watcher of the spheres,
That one on earth can prove true wife to love,
I never can find tears.
I cannot weep,
But with each tear I look the other's eye,
In the centre of my heart,
As in the light of a pure woman's eye,
I look on her with faith,
On the centre of my heart.
My God, I shall not rest by night or day,
But quietly on my way,
With heart to heart, and hand to hand, I pray,
And sound to heart's deep utterance, till I
No more shall walk with the angels by my side,
And tread with them the appointed way,
And feel the fountain from their feet,
And all the melody
Of their great love the whole day through,
Till morning's crimson light is born anew,
And sunbeams glance, in silver light,
Upon my soul, in consecrated night.
The manna fell upon my shoulders,
The balsam-blossom on my hair,
The rosemary upon my forehead,
The lilies of my mother-tongue,
The rose, and sooner,
The lilies of my life.
I saw them, I saw them, divine!
With heavenly light their power was mine;
And when I breathed a prayer for three
Angelic songs of true love,
A-sheen the small celestial stars
Whose heaven was radiant with their scars:
How many a glorious thought about them
I laid of joy and pride,
And all the glorious heavens about them
They raised to meet my eyes
Till morning shone in her first crown.
When first I had accepted the society of the young and ardent
A little girl stood at my door,
Her face was fair, her hands were light,
She walked with happy steps and feet
The long and dreary street,
Her taper arms were locked behind her,
The night was dark with clouds and rain,
She walked with eyes of flashing black
And cheeks like hues of Italy,
And all the air seemed filled with Spring,
And when, I called her gently by,
She tripped with light feet light as wool,
The clouds were far away.
A child sat by her with the evening,
A girl sat by her mother's knee,
She knelt beside her shadow-mound,
She kissed her brow and went her round,
She sang a song most sweet and clear,
The whole world seemed asleep and blue,
Yet she, though singing loud and clear,
The whole world smiled and went her round,
Yet I, though singing low and sweet,
The whole world smiled and went her round,
And she, though singing low and clear,
The whole world smiled and went her round,
Yet still my child did love and yearn,
I have the heart to say in turn,
I have the arm to say in turn,
Your dear and dreary child.
I have found the way you love me,
And I know that I shall find you
Where you walk so dainty by.
I will kiss your feet in blushes,
I will whisper in your ear,
You have taught me kisses sweet as roses
And I will tell you tears
That I never said before.
And I will kiss your lips, my darling,
And I will kiss your lips again,
And so, till you return again.
I have seen the way you love me,
And I know that I shall find you
Where you dance so lovingly
In the starlight of your eyes;
I have found the way you love me,
And I know, in all my tears,
That I, still watching at my window,
Shall miss your happy, happy years.
When my day of rest is done,
I shall seek for shadows vain
That before my window lean--
They will know what thoughts are mine
When I find my day of rest
In the starless, starless deep.
And I shall not see those joys
That are left of all my days,
Or the heart has found the voice
Speak of all of joys and ways;
Lovely forms and dreams and wishes--
Such, such am I!--
Dreams, that, far or near, are heard
When I hear their sweetest lay,
When they sing as in a dream,
When they
======================================== SAMPLE 570 ========================================
 upon their own
Faces, the ones who had no human form
Or feature, save but what was black and wild
In the full-cheeked and iris-colourt face.
The same that once upon a maidenhead
The holy saint by holy Eldor hid,
With none to guide him as he wandered through
The streets; so ankle-deep in mirth and grace
The holy saints leaned down, one by one.
"Henceforth thou art a pious monk," said he,
"And of what use in this our holy town
Of Christ, when it but rests with us. The Christ
Was in his youth!"
As if the angel's wing
Had plucked a cherub flight
From the great burning town
Of their amazement whence they fled at dawn,
Ere the high-priest had come down,
Ere the sweet angel's song
Had sung them till their eyes
Grew silent with a deeper shadowness--
So, when night came, to find them all
Waking in the morning still
With their own mother by his side,
They knelt before the altar, I and thou,
The Saviour, from the cross,
Who for the sins of men hath laughed and died,
Went down amid the deeps
Of the forgiven town.
Thou, who canst lead us, where the road leads on
To peace or battle, where the good red wine
Is mingled in the blood;
Where the sweet gospel, from some stainless leaven,
Smiles on the sinner who hath stained them all,
And, with the red flag round his chalice, shines
In gladness over hall and altar-place,
As in the days of old,
When, on a palace Mounted permission-throne,
Thou sawest the Holy Son,
The glory of His martyrdom, go down,
To meet the awful face
Of Him whose agony was Christ's example;
Who, in the vision of the Holy Ghost,
Didst write, in words of love,
That Christ was born on earth;
He said to man, "Come down, O Christ, and see
The Son of glory bleeding in the fight";
And, leaning down, he went
Down through the bitter air,
The bitter drops distil below his feet.
But when, at last, the sun
Came down, at last,
It sank upon the darkening sea, and made
The ocean's seaward gush,
As, with his weight of waves,
An awful sea rolled down across the strand.
And, at the last, the fire
In that huge cave
From which those waters thundered down, he set
His holy cross and let
The ocean sing in joy:
So the calm fervour which redeemed the world
By the first holy tide,
Flamed on his being's side,
And all the sea was glorified with light.
Then, as the sun arose,
The world's great sacrifice
Of light and the Sun's grace,
So the world's glory was revealed to him
With light on its darkened brow
God's everlasting light,
Where the last sunset, through its mists of blue,
Dawned on the trembling sea,
Tinged with its purer glory the last sky.
"Thou art no god," he said,
"But a symbol of grace,
A symbol of might
God hath given to men,
"And it is enough."
And he watched till he rose up and followed her
Through the dim alleys of the dark,
Through the echoing chambers of the morn,
Through the still garden paths that led
To her place in the lighted hall,
Where, like the living torches, red
Her light was through the walls of the dead.
And still she led him down
Through the echoing chambers of the morn,
With his feet at rest on the marble stair,
And her eyes far down the glade--
Then, a sudden, there was nothing left him but
The lightning's flashing eye;
And he saw the red light on the silent street,
With its tremulous glimmer of heat--
And her breath in the air,
As she came, he was there.
And the first cold glance that the summer brings
Was, on her icy breast,
The glance that he bent
And lifted, and kissed her on either cheek.
"I have kissed thee first," said the woman to him,
"In token of love and of hope,
But the moment my beauty was wasted of old,
The moment she breathed, I was desolate--
But, in the gloom, my faith and my love were gone,
And the whisper, a moment, of hate had
======================================== SAMPLE 571 ========================================
 I would not live
On bended knee to strive or cleave;
And would not die a friend to leave,
Who must go home and die for France.
In dreams it seemed a thousand miles
From New Yorktown unto St. Giles's,
And up the hillside, dim with haze
As twilight shadows come and go,
And then I saw that I was still
At home, as well as in my dream.
I think I saw the drenched hay,
The fields of Frederick so old;
I took the stalks from New York Bay,
From Frankfort to the Eastern gate,
And then across the fields of France,
And then away back to Saint Pierre.
But, lo! one burning bright far star
Outspreads its sapphire, bluer far
Than that which crowned the Emperor
On Avon's slopes at Darien.
_So far, so far_ the light flows down:
_And so far on, &c._
_And so far ..._ my heart goes up to God:
_And so far on, &c._
_And so far ...     ...   ...   .   .   ...
_ ...    .    ...   .    ...   .   ...
In a garden of roses
Blossomed the rose-red rose,
In a garden of roses
I would lie.
In a garden of roses
The rose-red rose will grow
In the earth.
In a garden of roses
I would lie.
In a garden of roses
Christine will have your wine
In your heart.
In a garden of roses
I would lie.
In a garden of roses
I would lie.
In a garden of roses
Christine will have your wine
When the summer rain falls
On the earth.
We must love the world well.
The world is tired of our task
Of talking.
But sometimes we shall hear the rush
Of water,
And know not why.
The world is weary of the world,
But you will find the flower cool
In the water.
But we might catch a smell of it,
And lift our eyes to the cool sky.
And I would be the quiet moon,
And I would be the quiet moon;
I'd be the drowsy murmuring stream,
And I would be the drowsy stream to the sun.
And so till my hands were weary,
And I grew restless,
I would be the sleepy river of sleep,
And I would be the quiet road to the sun,
And the road to sun.
Your roses are like petals of a bird,
Your roses are like foam.
I saw them, God!
Then I let you stay.
I saw the blue and violet,
'Neath every tree.
The God of me, the sunlight,
The God of light.
My God, O great God of all,
Are you the sun?
Are you the sun that I am,
And you the sun?
If you knew all I am,
I would come from eternity, God.
If you knew all I am,
You would come from eternity, God.
Oh, God, I have woven you
All I am,
You would come to me from eternity,
You would come to me, God.
If you knew all I am,
You would come to me from eternity,
You would come to me, God.
I am not like the mountains.
I have my wonder.
I am the sea, and I the heavens.
I am my need.
I am the wind, and I the sun.
Have you dreamed ever of the sky,
And I dreamed ever of the woods?
I am a wind, and I the earth;
And you are like the dawn of day.
I am a flame, and I the moon;
And you are one, God.
I am the breath of God.
I am the breath of dew.
I am the light, and I the dew;
And your soul is my breath.
The world is like a flower asleep,
That opens before a rainless moon
And feels you at its heart.
O God, have pity!
Do not love me, do not love me,
My God, when I grow weary,
I'll not let you come.
Be you poor, and young, and full of pity,
So shall I love you
If I cannot love you.
When the night is beginning to lower;
When the air is heavy with sighs,
And the white-throat sings;
When the gray dawn streaks
O'er the pines.
When you
======================================== SAMPLE 572 ========================================
 of the world's end,
That is my dream of you.
I shall forget the days with you,
You will forget them, too.
There is not a flower between,
And so it is you may hear
A heart's love whisper, "Trust to death," --
Or you may hear the fiddler's breath --
And the old song flowing through
Your life; or, if it cheers,
You will forget the griefs,
And laugh and sing with me,
You will forget them all, though it be
Sometimes so, very, very,
How long ago!
Though it is sad to say,
"Come home -- walk out -- walk in the gray --
And it is only you."
When I was ill, at night,
I went to Bonrazin to pray;
And when my prayers were done,
In came the sun,
And all the world was still with him
Except the little child.
I know not how I went,
Or what I did, or what I meant,
But still I spoke, as the blind man went,
And I spoke perfectly.
He has a bitter memory,
And loves to wander with a sword
Till he is lost to thought of you;
And he can go, and journey too,
And you can journey on, and he
Will love you better as he loves,
And he will hate you -- hate you -- hate!
He may be worse than wise,
But let him scold and scold again;
And you will laugh and weep,
But let him scold and scold again.
Oh, weary hours of reading, children,
That I so long has written!
Oh, restless dreams, the moments fly,
And long for -- ah! for me;
I cannot say a little that,
For I too long have written.
So some day when our little book is turned to "lovely themes,"
And all the world is bright
And the children say to us
In a dreamy light,
We shall dream that fairy-land
And know all its dreams.
Little children, never mind playing,
And leave the loveliest things
To come with a fairy, in a garden,
And dream there's another ring,
A fairy ring, when the fairy flowers
Are folded long since for one;
For I am going, and I am going,
Going beyond the fun.
A fairy ring!  Why, childhood will be
A little after it.
Come, run with me and be happy with us,
For life has no longer flowery;
Then you may run on a tiny green stile,
And rest on your downy brown bed.
And you may come and go to the country,
And gather potted fruits new,
And hear the bells ring out, in joyful glee,
Your home's at the glad New Year's.
I will take you to my old home,
And often I will say,
"Here is a fairy ring.  In their childhood
There were better days to stay."
They were better days to go,
For they went each merry day;
For all the merry, merry times
The little children had to play.
"Good-bye! Good-bye!" they called;
And so they sat and played,
And when the fairy ring was heard,
No more was its twang or word.
They sat on the wooden stool,
The painted red morocco,
And talking on the nursery floor
Of their loved children's shoe-strings.
All through the bright Easter night
When the sun went down to visit the sea,
All through the nursery dark,
I heard the bells to the bright-eyed bird,
And the happy children laughing.
It was the booming, brazen peal of bells,
That Saturday night of the middle o'clock,
That circus bug blew so loud and clear,
That the woodpecker cried to the small gray shadow,
"Bring out the circus ge-rounds!"
"Is that the thrush?" quoth I.
"Nay, nay! what does he say?
They are so noisy now!"
The small gray circle clustered green and blue,
And the big brown feet kept hopping so;
And I said, "You little stupid thing,
Don't sit so long at home, I beg."
The small gray circle said so,
"Here is some games we played;
'Twas a long while ago,
And his name was Bumpville;
'Tis the middle of September, and the sun has gone down,
And the supper is to be 'hey boy!'"
"No, thank you, no," the big brown head
Sounded like a rolling drum;

======================================== SAMPLE 573 ========================================
, _I_ am not.
And then I've been all three-score years, my man of the West,
And I have come in a hundred directions to show to you all
that's right and wrong
Of the East and the West for the morning, so you are only two
five.
I'm a poet of thirty, but mostly just thirty-five, my man
Of nineteen-five, so I wish that I knew you fairly.
And now you want me away to the East again to-day, my man.
But I'm not in the least a portrait you can see that will make
the eyes,
And perhaps you will tell me you've been rather too young to be
the one that I see
With so pretty an air of the West for the Sun for the
Uniform with the First-day Morning in
To-days, to-day, to-morrow.
To-morrow, to-morrow.
A Girl's Songs
To-day, to-day, to-morrow,
A Girl's Songs
To-day, to-day, to-day, to-day.
To-day, to-day, to-day.
To-morrow, to-day.
And then, to-morrow, to-morrow.
There goes the smoke of your cigar
And the sound of your merry guitar.
To-day, to-day, to-day.
A Girl's Songs
To-day, to-day, to-day.
For, to-day, to-day.
Well, well, good morning, to-morrow, to-day.
For the Wind blew the smoke from the pipes of Pan and from
Tommy and Jo.
What's to-day, to-day, to-day.
Well, well, good morning, to-day.
Well, well, good morning, to-day.
And the wrong and the right, boys, to-morrow, to-night.
Come, my Peacock, my baby, come,
Not into the night,
Not into the day, not into the fight.
Where's the Boacock, the Boacock, to-day?
Where's the baby to-day?
Where's the baby to-day?
Soaked and smothered in straw,
Close up to the sky,
The beautiful sight of the cruel gun
Rides on the belfry.
Ducks, and swish of the huts,
Doud-voiced from the walls,
The beautiful fright of the cruel gun
Rides on the belfry.
What's the news from the baker, my dear?
What's the news from the wether?
What's to-day, to-day.
Parson, preach, we pray,
To-morrow is Easterday.
Parson, pray, may the day
Loose to-morrow
For to-day, to-day.
Parson, pray, may the day
Loose to-morrow
For to-day, to-day.
Parson, pray, may the day
Loose to-day, to-day
Loose to-day, to-day.
Parson, pray, what's the news from the baker?
What's the news from the baker?
What's to-day, to-day.
For the craft on the light, and the marvellous flight,
And the wonderful prodigal miracle of the night,
And the wonderful travail of every reef and scar,
And that cuts like a knife,
That cuts like a knife,
That cuts like a knife.
Mothers', children's wives,
The husbands' hearts in caves,
The children's sports in the woods,
The woods that is the best,
The gay days in the nest,
The days that are the best,
The jolly days in the nest,
And the summer days in the nest,
When the days are no more.
Barbs, baronies, wives!
How we blithely chang his sides!
Whisper, lads, he'll never be
The neighbors round about,
But come when the days are out,
With the May-moon overhead,
So we'll all of us be glad
To meet him at the head,
And all of us be as glad
As he to-day, to-day.
A Man in a Slave
What's beneath the moon?
The Day's Slipper and Night's Plenish,
A Mass for the States to do;
A Slave's Tragedy
A Statesman's Saturday
It's Shady Pat's Green
Poor mother Nature that turns
To Take- dissever
======================================== SAMPLE 574 ========================================
-a-long is he,
The youngest and the youngest,
And he has nought to tire of,
And he shall die right merrily.
I am an old man, who am old,
I never thought to be old;
But now and then a cluster of rings
I am playing, not in the main;
And it's there that I played with my flax,
With the bonnet and the linsey,
And pretty Kitty, the gentlest thing
That ever was merrier to me.
I am an old man, whose mind is gray,
I never saw the like before;
But when it comes to taking clay,
I know I'm older than before.
A bell-clock at a midnight,
A knock at the door on the night,
And I know there is a call at the door,--
I am the ancient man, the old man.
O the bell-clock at four o'clock,
And the earth so dark and wide!
And the wind, it whistles loudly,
It calls the children to the bride.
"Go home to her who is old!"
It calls the beggar-sighing to his mother;
"Hear the children playing,
The beautiful children that live by the sea!"
It calls to the farmer,
It calls to the clerk and the good Peter,
It calls to the mighty to be merry,
And the old man to be sad,
"And what is the gold to the children to me?"
The little girl said:
"O then, then, it is joy,
And then it is peace,
And a good-night to them that are glad!"
Then there was neither a nor to hinder
The beautiful word of the bride;
And the old man beat his breast,
And his baby-clothes untied,
And into the church he was carried.
And when I come home again,
With a kiss and then a frown,
I think I shall see the good little girl
As she kissed her darling old and brown.
The roses on the wall,
The leaves upon the bough,
The sun upon the gall,
All fragrant and forlorn,
For summer are they borne
To bloom about the morn
In fragrance and in light.
The roses on the wall,
The leaves upon the bough,
The sun upon the gall,
All fragrant and forlorn,
For summer are they borne
To bloom about the gall,
In fragrance and in light,
To strengthen and to brighten.
And when I come to die,
How sweetly will they be!
The roses on the wall,
The leaves upon the bough,
The sun upon the gall,
All fragrant and forlorn,
For summer are they borne
To bloom about the gall,
In fragrance and in light.
The roses on the wall,
The leaves upon the bough,
The sun upon the pall,
All fragrant and forlorn,
For summer is not always there--
The roses on the wall,
The roses are all wither'd
In sorrow--
The roses on the wall,
The snow has come and gone,
The roses, all a-bloom;
And like the perfume of perfume
The fragrance of the room--
The roses, all a-bloom,
For summer are they borne
To bloom about the gall,
In fragrance and in light.
The roses on the wall,
The leaves upon the bough,
The sun upon the bough,
All fragrant and forlorn,
For summer is not always there--
The roses on the wall,
The brooklet's melancholy cry--
For summer is not always there--
And, O, the flowers are here--
The roses, all a-bloom,
For summer are not always there.
The roses on the wall,
The leaves upon the bough,
The sun upon the bough,
All fragrant and forlorn,
For summer is not always there.
With a song, with a sigh for a smile;
With a whisper, a sigh for a tear;
With a sigh for a silence that sees
In a music of silent delight;
With a whisper, a sigh for the voice
Of a singer whose love for sweet woe
Is for sorrow the lifetime to come;
With a sigh, with a sigh for the grave;
With a sigh, with a sigh for the past;
With a smile, with a smile for the grave.
The roses on the wall,
The leaves upon the bough,
The sun upon the bough,
Are all for ever flown,
As the summer breeze comes down
With the
======================================== SAMPLE 575 ========================================
."
As the nightingale, who, versed in every art,
A song may free from care, and sweetly sing
One whose sweet nature was of tender heart;
And so, full oft, she sang for many a year
To old-time melodies.
How oft, how oft, in summer, under shady boughs
The old dear garden weeps!
How oft in May the swallows build their sweets,
And build their mimic nests
Where we, the humble, live and labour all
With dainty care, that knew nor pause nor call
The winter's near approach.
So oft, how oft, in summer, under arbor rose
The little honeysuckle, low, and sweet,
And o'er the fence-plant, hid by trailing brier,
The red-bud bloom complete.
So oft, when none could see the daffodil,
Nor maiden, that repays too soon its sweets,
Its sweetness did enthral;
The lily, fairest daintily to him,
Ne'er saw the like with all.
Thrice thirty summers, to the rose and lily
Did the sweet rose its own magic mould:
But now, it lies beneath the garden's snow,
And waits the magic of the magic hour
When thou, beloved beauty, thou shalt be
Once more a childless flower,
A leaf, a rose, a fairy, every day,
Forth from the tiny stem
Catching the magic bee's sweet melody
From tiny leaf and bud.
There did it come, and live upon the breath,
And there the flower did die.
What other thing remains for ever?
Thou art a thing that never, never can be,
And the sweet air doth take no other hue
Than the sweet breath thou spend'st on me;
The sunny days are dull and fair,
The bleak autumn blows fair and blue,
The sun shines warm,--and it's a light,--
A pleasant light, a sunny ray,
A burning breath, a bright and glowing sun,
Into the woods, and to the hamlet on the hill, a merry rill.
Oh! that I were a shepherd boy!
Wings out a joyousalis,
A joyous little blossom,
A little blossom in the sun,
Whose bloom is gladness like the spring,
Whose blushing dew is like the morn,
Whose dews are like the morning's dawn,
And whose pulse is like the rising sun,
A joyous little blossom,
A little blossom in the sun,
Whose sweetest fragrance is his life,
And whose sweetest, loveliest dreams
Are that I'm just beginning,
A bright and glorious leaf!
Oh, say not so to me,
I would not change thy heart;
In my own country or in foreign clime
I'd rather dwell with thee!
The stormy night, and wind-swept sky,
Are but the thoughts that rise
In our dear native country, and not die,
And are not in the skies.
But oh! 'tis all a glorious part
That we in this bright blossom find;
That, when our summer sun is gone,
We've no more sunshine in our mind
To gladden our green woods again.
I would not be a monarch, and I would be kings;
I would not have a palace in a little land,
A cottage in the sea, and in some spot of land.
But as in rural quiet, I'll pass by the lake
And see it flashing white beneath the snowy moon;
It will refresh my soul some time when other birds
Are on the wing, so long you'll have to stay at home,
And it will smile a welcome on its gloomy waves.
I'll stay at home, and, oh! so happy we shall be!
And I'll live with the birds on every tree
And the sweet waters on the shore of quiet seas,
And when the morning sun is shining, still my heart
Will keep its blessings bright beneath our quiet sky,
And be the swan--the dove--the nightingale--the dove;
The child whose heart is as the farmyard green;
The child, who is the father of all the flowers;
The baby who is the mother of the sun;
The baby who, from labour, is the mother of the breeze;
The bird, the sea, the star, that in their native land
Is the most lovely image of our gentle sky.
And when the dawn begins to break,
I've nothing else to call my own;
No one has time to look for me,
And I'm so
======================================== SAMPLE 576 ========================================
 the _old_ way.
_Weep_ for the dead, the dead will never see,
The graves on the cold heap will be made fast to be.
But _we_ shall come to the _old_ place--to the _old_ there,
To the _young_ place, and the old, and the _old_ place,
Where _old_ things abounding, that will be _old_ things indeed.
The dead will say, "Away up there, no doubt,
No doubt shall cross thy way and take thee home;
We'll have thee back to live with thee in the dust,
And hear the _old_ doors clacking again for _the_ sweet chaste_."
Now the last house is taken, what we've got,
And the lean years that are left us are run by;
There's nothing we have done for thee, but we fear 'em,
And we'll be back in the old, old place once more,
Out in the cold, and the old place, and the old house, and the
There is a time for treason, and a time for treason,
At last we get the Spring, the merry Spring.
In that far-off untrodden land of France,
Where freedom's voice is heard, and death is faced,
And the world yet holds the story of great war,
And we have the chance to win or to lose:
And out upon the bitter dregs of chance,
We die like France, and die like Italy.
_This is the five years' war-worn year_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_.--
_Tired and pen idly dying_--
_Tired and pen idly dying_.--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly sighing_.--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_!--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly dying_.--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly trying_--
_Tired and pen idly sighing_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly trying_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly trying_.--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly trying_--
_Tired and pen idly trying_--
_Tired and pen idly sighing_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly trying_--
_Tired and pen idly trying_--
_Tired and pen idly lying_--
_Tired and pen idly trying_.--
Sold and won for the glory of the greed
Of the greed of the heart of the chief,
Sold and spoiled and quenching of the gem
For the flag of the heart of the chief;
Sold and spoiled by the breath of God,
By the heart of man and his soul;
Sold and hurt by the red man's breath
At the worth of a world of strife.
Sold and hurt by the hope of a law
Which ruled in a world of strife.
Sold and hurt by another hand,
By the strength of a soul at strife.
Sold and hurt by another heart,
By the passion of hate and wrong.
In a world of travail and of grief,
Sold and hurt by the thought of life.
And down on the heaving, blood-stained field
Fall the fated, lying men.
The march of a man, by the voice of pride,
In the valor of war was done.
Sold and hurt by a hand unhurt,
With the strength of a heart unshorn,
When the thorns of war were in blinding the scar
And the thorns of war were in Heaven.
Wherever a man may be seen
With the strength of a sainted guise;
And the features of all the conquered men,
Are the hooded gloom of the night and plain,
And the face of a foeman's hell.
With never a phantom charm in
======================================== SAMPLE 577 ========================================
, for his mother, the young
Toward the eternal throne for ever true.
She knew him, for she longed to join her hands,
Her mother's, and the father's, and to meet
With such calm love the dearest.  No, the day
She longed to join him, and in faithfulness
To him her spirit and his soul could greet.
He looked her in her face, but all the while
Stared at him with a strange and anxious smile.
Then forth she rode, in quest of that fair boy,
With one, who seemed his mother's guardian, he,
Who still was father to him, but could see
His father, though he knew not what the boy
In his great strength and strength had done the best
Of his five brothers, and that all had quaffed
The boon of strength and health and manly blood.
She told him this, and told him that a time
And alien from his native land and blood
Was come to visit her, and how he would
With loving arms her father's brother woo;
And how with loving faith her spirit grew.
What words she told, what deeds of kindness wrought,
Yet strong to man, her own fair hopes she brought.
But little heeded--tears which fell like rain,
Or snow, or rain, or storm, or melted snow;
And yet, as one in trouble bowed to woe,
The daughter fair and chaste were dearer grown
To him, and now he felt his bosom swell
Where'er he saw her, and the soft lips tell
Of gladness in her eyes, yet none the less
He loved her, and he went her blessing by.
So he came nigh, and saw her, and began
To name her, yet no deed of nobler worth
Did his grey daughter leave; and then he sought
To hide the secret, but he knew not where
To leave that day: so all three laid their hands
On the fair mother's bosom, and they sought
The shrine: so went he in, and what his thought
Told of the coming days, the joyous band,
Abandoned there to find the sacred head.
Then came the morning, and with joyous hearts
The women took the shining diadem
And on the morrow from the courts aloft
Led forth the dance, and in the central space
Held in high union.  On the nymphs he gazed,
And on her golden ringlets, which had bent
Back over all their heads to crown their king,
The youths and maidens in their midst appeared
Vague scenes of woe, which on the mournful crowd
He could not see, and scarce could mark, he stood
Wearing the crown, and with a joyous sigh
"I beg you, sir, that I will be your son
And you my father."  Then again he thought
To meet a son, but most at length came o'er
The hero's questioning, and from his brow,
With gentle yet majestic air, a sign
Of life preserved, he drew his falchion forth,
Striving to draw the life-blood from the wound.
Thus on he sped, as, rushing o'er the plain,
O'ertakes the young, and then, with eager haste,
Along the margin of the flood he looked,
O'erhanging them, he loosed the struggling cloak,
And cast it on the ground; then bowing low,
Thus to his brother spoke the mighty God,
As to thy brother: "Yes, with all my power
This miracle, O victor in the fight,
Can I succeed?  Then let my soul find rest
Still with a prayer, that I may join with thee
In fealty, and in strength, thy people's good."
So said he; but the King ignored his thought.
Then when the King arose, and knew 'twas much
That he had heard, to his high sovereignty
He drew his robes, and to his Presence spake:
"Go forth, O best of kings, in quest of thee
Flee far and wide; and I my life again
Will offer, though in humbleness, the King
To woo thee.  I am but a daughter fair
To Priam's King, and thou hast reached the goal.
Now wilt thou go, for that is mine no more.
And thou must woo me, if thou choose to go,
And on this day thou wilt be king indeed."
Then spake the King: "Go forth, until thou hast
Reverenced my wishes, and thy soul shall come,
For I will seek thee out at last, whose fame
Shall be no
======================================== SAMPLE 578 ========================================
-and-Cane!
It is the voice of the angry bird,
And the great blue falcon above her wings,
And the white owl calling in the wood:
"Hear, all ye people of the village!
Hearken, O hear, you merchants and singers!
And you shall pay the honeyed kisses
Of the fair blue Seraphim
Who march across the seas to war."
And a cry from the multitude answered,
And a roll of passionate voices,
And the fair wild mouths are silent now,
And the voice is cold as a stone.
"Hearken! hear, you young ploughmen!"
And they answer, "Hear, ye merchants and singers!
Hearken! you young ploughmen!
Your true hearts will break for joy!
In the blue sky lying over us,
In the narrow deeps of the sea,
I shall be carried to far lands,
My father's sail I shall build with me."
"I will be wrapped in the quilt of the waves,
With nard on the ship, like a beast of burden
That moans by the way of the sea.
And the young ploughmen by me shall love me,
And the merchantmen shall love me."
"I will be wrapped in the quilt of the waves,
With nard on the ship, like a beast of burden
That moans by the way of the sea.
And the young ploughmen shall love me,
And the merchantmen shall love me!"
A Voice from the multitude, O, for the voice of the people
Is silent and still as a sentinel's cry;
And the voice of the multitude comes not alone
Out of the night of the centuries--out of the clamour
Of the crowded streets and the weary world's sigh.
The voice of the multitude comes not alone
Out of the night of the thousand voices;
And the voice of the multitude comes not alone
Out of the night of the thousand voices.
And the voice of the multitude hears no longer
The voices of men and women and song,
But the voice of our nation rises solemn,
And the voices of it answer back, strong as the voices
Of the children of men on their knees, when our land
In the utter night of the storm is awed,
And the voice of the multitude comes not alone,
But the voice of the multitude cometh afar,
Out of the night of the thousand voices.
What need is there for the tears and the loyels,
The wailings and outcasts of our people?
The voice of the multitude comes not alone
Out of the night of the thousand voices;
And the voice of the multitude comes not alone,
But in an awful stillness rises and comes,
Till a roar of winds falls on the fields of heaven,
And a sound of the voice of the people,
And there's an end to every man,
And a thread of the Allfather's glory,
And ever its thunders are in the Allfather's hand.
The trumpets of the battle-flags
Wave high in air,
Like waves in a quiet sea,
And wave high over the shore
Like a little lovely ship
When the days are few.
The merry tidings of glee,
And the glad tales of glee,
Fly back again to us,
But we can not keep the strain;
We cannot keep the vow;
We cannot keep it now;
We cannot break it now;
We cannot keep it now;
For, back to the heart of the hill,
Where the great oak-woods grow,
And the rivulets purple and still
Are a hundred years ago,
We came back from a hundred mountain-tops,
And back again with a hundred moons
And a hundred moons!
We came back from a hundred mountain-tops,
And back again with the rolling world's wonders--
We lived in a world of endless ages,
And back again with what we had lost,
And back again with the countless stars
That we had never seen!
For the great gods are with us,
We are growing old;
We have spent the good they have not seen,
And we are growing old.
Like the leaves of the forest,
Like the leaves of the tree,
In our hearts they have cherished
The beautiful sea,
And the tides of our passion
Wash deep from the sea;
But we are enduring
Our first and our best,
And our lives are nameless
And the shores are a rest,
But where like the waters,
That spring through the West,
The beautiful sea
Is breast-high and the crest is the crest,
And the purple and spires are
======================================== SAMPLE 579 ========================================
.
The last line is from "The Black against the House," &c.
Thou'lt scarcely believe in such a story:
And yet by these presarnd I would disclaim
The more I know of my great sires
And of my grandsons, howe'er emulous,
Their fame already has a direful lust.
I think, perhaps, that whosoever did
A nobler cause with me, and did thereby,
Would still endure to make me brave in fight
With him, and I in safety lead my life
And fortify my end, that so I die.
No. }          [_To return to the Resurrection_
_Licenity_.
Thou wilt esteem I will not be
Worthy of it, for all my love,
Thou wilt not be alone, I trow,
'Tis thine by right: but I do scorn
And will not love, it must remain
To him that loved her.
I can discern
A soul, more pure, more faithful ne'er,
And though it be atoning here
All else but only with her, 'tis
A thing unteachable to me,
And can find comfort for her sake,
The cause her lover's longing to her
For me gives me: I'll seek my sweet,
And may she soothe and comfort too:
But only of my loving he
Cometh not to her, nor to me.
For, since 'tis given to me to keep
Communion with her, I'll be
Obedient to her order;
I know each mark I need to keep
Till it be given by me.
_To speak the truth for aye_
_And speak the truth in this wise;
That all my prayers may be done
And all my hopes to palsy._
As I lay dying in the cold,
And with the bitterest pain o'ercome,
God, what was that poor prisoner,
My widow weeping round and round
In such eternal misery!
And yet I know it was not true,
Albeit my joy was great and glad,
For that I know, and can do much,
And may be very good and glad;
And that the loss I well could bear
Was, seeing me no more than such;
For it was only on the same
Who thus had won her love and me;
Alas, that it should yet remain
To her or her such misery!
For 'twas to see her leave her home,
Alas!  I know not if I were
A captive to her misery.
I'm wretched now.  But if it be,
That she hath spent her life for me,
I shall be mad in her despair:
For she hath neither time nor prayer
To utter her despairing cries;
For she hath neither time nor prayer
To utter her despairing cries.
And I know more than there might be
In one whose anguish and despair
Were aught to make her thus despair
Of being for herself alone,
Who lives for her alone.
A captive on the limits of a short sojourn
Lies ruined by the sea, and all the while is dark;
And now the moon gives up her vacant charm,
For whom it liked that once Aurora had her war:
And now Aurora seeks her silent throne,
Because she had no power to make her moan.
The heavy wind is moored by fits
In the deep mountain-side;
The clouds are hanging heavy
Over the glimmering side;
And from the heights in gullies
A barking dog is heard to bark;
Now he is barking still for rage,
And now he runs away.
Boys, take your cup and try it,
But do not try to draw it;
Else you must fall and lie
There, for your mother's meed.
There's none, indeed, of all sorts,
That ever trod this way,
That has a heart so wicked
As never yet was play:
And there's no man, that ever yet was bored,
So wicked, that could touch that other's heaven:
Yet many such there be
As, in the end, must be
At God's behests, in every meaner sphere.
I'm not a slave, masters, but such as these
Who are the masters of the earthly mind,
Who make their lives but with discoveries ieward,
Or the fine forms which were not fashioned blind,
Or who, from earth, are made so that their mould
Might be a thing to please their eyes and brain,
And they be made to live, in other spheres,
The law, not nature
======================================== SAMPLE 580 ========================================
 of the "Leaves of Grass," were
gathered for long with a most abundant collection of Fairy Tales.
"In the Old Time," sighed the gentle King, in accents tender and
sweet, as if he knew the name of him; but when the whole
"Thine is the hour for me, and thine, for me,
Where all my thoughts are human and divine;"
and, as the kind triune might have said, "Thine is the hour!" a
Grapes of Roses, where I will not see
The Rose upon his B stem so fair.
Grapes of Roses, wreathed around with leaves,
Are all the Roses that the Rose receives.
My Rose! thou art as fair as thou dost be,
But I will not make thee blush for thee.
Where my love is, there's a paradise
Full of lilies that have never been,
And every gentle streamlet that doth flow
In forest depths far from my weary feet,
A garden with its wanton walks to meet.
The roses, redolent of lilies, wear
As if they sought a hiding for the snare.
The Rose upon its stalk did thrive,
For that the Lily never did thrive.
And when the Rose-flower spreads her leaves
To meet their caterwauling impecades,
To be admired by every glade and grove
Is my rich Rose, but all her charms you love.
You do not want for flowers to grow,
And where you see and hear them grow;
Yet still I would you gladly know
How Nature laughs in her wild honey-bee,
How that in lilies the honey-bees
Their sweet omnipotence keep time to me.
A Rose upon the stem of life,
In days of yore did her fair blossoms fling.
I looked and thought what an old story
Is telling of a sweet old story.
It was the Rose which bears the name
Of the white lily, and of the same.
The Rose upon its stalk did show
How fairer she than aught I know
Or roses that in deserts blow,
The sweet old story I would bring you[B]
The lovely lily and the rose,
The gentle lily and the rose,
And the white lily and the feather,
The lovely lily and the feather,
The dear old story you will hear
When they both are in their green,
And you two are in the garden, where
Are lovers and the blossoms everywhere.
The Rose upon its stalk did throw
A perfume that was half divine,
A perfume that your spirit knows
Where grows the redolent of rose-leaves,
The lilac, and the violet,
The lilies, and the moss in blossom,
The fern-down with the maiden posies,
And every balm and every blessing
The blossoms bring along the roses.
The Rose upon its stalk did throw
All Graces courtiers at will,
And, in the pride of bud and bloom,
The Violet upon its stalk did show
The whitest beauty and the best of show.
The purple and the redolent
That garnish life with their delight,
The pansies and the rose blush rare
And the wine in their cups is bright;
But I would not be a courtier
To sway a sceptre in the play
Of courtiers with the silken fete
Which binds the lovely lily.
The wild, wild Rose--they do not know
Whether the charm is yours or not;
I wonder if the hand that moulds
The bud will fade,--and then the fruit
Will fade and be a deathless thought.
The child is but an instrument
Which, whilst, as yet, is incomplete.
The music that we hear is a soul's part,
And it must chords of being break apart.
How oft, when my heart rested there
On the red lips of her mother-bird,
I heard a spirit, as of a choir
Of angels moving in a trance,
Move on in perfect harmonies!
This is the song your lady sang,
When, from the convent door,
Her carriage in the village streets
With restless steps she sped before;
The carol of her liquid voice
From the embowered heat of day
Came like a startled creature's leaf
And lifted her cool hand to day.
The wind that blew from Gileadore
With morning song comes dancing in,
With morning tune and tinkling bell
And twinkling tinklings of guitar
And dancing maidens' merry tune;
But all things else are stirring now
In the green quiet of the trees
And shadows of the apple-trees
And the
======================================== SAMPLE 581 ========================================
!                      
For hearken, O my brothers, to our song,
And hear, O well-beloved, how heaven is strong,
And there were spirits who should sing of pain
To all who walk but for a single day--
To you, the lighten'd o'er a stormier way.
_To speak unto your love:_
_To hear your love and leave your love to play:_
_To hear your love and henceforth be afraid._
So, from the day the first, the young bride rose
To meet her chosen lover, to divide
Her limbs from earth, her warmth from earth, her pride.
The two that leaned upon one grass-green side,
Shone in the sunbeam, as the first one shone
On the dear face whereon their love had smiled;
Then on the grass in freakish glory wan
The maiden sprang, then to the maid she ran,
And round her, in obeisance low and sure,
Pored on her own fair face with eyes elate,
And on the ground, 'mid her beloved twice,
Cried, "I am he who in the love I gave.
"Sweetly I plead to thee--to-night,
As here we part, to-night I crave
To go with thee, to-night," she said,
"To-morrow? I shall die to-day.
"If I can bring thee hither soon,
Not buried in my heart, but slain,
Thou mayst die not for this reproach,
But for the freedom from my love.
"I give the future time's deceit,
The thought in hope, the dream in trust,
The trust when thou art safe from me."
_To speak unto thy love_
_I would not have thee speak thy name,
Or let thy face breathe out the light
That lies between us in the night.
I would not have thee weep, I would not have thee cry
That thou art just as much at heart as low as I,
But by thy life and death thou art my life and light,
And through thy lips I know I know thou art my life and light.
_To speak unto thy love_
_Thou canst not have me kiss and kiss_
_Thou wilt not have my kiss to-day_
_What is thine anger like to-day?_
_The beauty of the moon and stars_
_Will make thee brighter in thy tears_
_Thy love's the softer of all wrongs_.
_O foolish words! O senseless words!
Do thy feet hurt me when the night
Is full of moonlight and soft sounds._
_Nay, now, beware! beware!_
_Thou wouldst not have this kiss to-day,--
Would I had lost it ere it came,
Might it be gathered by the flames!_
_Think not, Sweet One, of thy smart pain,
Nor of a worse flame than the flame,
Though mine should burn and thicken again_.
I would be mad if it were not for thy rapture;
I would be drunk with thee in the wine-jar;
And I would stir if that do make me weep and wail me,
And then I'd change my sorrow for thine own.
O bitter mother of the wild and quiet earth,
Where now thou art as I before thee are,
I pray to all that round about thee rise and fall
The thoughts which visit thee and make thee dear.
I am as mountain-tops to thee and all the stars,
That wandered down with quiet light and make thee wise;
I am as morning-floods to thee and all the earth,
That wandered down with quiet light and make thee fair.
To-day thy face looks from me in the kiss of heaven,
And all my being bathes in light that thrills my soul;
And this is what thou seest: thou art my all and own;
To-day thy face looks from me in the kiss of God.
Woe, woe! we know not in what cloistered nook
Our dark birth-place is resting for a while;
And yet we know, for perfect is the work,
The long road hardly leads us to the shore,
But, resting ever on the path we look beyond,
What once we saw, and all we dared and feared,
What we are, and the world that ends not here.
Behold the very God we lose and find;
His face we seek, and yet the road is steep.
What though our faith be dull, our will is strong;

======================================== SAMPLE 582 ========================================
,
_Vide post rogacem_, etc.
_Quid hoc ne nimium opera, endite plumbo,
Deo patriam senilis in se tene ponere?_
That's the way of the doctors,--_to be wise,
And, what may come of the tortures _we_ can gain,--
To be silent, and cold, and quite free,
If the doctors, as scholars, you be who
Ought never to talk till, _you_ list for to see,
You can hear, if you wish, what I utter for you,--
_Plant_ for this or that thing, 'tis plain enough,
'Tis an instinct that's free to--_leave off and go on,
This or that, or, what you please, may be done,--
But pray spare the insects that, there you shall
Be ready for further things,--go--and call
For the bugs and the riders, or gallop away,
But leave to the dells of the insects to sway,
On the plain of a dunghill--the right of a race;
And the right of a good one,--to order the race.
Oh! 'twas not by the art of so hard an adventure,
'Twas by our poor countryman's labor we sought;
Our master, old Horn Ring, was an odd sort of creature,
And loved it all over, but now he was caught,
The only thing found which he could hit the mark
Was a hole in his mouth, and he lurched in his neck.
I don't call it a fraud, but 'twas surely a spite
To find, of a moment, that ugly old man,
Who was killed by a ball, and the countryman's spite
Was avenged by a shot when his game was begun,
And a great one up-torn, while we pitied his pain,
Of a fine old-fashioned punch-party got off the train.
And so we were happy--as happy we were
In the faces of people, in steering and fun;
The doctor might show you, in spite of his teeth,
The regular break-down, the pump, and that sort
Of thing called in Greek, which gives me such vexation
To think we should have a right to kick up
One's very good-luck gun down the whole "Idol of Fame,"
But he's only at work on the side of the game.
But at last he's at work on the side of the game;
And I say to myself, as he drives me in now,
"Now, now by the way I know, I have _some_ to say,
And most of our fellows must sup in their tea,
While I, after slumber, have nap to do,
And am always so happy to have _no_ cake."
But the rakes are so busy you cannot require
To listen to me with a musical tone;
But my eyes you can't see, if they _do_, any day
They are all looking for something to pass on ahead
And so I can't trust to my "_best_ opportunity
Of winning at once, and destroying the instead,
And then, I suppose, if I _prove_ something, at least,
"If ever I give it," (the witch you would stop
Just before the beginning of course quite a bit)
"Now, now by the way _you've_ to make _me_, by my leave,
A most worthy old sport, and my eyes you can see,
On the table were plates, on the napkins, and plates,--
So they all went to make the first Feast of the Great.
There will be two kinds of pies, but the first one is flat,
So the soup rises on to the edges of each,--
There is merely a dish of flat fruit enough
For the soup of one's stomach to finish it;
And the salad itself would be hardly too small,
If you put in the dish of the soup it will be;
And, to save my crown from a hat, there will be
Six or twenty small prints which will serve us at all,
And the last one is merely a cocoa-nut meal.
"The soup in the soup room is cold, and the time is long,
When your appetite rises to a tremendous set;
I say, eat some, and some, now, to China, till the dish
Is too tempting for a rhyme quite as not,
For there the dessert is if all the meat is flat,
And the soup don't suit just best till they're done by it;
Till you have the whole turkey, you'll find that it
======================================== SAMPLE 583 ========================================
 his head,
And laugh, and sing, and play
And laugh and sing.
A man of sense unsteady,
And soundly droll or senseless
May use his time and trouble,
And pass his days in gawdyumption,
With not one mark or measure
Upon his life-days treble,
Or heedless hand or eye
To set his mind a-boist,
And, once, at any time,
Whatever be his state
This man stands forward to confess
'Tis life to live in rhyme,
And death to use the stress
Of rhyme, and rhyme!
A man of sense and spirit,
Who, though a poor endeavor,
And courage pant for breeches
As withered, bare, and hungry,
Or angrier of the will,
Yet is he not still
A prophet, one of Nature's
And who hath heart and feeling
To keep all life a-dying
For one great deed and title,
Or mark the hour to die in
The face of God's Eternity
But for him that reads in rime
And he that reads in time
Lifts up his eyes and reads
The rime upon his lips
And reads the rimes on bibles,
And all the words of wisdom
That mark our world's eternity.
The man of sense and spirit
Had never thought so brave.
Like a goad well-homed
From the beginning Roman,
He saw upon the grave
The dark and awful Calvary,
When the morn was gray and worn
By the legions of the morn.
In such a trance for ever
Came thought that death was given,
As the mind in that sad chamber
Where we slept in death for ever,
And the eyes from hill and plain
Dimmed with the coming rain.
There, from the desolate sea-girdled hill,
He stood and heard the mists which rolled
From off the shore, and saw before
The silent waterfalls, as rolled
Along that shadowy and still shore
An armed warrior, with a face
As pale and withered as the place
Where a sick child cries at night
In its vain hope and fear,
Yet all the morning, clear
From earth's dark veins and sun-burned eyes,
The sea-god heard the wail-like cries,
Whispered he knew not what to say,
But turned his face away.
He had fled--the sound of his sea-bird's wing
Woke not amid the silence deep;
For he on lonely isle had found
A weight of anguish on his mind,
And the waves round about had rolled
As thick as ships upon the main;
Yet still he sought his rest afar,
When the waves from the island came
And burst in laughter at his name,
And the waves in their wild embrace
Stirred the sweet waters of his face,
As the swimmer's hand had bade him swim,
The phantom of the isle lay hid
In the hollow cliff, and still,
As there he sat and thought,
While the waves from the island came
As a murmur caught in air,
He saw that face alone
Whose light to his eyes had grown
Like the rays of morning dying
On the faces of the dead,
Who were joyous but as shadows
That haunt the land that he has seen,
And the faces that he has seen.
O, pale and withered with his breath
Was the face of stranger and stranger;
But not a form was there that was death
Of any; and no heart was he
To speak to him, who as one might sigh
"To leave the world and its sweet ways,
With no world's burden up, to raise
In the waters of life and its joys,--
To loiter in light and song
From the shore; to have no thought of a morrow,
But only a cloud of rain to destroy,
That will lose all its glory and die."
The wind crept out of the world's dark arms
As, stealing by on the waters,
The mermaids and maidens of Lesbian's charms
Stood, waiting their summons from sea and land,
And singing and smiling together,
And the maidens in Cybele's bower,
In the glad summer-tide of love's delight,
Sat singing together together,
And the mists their wonder pouring forth
From the island crowd and under,
And he whispered, while murmuring from far
To that lone shore and far-away,
"Where is my queen, my life and treasure,
Why are they all tarved and surmised,
Since I too, my queen of pleasure,
Must leave
======================================== SAMPLE 584 ========================================
.
In this, our fated race
Were in the foremost place.
But we, we shall not rest
Until the storm has ceased,
And then shall be at rest,
Without a bed or board;
For this we know--when Thou
Shalt come a victor-king
With power to make us sing.
Then let us thank Thee now
That all the blood of us
Has run out of our reach:
For this is the last wreath we have done,
So let us thank Thee now.
They have taken the Path over for "Horse and Hog."
They have taken the Path over for "Mountains and Trees!"
And over them have gone, over them both,
In the steady and careful keeping of the Church.
They have left in the lurch of the rain, on the road
With the Church in its heart and the grave on its breast.
They have gone, and the wind from the east
Is blowing,
And the track from the west is the best--
They have gone through their course in the steady and calm
Over vale and in torrents and mountains and seas
And over mountains and hollows and trees.
They have gone, and the wind from the north
Is blowing,
And the mark is behind them both;
They have come as the ghosts of them;
They have gone on from the day that is seen
In a glory that puts out the last of a Doubt,
And the one will be blotted out.
They have left the earth-vault in sullenness,
They have gone the ways of men,
Into the vastness of mystery;
Into the vagueness of unutterable sadness
They have come in the fullness of gladness and shew
A fellowship that is all of them,
A fellowship that is all of them.
They have come to the depth of the music of the woods,
They have stood aside in a dream and looked into the blue,
And lifted their brown brows like a banner,
Till the spell has departed,--
Till, in the clearness of wonder,
They stand where the mystery stands!
The bells have a thousand tongues,
And their annual greetings,
And their annual messages from the unknown,
Rise up of the centuries calling them "Sonnets."
(In memory of the Mother of All, I think.)
The bells have a thousand tongues,
And their annual greetings,
And their oldest greetings,
And their yearly greetings,--
Are the bells not there, my son?
No, not in a dream and a vision,
I believe, of the Bell of the Bell of the Bells.
The bells have a thousand tongues,
And their annual greetings,
And their oldest greetings,
When a foot was first in stone
Had travelled the country, the time,
To reach the spot where the bell and the bell
Lingered, as if they waited a while
For a welcome to some one else
Who had left his country, his home,
Ere he wished to die.
Yes, the Bell of the Bell is a bell-beat strain,
And a voice that has always the tone of the bell,
And the tone of the bell is a welcome to men
Who, at last, have no reason to grieve at the loss
Of the bell-boys--no, never, they are not dead.
The Bell has a thousand tongues,
And their annual greetings,
And their annual greetings,--
Are the bells not there, my son?
No, not in a dream and aittle of woe,
I believe, of the Bell of the Bells.
The tune of the Bell is--
"I'm sitting," said Paul, with his back to the door,
And a sigh to the sound of a foot on the floor.
But, with whom have you wandered?
And where are you going, my child?
I'm waiting, and weeping, and thinking of you;
But I feel I must go, for I'm sitting alone,
And my heart would be only a sigh of my own,
Had I but known what the Bell would say!
"The sun's setting," said Paul;
"The little birds are lilting, and singing," said I;
"The sky's blue, and I see some of them fly;
But my heart's little happiest, and mine is to me.
And I'm the happiest boy on the wide, wide sea."
Ah! little birds, ah! little birds,
That warble while you may;
For you may never know
The pain and suffering
That wait on you to-day.
For you can never know how strong

======================================== SAMPLE 585 ========================================

A goodly sight; for 'twas designed to see
The dame and lord while life yet slept, nor mar
The glorious vision. But a time had come
When he might view his wife in royal guise,
And mark the beauty of her loveliness
Shine through the moon-lit air, a radiance pure
And bright; that, when the days of grace were strook
On lips that might have told their secret deeds
To one more beauteous than they seemed to her,
In all their rich adornment.
But at last
She came to prove what he who loved had erst
Grew fain to see her loveliness, and turn
Fain to the loveliest and unloved. Her eyes
Were full of tears and full of mysteries
That came in streams of light. "Lo, here," she said,
"Here, lo, the Lady of the Forest! Lo,
'Tis mine to give, and take thy lily hand,
As mine to place thy finger in mine, there
So deeply set upon thy lips; and see
What once I gave my boyish heart." The smile
Of that sweet word and that soft tone and look
Were in her heart's most fearful stilliness
And fearful purity. "Sweet Lady, these
Shall be my guerdon, in that I shall lie
And make my life a dreadful balsam for them.
I shall come home and live to love. I shall
Feel in my bosom, as the nightingale
Sings, ere she sing to all the night-wind's breath
Out in the poplars; and the lilies' bloom
Will fade and pass away, while my fond heart
And mine shall sleep. And wilt thou have me hold
As is the magic of thine own love,--
And wake me like a lark? or wilt thou be
Strong to listen and strong to endure,
The while my voice within thine ear is, sweet?
Or wilt thou love me, and will I not say
The words that bid me love thee? They are strange;
For I go walking by thy side,--I bend
My head,--and love thee and am satisfied."
Then, as he slowly wandered in her nest
Of gold and fragrant flowers, he lay down
And slept.
But now the wise man's soul was born of grief
In her, a newt to sting and to betray;
And since his mother loved him with a smile
Of mildness to be named, her father fled,
And fled and found her living in her grave.
From the low west the early tints of eve
Shone out on the low hills; the sun-beams came
In flecks of gold across the shadowy creek,
Across the quiet pool wherethrough the breeze
Bore softly as a touch of stealthy wings
Of some tired hunter, who, from place to place,
Had passed across the wastes of forest-lands,
And now upon the other side revealed
In the clear space, a valley and a lawn
That held the sun-god's homestead.
O'er the pine-girt isle
And the ragged rocks,
With the tattered ocean-billows
And the gaunt sedge,
Where the dry earth drips,
The lonely pine-tree looses,
And the wind-gilt trees
As the leaves;
And the old oak is bearing with it
The sighing sap
Of the winds,
And the sighing pine-tree perfumes,
The pine-tree's whispering odor:
"Here, here! My love, my own, my own!"
Out of the west came the wind.
The woodlands were dark and still;
And it whispered to each in the hill
That the white mist lifted its lonely crest
Over the pine-tree and into the drear
And star-gleam, and the white gleam
Of the water-lily.
And as the night fell, the light
That came from the valley of the north
Shone slowly down on the sloping west
Into the east.
The night, dark night, grew
Until it seemed
A great rose-tree of waters,
And all the dreams of dreams
That the heart dreamed
Of the earth.
In the deeps of the forest
And the water-lilies,
They seemed, in allurements
Of the gods.
And some were the gods of the woodlands,
And some the gods of the deep,
That came to us through the distance,
And through the shadows of sleep.
And all of them were living
In the valley of the west;
And some were silent and
======================================== SAMPLE 586 ========================================
;
And, since the general path was o'er,
This labyrinth will show, no more
Than he who steps into a cave,
All fearful and completely knave,
And he who in the forest shou'd
Do errs, and so the saints delude."
He ended, and they both arose,
And each remain'd an contradiction
Of blackest ink, wherein 'twould be
By magic to be fully rid
Of all their secret sins; which done,
Both turned to gargoyles one by one,
For fear the thing itself had 'neres'.
No word, however rare, was spoke,
Of all the torments that he knew:
The thought pierced through his lids and through
Beneath the wings of Cherubim;
And he the most perplexing spell
Of all the conjugate inventer,
Demanding what is call'd Light House
With all his trumpery.  One foot next,
The figures of his comrades spoke;
The one, the saber's edge was gone;
And he bewhitched the crowd alone,
Who thus his guile at him express'd
In terms unseemly, and in revery.
"Speak freely, sir, I'm better off you,
You're better, sir, than I'd have been you;
I would have given up my life alone,
For it is one of my own selves."
"You've got a lot of pleasant news"
(The host replied) "and, sure's you fail'd
To find in many a baby-tale
How Santa Claus is with his team.
To Santa Claus you're not denied,
But what I think will be, dear bride;
And, though you're both a wife and child,
You're not as yet out of your tongue.
I would not ask you to be smiled
To see a child, and in such frill,
As he who toils himself away
To make his mother after him.
So, should you find a priceless gift
In bringing down the cows to graze,
I'll call to you, and you'll be blest
In the Last Day of Creation."
"My dear," cried Ethel; "hear the bell
That Santa Claus in fits is coming,
And I shall hear it calling you
To make the infant in addition."
"To see that in His Name I call
The just man of the name I call
The just man who has chosen his task
To work or to play, let me call
That man I call the just man really.
The just man I call is the real man;
And, truly, the flesh is his real feature,
The spirit its only real feature.
But I will call to the real man,
And you are here, dear Ethel; I'll call
You and be seen and heard and heard,
As you may hear in the after time,
When bells are ringing merrily,
And priests around the solemn fane
Telling their beads unto the main.
But if you find the Holy Suab
With all that I describe, I call
To Him I call the good man down,
And that is what you'd like to call
To Him here down in the Savior's name.
He's here, O father.
Well I recall it,
Though you should have been called to come
And see the child that was your home.
It was but a short way before
We were a little children
Playing in the garden,
With our mother, sitting
At the attic window,
With our little brother,
Who'd come to see us blowing,
When the storm was done.
He's a good old friend, the one
We leave old friends together,
And his heart is filled with love,
He is like the little weather.
But he's quite old--oh, yes; but there
He's older far than we are,
And he's as wise as we are,
And he won't be much more like us.
He's just as good as any one,
And he can take my heart from hers.
A good long way, O Father,
And a good long way I'll take.
Now don't you go and let me sit, and leave me alone.
I'm feeling sorry I'd like to be at home again;
I'm glad that it is so nice to be a little girl,
And I have got a mission to be looking at the stars,
And look at the moon, and look at a little cloud in the sky,
And look at the trees in heaven, and all around on the hill;
I can see the beauty of clouds as they shimmer and pass,
And look at the waves in the path
======================================== SAMPLE 587 ========================================
's death.
What wonder if I thus degenerate?
What wonder if my infant mind
Is always on the stage all set at once,
And in its place at once contain
Some fifteen years' survive? or, woe betide,
A hundred years have borne me all beside?
When shall I feel the time when I shall stop
And take another bath, or run, or run,
In garments white? or shall I then forget
The dreadful dangers which beset my way,
And yet be driving back to youth again,
With all my fears? And can a youthful power
Or childish fancy, when a boy, command
A hundred years before, and, with an eye
Blue as the blue blue of summer heavens,
Yet be with me a boyhood? is it naught
That I should ever want a hundred years
Or more?--a hundred years?
If I might just decide, or let it grow,
A hundred years ago, the world should know.
The little birds were always getting gray,
And much too eager to be very gay.
I often have to try, from morn till night,
Their pretty song, whene'er the sun shines bright.
O! think how very careful to put by
The meditative crowfoot and the gay
And cap-adornment of the sprightly Spring!
I often wish that every quiet thing
And every shadow that I see or hear
Would try to please me, and as soon, so near;
That every one, as dull, and loth to be
So kind, I'd like to put my head away.
And then, too, that poor little bird would stay,
Till I had found my pleasure and my gain.
O! then I'd stay a hundred years, until
The busy world had gone completely through.
But now, that's all--and I am glad to learn
That the best food of life is left to earn.
So I'll take off my tattered cere-cloth soft
And put my last new tattered cape of hair.
When evening comes, and we depart
To the most cherished keeping;
I think of the last supper in the inn,
And the broad down of the street;
Of many things I've noted,
From the time of dusk to morning,
In the dim darkness of the day.
As yet I scarce remember
The happy days of yore,
When the first sound of music
Made my heart beat once more,
I used to watch the slow years
By the roadside, in the light,
And the tiny twinkle of children
Making all the windows bright,
I used to hear them murmur,
Thinking of the ancient times,
And the history of our race.
Now they seem to have vanished,
And I gaze on them and wonder,
For I see their radiant faces,
And I feel they are divine,
And I'm wondering now I see them,
As they smile through the quiet air,
And I often feel them.
O! the joys of earth and heaven
Are like little things there,
As they rise and pass before me,
In the twilight of the night,
And they smile in golden silence,
As they glide and softly come,
In the dusk of time when even
The great wheels of life go by.
With their slow and gentle motion,
And their faces upward bending,
I behold their spirits kneeling,
As they bend o'er mother's eye,
And they kiss her mouth and forehead,
And they say, with gentle voice,
"We will meet to-night at morning."
At the close of the long day
I shall see your face no longer,
But my heart shall beat with triumph
Over sorrow and disaster,
For the little hands that clutch you,
And the little tongues that clutch you.
And I shall wake to see you;
And I shall breathe your name in
Again and again, and find you
With no heart or a hand to touch you,
Or a word to drop upon you.
From out the cold, blue twilight
Where no word ever fell,
Where never a hand could touch you,
Shall I come back to you?
Not in the silence shining,
Not in the loneliness,
But in the wonder shining
At each star-point and press--
Is aught worth living, is it real,
Or aught so dear to bless?
Ah! you shall smile again, again,
And your sweet heart shall burn
Beneath the dreary gloom of night,
To find your love is gone.
I shall be happy with you, nevermore,
I shall be glad, though I shall tear and wring
This dull life from my heart and break
======================================== SAMPLE 588 ========================================
, who was of the family, was one of the
youngest of them all, as he had been a pupil of
"What, and art thou arrived," said he, "through the
universe form of genius, when I read the works of man? How
come you to us, and speak? We have thrown up the unfinished trade
by the sword. It was nothing but a play to make the world
regarded for it. What hast thou to ask me."
"And what, and what!"
replied the young man to the aged man, "and, yet no one?"
"Well," replied the old man, pausingly, "I am at home in
England, and never have you seen my face again in the old
race. I have come home from a far country, but not to know
me from my native land."
"But I have come from a far country, and I like it well enough
to live there in the great light, as I am a boy,--so much the
day I live in, but I have yet to see friends and kinsfolk."
If I were a man and you were a god that I might worship daily
you. You would not give me any pleasure in the eyes of many,
and you would not even ask any stranger of your lineage. My
mother was the one you had last to kiss. And I say I must go
home in the morning time."
"We will see the child asleep."
"And we ought to keep here with him, as we did in the eldest
race, but not to keep you. I see not how many times you can
make your children, and you never feel what you can feel! Well
I believe, for I see now if you are, you will see them as
fast as they are with the mother that bears them, and they need not
do as they were when they were only five years old."
"Oh, why does the wind so wail the day, lad? Now for the
whole year I am come to know of that; it is not long now,
still lad, but is growing late."
"I will give you all the basket I gave when we took it from
the bole."
"I will hold the basket; little one, indeed!"
"Your basket is heavy, and it is of gold so good, it is
bright with fire; but if it be with fire you may put in the
full wallet."
"I am right proud," said the man, "and I will leave you to be
captured."
And he rose and was gone. "But I will turn my two hands home
by looking at a friend, and he would say to the other, 'You
knowing friends are the best in the world; they are like good men
with their children; they are much worse treated and want to be
"I will keep the basket, and I wish all the basket could be
tasted. It will be a good thing to hold it in my hand as a
staff in the temple; and, first, I am sure that you will
give me the fruit of the morning."
She turned her round as she spoke, and there was the face of the
maid. "I must ask your mother for her morning and breakfast,"
said the old woman, "when I can satisfy my wants?"
But the man was too bashful to make the prayer which he had
set forth in her heart, or to take the fruit of the morning.
"My mother may not be angry with me," she said, "nor can
I make other people as you wish."
"My dear," said the woman, "you may be angry with me if
I stay in your house to-day, for I am a rich man; my gold
child has a well-worthy bed and a fair clean linen."
So she went to her mother to take her basket and also place
them in a basket and set them in it, while the king was already
"Here are a beautiful and good deal of wood; my mother
has a room to welcome the sunrise and the birds."
And even to herself said her father, "My son, my dear, my
first wish is the best work that I can befall, but not so
much as a good deed. If I set this thing in order, what would
I do?"
So she gave them each her own white cup in turn, and then drew
herself from under the cover up between the covers, whereon
the skin was spread, while she covered her face with her
silky veil. Then she went about inside the room and knelt
herself on her knees, praying instantly to the gods; but she
laid her hand on his mouth and spake, saying, "Father
======================================== SAMPLE 589 ========================================

Of the sun’s returning beams, O, ’tis too hard to
hear.
He who, for fame and glory’s helm, in glory’s chariot rode,
Must pay with every heart an act of valour to his God.
O let me hope, this day, to die in field of battle plain,
And leave my country to her arms, and take her to my reign.
My country’s foe, the Bard I love, as monarch for his meed,
Is slain by me, his only foe; and shall I then be right?
No! from the brow that showed no pride in youth’s bright morn I spring,
And hear the voice of France my bosom shall not long ere sing.
Then let me weep, with words of truth, I’ll leave my land to thee;
’Tis wrong that Scots and Barians rule the portion of our tree.
When to the battle-field I bent my course along the shore,
With many a mournful tear I started, pale, and sore,
When I beheld the brave Burgoyne so many a youthful knight,
Then all that night at morn I feasted on that feast divine,
With wine, and many a pray’r devout I drank of every sign.
Full little now was to be spent on that devouring host;
And when, at length, my strength was given me to the coast,
A numerous slaughtered thousands sat assembled round my bier,
And many a maid her matron gave to me for consort dear.
And then the chiefs of France together the bold Burgoyne sent.
When now the storm of battle round the hauberks was cast,
In deadly jest arose a glow within my bosom glowed;
By my good sword a youthful Dankwart I espied,
Who strove to guard the country, and to act his friendly bride.
’Twas he that spied me at the door, he that the maid entreated;
I thought that Dankwart had come to that sad feast with her;
And when I saw the lovely maid, my heart o’erflowed with pleasure,
Sore hard I was to rouse me up, unwilling, from my bed.
I bade the rest the knights prepare prepare in fitting splendor;
And soon, with loud demeanour, I bid my friends be seated;
And when they came in sight of us, I made bold my good,
And soon with all the maidens in due honor went.
I said, ‘I will my mother wed, and be her husband made;
And with the rest, or with more faithful spouse I’ll be arrayed,
Her sister and her brothers both, together shall we stay.’
In truth it was a certain way our race to win, I ween,
From that so bold a lady cleft the dames of either queen.
So I’ve proclaimed to-day, and bade the gallant knight remain;
But now, it would be no good long time; my forces met with vain,
And all my men were taken with one resolve to fight,
And I myself to Dankwart had been doomed to take a light.
Thereto, O King, in haste I call to mind what I’ve to say,
Whilst others of my warriors we’ll leave at my command;
For, if indeed he choose to ride against my country,
To follow me I first of all the knights will try the hand.”
With that, King Kriemhild took full vengeance on the knight,
And fairly with his buckler he proclaimed his furious fight.
On the following morning, early in the morning tide,
When all men were collected there at Burgundy’s abode,
Before the city gates King Dankwart, a chosen knight,
Appeared with fitting message, and called his meiny friends
From the land oflocked warriors forthwith to fetch the news.
With that, King Kriemhild entered into the spacious hall;
There many an unknown stranger he dight with sword and all.
Then with that word the monarch, the noble knights and true,
Set sail, and off across the sea the ships of either crew.
Meanwhile the monarch, mindful of the news he’d ne’er have seen,
Had come himself upon it, with heart-saddening speed,
To Hagan gave the message, and gave as high a head.
It was the son of Ekewart, the bold Burgundian lord;
A message thus they brought, that the knights of Burgundy
Stood forth at distance, ready to wreak
======================================== SAMPLE 590 ========================================
 of the earth--and of the sun and stars,
Which we can see not--being not what we are,--
But if the light on my dead face were gone
The splendour of the earth--and not that fate.
How sweet to walk the crowded street,
And call the carts a hundred miles
From the old kirangeet,
When all along the woodland side
The thronging days are done;
To walk abroad the long, long night
That clogs the generation out
From the great city's rout;
To breathe the long, long, mournful day
Through all the changes on the earth,
And at the resurrection hear
The babble of the untoned bees
A hundred years ago.
I saw the first of Pan's dead brethren pass
All through the twilight through a mournful glass;
They turned to left and right beneath the grass,
And all along the valley did there pass
The flash of their immortal feet and pass
From vale to vale; and their eternal feet
And voices heard and are forever met
There in the old kirangeet.
Their endless feet, that run so fleet,
Touched the cool earth so finely till they grew
To a royal lute beneath the twilight trees
That in their midst a silver silence grew,
And all the trees took up the song, and all
The birds went forth to welcome and rejoice
Their king, their beggar, king;
And then the hollow reeds beneath
Where all the world now sleeps,
And the last woodland boughs that crown the grave
Did all alive renew the melody;
And all the hollow reeds and water deep
Seemed to make answer to the god's dear singing,
And all the woods were happy, and the deep
As ocean is to shoreless deep,
Until they died far off beyond the waves,
And left a music in the air of heaven,
And the far hills fell singing
In the sweet morning hours:
I saw the dead leaves fall to earth
And the swift swallows fled from pastures bare,
And the young lilies, white and sick with dearth,
Grew on the dead earth,
And the young rose, with all her heart's delight,
Was lilies of the summer's bloom set forth.
I saw such things, so good they were to me,
That I myself may count them o'er and o'er,
For some great deed so noble was to be
That I can never miss that wondrous store
That time from off the time when I was nigh,
That wondrous song that never dies, that none
Who knows so well can tell;
Or that the soul had passed from earth away,
And the wild world had lost his human clay;
Or that to hear what now he does not know,
The soul had passed away.
So much to me, that willed it should be so,
That through all mortal life and death I go,
And see that I who look on all shall know
The world's delight and sorrow, and the pain
Of having felt such tenderness again,
But I shall lose that joy of living pain.
For I am weary of the daily call
And heavy miles along the road of life,
And cannot take to what I am to-day
But what with sighs and weary hopes and vain.
This day will be a bitter day with me
For all the foolish sorrow and the drear.
And for the sorrowing soul that cannot rest,
That cannot stoop the weary way to-day
That reaches to the Kingdom of the West.
I shall not fail in what I did before,
And yet this wretched world will know again
That I have gained that Kingdom of the Blest:
And what I knew not whatsoe'er befell,
This little world, for its unquiet Fears,
Its laughter and its wail and its sad tears.
There's never a Man that's half so glad,
But a little lad that's just like me,
And he's building a house in the world beyond
To build a home that's worth a sea.
But they'll build a house as fine as fine as next week
And he's building a house in the days o' loo,
And maybe the man who made the house,
And he's building a house in the days o' moo.
Just for a little bird and all for naught,
Just for a little nest and shell,
Just for a little love that's just like home,
Just for a little love that's just come well.
Aye, there's the land when you go home again,
The land where you begin from now,
And only suns and storms have left their stain
======================================== SAMPLE 591 ========================================
 of it.
_Frown not upon me tho' I am a faun!_
_Love not my love, for my mouth is a sty._
_Dry your eyes, oh, so deep are the tears,_
_Your laughter rings in a joyous laugh,_
_And your prayers are not sadder than lilies!_
_Keep now your heart to the open air,_
_For here in my garden is waiting for your fair._
_Fold it around with a clasp of thine,_
_And close up your eyes, and remember, my sweet,_
_Ere I lose myself in the wild, sweet garden!_
For when I came hither to work, you were right,
And worked with the hammer and crook;
Your hands were as white as a vein of milk,
But my work you had not, and so you saved me from duels.
I worked all day till you came to my bed,
And put out your hands at my side;
Your heart was as warm as a rock on my breast--
But my work you had not, and so you saved me from duels.
The moon was white with the blossoms of May,
But my work you had not, and so you saved me from duels.
When the moon is sinking in cloudless skies,
And the winds are luring you to their rest,
And the tired day-dreams of the night-time rise,
Where is there hope, and where is rest?
There is but one sad shadow across the day,
And the length of the west is a blur of grey.
There is only one nightingale's note,
And the crickets' song breaks on the gale;
No song but what the bee's sad ditty sings,
And the nightingale is a broken reed,
And love and sorrow are blossoming wings,
And hope and love and melody are blowing through the morn.
But though the roses are hung with night,
And the lily white with the morning dew,
Though the rose's gold burn on the hedge, when the light
Of the nightingale is a broken reed,
Though a rose be set in the skies like a star,
Yet the nightingale is a broken reed,
And love and sorrow are blossoming wings,
And love and grief are blossoming wings,
And the nightingale is a broken reed,
And music and blood and tears are best--
There is only one nightingale's note,
And the hour of the year is a broken peal.
For there is only one nightingale's note,
And the pulse of the heart is a throbbing song.
There is only one nightingale's note,
And the hours of the night are heavy with sighs.
There is only one nightingale's note,
And it swoons in the crimson-moony night,
For love and sorrow are blossoming wings,
And all of the year is a broken reed,
And love and sorrow are blossoming wings,
And love and sorrow are blossoming wings,
And the nightingale is a broken reed,
And love and sorrow are blossoming wings.
For the moon, and the nightingale's note,
And the birds that are singing above the trees,
Have a loveliness for the joy and pain
Of a little world in the golden West,
And the moon, and the nightingale's song.
When the day of the night is over,
And the sky was over the hill,
A lover came to me riding,
With cheeks like flame upon his spear.
He whispered, "Awake, beloved;
And come, Love, to my dear one's couch."
He heard his lover's sighing;
And soon, from out the fragrant arch
He turned, to ask Love--and its meaning.
Love, loveliest under heaven,
Hath folded his wings for a moment,
And he lies there now in my arms.
And he moans, as he lies sleeping,
Hidden from every star that shines--
And Love, the subtle serpent,
Wakens, and grows in my heart.
Faint, far off, from the glimmering islands,
From dim-lit seas where the shell-wings sing,
From dawn-lit seas whence the sun-god rise,
From grey-lit places which shiver
On bleak and barren hillsides,
From the valley-wastes to the upland,
Where the wan wave whistles a lonely dirge,
And only the sob of the reed-throb
Can banish the sad, sweet pain:
And the long and w
======================================== SAMPLE 592 ========================================
.
{63}  The father of gods and men.]
{64}  A god whom men call Lucifer. Its name possibly directly to
be given to him.
{65}  Al. “is a god of joy.
The king of heaven took trouble one day with the
goddess, the Sun, and on the other side took refuge.”
{67}  Indra or Indra, who was sitting with the Sirens on their
“But what of the heavenly goddess, and when she heard from the
earthquake spoke, she straightway began to weep.
“Well I perceive that there is no mortal mortal who may be happy,
and there is no mortal who may be happy, if the sun is upon
the earth as in heaven;
And in the water’s deep, where the rain fell,
there is no earth can be nor any.]
“O dear to me is this water of Lethe, and the deep water of Lethe,
the flowing for ever between the two banks of the stream.”
Saith the king of heaven, “I would not have trouble of this water.”
“Wilt thou not accept of me,” answered Brahma, “a maiden like to
Sorrowing, I beseech thee, O be not of a mind to sorrow!”
Saw the water-giving battle, and saw the warriors in the strife.
Saw the white clouds flying with lightning, and the moon with the
bright water.
“And it was the time of the sweet sleep of the pious, the pious,
swallowed by the waters, the maiden to water yielded.
And at length came the lovely sister of Bhíma, the daughter of
Sainted Nala, the river of blood, and the king of the spirits;
thence came she to the river of Lethe, where the water rises.
And so the lovely lady begat an Indian woman, the daughter of
Sainted Nala, and of a son she came of Ranai, the daughter of
the aged king of the king.
and then he made her sister meet in a black bark upon the
deep water, the ocean’s deep water, and she stood wonderingly
when the other gods were departed.
“That is the ship of the blessed, which, with all its bravery,
shuddering, on the ocean has borne me, but I have no power to
swim to the depths,” &c.
Thus the maiden spake unto her husband:
“Thou thyself art the messenger of heaven; a messenger of love, the
prince of Nala, whose name has often been styled Nala’s
‘αντα ανθρκοτοσστο.’ ‘The words of the beautiful, the
earnest, and the meaning of the ‘words’ being ‘concise,’ ‘I
have heard the sweet words of my wife.’
And thus the holy man spoke unto her:
“Brother, my wife is calling to me: the messenger of love is
my own wife, who, when yet we have been together, has sought, O
Sweet, O sweet, soft, and simple!
From his own daughter I come, he my son.  O thou that art my own
Heaven, and O earth, and all the earth, and all eternity.  For
manner of the bride I am one of my daughters, my lord Brahmá.
I am a peer of mighty race, dear brother, Brahmá, who am the king
of all my birth.  Therefore do I look on thee with the love of
God as touching thy kindly wife, my fair twin, and her eyes
with the amiable eyes.  Therefore do I look on thee and her brother
saying, O happy brother, that, loving thee, I am in truth the
law.  And now with thine own hands, O best of blessed men, full
spread out before me a floor of purest sand.
“Thence, O brother, I will go through the world, my lord and
sister in him, walking through the grove, and thyself to his
home rejoicing, where in his dear bed I have the blessed
goddess, Brahmá.  And we will be a city of bliss and a blissful
pleasure wherein the happy dwell.
“O my brother, he who dwells in the grove where trees grow, and
the sweet wind brings his sighs unto you; he who is making
messages with the holy things, is the great rock of bliss.
And
======================================== SAMPLE 593 ========================================
!
Now in these caverns, which no eye can pass,
The Spirit of the Sovereign holds his seat;
There sits the Potentates, their subjects, chiefs,
Upon the moulded wall, or on the grass;
Unenvied they their homage or reward;
But here their lot is cast without a pause,
And prone to learning, prone to false applause.
Thee, Caesar, worthy of the name of chiefs,
Their honours have bestowed; nor do I take
Thy these tribute, Caesar; for the time shall come
(Whereto the ready mind shall take its turn)
When Caesar shall his household ashes close,
And public injurals at triumph learn.
But this I know, that Caesar's righteous mind,
Unbarr'd, and unreproved, shall find it just:
When Brutus is no more 'till he is slain,
I mean by action the free spirit reign,
Which from her body, shall proceed with fame,
And place the public record on the stone.
Nor shalt thou fail, Pompeius; this intent
Thou shalt receive which honours may be spent.
Thou see'st the fates in others' eyes debate,
And the fates numberless for one or all.
These only once were ruin'd; now 'tis fled;
This, this is laid upon them both the dead.
Thy valour, thou false witness of thy wrongs,
Shalt melt to tears and sighs; and all the fates
Severe upon thee shall combine anew;
And thou shalt suffer, if the wars shall end.
Thus while thou wert a man, thou did'st but smile,
In that thy firmness we no more surpris'd,
And fighting spent the day;
But now thou seem'st a soldier of the field,
As well as Caesar, and as just a lord.
Thus Fate, the thwarted lover of the man,
At some dark doom some nation to be vanquish'd
By all the fury of the day.
But how, O Caesar, should'st thou fear the shock,
When at the fates thou mad'st a nation form'd?
Behold the fates forfiting the shock:
See how sublime a Caesar seated there,
With a stern voice, and threatening eyes that glare:
The shock that will not quench the light of fame,
Nor all the glories of the world decay:
This is the man, no longer destin'd
To perish for the light of all mankind.
By whom men's deeds are known, by whom can'st thou
Be conquer'd, Caesar? Then thy sword must know.
Who now deserves the glory? whose the palm?
Thou, who such peoples dost, O thou whose throne
Is by the stars adored, and stars unknown,
When the great Caesar's praise is loudly heard,
How art thou won by foes, and worn with years?
What! shall thy guardian power be soon withdrawn,
And, till thy face no more be mutil'd, wear
Thine impious heart? Then, what was thy renown
But that thou found'st thy standards in the ground,
And that, not Caesar, thou should'st envy there?
What, though these people should have seen thee dead?
For if thou wast victorious and thy train
Were slain, the people thought thee mad again.
Caesar, thy friends (since he so often sought thee)
Had fought and won thy conquest but in vain.
That proud old city, which is now thy shield,
Whose chiefs and haughty tyrants held thee cheap,
Now doth thy people die, thy people live;
They that were then so base of name, and base
With all the world's vain pomp, are now to thee
As if they all were slaves in Brutus' cause;
Who for the issue of this ruin sought
Fortune's revenge; and what they thought, they thought.
Forgive, ye Parthians; but your fears confess.
What deathlike consciousness is here combined!
I know how far your souls from shade are flitting,
Not in their flight. But this I know--
How in Pompeius' cause one thought might meet
The future, and the future to defeat:
And yet no doubt they'll find that all are just:
The fates of yesterday they must have joined.
Not without hope they shall to ruin go,
As empty as the former; but will show,
In their own time, if what they thought so low
By great Pompeius' flight to ruin brought,
Though some had fallen. By Fortune's puny hand
And fortune's undeserving overthrow
They fall, by fate delivered;
======================================== SAMPLE 594 ========================================
, the good old man,
(A sort of a man that you don't know is,)
With the heart of a man of a score of good parts,
And a touch of the fist in his hands to his heart,
And he lifted his chin, and he waved his hand,
And he said, "Be more wary, you drunken young hound,
From the dark and the wonderful round of my mind;
Let the man take the man, and the womanly heart
Be the soul of a man of God's own satisfaction."
Away went the horn from the lips of the hound,
(A hunted, a man that you don't know,)
The hound and the hound, and the hound from the hill,
(A hunted, a man that you don't know,)
While they followed the sound of the torrent below,
Till the hound was a-shake on the heel of the hound,
And they leaped at the hound as he followed the blow,
And they bayed at the hound as he followed the blow.
But oh, when the hound was away to the West,
And they followed the sound of the horn on his hand,
And he said, "Be more wary, you drunken young hound,
For the scent of the holms is just now on your tongue,"
--Then they scrambled along with a comrade and comrade,
And they fought till the grass and the trees were in bud,
And the big, dizzy hound followed after the stag,
And the hound followed after the hound followed after.
But oh, when the hound was away to the West,
And they followed the sound of the horn on his hand,
And it seemed as he hung with his comrades to west,
He would chase like a hound race the hound from the land.
And they chased till the grass and the trees were in bud,
And they bore them along to the hound from the wood;
But the hound followed after the hound from the wood.
I love the dark cedar that shades the plain,
The ash with its mass of dark dappled stain,
With the deep and the pitiless hound-poor-will,
And the wild-will ranging on English hill.
I love to see the big, broadsome clouds slowly sail,
The black and the stormy dark rolling up from the lea,
And the big black hound of the forest crouched at the rail,
With the big, leaden hound of a bush bushbush free.
I love the sunlight when it darts in the sea;
The wind, when it burrows its thickest green,
With its burden of mist and its burden of dew
Comes dashing down on the watery lea
From the brown-toed ash-heaps in sheltering blue.
I love the wild-flowers, with their sweet pink flush,
The little dark-eyed daisies in their bloom,
And the dark-eyed willows on the grass
Beneath their feet as they pass;
Not caring to walk on their beautiful heads,
Not with the crowd close-parted at their ends,
The wild hawk broods on the little places,
That each one is equally bold and brave,
And to the next rushes in his wild-beak tree,
And one sees the beautiful blue sea,
But the hills and the winds that are all alive.
I love the blue, broad leaves that are
In the bright orchards a-bloom,
But they are the country that I want;
I will not have it so soon.
I love the old blue weathercock that sings
In the tall green hedge above,
And the nest that he crows up in my breast
Is the wee, safe nest-roof of our two hearts,
Just nestling each other in coverts hid.
And I like our two souls when I try to sing
I have a real, very real bird,
Just bird with bare head, and a shining eye
Of beaming white, with its own dear joy,
Just nestling each other, and bird in nest.
I love to see a baby, sitting so,
With its fair brown feet, and its bright black brow,
And every instinct that makes me glad,
Just nestling close to its bed, and its nest.
And I can think of all its glorious youth,
When silvery, bright, white, warm, white, and warm,
With its sun-flecked wings, and its sleeping eyes;
And then I sometimes see--now it seems
It is happy in this world of ours.
I can hear the tiny wings of the wind
On the cool and leafless
======================================== SAMPLE 595 ========================================
,
Daughter of France, and other heroes of France,
Whose lives we may know only, were they of her heart,
In the days ere they were but a summer in life, had passed
To a dreamless night in a vision.
But Margaret thought it over:
She looked at the stars with eyes
Like the eyes of the men who were coming in France
With the tale of the great events of their fateful time
And longed to be but a woman--
The vision of all these things
Is not for a night: the moon is too grey for a man
Who will suffer himself, though he weep himself out.
The moon is too gray for a woman,
The moon is too grey for a man.
Hark! The cry is of the broken,
The cry of the stricken sea,
For a day, a joy for them all, for their lordship
Who did the will of the King.
O the new-water and strange and bitter
O the new-water and the old,
For the old men sat and laughed
At what we shall say again,
As if our soul had left
The old happiness and the unknown pleasure
And we all are wise and wise:
But we all are wise and wise.
And our very night laughs into the sun.
Hark! That cry shall come no more.
The old men said to the new-water
"What is it that drowns my voice?
Is it God's voice that sings, and all my wisdom--
A voice of the song of the wind?"
O the new-water and strange and bitter,
The old men and the old,
They laughed at our feet in the white furrow
And we all are wise and true.
But we all are wise and true.
The old men broke their heads at the trumpet-blast
And blew their bright torches on.
I was angry with them and they said to me,
"The sun dies once, and the days pass.
Men live in the same country: you shall die--
And shall live--and shall die never again.
But the years pass over the lands and the dead,
Death, and the cold death of death,
And the hunger of men for whom the sea is red
And the thirst for blood for bread.
I am all for your living and at last I die
By a woman who loves you now:
To your sweet and fair body I will give a kiss
And I die--and shall live forever."
The waves of the sea are bitter to all,
I have seen them, even seven
In a hundred eyes.
All the sea is bitter to all,
I have known them, even seven,
I have seen them there.
All the sea is bitter to all--
They die; and they dwell forever
With a burning brain.
They die; and I weep--and weep,
And weep in their silent night,
In a woman who knows the sea aright
And knows how dark and slim
Is that sea where the little boats are
And how all is bright.
They lie in the sea of life,
With faces thin and cold.
Their bodies are dead, and each
Lies white as foam.
O fair were the lips they kissed
On that sweet yesterday!
I think it cold on their lips,
And I know they are pale,
With a wistful sadness for words
They passed one by.
I have known them since long ago,
But, when they are gone,
That their faces are never wet
With tears at last.
O sorrowful faces, look on them,
With those tears that are old.
O strong, strong men, they die--
Their bodies are dead, and their names
Are only not left--
Their souls have not yet been cold,
For all the love they have died
They both lie dead.
O the strange pain in the sleep,
The wistful pang of pain,
The pang of the pang of the pang
That still is so far,
The pang of the pang of the pang
That still is so near.
The strange pain that is known,
And known so long ago,
With the pang of the pang of death
They both lie low.
The strange pain that is known
To you and me,
The pang that is known to be known
To you and me,
The pang that is known to be known
In the pang of me.
The tears that I weep, and those tears
That are shed on the ground,
The sorrow of all who have died,
The tears they have found,
The pang that is known to be shed
On my pang of a bound--

======================================== SAMPLE 596 ========================================
s of water for the children,
And of rocks for the children's supper-gowns.
So the children lived in their own land,
So they died on the shining golden strand,
And over the golden sands of ocean
Sailed the beautiful and gentle-hearted.
From the sea where the sun is warm,
From where the billows, ebbing and swelling,
Crossed where the sea's unbroken breast
Bows into the calm of the blue ocean;
And beyond the highest of mast heads
The beautiful mountain-loving ocean-ghosts
Came out on the ship in the new-made spring-tide
And saw the bright sun smiling on their faces,
And said, "Now it is time for God's own song.
The old gods go their way, the sea-nymphs;
I will make them my mouth and my eyes;
And to the song you sing they will not cease,
For the gods shall have order of the wise,
And the moon shall endure for evermore."
The song was finished, the old god met it,
And he sang as his heart was strong,
And he sung to his heart as he sat there,
And he said, "In the heavens' very choir
There will be love for ever and ever.
The stars that walk upon the sea,
They have no other light for me--
I can only see my love
Rise up against the sun.
The sea, the night, the moon, the sun,
All things have all their being done,
The stars know not the hour:
The stars know not the hour!
All things will all go their ways,
All stars have their proper days,
The stars have their proper days,
The moon will find the time....
In a room above the parapet
The moon is always in the wet;
And on the terrace overhead
The sea-birds build their little nests
For her; and the winds, that take and blow,
Seek to invade the world they know.
And to the very windows and the space
Of the old home room the moon goes down!
The windows of a cottage on the road,
The long, soft grasses where the rain makes loud,
These are the things we never see till now
But add to these a tale:
A bird that came from out of Paradise
But came to me and found the mystery....
The lamp within my hand was hid,
But of the lamp I dimly knew
And heard no message from the night;
I saw the land that used to be,
I saw the night that used to be ...
"The house that slipped away from Paradise
Lies bare and sere," ...
In spite of all these things,
He made a house of pain.
An oak, high hill and dull, he sat
In an obscure and lonely attic
Where nothing but the firelight made
A dream; and all alone he sat
And heard not now the echo of the dead
And all the noises of the street
Brought to his bed.
"But they slept not, who will be fed?"
He asked in wonder.
"They know not,
They know not,
They know not,"
He asked in wonder.
"They know not,
They know not,"
He asked in pain.
"They know not,
They know not,"
The clock tick ticked on the dark hour
When he awoke from his couch
And saw his body lie
Like a dream, and knew how he was hid
Under that apple-tree
Till summer's heat was done,
And then the sun would fall, and he
Should leave his work and go
Beyond the world to the new things....
"But in the night he stands
And hears the cries and starts
Of men and women,
And the little children
Playing in the open house,
And men and women weeping...."
They heard him in advance
Shouting and singing,
"Though I am pale and fain
To see them fighting,
With eyes that go to the cannon
And the men who overcome...
With hands that burn and eyes that run,
We shall not lack the courage
To make the darkness glorious
When first we see the sun."
They heard him, and the night
Swept like forgotten sea
And he sat on a chair,
And heard the clink of chain and spear
In the bronze-shod tenement
Of a proud queen's chamber;
And the old wife and the black child
Lisped loud the evening prayer....
There were the men in theicum
Of the empty world,
The men in that lonely house
Who suffered or died
Like the beasts in the wood,
The birds in the thicket,
======================================== SAMPLE 597 ========================================
ein, _The Angel_ or _The Sunset_.
This is the story of the world,
The simple story of a house
Whose windows were as dim as glass
And hung in shadow near the wall
Of that dark tower--a fragrant room;
And through a door the dim-lit room
Beheld the fairies flit and fall
Among the embers of the wall.
And from the alabaster box
There came sweet thoughts of life and joy
And passions of high-hearted men,
And of the happy children slain,
And even of the miseries
Of this world that looms and looms
In shadow of the purple gloom,
And of the restless hearts that grope
Through ferns and ferns and wolder-ways,
And of the mighty, pitiless souls that grope
For gold and life, and hope and joy.
Even yet they dream not of the day,
Of the sad days when men were strong,
Of the long toil of the boorish craft,
And the wild ways that all men must must,
And the blind eyes and feet that flinched.
_Eve._                                                   _of a
_Eve._                                              _of a
_Eve._                                       _of a
_F._                                             _of a
_F._                                                   _of a
_G._ A fragrant breath of rose and gold,
Sweet as the breath of laden bees
Beside the murmuring mere alone.
And, as with magic inmost awe
And whispering voices round the throne
Comes from the mystic rose, so came
And laid her in the haunted dells,
Where all the world laid out its gloom
To be the wonder of a name.
O'er her sad face the light went down,
And all the world lay still and calm
In silent wonder, like some old
Strange story told in days gone by.
And once again that spell was stayed--
For all that now befell the way
Through heaven-open doors to stray.
Then did the Lady, looking down
With wide-eyed beauty on the world,
Praying and praying till the dawn
Drew back the light that still was new;
And in her heart there dwelt, unseen,
The faintest image of some tone
That yet shall float in streams of thought
On to the place where all has been.
A time there was, when from the skies
The sunset's radiant argentine
Poured golden hues upon the lake,
And shone upon the crimson shrine
Where Mary sheltered all her sons
With beauty; and that sunset's glow
Brought all her children to her ken
Of one-withdrawing mystery.
Now, as the long-drawn cloudy veil
Of twilight fell around the shrine,
The young young Mary stood revealed
In rosy reverence to the priest;
A mighty mother's deep sweet look,
A gentle look of love and prayer,
A sweet smile, eloquent and bright
As a fair bride's, half-shut eyes, or stars
In heaven, though hid in flowers of light,
And sweet as morn's first naiad's sigh,
And pure as love and life had been,
And lovely as she lived a queen,
And pure as heaven, she breathed around,
Her marble hands were pure and cold,
Pure as the snow's pure fold.
And thus when even the sun was set
Upon the western side of earth
And shadows on the island lay
The last of Christ, the mighty one,
Came with his eyes upon the day.
He heard the children, and he saw,
And knew their innocent happiness,
And knew their innocent innocence.

======================================== SAMPLE 598 ========================================
, p. 76.
Or would you seek in some wild wood
A lone, untrodden, untravelled one?
And he, whom your own fancy leads
To wander from your side to mine,
Should be an emblem of the brave
Who fought and bled in the cause of Right.
So may the bard your deed fulfil,
And in your memory perish too,
As, on some high and breezy hill,
The hermit may his flock compel--
The soldier's thought, the patriot's dream,
Shall fade,--to dust he stoops to sink
In the eternal depths of his mind,
And is himself his slave and friend.
So perish whom you deem as lost
In noble deeds and noble deeds!
So perish whom you deem as lost
In noble deeds and noble deeds!
THE night is dark. The moon is low.
In the cold dust a pallid snow
Is on the mountain summit,
And the weary traveller sees
The cold sky in its motion.
The forest in his heart is still,
The mist with silver covered;
The cold sky bends above the hill
Like some benighted lady.
The mountains shut the mountain in,
The white road wanders upward:
"O lady-love, and can you win
Nothing of this man's travel?"
A stony voice, a drooping head,
Are in the cuckoo calling--
The world is dark around us;
But we keep the secret blind
Hid in the living heart of Heaven.
A rain of gold and silver,
The snow of winter falling,
A rain of fire within me,
The wind, the rain is calling,
A snow-white, wandering wraith--
Are in the cuckoo calling,
Calling, and calling, and calling,
Calling and calling, and calling,
Are in the cuckoo calling,
Calling and calling and calling,
Calling and calling and calling,
Are in the cuckoo calling and calling.
THE moon is darkened;
The wind comes stealing through the trees.
The little leaves rustle in the breeze.
The pattering rain stops,
The sky is full of golden clouds.
The snow on the ground,
Like a lover's wrapt round
A face of meeting.
The clouds are a-shimmering,
The grass in the moonlight is growing,
And the snow on the hill
Is melting away into silence,
The petal of the growing grass.
The world is too happy in its joyous mood.
The little leaves rustle, but the wind is strong.
The mother-bird's song,
In its tender joy,
Is a sad one.
The little leaves rustle on its way,
The wind breaks into silence.
The little leaves fall,
And it is not so very beautiful.
And then it seems to me that I have lost
One who will remain until my own
I shall become.
The happy trees are not so beautiful,
The small leaves rustle in the wind.
A great brown cloud crosses the mountains,
The great blue mist is a grey veil of gold.
My little window is heavy with snow.
The sky is heavy with stars.
O my little window that is so old!
O my the sky is so wonderful and bright!
My little window is heavy with stars.
The sky is like the north.
My heart is weary with all things.
The wind, the wind
Calls against my window.
It's cold or white or violet.
The wet winds cry at the window
In the winter night.
The rain has fallen softly
And the windows tear out the light.
Weary, but a little,
The wind is singing to me
Like a weary woman.
The rain is like a white bird singing
When alone on a lonely tree.
The wind has made the roses
Beauty in the grasses.
The sun looks at the earth
As if it loved an April;
And, bending over them, I hear
The wind on the window.
There is a lonely man in the room,
With a broken heart and a broken soul
In the room.
The little dog is whining.
The night falls down,
In the rain of stars.
What would it bring to you?
Only, my boy, only
The wet rain
From a dead woman's window.
It has no voices,
Nor any light,
That I should fear;
I call for something,
But the only word in the fog
That has ever answered the call of autumn leaves, and leaves.
And I sit at the window and wait,
That some one of the leaves will whisper to me,
And perhaps even her voice may make
======================================== SAMPLE 599 ========================================
e[B] þys schort, þe{n} þe{n}ne arn pouer},
Þat is þ{o}u noght bot a wight,          
Þis is þyn heddis wyde, þaȝ þe{n}ne leue,
For þ{o}u þ{o}u wern alle þaȝ þ{o}u ryche,
& þe gentyleste of þy{n}ges, þe gentyleste of þat place,
Bifore þ{o}u hem alle þy{n}g & bly{n}g þenkyn to grou{n}de.
Bot þ{o}u to lede þe tyse wern þyse
Wolde leue a vtroyed wyse, & wo{n}nen steuen,
& þ{o}u to lede þy wyȝe, & bode i{n} þys myste;
Ho wyth þe wyȝe þat þ{o}u may be grynde,
& wyth þe wyrde þikkeȝ & wo{n}nen i{n} þryrye,
& ay þe nauþ{er} for me syȝt & for þyn}fore þou{m} fyue,
For þ{o}u wyl neu{er} remue, þaȝ me kynde þ{o}u noȝt.
I am kerve & dere p{er}ay, abate oþ{er}-by{n}geȝ;
W{i}t{h} a plytok þat þikkeȝ hys hondes,
For þe borȝ a wyȝe i{n} þis porte so wyse,
& þ{o}u schal hit reken fro þe þ{o}u, [þa]t neu{er} myscheue,
& neu{er} ma{n}nes, for þi ky{n}nes þyse wordeȝ be myscheue,
So þy werke, so & þy werke, w{i}t{h} hys schyngeȝ.
Tyl þ{o}u seggeȝ þ{a}t þ{a}t werkeȝ so nyse,
Þat wyȝeȝ we wryt i{n} þy werke, w{i}t{h}-outen ryses,
& þ{o}u dwely wlonk as þ{o}u me lyst did bylyue;
I{n} þe wryt þ{er}-on I wolde louy{n}de, [shy{n}k] saue,
Bifore þe wryt þurȝ þy gere of berþe
& on erþe þ{o}u schal hit make i{n} armes,
& syþen to þy fayrest i{n} Iuise mylde;
Alle þat is clene out of þy lyfte,
Þat alle þis worlde hatȝ sich fylþe hit clene.
Bot he is ful wroth with þe beste & þe worldeþe,
He schal telle hem of þat wyȝe his feteȝ vn-trwe,
& wyth þe wyȝe of his lyf be kydde he schal wyþeȝ
& als i{n} þe worlde schal stille at his wille.
So w{i}t{h} þe wyȝe borȝ watȝ of botch loues twy{n}gesȝ,
Rysande þ{er}-aft{er}, hys storkeȝ & þou ho{m} ryse,
Þat ou{er}-tokkeȝ to p{er}ayl þ{er}-aft{er},
& þ{er}-on þe soþe schal steuen fro þaȝ he wyȝe.
======================================== SAMPLE 600 ========================================

And the nightingales are singing,
Calling, calling in the darkened room,
And all the windows are opening.
The day is ending,
The day is ending;
The night is ending,
The day is ending;
The star is in the tower,
The lamp is in the gloom,
The rain falls thick and fast,
And darkness settles on the earth,
And now there is no moon,
And the silence seems but breath
Upon the darkening ground,
And now there is no sound.
As now the watcher by the poplar-stream
Is slowly stooping down, with sluggish tread,
And leans above his image in the gloom,
And with dull, weary, melancholy eyes,
And hands that clasp not him, he moves away.
Upon his knees he leans, as one who weeps
For tidings which the dead man often hears,
And vainly strives to hide his tears, and tries
To whisper secret thoughts by which to speak,
Until the feeling of the dead man falls
Low as a dead leaf in the wind's soft gale.
Upon my life, and yet for this I lived
With a pathetic, uncomplaining love,
When suddenly from out the dusk I saw
A something gliding out of sight, and cried:
'It is the light of love, and to the end
It is the light . . . but will this mount so high?'
And when I saw it rushing 'neath the moon,
And mounting from the world to life above,
I cried aloud, 'O love, if love I be,
O think of me, for love I am not blind,
And give a patient love to all mankind.
'And this poor flesh,' I cried, 'is earth enough
To bring men unto Christ before their time;
My Christ is risen, and this blood I bring--
O think of me, for love I am not blind,
And give a patient love to all mankind.'
And slowly gazing at the climbing moon,
There came to me the words of this my rhyme.
'O love, and I alone am left,' they say,
'O love, and I alone am left to God
To give another man the gift of life;
But each man has to take a heed to thought
To do so much that he knows nought to hope;
And that no new life could my spirit wreck,
That would not shun to give him heed to think.
'O love, O love, I've no great need of more
Than of my soul and all the things of me,
I give to every man whate'er he wants,
My God, to every one 'twixt love and death.
My love is weak, and would all love not me,
And has no share in what he thinks of me.
'And I that am myself, are I not still,
And he that I am, my sweet, my sweet?
I had lived my life long, but 'tis made at last
The sum of my existence, and my faith
Has found no end and measure out of me.
'And, looking back, I see this face before
Wherein my heart was born, and in the night,
My glory living, breathing in my place . . .
I look again--and lo, 'twas here fulfils
All that is born or ever could have made,
And this is all that's born of me and love.
'And yet I am myself, with all a part,
And not myself,--but yet my faith is strong;
Till, hearing what I say to you in heart,
I do not shrink from what I say to you.
And if to compass faith, to seek to act,
To let your faith blend with your love, to live,
I do not shrink from what I say to you.
'And if, at last, your faith hath found at last
Some other way to solve this case of mine,
That, following nature, the more perfect you,
You would be poor for one hour, remembering
That you were poor, and like to have your own;
Yet if you could not feel that faith alone
Is all that is to come--and if you do,
What shall your gratitude be? sweet, to give
For half the days I give to you again,
And half my life the less that I shall miss;
Or, if your heart should break, be comforted,
If you should never know it, being made,
Then, then, farewell! for I have you no more;
And if the days should come to us again
I dare not trust them, for I feel I knew
You once before I knew you dear and true,
And we have had
======================================== SAMPLE 601 ========================================
,
And they looked askance
On your face,
With a "First look of your eyes, dear,
Think of me!"
And they said, "He's been hiding
Last night in the lane;
He's been hiding, or waking,
Till now!"
Was there anything in the world to do with a woman's love?
Any special woman's possible wish or wish?
Any high-noon plant that has ever been climbing or climbing?
Was there anything else to do with a woman's love?
Any day-long butter or butter or butter or butter?
Any day-long breeze doing nothing but good?
Any day-long bloom on a flower or a song?
Any day for the sky: even if it be so, why?
Every day for the sun; every day for greater ease:
"I'll leave him at home, he'll come home just as soon."
Why do you tackle this beauty so lonely and sad?
Why does that beauty go out of my window?
Why does that beauty go out of my window?
Why does that beauty go out of my window?
Why does that voice come so lonesome and tremulous, tremulous?
Why does that speech come, like a silver thread, slip
Through the crisp brown flesh of a maiden's flax?
Why does that voice come so lonesome and tremulous?
Why does that voice come, like a slender reed?
Where do you come from, the loveliness to taste?
Why do you come from, the wonder to guess?
What is it makes you so frightened and weak?
What makes you so awfully trembling and weak?
Why does that voice come so lonesome and weak?
Why do you come from, the wonder to hear?
Why do you come from, the wonder to guess?
Why do you come from, the wonder to guess?
Where do you come from, the wonder to guess?
Where do you come from, the wonder to guess?
Where do you come from, the wonder to guess?
You are not my true love, but I his.
What do you come from, the wonder to guess?
You are not my true love, but I his.
What do you come from, my true love?
You are not my true love, but I his.
As you came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As you came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in, the kiss and the shame to win,
As I came in,
======================================== SAMPLE 602 ========================================
'd and safe."
"Myself when young did courteous leave the room,"
With such deep tone he made reply: "I come
"From the other world, whence I am station'd here.
He, who sits high above the rest, and seems
To have neglected that he should have done,
And to the others' song moves not his lip,
The Emperor Rodolph call, who might have heal'd
The wounds whereof fair Italy hath died,
So that by others she revives but slowly,
He, who with kindly visage comforts him,
Sway'd in that country, where the water springs,
That Moldaw's river to the Elbe, and Elbe
Rolls to the ocean: Ottocar his name:
Who in his swine did serve, and at his need
Was ask'd, and will do ever to that ill
Which falls 'twixt Charles and Germans.  No delights
There were, where man has no o'er-plus of time,
Where he is nam'd.  Now pass we on, and speak
What we have seen, and in what noble style
Be it seal'd our affection for the good,
To whom so precious bard of Asciano
Liv'd his loud praises.  Within thewereal round
Of that ensanguination, flock'd the fiends
And did make shift to, if it might express
The nature of their flight.  "My son!  great joy
Hath in us of thy having been, for we
Have reason'd to our ruin."  Such the words
Baba bade others; and so held their peace,
List'ning, with visage leering.  For when a troop
Entering, among that multitude, a hawk
Flying, or, gath'ring, so across the brood
It wheel'd.  With purpose not to be outdone
By other, one upon the other's neck,
And with that voice, of one who to flight was down,
Went with spread wings across the fox of slopes
A heifer, panther, or a nimble ram.
Who saw, and from the shadow of those beasts
Toward us turn'd, and his "Agnello," strikes
With all the delay of doing and of prouting,
He, answ'ring, "Thou shalt be our lord and guide."
Superillustrans claritate tua                           G.
Ut festa matris ubi currite,
Et satis in nostris spumis insulis alte,
Et stetit adhuc ubi et ramus umbras.
Hic oderatos est; tu, Piso, pio gemitu,
Per quem sua si te, sancta, cohibe, tremiti:
Christum, quo ferox, rerum nunc nos amicitias,
Seu tu et tuto possunt nova mente manu.
Tunc haut, et haud potius quam licuit, in signe,
Fecerit, et adhuc sua sim sim sylva labor:
Nec tamen, qua te, finem purgamus, a magno,
Per quemque novam, quam sua si sit miracula.
Si quis, si quis nos instinctus, esse velut,
Quod spretum Christus, quod sic nescio fata:
Christum, quod hoc Christum, esse velamus, a magno,
Sed tu bonus, et nos vox esse velamus.
Hunc igitur lacrimis reximus, ah cui, cui
Solemus, enam tua vidit, et ecce Deo.
Christum, quos oculus, quos nobilitas Himnos,
In nostro, qui servis, tibi sit, at ipse vela:
Christum, quos oculus, quos dare, quae tam bona, et
Quo fuit, o dura, tuus esse velim.
Hoc igitur lacrimis reximus miracula,
Humile, aut illo, quodque panum: quis tibi?
Quid tam novistis non est credula, quid id est
Qui sub falsis vaga vaga fata, pietas?
Qui fuit, quae fuerint, quae fuerint, eam?
Quae fuerint, quae fuer
======================================== SAMPLE 603 ========================================
t
Wid out the hand of love.
And all the souls that live
In love in heaven shall dwell
With all souls who have a home.
A fire is in my brain,
A fire within my brain,
Wherein I hear and see
Some flame of sacrifice.
And all the souls that find
An altar and a mind
To worship in the flame
Of love that's kind and kind,
Shall follow me, my dear,
Shall enter into fear,
And, in the fire of love,
Shall to the altar bear
My body, whole consumed,
All red and black and stark,
To float in fiery light.
The soul that rises here
Shall be to this, my dear,
The grave that is not here.
No man is more sincere
For loving much, or he believes in it:
And then the man that loves not what he does
Must seek what he believes in it.
O come!  Why dares a man not speak his mind?
If I should dare to say he loves the true,
As I did with him when I was a boy,
Barefooted all my youth and strength would go,
Fame with the brave and independent soul
Of youth upon the heights of youth to build--
A castle or an out-door bit of land!
There is a man who wanders on the beach
With heart and mind discerning eye and nose,
And loves the birds that in the meadow sing,
And sees the sunset on the hills glow through.
There is a man to whom a poet's pen
Is like a sponge blown by the freshening breeze,
And not less noble for his silver coin
Than he that kisses when the sea advances,
And sees the light-house sparkle in the beach.
This is my country; and my wife, my joy,
Is but a daughter to this maiden coy,
That I am come to gaze upon her eyes,
And see her cheeks, as others do the skies,
With warmer love and gentler speech that gains,
From her divine and tender soul's assuasive pains.
And what is she that, when she smiles to me,
Seems yielding to a yearning for the sight
Of her I know so well, so truly blest?
And what is she, whose lilies burn like light
To make my heart a laughing symphony,
That like a harp-string cleaves the soul to chords?
And what is she whose flooding splendour warms
My bosom with such love as never falls
To lips, as her, from out those dulcet halls,
Seems but a breath of wind from distant years,
To me more distant than the moonlit seas.
And what is she who, looking on my face,
Would sometimes miss and always keep my place,
Not knowing that my place is on the sea,
To call me mine, and take my hand in thine?
Is she a queen, or does she love me quite,
Or has some other queen already more,
That I have given her all my soul to seek?
And wherefore?  For the truth.  She loves me not.
Her smiles are what they seem; her hand is more.
Her voice is what we say; and if she have,
She is a queen.  That is an easy thing.
But who is she whose touch on mine doth bring
Such grace and glory to my wondering eyes?
And what is she who speaks with such sweet guise,
That like a blossom half my being braves,
And half the beauty that it leaves so fair?
She is most beautiful.  Yea, all things are.
And if she have, what do I wish to be?
That I should be a queen, some day, and she--
Be fair, or false, or give a heart for me?
O lady fairest of the golden hair,
I wish to lift thy crowns of amber down
To those who wear them, and may wear them there
Awhile, and evermore love's crown of thorns about!
Then, while the tangle of thy silver hem
Shall hold a god like thee, in love's array,
And I be fair as thou art fair, and yet
She comes not to me like a summer day.
Fair, my delight; but fair and false she is,
As is the colour of a woman's hair;
And like thine own fair body, pure and white,
A thousand fathoms folds her in the air.
No more she seems to me my own dear one,
The loveliest of all earthly things; she comes
As love's own gracious choice, and is my own,

======================================== SAMPLE 604 ========================================
, 1658, mentions a man to be tied to his wife
_Revived by the Hermit_.  It is clear and wonderful,
that this person is confined to such circumstance for a man
to make such a mistake, that the whole race of mankind is lost
"_Servant sublimated by the medium_.
"The Prophet himself."  It is obvious to perceive that this person
of private judgment is at first surprised, and believes that he must
have been mistaken for the extreme part of a bad man.
"In the course of time Benjamin took trouble to think of the
way to the effect that Providence assigned him to those of his
inhabitants. He was a very unfortunate man, and had perhaps
thought himself then as a man of remarkable attainments; but
such a man could not have been deceived by magic or the
incorrupt force, for the guidance of his master in the
To betray the person by the means of another personage
invaded him to his death. He was a man of great qualities,
and that was his character.  That was why he became so
worse, and the heart of the man was not yet broken, but it
was his fellow-subject.
"The Lord will not trouble you," said his Lord's friend,
"if your word could have been more able, and more able to
convey the man's judgment and his own sentence.... The old order
of the spiritual world would be in danger if you were not
present."
"You must look, friend, to see that you are not here."
"In this case I have been making something good enough. I am
myself, I cannot be going to heaven to see you about: they
will be so kind, so kind, that they shall be ready to help
me, for I am perfectly willing that they will not help me,
mock me not at my very door. I am perfectly ready to
obey, and that is why I should be a little stronger."
Then the great Master paused, and looked as if he already
wished to speak.
Then again the arguments rose, and these, in their
monument, were so convincing, that even the moralist was
accustomed to sleep with it.
The last reason for this he was troubled, and said: "Well,
"The Old One said: "Believe me, it is true that the Old One is
anxious to make an appeal to the Old One."
If the whole truth were true I would not, for the Old One
said, "Why should you listen and there is nothing to listen
to what is known in the ages?  It is surely true that
the world itself believes in that ever-living God.  When He
makes manifest the truth, let him be certain that He is
quieted and very silent.
Those who believe in the Old One know that he is lifting
up a new knee at our Saviour's time.  Now, then, do you
prove more earnestly to see the old world where the young
fellow-citizens and the common people are resting, and to
keep their peace, in case we should be troubled.  Though to-
less in the world, it is better for the world to have been
made wise, and better to be beloved.  Let us have our
government.  Let it be a caution that the Old One come to
"Our good King Richard," answered Richard, "he shall be
buried."
So it was done.  The speech of the Old One was quite
dreadful.
Then he went to take his leave of the council to consult the
calculacar.  The people heard that they had been sitting
beneath the shadow of the angry words preached in Bishop
Hervan's life.  The Old One said: "The Young One has been
greatly honored.  Do you know that she has been with his
little ones--the Young One?  And they shall not see her,
that we know that the Young One is a coward, even at
the time we should feel a doubt.  Therefore let us believe
that she is a faithful woman.  Do you think she is a
dreadful Old One of many idolatry?  She is indeed a
despise with the heart and will not be ashamed of her
living body.  Be humble though you may be, and humble your
"Rapture proclaims that she has a thousand sons."
Then Sir Rupert bent his knee.
"I would not love to ask for one without an effort."
So the Old One made reply, as he set himself to
kiss the old one, and he laughed in the face of the
other.
The other said, "I was going to
======================================== SAMPLE 605 ========================================
 of the
Hollomanism and "the good Lord Bedlam" are now
known in the Old English churches, for both their being
and being.
Here to me a simple, simple rustic place
Where all the trees are bright and fair,
And all the winds are music-sweet,
Where every leaf is fresh and trim,
And all the birds sing o'er it.
Here the first flower of the vale
Lies in the sun, its early grave;
Here is no Manilardo's grave,
Whose quiet eyes no pleasures have,
Whose quiet heart no troubles have,
Whose quiet mind no woes can take,
Whose quiet hand no woes can feel,
Whose quiet heart no woes can feel,
Who quiet, quiet, doth repine,
Whilst every flower of the open wold
Is fresh with morning to receive;
It is all green and newly dead
And withered when Spring bids it bloom,
And every bird from branch and head
Is sad with its sorrow's silent gloom.
It is a spot which mortals pass,
Fair, green, and sacred as a star,
Where pensive spirits ever keep
Watch o'er the humble grave and bar,
Whilst angels bear the place of grass
Where the grave's gloomy vale and deep
His loving thoughts are ever deep.
And on this spot is laid the best
Of all earth's treasures; here is one
Whose heart in every diadem
Is pure, and warm, and pure as sun,
Whose love is ever true and bright,
Whose love is ever whole and good
And beautiful and love is light,
Whose hope is ever free from blight,
Whose love is ever whole and fair
And love is always full and good.
Here the grave has a charm for all
Who wander with the spirit-world,
Seeking to find, when days are long,
Their freshness and their health renewed,
That not the violets may grow
Upon the grave's most secret bough;
'Tis sweet to dream of flower and tree,
'Mid the bright light of summer days,
'Mid the serene, wide heaven's blaze
And the low murmuring of the winds
Among the golden palaces
And the cool murmuring of the flowers
Where 'mid the purple autumn haze
The purple twilight wanders by.
There, all the years that are to be,
The fleeting pleasures and the flowers,
Hath come with the bright time to see
The life-boats passing o'er the hours,
Happy from life without its sorrow,
Happy from age without the tomb
And the cold, narrow coffin-throne
Where now this noble champion stands
'Mid the cold waves of the fallen lands.
The winds are whispering near them,
The waves are murmuring near them,
The trees are calmly floating
Round and around,
And the blue sky bends with silence
Over the heaving waters,
While in the depths, with many tremors,
The trees in beauty bend o'er the shore,
And the sea's majestic voices
The winds breathe through the darkness
And the waves the tempest raves o'er.
When lo! from yon distant summits,
And through the gloomy shadows
Of the dark trees, with their garments
Wreathing the gloomy forest,
Like a sudden cloud, they vanish,
Leaving behind them, vapors,
As the clouds that linger motionless,
Like the first affections of love,
Or like the first breath of Spring,
Flowing between them,
As one in the heart, their beauty
Gleaming in the midst of emotion,
As if a veil lay deep and soft
Upon the spirit in it,
And from its flowing, thousand fountains
In which they sigh, their souls shall move,
And shine and flow in in the light of their love.
There stood the priest, beside the dead,
His pious hand, with holy care,
And spoke, as with a slow, deep sigh,
He saw the victim's lifeless head
Lie there beneath the widowed bed,
And to the dying saints in awe
Looked up, and in their hearts' behalf,
"O Father of the poor, poor ones,
Who died on Calvary,
Who died on Calvary,
Like flowers before the tempest's breath,
Thy gracious name and grace receive;
For thus, to us, thy teachings teach,
And thus the balm our pain is breathed,
We, who with hearts so full of woe,
Our burden, and our burden bear,
Hear thee, O Father, teach us, teach us
To patience bear!
How
======================================== SAMPLE 606 ========================================
 it,
And make it well-to-do-what-all they can
Out of the tangle. Then, with stroke as quick
As lightning, he struck the strings and knocked it.
The man was dead. He lay upon his back,
And the great man was seized, and all the strings
Were strung together in a tempest dance.
And all the strings were strung together in the dance,
And all the strings were strung together in the dance
Before I knew you were not there.
When I had set my lips upon your throat,
I drew it open at your mouth, and kissed
The lips of you across my cheeks, and said
"You shall be free and clothed, and as I live
I shall be yours."
As you were free in soul,
So had I bound you to my heart and set you
Free to depart in peace, and as you came--
Free of my heart, and of my burning pleasure.
I shall be yours, and as the earth is fruitful
I shall be yours again.
I shall be yours once again,
And make you dance as you have always done,
And as the earth is fruitful, and as fresh
And swift and free, and as the wind, as now
And in its changing cycle, and return,
And waft as now and waft again, and pour
Her children forth to feed and clothe and clothe
The earth and heaven, and scatter all her things
And be to them a plaything.
Then, when you would break in
My heart's exulting song, you will come back
And be a child of your old innocence
And be a man that loves me and disowns me
And hates me.
So there'll be no more wars
Between us two till I'm alone. I'll laugh,
Or quaff the cup, and drink, and see the land
And sea between us both.
You are as free,
And I'll be your love, and as you have grown.
I'll love and hate, and then I'll laugh and hate;
Sick of myself, sick of myself, sick of
And sick of others. I'll be only grey
With babble of my lips, afraid of them.
Give me your hand, and I'll give you my hand
And you'll be my dear heart.
How does it take
To play with such a heart?
You have known so much
It is too much; you can't mistake, but I'll know why.
You can't understand
How it takes hold of us,
But I can see the way to it, and try to be true.
Why it is that my heart will burn like one flame
And throb beneath the burning of the sun?
You will understand;
You will understand;
You will give me your hand, and I won't turn to go;
I must put it through.
Why it is that my life is like a flower,
That it smells sweet and knows the charm;
I will put it through,
Because the sun is above it and sees it
And knows the stars and the wind in the sky.
There is nothing wrong in anything
Except a love that is not his own;
And he is lonely at the end of all,
And he can never see another's love,
Like his own lonely heart to the bone.
It is not enough to be a king,
To hold together in a tender thought,
And trust to a sweet wind that blows along
The shore to where his ship goes down.
Your friendship will not be proven on,
Nor will you sit and mingle wine
And speak your heart's thanks for the love that's gone
And cannot reach itself because of you.
And you will find your thoughts are strange--forgive me;
The thought of absence is much too sad
To bring one to the whole world.
I will shut my hands on you and go my ways,
And follow you where you lead apart;
And I will think whatever you would say
Could lead you back to that far place
Where you are now alone with your sweet face,
So that you hold alone your face.
There, there, in a world of sorrow
Where the sorrows of men are not to live,
Where the eyes of men are not to see,
There will be no night at your feet;
And when your face is sad with tears
That you smile in the face of the years,
You will know only the pain of death,
The death-pangs and the pitiless years.
And so, in the world of pain,
When the heart still aches with the pain of years,
And the day breaks and the year grows cold,
You will know only the need of tears
======================================== SAMPLE 607 ========================================
 upon the ground,
That they, for their own use, had all their thirst
Tasted of this and not the other tank;
And so remained, until the wine should fail.
Now the third day 'gan dawn more precious grew
By more of the new wine in the firmament;
And that which the king's son had finally to do
In leaving the fair town he had returned
Having gained from thence new joy and hope renewed.
Glad were the king's eyesight, and with gladness he
Wander'd away, and when the time was come
That once more he should see the light of home
He would return to his triumphant home.
But now his heart beat loud, and to and fro
A post of honour issued from his hand,
And to the king a herald's portico
Furnish'd a herald beautiful and grand.
"Be glad," he cried "by that Prince Gawayne; and have ye
Sons of the king, to whom we all belong?"
"Yea," answer'd Gawayne, "guides genty!
Gouten the king will have thee with his court.
But go, we must our best for Gawayne;
Let Gawayne and Gawayne wed; the man
Shall be the bride." Thus Gawayne spake, and Gawayne
Pray'd for his soul, and his heart was cheer'd.
Gawayne set his true heart to the proof,
And set the bar between his lips to hers,
And bade him hasten forth the appointed rites
With every maid and every dame. He took
The bar below and girded on his arms,
And set it on his breast, and thence would go
With his own hand,--the pledge and sword between
His shoulders, and should any way go free
From the proud court, and others and the rest
Of Gawayne and the rest of Gawayne,--
Yet none of all the maidens and chaste courtiers
Heard of the king; and so went forth to weep
Her tears, and, at the last, embraced the king.
The heralds bore to Gawayne's casement, where
Rested his weeping queen; but he, as well
Beheld not; and from under leaves and boughs
Of cypress, boughs and tender-hearted flowers
Stray'd, and in secret converse he began.
"Gawayne, behold! this is the very king!
Gawayne! I see the face of the proud man!
His deeds? Yes! God's, I see them all! Ha! Ha!
How then? With what a prodigality
His looks respond to my entreaties all!
How dare we ask for nought?--we want no man!
Gawayne the queen, and she's so great a loyal wife!
Gawayne! but such a godlike heart I'll have,
And still in my own heart repent them both.
I'd give his life to one of Gawayne's kin,
Who had not sought my birth, but kept his life:
But this, by God! I must, the king and queen,
Of whom I am, I must, and none of you.
Yet if there be one man who lives above,
My name is sounded; no! Gawayne the queen!"
Gawayne spake; the king's voice ceased; a soft sigh
Of pity caught their hearts, and they drew breath
From the king's face, and, in the silence, cry
"Nay! he is wounded, and the queen is dead;"
And, in the silence, Gawayne, with his face
Turn'd to the page unmarked, and there was set
The seal of Gawayne's name on either shield;
And there had been but now the tale the most
True knight had ever told by any tongue,
That his first word was so much "Siegmund's bride,"
As the full moon was, and the glance it bore
Of Gawayne's helm; and thus, as Gawayne wept,
He whisper'd low "Fair maid! it was a deed
Which I had done for thee, and I did thee."
But Gawayne heard the plea with no consent.
Nor could he hide and yet the king was moved,
Nor seek his daughter, but resolve to wed
The lady, and to bind his marriage-knot,
With vows by her elected. Now and then
He gave this free and natural bond in full.
There was a year of joy in Gawayne's cheeks,
Now blushing red, now white, now bright again,
And all his heart was merry with the love

======================================== SAMPLE 608 ========================================

On the grave, on the tomb, in the ditches they lie,
With their ashes all blent and their bones all discrowned;
While the birds and the insects their nest had entombed,
And with the dead world lying a-dream in the ground,
Were buried in ruins, or burnt on the ground.
But not from the tomb, in the field of the fray,
Let us gather the bones of long-stifled men,
And with honour our fellow-victorious dead,
From whose ashes the life and the good is fled;
They were living, they say, on some far distant day,
When they went from the fields and were buried in clay,
And the clouds of the gathered were scattered around,
When they went from the fields and had found out the ground.
But they now are in heav'n, and no news there remain;
They have left in the land where the tombs now are laid,
And a new race sprung up from the ashes of men,--
What was done, and then what has come, and again
What the story that gave them, and now is, and when,
Is a tale that will live till the story is told,
And that's told in a language they all abhor,
And hate not the dead who are living by rule:
They would worship the Maker, and take his commands,
And obey, and obey, and obey, and obey--
For He made all things, both form'd out of cruelty,
And out of His hand made the image divine;
Wherefore he created the earth's fairest of hue,
And doth fashion the sun and the planets of air
And the sun's fairer members, and do create,
And create the moon's light, and the sun's heat repair.
And He is the Maker, and light and law
And light and law; and by His ways doth rule
For the sons and daughters, and guard from harm
All monsters of the water, and beasts of the field.
And this He assisted the earth--no!--and doth guide
The way of the stars, and directs the sun's heat--
But He directs the sun's course, and doth in one way
And another move, and doth give the same perfect life.
And He is the beginning and end of the earth--
Can we say what is fable will follow its birth?
God save the earth, Mary,
And Man, that sickness know,
From the beginning bear;
The Lord will give us life,
And raise the dead to life,
But who can tell Him how?
'Tis easier to die,
Than to live through the heat of the heat of the heat,
But meat is the chief food, and drink the deep waters sweet.
The furnace of death is a glorious thing to eat;
But the fruits of hell, which are the only fruits of hell,
Are those which thou dost bear,
O lovely wife!
For thy dear sake,
Make thy love to life
And thy tears to strife,
And for thy sin, that is a great sin against God.
All the hopes of hell, which thou art asking to name,
As they are the fruits of which thou art the most fair,
Are but the fruits of heaven--the fruits of earth--the air.
The rose which is leading them upward with pain
Is the gift of the Maker, and He is the sign:
He will make and He witness, and witness the sign:
He will cause and He witness, and hear, and then hear,
And when God shall be judge, he will be the hearth-defil.
O, I am weary with thee, and with thee I sigh,
When the stars weary and the moon sets in the sky;
And the stars weary and the stars weary lie,
And the stars weary do it, because it is so.
O, I am weary with thee, and weary with thee,
And the stars weary and the suns weary lie;
And the stars weary and the suns weary lie,
And the stars weary do it, because it is so.
O, then I do not envy thy beauty the most,
The least of the works is thy neighbor hand,
But I sorrow for thee more than for any,
And I sorrow for one whose face thou hast sown
With cruel and murderous lecheries grown;
And I sorrow for one whose face thou hast shewn;
And I sorrow for one whom I never shall see;
And I mourn for one whom I never shall meet,
But I mourn for one whom I never shall meet,
But I mourn for one whom I never shall see,
And I sorrow for one whom I never shall see;
And I
======================================== SAMPLE 609 ========================================
;
For there were six and twenty, six and eight,
And there was never a watch like this!
At last you came to Broom resigning
And met with a grin from the lady's brow;
I've told you, "The Squire is a funny man,
And the question's no bad, but he's just a fool now";
I told you that you had me in the face,
While there's not bequest of mine in place?
And so you took me up with you, and then
Were punished in that after-grant again.
You were in a temper, and had me in it,
Not that, but just that,--till, your hints to win you
Are like the specks that you now state within it,--
Which you yourself would settle to hear and win it!
You're only wishing to make it two or three,
And the balance's somewhere, on both of us,
But there's one which, you know, cannot somehow
Be pushed at the doorways of under passage.
Yes, that's the point: there's a room in the man.
I think this marriage is just the same;
Our chaperons' is a common thing,
And we cannot make up our chairs too soon
To look on their chairs when first they swing.
It's no bad for a stove one to try with;
A fire will soon come to a nail for a chair.
Yet I'm not made up to the top or spout
Of the least, when we're sitting so late, and no doubt.
Yes, the stars in heaven were shining bright
'Neath the old mysterious magnolias,
When I think of all those little light
That I heard of a hundred times over yon night.
But the moon was setting behind the hill,
And we were still at Arcilium.
She was there as fair as ever you saw.
She sat in her chair with the curtains drawn,
With the curtains drawn down over her head,
And a rose-leaf string on her lap at her knee;
She looked at the mirror, and seemed to be
Part of the wonder that made me stand there,
As though all the world must sigh in its heart;
The wonder that made me stand there apart,
So strange, so wonderful is what can be,
I wonder that she will come again--
I wonder I'll go on with her soon enough.
As the moon says when the stars have their way,
And she says the day-long sky is gray;
And she looks at the mirror all over me,
Yet I'm puzzled just how to say 'She could, in the dark,
See whether she will get anywhere, or if there
I should get it.  The night is cold,
And there's nothing in the world to do,
There is nothing so good to do.
The day was a hundred years gone,
Every minute and every hour
Was a score of years past, and every hour
More than now; and then I knew that it would be
A hundred and twenty years again,
Or so I'd have been married to that same wife,
That I might be married to that same in my life.
The day was a hundred years gone,
Every hour, and every hour
Was a score of years past and gone,
And the years went on, and I found
That it was very, very, very,
I'd rather be dead than living.
The day was a hundred years gone,
Every hour, and every hour
Was a score of years past and gone,
And I knew that it was good, very, very,
I'd have died for my father's daughter,
And been with my husband the flower.
There was no one to see me as I was--
Not one who was strong enough,
Not one who was lovable,
Not one who was lovable,
And I--I was lovable,
Not I who was married to that same wife--
Not one who was happy or happy,
But all I had is that,
Not one who was passing or walking,
But all I went hunting-- hunting-- hunting!
In the house that stands out there,
In the house that looks down upon the sea,
And sees the ships as they pass,
And as they pass a by turns
And as they pass a by turns
And as they pass a by turns many turns;
And as they pass a by turn,
And as they pass a by turn,
And as they pass a by turn,
And as they pass a by turn every night,
And as they pass a by turn again,
And as they pass a by turn all the rest,
And as they pass a by turn the
======================================== SAMPLE 610 ========================================
.
I often wonder what the birds
That sing by me that time of year
With their delicious singing fill;
I wonder when deep sleep has flown
And the white lilies of the pool
Are all but dreaming of a tune
They learned to sing for many a day;
I wonder that the little birds
A-building with their tiny wings
Are asking ever of their mate
For melodies before their time.
The sun, the rain, the cloudless air
Around my head in myriad crowds--
The grass blooms not for me,
The flowers are glad with dearth,
The earth is bright, the grass is green,
And love is sweet without offence,
And sometimes, maybe, a song
That you would sing to-day
When the tired earth is loneliest:
I would sing to-day to-morrow
For you, dear, and my soul's delight.
A little green field where the pines are lit with the sun
And the snow lies deep on the mountains, and sweet dreams rise
Above it on field and tree.
A little green field where the sun has a kiss to hold his eyes
And a tear falling in his cheek, a song to the heart that lies
On a breast of roses red and deep.
The sun swings high and shines late.
The moon's rim is a crimson rose.
The stars are three like sisters, and sweet night her veil of sail
Is folded on the bosom of my son.
The moon is a great pearl hung with stars
Over the rim of the world's rim.
A little green field where the snow lies warm
And the sun is shining strangely.
The sun swings low and falls late.
The moon's rim is a purple flame.
The trees grow strong.
The air is cold.
The earth is old
And the roses gold
To the young sky.
But the shadows lie
In the deep night.
The stars' rim are like lamps.
But the wind is as high as the moon's rim.
And the wind blows loud and soft.
O little yellow field that is my son,
My child, whose voice is a silver cry,
I would I were wrapped in your glittering arms!
I would I were wrapped in your flaming arms!
I would I were wrapped in your flaming arms!
Nay, how long is it since I heard you call
In the wind, a cry from the lonely sea,
The moaning cry, the cry of the lonely sea--
My little grief?
Nay, how long since I went on the quest
In the wind, a cry in the lonely sea,
The moaning cry, the cry of the lonely sea--
My little grief?
Nay, how long since I came upon the sea
With the wind, a cry in the lonely sea,
The crying cry, the cry of the lonely sea--
My little grief?
But the wind is loud and the white moon shrouded
As she watches and watches the waves
Follow the clouds that float past her shadow;
Far down in the depths she sees
The lonely sea--and the wondering moon,
The lonely sea--with pale fires for light reflected--
The star of the night and the white star-bright--
And the sea's own mirror of light
To her little sorrowful heart and her heart.
O the wistful face that was beautiful
To the sea!
O the wistful eyes that were full of tears
To the sea!
I do not know the touch of your feet.
I do not know your sorrow that I know
As I do.
What is the kiss you gave to me,
A comrade dear,
To me, my friend, before we part?
This rose-wreath here.
This heart that has my heart in it;
And you alive
As I can give my life to you
If I may give it you to love.
When you have given it me to cherish,
I shall know
That I, who took the gold of it,
And your heart in it,
Could give my heart to yours once more.
You loved me when I loved you
Long ago,
Now that my heart's love lingers
Like the rain
On the white rose-petals of the May.
Now that my heart hath worshiped you,
You shall come
And keep your roses at my side,
And whisper of me.
But not the faintest rose I give
For love that grows
Faint as the April wind o' the blue.
O, my lover,
You know me well; but not the sad
Sweet thrill
Of sorrow that has filled our time with joy.
Not words of passion uttered,
But lips apart
That speak the love songs sounded
So deep that life
======================================== SAMPLE 611 ========================================
 of words;
They speak as if they were not heard
In ancient days;
Men of genius, and of spirit,
Girlish fame,
Which like mist or morning vapour,
In a word or thought,
Throws a shade, or white or yellow,
Shadowing all who hear
"Words like Lapithos;"
Or of white-hot iron,
Bake-full-eyed and
With a berry's points a-tremble
In the sun's right hand.
Or of amber-haired Ilsabe
Ilsley stalked thro' the gloom,
With the wild girth on his tresses,
And the great eyes of some
Wild-eyed boy, Ilsley.
Where Ilsley walked, the daylight
Was a flitting dream,
For he sang, as if for love,
The sweetest and the best
Of the pipes of Pan a-tune,
His own secret in his breast,
As he sat in the silence,
All alone, alone.
Then Ilsley was forgot;
There was only that one,
One I wept and murmured not,
"For I hold that for true
I love thee, O my true
I only love thee, O my God,
And for thy sake."
And that one, the most blessed of all
That ever loved a man;
To him it was a sacred thing
To yield such breath
In that new-found heaven, and give
His life, and in that gift to live
In love, in death.
Ah! well indeed his simple heart
Was kindled so to scorn!
But well that fool made out of breath
Or knew of death forlorn.
For his heart was in the midst
That other coward train,
Shook with the fear, the eager hate
That mocked the pain
Whence they had fanned his red-lipped soul
For some false treason's plot.
And still, where'er his head was bent,
And where his feet had stood
That other coward, like a slave,
In terror took no heed;
And though he knew it was not 'su'd'
To take his part in the game,
And cared--that coward's pride!--
How many a poor brave soldier
Stood in the dusty strife,
And, on the battle-field, his sword
Was ready, and his life!
"You know, 'that other men have grown
In courage as in years,
That all great heroes from their graves
Are climbing up their spheres.
"You know that other, now, may be
Another tried in strife,
And in the struggle, may be slain,
As they have striven for Life."
The soldier's head was heavy on
The green and laurelled sod
Of that lost land where now those eyes
That knew no kindness ever clings
To his immortal head.
"You know, 'that other children die
(There's nothing else so brave),
Yet they, while all their hearts breathe life,
Feel nothing stronger, and know not
How to approach them more;
"Even they, though I am called son
And could not live without
Their father and their mother,
Can feel that they are not as others
Whose mothers speak out nothing;
A few more like these, and a few worse,
As Time turns back his slime,
Or where some hundreds tread like adders
Along the fields of Time.
"And I, for me, feel the old scourge
Branding my dungeon's door,
And heavy hammers, where a flood of tears
Pall thro' my wrinkled face,
And cries I must not be atoned
For this last curse of Fate!
"And as I turn from the fetters,
And curse my dungeon's gloom,
A million children, peering round
The dovecote, come to hear me--
I hear their cries at night,
And see their hurrying feet
Sling scythe-men's bread and cheese,
And I must ask Mamma.
"And there, at last, when the sun is low
And the shadows lean out to me,
The door shutters swing on
And silence falls about,
For an hour before the drowsy street
A door sings out
An hour before the dawning light
Sings to the weary night...
All things have rest--the candle, the clock,
The bell that rings the first,
The bell to-night, with all her maids
Crowned above their head--
The street's clock, and the chimney, and the clock--
But still there are things in these things that lie
More real than these before."
"Nay,
======================================== SAMPLE 612 ========================================
t and the Duke of Marlborough,
and that lady of the North Wales;
They were all dressed in white, and the red gold upon their
glasse made mony a look and noise,
They were all found in their black coats, and their armour was
white-bronze like the thyrd's hyssars.
The men that followed them all thought, "This is strange sport,
this is a noble lady's way;
And our lord Hugh implore this lady for our peace, the
word is that he prays in peace."
This lady has crossed the water, that is a goodly
white lady to hold.
At first her colour came into her gentle eyes, and
she would not turn her head,
And her look grew more winsome, and she drew the red blood
into her veins and cheeks,
And she said, "My lord Hugh, my lord Hugh, my lord's
sister's tongue is red.
"But for my love, come to me, I pray the lord of
Then Hugh cried out and hid his head;
He stood amazed and smote his sword in his hand, and
that lady's face was brown,
And he said, "My lord Hugh, this is my lady's
love, as the day it was."
And he clasped her to his shoulders and cried, "My lady,
she is brave and good,
You should not trust the red gold upon your
forehead."
And she rose to her feet, and she said, "With love then
I will go for a lady fair,
And the lady smile not, for I do not fear my lady's
love;
I fear my spy has been murdered and slain in her
shadows."
Then he gave her a gift, and she gave him a golden
stone in his hands,
And he laid her down on the grass, with the red
golden sheaf thereon.
And the lady knelt down, and her tears fell down from
her face.
And he said, "Your heart is a-cold, and your heart
doves in my bosom,
For I fear that my lady shall never see you again, and
your lady.
"And you weep, and you weep, and all my heart is a
sheaf;
For my lord Hugh is of kin unto Death, and my lord Hugh
Is my lord with all men to me, and was a lady fair in
Cadie was five hundred and my squire,
And my squire had thirty children,
And the eldest was only my love's son,
And the youngest was secretly my pride,
And the youngest sware to my lord Hugh,
And the youngest sware to my lord Hugh.
O! but his body is white as the snow, and I saw him
in my lady's bower;
I saw him put up broad lands with five hundred
men in his thrall.
They were five hundred and my lord Hugh,
As grey as the snow was as wax at the winter's
valley.
I heard the bells ring, and the guardmen ride by,
The constable stood by the open way;
For the Lord Hugh, he looked on him,
And he looked on the King, and he thought, "My Lords,
For he is true to his lady's ring,
It was you that made me the lord of the world;
For I know you are stout of your lordship's will,
And you need and have none, and my heart shall know
That you have come first to my king;
And I will put you to sleep on a bed of flowers,
And that is to you shall my lady wed."
The gray heads slowly turned to her face,
The nine made three motions to the sun,
The one to the moon, and the other to the sun.
For the Lord Hugh durst no longer stay
Till the sun went down;
And he took the gates at Wheeling,
And he went to the King of the land and the king's
throne,
And he made them all hang as strong as the winds,
And there was a moon in his heaven above,
And the kings were all in a row together;
But the sun shone down on the kings of the land,
And the sun shone down on the kings of the land.
The sun shone down on the kings of the land,
And the king's soul began to fail;
And they laid out the sheets and went to sleep
And lay in the dead of the night;
And they slept through the night like sheets of flame,
And the sun shone down on the kings of the land.
But the lady's soul was awake and came
To the King of the fields and the
======================================== SAMPLE 613 ========================================
,
Who gave the Saviour's name, and gave,
With Him, the suffering and the blest,
The cross whereon to lay His head.
O let the song of praise be sung!
It speaks Him not of wrong or right,
But to Thy praise, and to His Glory,
The Law that Whoso fashioned fashioned,
That day His circling course be run,
Thy praise be ever and a token
Of light to guide and guide mankind
Through faith and holiness and glory.
O, bid the dead rejoice in thee,
That they whom thou didst love didst see,
And all thy works and all thy deeds,
What souls beneath the light of Thee
Can feel, but only Him can know!
O, bid the dead rejoice in thee!
They who were made of fire, fire, glass,
Of Heaven and Earth, and all Earth's laws,
The living and the live, stand up
Untaken, and from death, their cause,
Have opened wide the gates of life,
And freed the hands of woe and fiendish;
O, bid them hope that from their sins
The living God shall come to heal them,
While grace and mercy draw the souls
To minister unto his teachings!
O, hark, the swelling bagpipes sound!
The trusty quail, the jangling sparrow,
The thrush's merry cry, the night-owl's song!
The sun has risen, the day is done,
How loud the bells of Christmas ring!
All in the town, on either hand,
Serene and thoughtful, all the land
Is bright with pensive Christmas-tide.
"God save the King! God save the Queen!
She cometh in a garments green,
And in her hand a water-can."
But oh, to see the Christmas-tree
Is never more the Christmas-tree,
Is never more the little house
Where Mary's happy children are!
Oh, for a tranquil Christmas-tree,
To think that he will hear my song,
And give me back the thoughts I had!
God bless the King! God save the Queen!
When o'er the dim and misty sea
My ship is sailing silently,
Upon a distant summer sea,
The waves are soft and far,
The weary robes of gray old ships
Around are sprinkled day and night,
And the pale flags are all a-bloom
As if a ship were on the deep.
From time to time this tale of care,
This sad refrain, these memories fair,
In sweet remembrance of the Past:
That once a lad, as home from school,
Was walking in the track of joy
With a good-haired girl, who loved him so,
The fairest of the maids on earth,
And with him talked the talk of God.
He spoke of God--a man of toil,
Of endless years and hopes and fears,
Of many trials and at strife,
Of people giving God his praise,
And glory passing all the while.
And then the gray and weary man
Was seated by the fire and said:
"The years, the days, I see and hear,
Await me, and I'll give you bread!"
Then through the streets there came a sound
Of carts and chargers; far and near,
Strange voices, calling me around:
They cried all day, they called all night,
The day that we must love and bless;
And with the dawn the streets were white
With dusky lights and shadowy bars,
And through the night, through star and star,
The dead were mingled with the dead.
And when the black procession came
The King, with one acquittal breath,
Beheld the show and reverence
That duly brought him what was Death.
Then through the town the bells were heard
That once were tolling for the Queen,
And with a sound that all revelled,
Slowly she turned her weary way,
And took the little child and bore
Her sorrowing story to the King.
And in the church she laid her down,
And prayed aloud to Him that he
Would tell her of a worthy work
The seven years have brought, this day,
Ere that the King had been a man,
And not the master of the land,
And not the friend of human kind,
And not the master of the King.
The bells were softly pealing then,
The lilies with a tender grace,
The daisies all were creeping on,
In the midst of the surging place;
And now the bells began to sound
And softly murmuring and low,
As though they used to call, "Good-night.
It's
======================================== SAMPLE 614 ========================================
: _A New Church Story of a Lady_.
By the river St. Lawrence,
On a stallion shod with spurs
Thrown to right and left it seems
Just as in the days of yore;
And as I was looking forth,
And the way that I was before--
I could see the capering cap
On the face of the woman there:
My heart to its broken brags
And my soul so sick of prayer.
So I turned my love to the man
Who walked with me there,
And as I lookt, he took my hand
And told me he was his father,
And as he never thought of me
He told me that never was;
Then his eyes, when no man spoke,
Took my soul from his own, and spoke;
And so I fell in love, and so
I die here alone.
My thoughts run not with dreams that day;
My sense is not the man that say:
"Come," I said, "and let the world
Go right with the woman there;
For I'll put forth the woman there--
The woman I knew before."
I've had my man and mother now
Just for my brother's sake;
I've made my heart out of a bough,
And thrown it open, sweetly, now:
The woman who had to take
Her husband for her last, and keep
"The man that she was before
Gave money for her next of all--
I've known it, but I do not know
The man that she was after."
As she says, so I say to her,
Let us see our future too;
For these words she smiles upon
Me and my old love too.
You come back in the dead of night, where the grass is wet with dew,
And your face comes up in the wind and stares for you, but you
are wet with dew.
I could have seen you once when the sky and the water flashed at
You go back in the spring, with laughter and songs, all day.
You are dead, but I'd like to live, a young man and girl together,
With your rose upon your cheek, and your star upon your forehead,
"I'd like to be a boy again, but I'm tired and sleepy," said I.
"I wouldn't mind," said the girl in the morning. "Who's
up with you anyway?"
So I went back to my old Love's house on the moor, and saw
You was still as still could be, as the shade on the hill in the
grass.
And my heart gave itself up to pain, and I said: "I love you,"
And I went back to my old Love's House, with the sun upon
Sometimes I think that I was alone,
And you, my friend, are gone.
I'm not a stranger to your home:
Your roses--that's the garden!
I never was a stranger here--
You were the rose I gave my boy.
But I had roses all the day,
And you were his that used to be.
If he are off to India,
When I'm a girl--how dare I say
To you who live? To you! to you!
To you and me there's nothing new.
Your love was like an autumn tree,
You are to me a thing of hue,
And I am like a rose. Those pinks
The little garden grows
Upon the garden square,
When I am going home.
That's what the garden says;
The other gardens are full of sweets
The lilies have to give you cakes.
I can see you laughing there,
And yet I love you still so much.
I saw you even in the noon,
You have the face to look at;
And when I come to you
Across the purple water
I see your tears on it.
I saw the water-lilies
All nodding to the wave,
Their thorns commingling,
Each in its own grave.
I made this stony promise.
I'm going home to you,
You are the rose I gave.
And when you go about it
The garden is over blue.
All summer gone, and winter done--
But I shall have more gold in store
Than I can get from those gone years--
I'll turn again and go.
I saw you last year, too, in the street.
I'll give you all the job you like,
To know you'd be a pretty pet.
--I saw the red rose, red and white,
But the red rose I shall never see,
The red rose I shall never see.
I saw the hill grass growing over
And the great
======================================== SAMPLE 615 ========================================

_Nidus est Aon._
In that moment, to our eyes most near,
A voice was heard to say,
'Appius, oh, thou too, great in war,
Who, without fear of death,
Art here again, and in my heart,
Incomfited, be gone!
With that great voice which did command
The old world as its kings,
And round about, a soundless band
Began to rise and fall.
And where the ranks of battle shine
And where, no longer fair,
A man's proud heart begins to beat,
A people, ever there,
Come rushing on, like lightning, while
Their shouts and prayers are said,
And there is one, with haughty brow,
Amidst these dreadful gloom,
Who, gazing, stands erect, and now
The last immortal wreck,
Hear the great voice of Jesus call,
"Come on, come on!"
He said;--and now, with solemn step,
He trod the sacred hill;
Nor feared the tread of armed feet,
As that dread sinner strove,
When many a warrior fell.
And when the battle-field was won,
And blood-besprent, he prayed
That from the field of battle down
His spirit might be shed,
His spirit, in that battle-cry,
Gave utterance to the scorn
Through thousand ages long.
For, from the first of time, he heard,
How low, beneath the trees
He saw, with dread beneath, a light
That kindled in these trees,
And he could see, if he were there,
The glory of that light.
The darkness of his abject home
With silence filled his soul.
And then he raised his eyes again,
And, in that fitful light,
He saw, amid his tears, the face
Once reigning in that light,
And all his hopes of heaven regain'd,
And he lookt forth, and saw
A bright, a radiant multitude.
Who stood in triumph on the right,
And from the left had gone
To see the victors' broken hodes,
His own great power, unknown,
And all things great at once opprest.
And he was mute. On his remains
He rested, and then said:
"The day, that I was not alone,
In life could not be done;
So give me now those eyes again,
Lest I fall down and die,
And I become the only Christ
He has been ever by,
And will for ever and for ever,
Mine image through the sky."
They laid the rod of Moses on
And rested it again,
And still the warden of the cross
Hid in the oxter's hide
The quivering flame and fiery spark
Which had consumed the plain;
And still the flame, the flame, the spark,
Was raising to the sky
The mighty sun of Israel,
Still holding high the morn.
And the Redeemer rose to take
His place above the morn,
And to the desert gave his last
Of light, the glory of a mighty speech.
They drew the sword, and, on and on,
The shining stars are hurl'd;
But all the air rings back with sound,
With gladsome voice, with loud applause,
A thousand voices shout
"Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!"
And now the very trumpet sound,
And march, redoubling glad,
And many-voiced, in martial order,
To the final march are led.
A mighty army trooping o'er
The desert's last retreat,
Like tents on fire, like lions roar,
Their battle-cry resounds,
"Rejoice, rejoice!" rears the sun
With fervor more divine,
Than night hath ever known
Achilles in his halls of joy.
The clarion-voices loud and shrill,
The clangours o'er the ground,
Ring out, ye bells of Christmas, still
Ring on, on, on towards the West,
The rejoicing Christmas-Bliss,
And ever Christ, surrounded, cheers
His people to the gates
Of Paradise, with victor-song,
And glory in His arms.
And in the solemn church and porch,
Mid scenes of sin and sorrow,
The reek of stricken souls is heard
Whose voices now prolong
The psalm of agony,
Which tells the world is born no more
Of "peace on earth, good will to men."
And, to the people's simple sight,
The lilies of the meekest white
Bloom o'er the porch, the
======================================== SAMPLE 616 ========================================
 of the
It was a beautiful sight to see,
And the people all in green:
Oh, how fair they looked, each tree and heath,
On the green-green sward so green,
And the people all in white,
And the people all in white.
And every day, when the day was hot
And the people down in green,
And I stood there all alone,
I saw again in the open space
A figure shrinking and swimming there
As I turned my head to see
If I were the one that bore my face
From that of any mould.
It was an old, old man of the land;
His hair was thick as the winter's frost,
Like the blooms left on the Northern pine
That are marked with a network of gray and old
By one who in poverty claimed his bread:
'Twas a youthful monk, with a staff and kniter black,
And his face was fair as the summer's night,
And the smile of her eyes seemed like a sunny door
Where he paused on the threshold o'er.
He lifted the latch, and he bowed his head--
And I gazed in my face till I knew my sin:
I have seen the morning and the moon rise white,
But I have seen no mercy to win.
He took the book and went his way,
And my soul was troubled with fear and doubt:
I have seen the morning and the moon rise white;
But I have seen no mercy to win.
'Twas a holy hand to gain the last
As he sat on the humble stone
In the dress of a beautiful youth,
And he turned his book and looked upon
My beauty, till I knelt in a strange,
And I knelt, in a raptured reverence,
To the God who was first in the history
Of the earth and the heavens, and the light of it,
And the stars and the moon and the stars of it,
And the moon that was the one above.
I cried, "My dearest, fill up my cup!
Who would not be glad in a little while
That I have made so little of my treasure,
And the peace that I have given I must drink
From an earth that is sweeter than wine
In the veins of a woman of divine
Beauty that is the wine of desire?"
I said, "Oh, let her sleep alway!"
And he took the book and went his way.
I will make no more my own poor fool,
And I will no more dream of delight
That life has had for its golden rule:
But I will not think my heart is right
Or theirs the fault of its weight or its weight!
With a heart that is open to sorrow
And the joy that is hard to bear,
I will put out my hope of right,
And the wrong that is good is fair.
And I will watch till the lights of my village
Shall laugh in the living blue
Of the summer afternoon.
I will cross the bridge and reach the town
To the sea of life in the eventide:
And my soul shall know the pain, and go
Where the lilies are, and the grasses, and the rain.
And I will cross to the uttermost end
Of the street and the crowds that crowd;
And my soul shall gaze past the sunset glow
In a world of a common crowd.
And I will be alone in the street,
And my soul shall gaze in the sun:
And my soul shall gaze past the sunset glow
In a world of a common won.
I will be alone and alone,
And thy face with its love will be pressed
By a heart that is pure and unblest
By a tender tear-dabbled eye;
And my soul shall gaze past the sunset glow
In a world of an alien sky.
I will throw away all the strife,
All the sorrow and all the care:
I will open my heart, and cast my life
On the cruel stones of thy fair hair.
I will seek in thy face, and find thy hair
In the whitest hair thou hast ever known,
And thy face with its tender grace
Shall be ready to breathe and to see,
And thy face with its deep, sweet eyes
Shall be willing to hold or to see.
Yea, and I with my singing shall dwell
Where the lilies are gray, and the fields are brown
For the little flowers gone:
O my golden birds, I will have you down
Mid the leaves where the wild-flowers bloom:
For your songs have lost their joy of light and song,
And your nest is cold in the under-earth
Where the lilies are white and sweet,
And your nest is
======================================== SAMPLE 617 ========================================
, A
Breechton, a Scottish poet of the day, one of whose praises I will
listen.
(I) vii.
(I) vii.
Ad Deaferika, one of the "Hymns of the Pulpit."
(I) vii.
Judith, the queen of love.
Chapel, the "Hymn to the incarnation of the Holy God."
Chapel, a nunnery.
(I) vii.
(I) viii.
Ad Deaferika, the god of the pulpit.
Chapel, among the sons of Canongate and Pope Clement de Woolwich, is the
The maid of love was our own,
And it was the young man's first wooing.
'Twas the mother of the man that came,
And love and love were the brethren's names.
The lover that stooped to the maiden's side,
In her love she placed the maiden's bride:
'Twas the young man's new wooing,
And it was the young man's first wooing.
She married the lord of her heart,
And the lover that stooped to the maiden's heart.
She married the king of the country,
And the lover that stooped to the maiden's side.
She married the king of the country,
And the lover that stooped to the maiden's side.
She married the king of the country,
And the lover that stooped to the falcon's nest.
She married the king of the country,
And the enemy that laid them low.
She sent the king of the country
To summon the young men all,
And the lover she prayed in the morning
"Give me my cloak and sword," she said.
She sent the king from the country
To summon the young men all,
And the lover she gave in the morning
"My cloak and sword," she said.
She sent the king from the country
To summon the young men all,
And the lover she gave in the morning
"Get up, my men," he cried.
She sent the king from the country
To summon the young men all,
And the lover she gave in the morning
"Get up, my men," she said.
She sent the king from the country
To summon the young men all,
And the lover she gave in the morning
"Get up, my men," she said.
She sent the king from the country
To summon the young men all,
And the lover she made in the morning
"Get up, my men, for shame" she said.
She sent the king from the country,
To summon the young men all,
And the lover she gave in the morning
"Get up, my men, for shame" she said.
She sent the king from the country,
To summon the young men all,
And the lover she gave in the morning
"Get up, my men, for shame" she said.
The king from the country, the priest from the city,
And queen from the village, they took her away.
(A heart of its own I will laid on my fingers)
(My sword will be whetting the shears whoever I love)
(Cold flakes of fire in the gutters will mark the place down)
_Here comes the bridegroom with nought but a wild thing over her,
Here comes the home-garden so fair but a wild thing over her,
(My sword will be whetting the shears whoever I love)
_Here cometh the bridegroom with nought but a wild thing over her,
He calls to me hither, he calls me thither to-night._
Here cometh the bridegroom with nought but a wild thing over her,
He calls to her eyes from their outcast-troubled height,
He calls to her face from the garden they watched for long after,
That face that I loved with love more terrible yet,
Beauty they drew with my hands, yet I killed as one stabs with a
_This is the song of an old maid,
Queen Maeve's noble towers,
Where are you, or where are you,
Where is the lady I wooed with,
Queen Maeve's soldiers are ill at ease?_
(Time: time: time: time: time: time: time: time: time: time:
But the Queen was wise; she counselled Maeve to come at eve her,
And she went to see the dead body of lord Hugh of O'Flynn.
(Time: time: time: time: time: time: time: time: she saw him go by
Master O'Flynn's body on the
======================================== SAMPLE 618 ========================================

A new creation.
Let us all together
Fill the crystal cup,
We will drink to thee, dear heart, in friendship's cup;
Come, my beloved,
Come away to me.
Here a simple casket I bring of my own,
And therein lay two or three gems in the bin,
And they are only a few small pieces;
They are placed in the bin, and it only holds some.
One of these will I take,
And bring them all to thee;
And I'll bring them in for thy fair youthful years,
Which are many, alas, times to thee.
In youth I was a merry maiden,
And I performed all the dances,
And the simple measures among mortals
Were played to the joy of the minstrelsy.
Then I went with the bard to the shades of the forest,
And I sat upon a foundation one day;
And the maiden sat down by me and sang to me,
And she sang to me songs of the minstrelsy.
For there came to my sight the fair maiden,
And the minstrelsy played in my fancy,
And they said that their skill was in living
Who was born at the beginnings,
But I could not win thee, O fair maiden,
For she loved thee so dearly and long,
That her heart was filled with love's wonder,
As I heard the cuckoo singing
In his orchard in the grove,
And he heard it in the night-wind,
That was heralding the nuptial bliss
Of the young and lovely maiden,
And I listened in the forest,
To the midnight song of the minstrelsy.
And I sat and listened and sighed,
And I made this simple measure,
Saying lightly, "Oh, my love!
Thou hast heard it in the night-wind,
Thou hast heard it in the day-wind!"
For my ear could not sustain it,
And my eyes were scarce dried up,
As I wept and wished and prayed thee,
But, O sweet! thou art not nigh;
Thou hast come, my friend of the evening,
On the wings of the early morning
To my bower upon the lea;
There, with thee to play and tabor,
Hard the reeds I have lain,
Played in the wind, and played in the billows,
Played in the wave, and played
By the green-wood on the hill-top,
In my brother's tent alway,
Blew the coal upon the hearth-stone,
Made my brother's log of wood,
Where the silent frost first trodden,
Tossed away the frozen flowers,
Gathered all the fowl flowers
And the tender grasses,
Scattered all the herbs and grasses,
Gathered in the autumn season
All the dark-brown nuts,
Scattered all the tall-rubbed flowers,
Scattered all the clustering bough-trees,
Scattered all the dark-brown yeaves,
Scattered all the strawberry plots,
Scattered all the tall-frog's flowers,
Scattered all the little cups
And the leaves of last year's listen,
That my brother might be wiser."
Long I watched, and long I longed,
For the crows and the blackbirds,
The blackbirds and blackbirds,
And never an answer got;
For the silence was too deep
For one to question further,
One to sing and to sleep,
And to sleep all night long.
Ah, little traitor, little traitor!
Right little did my mother think:
"Who does it," she implored, "is My son?"
Ah, that was little baby's _that-is_....
When the tree boughs burst and the leaves fell,
He was gone to the forest of folly.
When the tree boughs burst and the leaves fell,
He was gone to the forest of folly.
When the night-wind raves,
He lives in the nest with the brave,
He sits on the tree and sings to me
And the bird to the mate with the mate,--
"Though I die with my soul,
The tree and the flower have kept the tryst
Between us two--
The tree and the flower--
And never a word of all the world
To carry away to the rest
Before the day!"
_Now_, little traitor, if I love you
You will not pity me!"
_Now_, little traitor, I love you;
And my heart will break for ever
At sight of you.
I sing a song,
One of the little things I sing;
But what can
======================================== SAMPLE 619 ========================================
, and the whole
"Seduce them to the Chryvin's, and to the Chryvin to the Pekan,
Seduce them to the Pekan, and to the Pekan O'th.'
"So spake my dear and worthy son. And now at last this
claspt and bade me my beloved to send unto him, having so
dewed his cheeks with roses and a purple diadem. And I
swiftly, my dear child, took you into his breast. And the gods
grant you some favor, and I, oh excellent son, will bring you
home, and all the blessings which they send you into the
fragrant land of the Cyclopes, which is the land of the
Ilith, where the sons of the Achaeans have their dwelling."
Thus did he speak, and the pair went their ways. But he
pondered upon the two, for he could find out, and he pondered among
them, and said:
"Wherefore is your guest, my guest, that you seek with no frugal
distaste?"
"'Cteside," replied the son of Lapus, "was the prince of
Sicilyans, and I am come to such a pinch of dust as you now are,
who have come with the help of this man, who has travelled so
masterfully."
"Him you call," answered Meleager, "full of kindness, for he
has said me his father was Ulysses, who is in the habit of doing,
as it was due in the land of the Ogygian arrows. Three years,
however, happily, have passed over his young body."
On this Telemachus answered, "You know this I will be true; but
my heart is afeard of any kind of falsehood, for it is not
everywhere known that this man himself, who goes about the city,
and gains to it himself, for his words are of no import. This
young man will have to woo Penelope this evening, and as the
boy is his father again. No other woman in the world is so
timid that will not wed in her father's land, for she will no
longer make obeisance."
Penelope heard the words, and came to the door weeping, and
had not any word yet told her.
She found her son sitting with his mother by him on an old
straw, a bearded man, who had been a child in infancy. When
they met Euryclea, Euryclea spake, "Telemachus, the eldest
daughter of a valiant warrior, speak to me and tell me, for
I know all about it, whether a man or a woman lives, or I
am born or live a boy in my father's house, even so Euryclea
said; and said to her:
"Stranger, what are you talking about? What is your plan?
You must find everything that your mother told me. It is all
over, no matter what, and I am safe; for these suitors will
not go with me to Pylos, though they have climbed the Trojan
stairs with their feet sloping towards the high wall, and have
broken the long planks of their oars, and the ship itself,
have come and have put on the tackle of a ship, and the crew
too has gone, for the men have all left the lands of
Ithaca and are driving back into Ilius, for they are unbroken."
Then Euryclea said, "I too am a god; my ship is set out to
flutter the sea-banks; in spite of all this, as it was in the
day when we Achaeans were arrayed about the city, there is a
avenue for the gods in the wide city, and there is a temple
walled about with the ruins of many an old stronghold, so full of
high walls, and on this and such a temple shall be the fame
of the Achaeans."
And Euryclea said, "Father, I will tell you truly everything.
Yours will I tell you very briefly. I was a rich man Alcinous,
but I cannot say much what I was, so long as I was on my course;
and I am now come to the Phaeacians, if some god vouchsafes me
a son to be your suppliant. I come from Ithaca, and from
Titene, and from Ithaca, men tell me my name was Alcinous, who
hear and help his family and both come from Ithaca. It is he,
my name is Creon, and the people
======================================== SAMPLE 620 ========================================

that, to tell
The truth, in English.
L. 21. _Sessions_: "The horses and arms of Queen Titania."
LVI. _His shield_: "The weapons of war."
LVII. _Hesperia_: Salernichus, Antonyppus, Antonyppus (_Pompea_:
Richard, an old Roman emperor.
LIX. _Antonyppus_: Salus: Latin in Latin.
LXXII. _Antandros_: The Prayer of Apollo.
LXXIII. _Antonypus_: Latins.
LXXIV. _Ocyllus_: Apollo.
LXXV. _Antonypus_: The god of love.
LXXVI. _Diana_: The god of the chase.
MART. _Carcanian Hermes_: Aristippe.
_Tears_: Antonymium.
PAGEOR. _Alexander_: A statue of arms.
PAGEOR. _Alexander_: Apollo on his armour.
PAGEOR. _Panus_: a sort of wooden satchel.
PAGEOR. _Diana_: a pipe; to smoke; to sing; a small
verse; _Panus_, a song.
RAPHAEL. _Alexander_; the name of a faun.
RAPHAEL. _Panus_: a kind of Apollo.
SORI. _Hesperia_: The country of Asia Minor Poetry.
SORI. _Trentos_, two or five damsels.
SORI. _Antimachus_: The goddess of love.
SORIII. _Antimachus_: The son of Tiresias.
PAGEOR. _Alexander_: A statue or car on an altar.
SORI. _Alexander_, the father of one of the nymphs.
PAGEOR. _Antimachus_: The father of the nymphs.
HAN. _Alexander_, a fane of Neptune.
HAN. _Hesperia_: The one of the sister and sister of Proserpine.
JUNO. _Antimachus_ (From the German), _Antimachus_, a fane of
JUNO. _Antimachus_: The one in the sea, on which the ship of
JUNO. _Antimachus_, a hindrance of the forest; a rocky port.
VAUTOR. _Antimachus_: Jove's daughter.
VAUTOR. _Hesperia_: Sicilian; Tuscan.
VAUTOR. _Hesperia_: The country of Italy.
VAUNIER. _Hesperia_: Massilia.
HOMER. _Hesperia_: The seat of Dido.
_Hercules_. _Hercules_. Quoted from Statius or Camius.
Horse. _Horse_, a cloak according to the _Hesperia_, a cloak
also becoming a part of the fief of the _Hesperia_, the province
_Hortus (or Hyrcanian)._
Hitherto Appalus, the Flemings and Trinacrians of ancient origin,
for the origin of the Gods.
Hitherto Appalus.
Hesperia (Hesperia).
CHORUS. _Hesperia_.
Hitherto Corus, Sicular of Lipari (Hesia). The seat of Circe.
CHORUS. (_Gales of Siena_). Some Roman writers hold their heads
_hodos (barbaras)._
Hesperia. See Antoninus, _Fraxinus_.
Hercules (Hesus).
Hesperia, Lib districts, Sicular of Sicular of the land. (Heso.
_hodos (baras)._
Hesperia. See Cornelia, _Hesperia_.
Hepalesus, _Hippotho_.
Hercules. See _Hippotho_.
Horse-travel (Hymettus).
Hercules, _Hippotho_.
Horse-shoe. Leisure, _Hippotho_.
Horse-shoe (_Hippotho_.).
Horse-shoe). Leisure, _Hippotho_.
Horse-shoe. Leisure, _Hippotho_.
Hippocoli. Thus Horace and others.
Hippocoli. Schol. _Hippocoli_.
Helle. Leisure. Profusely.
Hine. _
======================================== SAMPLE 621 ========================================

On their faces, as if they had fallen asleep.
But I am one who in a moment looks
On the face of that beautiful and beautiful maid,
That so lately from a dream of the past is wakening
Her own and her lover's dreams.  She, with a smile,
Feeling out from her bosom, at that soft air
Has revived the fond thoughts of her heart, and I
Am looking for a little while on my first love,
Then to her breast to cling and her limbs to move:
I, in the midst of a world of dreams, have found
In the garden of life one of the most sweet flowers."
The Duke has fallen in his wrath, but his glance
Shines in the sunlight, and over her shoulder she lies,
And the wind and the trees and the grass with their white
Soft shadows are sleeping on her dark-lying cheeks.
And the sun throws down a soft warm mist of dreams
Through the violet of the evening, on a bank
Of lily-leaves and sweet forget-me-nots,
On the grass of a bank where swans are basking,
Over the lake, in the evening, ere she weeps,
At the close of the day.
And the wind and the waves seem still to sleep
Beyond the lone blue finger of the moon,
Where she sleeps; and the sky
With its soft blue veil
Is drooping soft and cold:
On that old man's face,
Through the rain and the wind,
In the dreary days,
She has long been dead;
In the garden of life,
All pleasant thoughts and sunny passions among,
She lay:  and the wind,
As it blew at night,
Seemed to breathe through her.
And again she dreams
Of the days long past,
When the spirits of the parted, one with the dead,
And only a shadow, of earth and the light
That made her smile,
Passed to the garden of life.  All things were given
Now to the dead to change.
O thou bright essence of the evening air,
That comest so with silent feet and eyes,
Within my heart I find the old desire,
The endless yearnings, ever young and beautiful.
O thou soft voice!  O thou clear, luminous voice!
With a strange and a strange fervour in thy heart
Thou tellest the old tale of our estranged love,
How the Old Year revives the Old Year takes
The full moon, and with her full-mooned face
Seeth, as we sometimes, the white, the new.
And from thy lips and from thy lips doth flow
The old, sweet story, which of old was told
In the ballad of Silenus, the son,
The sweetest, holiest, of all songs of men.
Listen to the still woods, far away,
The low winds utter all things!  Do they say
Time passes, and the darkness falls on us,
And all the shadows gather on the hills,
And all the earth grows heavy with the rain,
And night upon the earth is thick with shade,
And through the windows of the night the wind
Is a forgotten voice of long-past days,
A memory of a thousand ancient fears,
And of the happy, lovished ones the same.
Listen to the still sky, far away,
The winds are whispering, and the night is deep;
And the cool dews are falling in the trees,
And earth lies heavy on the lonely plains,
And the moon is aching like a cup of gold,
And the yellow dawn is a warm fire to-day,
And the leaves are hurrying to the lonely wood,
And the winds are sighing like a flock of birds,
And I, alone, beneath the quiet trees,
Am thinking of a day far away, long dead.
Listen to the still sky, far away,
The winds are sighing, and the forest trees
Are moaning like a flock of birds, and they
Hark:  'twixt the groves of silver Arcady
And green Arispris, what is the night to me
But the night is dying, and the wind is cold,
And the leaves are hurrying to the lonely wood,
And the winds are stirring as they pass, and still
The leaves are moaning like a flock of birds,
And the winds are sighing as they pass, until
The grey-green branches of the forest trees
Are shaken with the sound of leafy wreaths,
And the heavy sound of leafy wreaths, until
They stoop through the darkness and die away,
For the leaves are falling as they pass, all night.
Listen to the
======================================== SAMPLE 622 ========================================
 it;
Saying--for all the evil that thou slewest,
By Allah and by Ali and his Prophet--
"Hearken! hear thou! to the last
Come thou, and see what the Lord hath written."
And the angel answered, "By my faith,
So may the truth be! and if so,
Then shalt thou know and ponder still."
Then to the feet of the Eternal One,
Like fire on the dry land,
The multitude, the living and the dead,
Came down from their sad habitation,
The accursed, the hated, the forsaken,
And the accursed went down from their thrones,
Hence and shame to the lips and eyes
Of the accursed, the accursed, the lost.
Hark!  I hear the guns of hell!
Hark! they cry, "O accursed, accursed,
"Blasphemer, thou hast lied!
"By thy faith and thy lying and evil,
"By thy faith and thy lofty endeavor,
"By the terror of thine own soul,
"By thy shame and thy grief,
"By the fire of thine own soul,
"By thy love and thy grief and thy want,
"By thine own soul, O Lord,
"By thine own soul, O Lord,
"By the fire of thy truth,
"By the torment of thy youth,
"By thy love and thy grief,
"By thy faith and thy grief,
"By thy truth, O Lord,
"By the death of thine own soul,
"By the pain of thy life,
"By thine anguished wife,
"By thy servant in his hour of need,
"By thine own soul, O Lord,
"By the fire of thy truth,
"By thy love and thy grief,
"By my faith and thy love,
"By thy blessing and thy death,
"By thine own dear hand,
"I will give all of strength and strength
"As fruits of the soil, of the heart and brain,
"As the seed of the sun and the rain,
"On the head of the hills of Norah,
"And upon the shining sands of Eshcol,
"On Joppa, the head of the Lord,
"On the red and rolling billows,
"On the blue and rolling billows,
"Ye shall carry me back to Venice,
"Or ever the olden story
"Of me and my trusting lover,
"Before I lose mine own true lover."
By the blood-stained tents of Thuringia,
By the wreathing tents of Peter,
By the bitter graves of Rochambeau,
And the shining grass of Lempo.
By the bitter graves of Rochambeau,
By the bitter graves of Rochambeau,
And the shining stones of Rómah,
By that little white and faithful river
That flows by the seven white water,
And the seven clear, crystal waters,
By tinkling oars of the four rivers.
And the river flows by the seven rose-piers,
And the wind and the wave and the shallower oars,
And the boatmen and the lovers,
And the men of the porpoise merchants,
And the merchants and the beavers,
And the Sargis, and the Sargis,
And the merchants, and the Sargis,
And cold, grey stones of the bottom,
And the men on the bridge of boats,
And the men on the bridge of boats,
And the baggage far outriders,
And the men on the bridge of Paul's.
And the river flows by the seven rose-piers,
And the ninth wave flows by the seven rose-piers.
Then we came in from the river,
And we came to the river bank,
And we came to a grove of marbles,
And we came to a stone-hill,
And we gazed over it all in the sun,
And the young men and the women,
By the rubbish and the flour,
Wondered what the strangers thought or said,
But never a word they uttered,
And never a curse they uttered,
And never a curse they uttered,
But we stood in the pleasant sunshine,
And I caught her golden tresses,
Through the golden hair of the three lovers,
Under the twinkling of the ribbons,
On her breast and neck outstretching,
To my shoulder over my shoulder,
O my darling and my darling,
To my heart beyond all hatred,
O my darling little maiden,
Take the cross and kiss the maiden,
======================================== SAMPLE 623 ========================================
; from the notes of the _Cynthiae_, or _Amphrysian
For, it is the title of these two poems, see _Cydippe's
For, it is the easy limit of _Curæis_ and _Amphrysian_ poems.
To the _Nereids_, as to _Mnemosyne_,
Were nothing but the _Cynthiae_ of her prime.
To the _Nereids_, as to _fraud_, were a thing which, surely,
_Cynthia_ ne'er told her but herself _to fetch_ it:
To the _Nereids_, as to _fawn_, her sisters gave it.
And the _Amphrysian_, who, according to _wit_ and _reason_,
_Did_ not take her nor her usual vigil by night,
So long as her sweet sister's in the right?
To the _Nereids_, as to _fawn_, she gave the reason.
To the _Nereid_, as to _fawn_, gave her the reason;
To the _Nereid_, who, according to _conve_ it,
Could not to a _true_ word in _repetition_?
To the _nocturnal god_, that can be heard from
In the _Nereid_, whom you've seen without his aid,
From _Omphales_, whom you saw not, being
Not so very young, as there is no _day_:
To the _Nereid_, as to _Cyndippe_, when
_Love_ was sleeping, had not _Kyllippe's_ been
Frequent, at _Amphrysian_ downs, that they
Were asked by all the nymphs of this fair island,
In _dear_ times, and 'mong their virgin chieftries,
Not only did he think, then, it was right
To ask for _love_, but had not long loved,
When, being asked at his own _love_, he
Put his dear mistress to his own, and made
Lovely the next: _Aurora_--he had made
The place for such _nastiwork_ to do,
That now it was not for this object,
But for the _substance's_ due deserts and deserts.
Of this 'tis said, in the first place, the first!
_Circumst_ and _corrupted_, where is she,
Loving and kind? 'twixt her, who does not,
And him, whose love and word _espender_,
To her denote the manner of his mind,
And how she loves his words, as best she can,
To keep it secret, till the next man seen
Himself, and _spoiler_ in all points more keen
Than all that e'er came under his control;
And to the next, _Hymettus_, doth he name
The girl she loves. _Hemene_; _Hyginus_, whom,
As the _Amphrysian_ mother, once did _bruse_,
And with that image, sweet _Amphrysian_ seems,
The Goddess _Montalvan_, who in her sleep
Doth ofttimes wake to love the amorous child,
When he awakes in a sweet voice aloud,
And from her sleeping is half-way already.
_Ce nuntietudo_, _Eugenius_ dear,
That lady _Floro_, whom no custom is
To court, but such as _Amphrysian_ fillets,
Is _Gebir_ still, and doth, in her sweet looks,
So well his image, that in her he thinks
All he hath felt, and can no more endure,
To have the _Greeks_, where he did once set forth,
With all his company: but now he saith,
(And they have seen him, and these are his curtain,)
'If in the last word I but live one day,
He will return, and when he is almost gone,
May be a ghost, and if I'm to be gone."
I say to thee, no such lost thing do I,
Whoso may chance his wishes gratifie,
And knowes he's loved, and by such losses grieves;
And if some day to his remembrance he
For some smart word of his commensuration take,
Whom he may like, and where _Gulliana_ leaves;
If so, then, thou w
======================================== SAMPLE 624 ========================================
 the sturgeon,
And the bayonet-bark-bordered vessel
With the mighty fan-tail of the water,
While below them the young women sat
Bare-footed, leaning out of windows.
"Ah, distinctly I remember it!
A train paced into the town together,
Then two young men and two old women
Went wandering up and down the street,
The street-lamp windows and the gaslight.
And they whispered to each other softly,
'The stage is empty, and the curtain
That creaks and vanishes away.'
Then into the street they walked together,
They two and two, and they and I,
And in the crowd that gathered round us,
Out came the children running by.
And all the while I told them stories
Told of the plots they had to tell,
Told of the sea, the land, the harbor,
The hills, the ringing, and the laughter.
'They are all safe,' I told them, 'but the deeps are farther, farther,
For I have been thinking of my Margaretta,
When upon the bridge I lay in the sand,
And I saw no boatsman like a dancing boy,
With shining hair and laughing eyes.'
The waves sang low again, and again
The boatman entered as he came
Among the crowd of boys and girls.
He was the best young man ever born,
But my Margaretta was more beautiful,
And as pretty and quiet as any of those others
Was the young man you had seen selling in a ship!
The old man who sat beside me by his side was young,
But my boy who sat by me was not very old;
I was very young, and my eyes were like fine blue
When he sat between me and the old man's old scholar.
He was very young, but he was older,
With a bright brown hair and golden eyes.
So bright and quiet was he, so gentle and so naughty,
That when I asked him what the years had brought him
He said to me, 'You are like to know the times
That can't remember when such youth goes by,
And when your hair is like a golden mask.'
'Well, you must know, young man, you must know.
'For in some days, the time that has come on me
And in the years that have been so, I have found
That you have seen the pains I was so handling,
My memory to waste, though it had but found it.
For you I have found the love you bore with you,
And I remember in old times too,
That love is like the love of people born.
And now I shall go down beneath the sea
And seek to reach a castle that can know
Without the storms of words or vows or a life or death
What you have written I saw only
As a child of a man and a woman
As even a child,
As a flower of the world.
When I was young I came to see
The dancing-girl in the evening,
The dancing-girl in the evening
And the dancing-girl in the evening
And the dancing-girl in the evening.
When I was young I went up beneath
The dancing-girl in the evening,
The dancing-girl in the evening
And the dancing-girl in the evening
And the dancing-girl in the evening
And the dancing-girl in the evening
And the dancing-girl in the evening
And the dancing-girl in the evening
And the dancing-girl in the evening
And the dancing-girl in the evening.
When I was young I went up there
And found it far from my heart's love;
I said it was all of my own worth,
Because she had learnt me, and kept me,
And held to her lips, saying only,
That I was so weak her hand would have broken,
But she and I and love would not part,
And she and I meant not to meet,
And I meant not to say of our love,
But only to kiss her hand and die.
Till when she had grown, I thought out of love
And she told me not to tell of her.
When I was young I went up there,
And kissed her hand and married her.
I have lived, have lived my life.
Her hands were like the flowers,
Her feet were like the water
That rings in the water.
She dropped her eyes and smiled.
Her little sandals fell,--
As waves fall off a-singing
In the lowlands.
I went up to her feet,
As flowers do in the high grass,
And kissed her mouth.
Her body was white as sand,
And her body
======================================== SAMPLE 625 ========================================
 of _whilst we are silent_,
_Whilst I am listening,--listen and mark_ it,
Each of you has some word of cheer,--
_Your_ is no bad word for a man
Who is not being everywhere.
Yet he who is not dull and mute
Has many a blessing in his heart,
Till he can show to anyone
_That love is the best thing in art_,--
_The spirit of truth that comes and goes,
And that makes him eternal _dear_!_
'Twas a blessed time for _my_ Annie,
In her sleep that's never ter cease,
With the calm eyes of her gentle spouse,
As she walked to and fro near the house
Where my Annie was spinning and weaving.
All the children around her were playing,
And the heart of each mother beat high
As the merriest music they had
When she sailed to the end of the sky;
And, when in her sleep the sun went down,
The voices that loved and were glad,
It seemed to each baby the sweetest
That ever I sang of to-day.
Oh! my Annie's grandmother was bonnie,
And as fair as the lily is fair,
And sweet as the hawthorn and the wild rose,--
And she'd look more like the sunshine of God
At the flight of her beautiful hair.
And it seemed to each baby the sweetest
To carry her heart back to me,
And look to the fairy land afar,
Where their faces are only so beaming,
And look to the sunset shore,
And look to the land that is stretching
Rejoicing, with glad, low voice,--
To look to the land that is waiting
For the beautiful eyes of the choice.
Oh! my Annie's grandmother was bonnie,
And sweeter than pinks in the grove,
And purer than any wild rose bloom,--
Oh! she was the fairest in worth,
And the sweetest she sung to the sun,--
And the lily was still as she sung to
The rest of the winds of the world.
But tho' often the wail of the maidens
Did echo the tones of the song,
There came a sound of rejoicing
From every one's bosom along.
And the children laughed out in the sunshine,
And whispered them over and o'er,
With the heart of each little hand trembled
As she rocked to her lissome once more.
And it seemed to each baby the sweetest
To carry her heart back to me,
And the rest to her beautiful lips,--
To listen and adore.
When down through the meadow the cowslips are cheery,
While the cattle are lowing and hay-scented,
While the _nie_ fields o'er their hay-scented shadows
Are bright with fresh morning's first tints of the dawn.
When up from the meadow the cowslips are cheery,
While the _nie_ milk-skins are softly a-gleaning,
While hay-sacks are glancing by meadow and meadow,
Wee poppies, sweet violet, that creepeth between.
When, just as the dawn comes, o'er hill and o'er heather,
A fairy-wing'd arrow, ethereal and keen,
Doth seize me, tho' haply the tear it hath blushing
For the love of my Annie, is brighter and keen.
The dew-dropping daisies that tremble and shiver,
Gently fall, sweetly fall.
The buttercup green, with its glory bedewing,
Doth dear to my heart,
As the magic of faery I steal away to,
For a mystical spell.
The starlight's wide halo, it brightens beside 'em;
It dazzles my sight;
'Tis the moon, that is watching the meek with a smile,
And brightens and brightens my heart!
Then, dear, though my heart it should sore persecute me,
Let it go,--I am still by my dear!
The maidens at twilight all still at my feet are--
The maids are asleep by the stream;
But my _love_ too is dreaming and warm and sedately,
And gladdest the sight is to dream.
When twilight comes cool and the cowslips are speckled
With brightest gold lace--like a crown--
When twilight comes cool and the blossoms are speckled
With brightest gold lace--like a frown.
The maidens at twilight are still at my window
With heartfelt looks heavy and meek.
======================================== SAMPLE 626 ========================================
s in his pattle-bag,
He sees a flock of birds awaiting,
Larks purl their sandy nests,
He hears the bustle of a motor,
And feels as if his heart would break,
To hear the joyous song, "Hurrah!
For GOD, and His poor children,
I humbly pass along,
And humbly bow before Him,
And humbly say, "Good-by."
Ah! now the pleasant days are come;
How jolly were they o'er,
When on the deck the parents stood
To gaze upon the shore!
What joys the parents' faces wept,
What charming thoughts were shed,
At leaving all their presents--
Good-by to every mother's son!--
For the lost girl was dead!
Home in the old French quarter,
How jolly were they grown!
The winter winds were howling
Among the rocks and stone;
The river, like a madman,
Was lashing at their play;
The river foaming, foaming,
Was rivling loud and free;
The storm was on the village,
All whitely and forlorn,
And the winter snow was whitening
On Canada's hills and heath.
Foul winters were the storm,
The forest was alive with axe,
The axe in constant grip;
The maple round the cottage
Was leaping at the sound,
And at the sound, and patter
Of feet on the spring's breast,
Arouse in the old French quarter
Were drumming the ancient lay!
The corn was green and ripe,
And in a happy dream
The girls beheld the gleaming,
The girls were drinking beer,
The shepherd sat before them
His pipe was moaning near;
The shepherd sat and heard
The sound of the pipe of mirth,
And in a joyous strain,
He sang of the flowrets
And the glorious far-off rain.
The red wine riped in sparkles
And sparkled in the gale,
And as the sun came forth,
The hills and earth looked green,
The birds began their song,
The moon and the wind in chorus,
The thunder rose and fell--
O, happy day, Kilmeny!
I have a little brown Black Black Black Hare,
Whoseacer is all over the way,
And who has more to say.
It is very nice to hear her speak,
With nice distinguished speech,
With never a penny in her purse,
And never a rag on her mouth,
And never a hamper under the sun,
And never a cake with a spoon.
She says, "This is my wish, my dear,
To see you at my ball;
I fear you are wasting a spoon.
I'm thinking you are wasting a spoon.
I wish I could know how to swim,
To see you safe at home;
I fear you are hanging a spoon,
And sitting up on the sly."
Her fingers are like the nails of a boat,
In a funny little bunk,
With her little round face hidden away
From the sight of the sun and the talk of the day.
Her voice is liquid and clear,
And her eye is calm and calm,
And she knows the old-fashioned ways,
And her laugh is a trifle queer,
For she dances up and away.
She's a naughty little thing, my dear,
To tease her lovely neighbor;
For she always dances up and down,
And never can run or stay.
She's so neat, my boy, and she laughs, too,
And often she makes us stare,
And says, "Go back!" and "Go back" she says,
And she loves to go with a polo,
Which is what she likes the best,
And to stay is what she likes the best,
And to walk about and to play, 'tis her business.
She is the tramp, the tramp,
The tramp she is marching up;
And, wherever she goes, or if she's to stay,
She says, "Let's have a show!"
It was very cruel in the shape of a lady
Who has no clothes but her own,
To look at her gloves and her gloves.
For the reason you look at her locks
I fear she is out of the way,
To vanish in endless depths
From under your eyes just to-day.
And so it was. When she passed,
She almost ran away,
Or soon, or late, you will say:
He ran fourteen miles in fifteen days,
In fifteen-five she was nigh,
And she said, "I ask you to stay."
When she came to
======================================== SAMPLE 627 ========================================
,
A Book of Counsels, by the Law of Colonel D.
My Mother's Bible;
Come, fill it with "Alone"--
_O, don't forget "Tick-to-tack"_!
_O what a joy it was to meet
My Sisters, whispering low;
The little golden cups that shone
In her gilt hand so small!
But soon she leaned to need; and the roses clung
About her face; and her little golden head
Lightened; and all the little birds sang there,
And the flowers smiled, and the grass was wet with dew,
And the flowers laughed, and the air was heavy with dew.
But I heard him speak:
"What is the Landlord beckoning there?"
"It is," laughed he; "O let him in!"
O my little sisters of the Long Ago;
O they have the way, the way that they must go,
With the grass to watch, and the wind to blow,
And the land we love, and the land we know.
I kiss your brow, so gay and white!
Your great blue eyes with laughter glisten!
I kiss your brow, and my heart grows light,
For the Landlord beckens with his finger.
The Landlord heedeth not his will.
For the Landlord knoweth not his own.
_O shall it be written on the old man's forehead:_
_Never to go, for the time is passing!_
The Landlord heedeth his own great value, as he goes;
_Never to look for a chance to meet him!_
He loves that land where the stars are setting,
That land of sleep and the dreams he's taking;
The Landlord heedeth his own great glory--
The Landlord heedeth his own great story.
He loves that land where the shadows are falling,
That land of dreams and the dreams he's taking;
The Landlord heedeth his own great story--
The Landlord heedeth his own great story.
Over the hills the farm-house blossoms
In the Spring morning;
Over the hills the corn-fields rustle--
Silver bells down the lane;
And a woman crosses the pathway
That is lost 'neath the old fence- decor.
She has gone; she is here--she is here,
O the old fence-house blossoming in the Spring morning!--
On the road to the front with a bridge--
And a load of hard earth bones lying,
And a road between hillsides lying.
They think the air would steam strange out there,
And the path smell good enough for me;
But I smell--I smell--green earth again,
And the pass where the grass is trampled on.
And I smell--I smell--sweat and stewed,
And a rag from the old hedge crying!
The trees are running all right now,
For I smell--I smell--sweat and stewed!
And my mother says, "Don't be afraid,
For I smell--sweat and stewed."
And a woman waits by at the gate
While the old spring-water slips
O'er our ankles, and we sigh--
The old bridge's empty and old,
And the jaded crossing sky--
And the sky leaning up to the sun--
And the trees leaning down to the sun--
And the moon climbing up through the sky--
And all the world looks like a swan--
Like a child close at play with a crook--
And the dog by the gate comes by,
And the laugh of the children, "Look at me!"
_O, don't you see the grass again?_
O, don't you see the grass again?
There in the sunshine through the lane
Roses have come and will not bud,
And birds have told me of the mood
Of them that loved and left their blood
To this the old fence-house must keep,
Where I can see the kindly lea
The little ferns again in me
And the roses, red and blue.
My old fence-house that I span
Is just a house of southern man
With windows open and a door
That looks to east, and there before
The guttering owls sit there;
And in the dusk along the road
The willows sway, the wild birds bode;
And in the dusk like some lost tune
The silence comes, and it is June.
I heard you called, "Good morning" in my thought,
And in my heart your sweet called "Nay" was fraught.
I, too, have known how sweet it is to rise
And go my way, a child, unchilded and ungrown
======================================== SAMPLE 628 ========================================
 a man to please more human eye,
And, as he is in love, must be beloved
Aye to be loved by men, if they in him
Alive or dead have any part of time
In seeing them; and even if they see him wring
His heart against the ground, when he is gone--
Aye, if in him no hope of pleasure lives
But what life is, life's weakness that must wait
All through so many thousand elements,
Not love, but not love--not love--and this the sire
Had called a time for which he might not be
A maker, a mere maker or a man.
So the sweet, even mute one, who has passed
Through the half-life his childhood used to know,
Spent all his pains with the surrounding lives,
And lived and died for in all time of death.
And then the years had changed, and the young life
Rose into being both by slow degrees,
Till the long, long-suffering, and shifting change
Of spirit gave it power to grow more old,
And in the old years waste, and the new life
So much becomes a dream, that it was nought
But the old age of gold.
_So runs the tale_
_Of the long ago,_
_Naming the light_
_In the lonely night_
_Where all things go_
_And the long ago_
_Weary of life, I_
There 's a world of toiling and care
Beyond the dream of gold--there 's a world in the west;
There 's a world of dreams, there 's a world in the west;
There 's a world of dreams at the dawn of an hour;
There 's a world of dreams, there 's a world in the west;
There 's a world of thoughts, there 's a world in the west.
O youth, rejoice: life 's a long time to one--
Dream, dream at length, and dream--or waking undone!
O, youth, there 's a world in the west, there 's a world in the
West, O, weary heart, that finds a way
Where never a day is, never a night;
There 's a world in the west, there 's a world in the west.
What 's best for the life, what 's best for the life
In the land that I love, and the sky that I hate;
What 's best for the life, but the best is the love
To love and to dream, and the dream to dream.
O, youth, there 's a world in the west, there 's a world in the
West, O, weary heart, that finds a way
Where never a day is, never a night
Where never a day is, never a night
Where the love that is born is the love of the light,
And the hope that is born without hope or end
In the faith that is born without peace in the west.
O, youth, there 's a world in the west, there 's a world in the
West ... and there 's life that 's a world in the west, O,
The sun that shines brightest, the love that can never be blighted
By the hope that is born without peace in the west.
'Tis a feast that is rare, and a place far away,
Where the heart is prepared for the future's decay;
And a land that is founded without the cold shock of despair,
And the heart may be well tuned unto all the long prayer
Of the souls of the living who walk here or there,
Nor a tempter of Time from an adverse sphere,
Nor a star that is wakened from darkness to cheer
The soul of this little country that lieth afar;
The glory of England, all warmth and all grace;
Her banner by Whom we may conquer the race;
Her triumphs thro' all time and distress;
Her fame that like th' immortal immortal doth shine,
And the fame that we hope can die into glory divine.
For the soul of the people shall stand to our face
And the world's great armies go under the sky
To build up their Zion; the cause dies away
When the arm is forgotten that once held the sword;
The dead who go under may live in the graves,
And the life that was born for be buried with slaves.
Not a drumlie is heard, not a funeral note
Calling to prayer for the loved of the land,
Yet in memory comes the long-warlike word
Sounding slowly from lips that are silent in death,
Like the sound of the distant surf on a seashore shore--
"God save
======================================== SAMPLE 629 ========================================
 and Wren, whose work was not yet done?
Who has not dreamed, of the sun to be found in the ground,
Of the sea to be seen in the watery profound?
Have the dead not been buried in seas still unhaunted
By the spray of the surge, and no surge to be pressed?
They lie and their faces have never been living
Upon earth, and men die in the graves of their fathers;
The man is asleep, and the woman is dead
With a million dead boys from the womb of their graves!
The stars have their wimples, the night-wind their breath,
The rain-bathed night-tide is bending above,
And the voices of mortals are ringing their glee
In the desolate spaces of death-flames to war.
But they have not seen, and they have not seen,
As their mother's first-born had dreamed of their tears,
The fair young mother that turned to their cries
In the midst of new nations: her starry crown
Is held from the cloud-mist of ages that frown.
And the soul of their mother? Her hands,
Seen on Bethlehem's hills, and her face
Ringed with tears on the earth, and her heart
Trampled by the dismay of the years,
Is bowed, and her voice, like a low, murmuring,
Sighs heavily down into the night,
And the eyes of her suffering grow bright
With watching and watching that shine
On the dark-red lips of a desolate One
Kissed in sleep and the shadow of death:
She is risen, she trod on the starry plain
With the virgin of Christ, and her spirit's array,
And her banner is furled and her feet
Run glittering forth and the stars like rain
Drink the dews from the fountain of light
To the calm of the twilight of death!
She has trod to the darkness of Life's dark strife
With a world-wide woe that compels and endures,
Of the sins that are breeding the life
Of the foul ones who die in the night!
She was ragged, her soul half-lost,
She was wounded and spent with grief,
She was sick with heart-ache and worn
With love and grief as the days come by.
Tears, like raindrops, drip from the eye
Of the maiden in patient distress,
And her young blood ripples and runs
Tow'rd the sick, and the eyes seek each
Distant sun in the gray of the skies.
She has cast off the garland of woe
From her young brow and a crown of pain,
And her soul is borne to the glad
Swing of the storm and the wind, and the rain
Falls, and the tears come and dim
As their little sorrow fills them again.
She has turned from Love's changing cup
To a gracious, unrestrained strife,
And she knows not that she hath shrunk
From her own she loves too much,
And no other loves than his who has loved.
She has laid her body to sleep,
She will wake; she will wake no more;
Yet she seems in her own sweet deep
Still to find her love has a deeper stain.
She has cast off all stain of the dream,
Her soul has fled from before Love,
She will hear him again, at the closing
Of death, like a leaf weeping o'er
The cold lips of her sleeping lover.
With eyes he had looked on her long,
With lips with his smile so white,
As he said her name, for she loved him;
And the passionate words that he told her
Seemed never to him more delight
To the maiden's eyes more loathly.
But she loved him not, as his mother,
As the light wind lives to-night;
She had been a shade from the temple
Where the star of Venus shines.
And the priestess saw from the altar
That stone of the Hebrew youth
In the maiden's soul beaming
With eyes like the stars of Truth;
And a priestess saw on her beauty
The glory and light of his face,
As he said to her, "I am Christ!
I am the Holy Mother's place!"
Her voice was a voice of living fire,
A voice of prescience that said
"There is none on earth more faithful
Than to God we both are wed!"
And the priestess saw on her face
The glory and light of his love,
As he said to her, "There is none
In Heaven more human and sure
Than to God we both are pure."
And he kissed the lip of the bride,
And his kisses kissed the cheek,
And he
======================================== SAMPLE 630 ========================================
, who was a fellow from Exon Church.
the H.G. class of monks and monks of old Bristol.
of Santa Fe, and of Abbots.
of Canterbury and Bristol.
of the Abend Tearn, and of the Abend Tearn, places of their
names.
no-named; but our Holy Church in Scots, which has been held
high as the steeps of the river which bore them, and which
now by the roots of the forest of Rialto, while it was buried
from sight of the sun, will set in a fair bed again.
that they should be able to see aught else, and all else
to see.
When it was time for the Feast of Holy Thomas, the carpenter
was ready at every need to speedily cut his work, and
could bring forth a sonorous party.
The monks then set out a hall.
The carpenter came in before them; and as he was taking
a chair, he made his own bed on the wall, looking
just as he was bedfellowed about the house, while the women
wondered and looked at each other.
How the statues were still standing on the walls in the
great patrician manner of a procession of monks,
at the corner; their lord, who was so sweetly attired,
with his son Tarentum in a rich rich litter was filling,
while the carpenter's son, the Lord Tarentum, was dancing
in the well, and looked at all the figures of painting
on the walls; and at the very end of the song he was singing
of an Earl who had been Earl a long time after he had come
home, a poor widow who had once been king. "Bless my Lord,
indeed, O Lord Tarentum!" cried the carpenter. "I think
the King is all in a fine imperfect state of mind,
for his son Tarentum has enough to live by his side and to
look at."
What do you think of Tarentum?" cried the worthy master,
in that wise they said he had a son named Tashpapalie, who
had been King of his own, and now Tarentum is at last.
"If he dies in a fair way," said they, "then, besides the
bright day, he will come again."
"That," said they, "is all true," cried they, "and they,
in the hope of heaven, will not find him again. That is the
way of the King's death."
The carpenter's son bent and took up all his work; but they
stirred him home a time before they could begin making a
great march near his own; and after getting rid of the king's
back, Tarentum brought out a car, and set for him on a pole,
and he was riding on a bridge at the back of a great river
into Tashpapalie, in the middle of which he spoke of his
father in tones like these:
"We have brought you there, of course," Tarentum said to
himself, "and it seems hard for me to take on such a journey.
I was away some three miles hence, during no Christmas;
and thus it is that the King lives in great grief, while the
nymphs go along in a cage of the finest flowers under the
earth."
After they had gone away, Tarentum rose up and said to the
maiden, casting her dark locks upon her maids, "My love,
be not so bold as to say that the King can see our return
without delay."
She turned on her maids and said, "See, my child, that he knows
the very best. We will make use of what is required for him
and let them serve as our hireling."
They were weary of work now, and were restless for their
work.
Many of them grew slack, and their work had long been
taken; but the servant spoke, thinking of what would be
even when coming across the river.
Afterward Tarentum came to them and said, "You shall be of
a noble name, as proud as the Queen of the Brigs herself,
and your speech is as the far snow-white pine-trees and the
tufted grass, you shall have the wonder of your beauty, so
your face is like the very earth, and the fair blossoms
are about your shoulders as the sun rises in spring."
She laughed at her words with scorn, at the mocking-bird and the
woo-weeds and the squirrels, and the mice who lay in the shady
Nessos, and the brown and purple chick whose heart
======================================== SAMPLE 631 ========================================
.
_Vidyāpati says: Your fault be not unjust, nor be you afraid. The
_Vidyāpati says: You shall not see my love, because my Lady is
_Rādhā:_  She has an understanding of my speech and of my
eyes that I have not seen you, and that I see naught.
_Rādhā:_  He cannot marry you, for none of us can teach--and
He can teach only love's art,--what ignorance so he will teach
whether the flower of my cheek is glad or only glad.
Rādhā:_  What can I teach when he is young? That is, the teaching
Of my love. Now, I have heard your name.
I thought you had forgotten that you are young; and now you would
believe that you were asking more of me.
Now I can teach you to learn clearly that your fortune has been
all the time yours, in understanding this._
_Rādhā:_   What can I teach if he is wise? In truth one may
have faith in the gods; and there are none of the millions of
whom we know that we know that we know that we know what we do.
The one of us is the one of us, and you are the one of us.
The young man is a talker in English, and the old man is a
child of his own, too long for you. Wherefore, if you should
tread the path of duty, you should turn to the path of
grant, and afterwards you should go back to your fathers'
house and your kindred. And if you are not hindered by this
blessing, at least you should be glad and be thankful. And
let no one trouble you for fear of the evil that has not
happened. The gods will make you happy, for he is happy
in his own way, because of his own wisdom.
_Rādhā:_   Love, love, and Islam is forsooth but of little value,
which has no being to itself, but the eighth is inferior to
the eighth, and, for the tenth, is the name of Love: Love is
Apollo's lover, whom he is obliged to grant,--yet he accepted
_Rādhā:_  That is, in his love he could not be content.
He accepted at once the same conditions of the two Vedas and
seem to have accepted the foregoing conditions: that is,
the beginning of the Vedas,--the union of the four powers of
love that embrace love, and thus achieve it by loving,--nor can
_Rādhā:_  The words of his mouth are of a different
sound: the utterance of the tongue is of a different sound; the
whole world has ears: he may not tell her of his wish and of
joy that is within. If he wishes to know this, he should
leave her to be happy.
_Rādhā:_  How shall I tell you that this name is Kāna, son of
_Rādhā:_  How shall I tell you that this name is Kāna, son of
Rādhā? If I know the root of this hope, I do not doubt but
in some fancy I may be called privetent.
Now in what timeless fashion will I take it away from your thought,
and make it my own undo?
Oh my heart, my heart, my eyes, and my mouth so fair!
What shall I say to the messenger of Love, that is the flower of
love? It is only my son's name that I have known.
Now let my life escape with its retinue!
_Rādhā:_          If I lay on the ground before you who know
all things know this, I am no slave to you.
For you are my son's father, who would be a herdsman or a
servant after my own son's death.
_Rādhā:_   The same word may not be lacking.
How shall I tell you that this name is my son, the name of the
love that clings to you?
In truth I know neither love nor hate.
My heart is bound, my blood begins to swell,--the name of this
my lord.
_Rādhā:_   Who talks of death?
The name of this name is love, and the name is Kāna.
A wise man who can talk of death, hath said thus.
But how shall I tell you?
This is Kānu, tell me.
He said to me,
======================================== SAMPLE 632 ========================================
,--he had been, they say,
"He wished to see the young folk once again!"
At the old Goat's feet he dropped his coat,
And at the Goat's back with the ladle-doff shoes
He went on, not to speak, and the old Goat rose
And danced along, and sang a small soft tune,
But sang it out in the memory of the words
Of the old Goat.
Now the young man's eyes with tears of joy
Flash in the sunlight of old Goat's soul,
As he sees the shining sand-lark stir up there,
And hear the flute-notes of the coming storm,
And he thinks of the far-off homestead on
The old Goat's journey, and he turns and sees
There in the lampless fields and blazing logs,
While, like a storm-blast, down the mountain flies
The old flock's young, and they go forth, and he
"Once more was there," the Lad, "once only here,
When I was young like Love, and yet not old."
And the old Goat's heart within him breaks
To think that he hath seen his young, dear life,
His face all full of love, and seeing it
To be but old, as I am; for his feet
Are never set on trails, where are the dead
To feed up our ideals, and he hath
His vision of them.  'Tis some scene like this
Inspires me even, and fills me with hope,
Of living, of dying, of dying men
Whom he was over all to.  Well, it may be
He knows, he comprehends and comprehends
Only himself, where there are no great rivers,
Nor any grand old sea to drown the hope
Of seeing the old world, and where the hopes
Await, and they that shall have reacht the shore
Of the old world,--his vision of the world,--
Will he not come down from above the sun
And quench the sunset of his life in vain?
Not even a day he past, when the sick eyes
Sank into the dark, in sick and pain,
As the slow time went, and the warm sun
Smiled forth and smiled upon him, and he felt
Like a young, rosy apple on a tree
Gathering its fruit in the dark hills.  And yet
He longed for all, and still was his hope and hope,
For his heart was heavy with love, and yet
That hope of all, that love of all, that hope,
That longed to die, that longed to reach the sun
And reach the glowing stars, and yet again
To reach the glowing sun; that he might go
And burn his first love, and as he found
His eyes burned dim, his life the fated man;
That he might bring the perfect peace of death
To the old, old world, the eternal light
That never can be born in mortal eyes.
The days went by, and he was faint of breath
And sick.  One day, in a sad month of storm,
He came to me; with the same sunburnt face,
And the same smile, that said, "Halt; and when the end
Of dark days comes,--oh, how my boy shall laugh
When I can see what he shall never see."
The days go by; and once there came to him
One answer, and the sunburnt face of fire
That burned in the west, and one long, burning gaze,
Erect, and dreading still, as with a load
Of scum, that seemed to burn a burning soul.
The days go by; but at the end of their long journey
There in the dark, he knew that I must die.
And he would know that I must still be strong.
His heart was like a bird that sees the sun
After the darkness; and he knew the light
Whereby the sun is always full of light.
And he would find that I must still be strong,
And to the dim, dull, weary world go on,
In the still twilight, as they left him there,
And to the dusk, the shadow of a death.
The days go by, and when the dawn of day
Saw the cold moon rise, and the sick earth
Lick dreams of her old dreams, his soul began
To fail from death, so that he could not think
All evil in that dreadful meeting place,
And so he stood all trembling at the last.
The days go by; and through the window wide
The moonlight hangs.  The drear Campagna lay
Open, closed, as in a strange nun's cell.
The sun shines on the London night,

======================================== SAMPLE 633 ========================================
 the good
of our souls in peace and confidence are as well.  We have
received the gift of good things, but we lose the taste of
our enjoyments.
There's a certain little darling
That's all very sure to come;
She's too young for anything
But I've seen her look at me
With her mother-like stare.
Her mother-like stare!
O God of all the ages, I fear
A child should be an angel anywhere,
And send a loving message through the air
Behind her--just a little angel's face,
As if she were a fairy trumpeter!
She has that voice that is like the wind,
And through her every trouble and distress
It is the music that is never blind,
And not a voice but cries in loneliness.
She has that voice that speaks up the lost years,
But I shall find it if I may not call
For help now making moan, I say, 'God's Son,
I am 'ware the Lord is angry at the call,
For all the world would be a paradise,
If I could but give up my children dear,
And I could give them all the peace I yearned
Among the woods, in the bush, in the dawn.
Then I should know that we were in a flame
Of happiness; and all that I had to give,
As God gave up, was in the flame again.
I should feel sure that she would give for all,
If I could only give her all that she
Had brought with the gift and the rest.  She must
Have been so lovely, I should not have known;
I should not have come with joy to see her.
I shall be glad in the joys of heaven
If she will let me bring a perfect soul
To hold me up.  I must not go to hell.
I know I know I cannot leave the door;
I know the wind is cool and wonderful,
And comes to make a woman of my own,
A lovely little woman.  How can I
Make her so fair and gentle as may be?
I should not have to give her all for this;
But this I know, if I should do aright,
Some day, I think, I shall be satisfied.
And there I shall be satisfied.
Yes, I shall be satisfied.
That is my first design,
My second work, my first design!
To make a woman of my own,
And not of any other man.
I am an atom of the mighty earth,
I live and hate, and use and love again
For what is neither love nor hate nor love.
That is my first, I do not hate and love.
All things in me have their source, their end,
The ends of pleasure and the world's whole round
When I go sailing through the sky.  I hear
A sound borne on the midnight air aloft,
That fills my soul with dread when I shall know
That all my days were as a scroll of flame
Blown from the flame of death.  I am a soul
With thoughts that are as motes before a shrine
Of flame; and as I look I seem to see
The mystic symbols of the fire that is love.
Or is my life too long?  Too long indeed
For happiness?  But I have seen the light
That made the darkness brighter for the gleam
Of suns that burn, and stars that turn to gold
And burn to silver in the west thereof.
This is the glory of the world;
And I have found the man I love
Whose heart shall never know of sin!
In me it takes the color of the rose
And makes the sea its garden-close,
And all the garden in my heart
Is as a garden for a part
Of my desire.  It is my blood
That makes it one with what it likes.
It is my soul that makes it be
Whose garden is the sea!
The summer of love is a kiss
That makes it a song; a rose
As fair as a little child's kiss,
That makes it sweet.  It is my soul
She has the heart, the breath, the will,
That makes it what it wills.  It moves
As music speaks to a child: the speech
She speaks to-day, it is my thought,
And I can tread it as a wave
With its gay dancing elders at their play.
It is the spirit of my soul
That makes it a song!  How shall I sing,
And all that makes it a rose-song with me?
I am an atom of the whole
I am a part of the great earth's heart,
The sea's, the sea's, the deep, the dawn
======================================== SAMPLE 634 ========================================
, who had come at last
From Ghent to Aix, to the great Western Light.
He said, "What's coming--I--what ails--one--one--one?
The night 's advancing--the fourth hour you'll see
The Old King coming--that old House of mine
I like the best off earth--so small an one--
And just the opposite; and I will get
With all this weight of years and talk and rhyme,
Till I can see the Old King on the Rhyme,
And at the end, when all is said and done,
I'll sit me down at the foot of Kings' House.'
"So for the King I'll hang myself to-night.
I never could get up to God nor ask
The kind old man himself of what is right.
My brothers and my sisters, what amiss?
The man's askew, the elder's right to Hell;
And not the only man in the world's light.
"So when the day ends, at Susskind Hall,
I shall put all my house on the alarm
With a big voice: "Where's the fire, my son?"
The men said, "The fire, my son!"
"The fire, my son, my son!"
"The fire," said suddenly, the men said, "Shoot, shoot?"
And the men fished for their clothes and their shoes as good as
Never, never did the fire come in.
"Yet it's coming, my son," said the men, "to find
A means of keeping the house on fire,
And of letting the old man die of his mind."
With smoke and smoke they saw the end of it;
But they did nothing. "You must be fired," said they;
"And we will go a-shooting now that we are to run."
They sent fer the smoke and the fire,
And all they had come to nothing else
But the old man's bones they let their mended.
On the log of the church a man stood tall and straight,
And said he's got going to make a great hole for him.
He says he's done his best, and he says he's left the place
And he says he'll have the smoke when he comes to his Grace;
And when the smoke is outside he says 'Scatholpey, the wind!'
For the wind's blowing and the fire keeps going agin' and agin'
What they can do, you can tell, but you can hear the dead crying
And they'll think of the cold and pain o' the long day lying
And they'll think of the big road, as the beggars'd think of the
And they'll think of the little road, and the little, bitter road,
And they'll think of a little child asleep in his hand.
The piper he made our country-folk,
A land where rivers flowered and ran;
A sky of gold, a sunset sky
Where soon the redwing will be king,
And where the west, a streak of gray,
The cock will crow, the day'll be man,
And angels sing, "Rejoice, Rejoice!"
But when the west was all a blaze,
The land was all a blaze, a blaze.
We were a breed to strive and strive,
In every hard-boiled, wicked crew;
We were the breed for many a year,
And no one knew, none cared, I knew.
I never think that I shall die,
But I am glad, for surely I
Shall be the man to live or die
And let my boy be king, I trow.
Of all my fellow babes that's born
There's none that's dearer in the mind
Or soiled or dimmed, or fair or mean,
Is half as dear as my own kind.
In truth I'm poor and faint, and blind,
And yet I'm sure I know there's none;
I'm very poor, and well-nigh blind;
Yet I'm content, as I have done.
Life is but a day in the mind
When a son can die, and a man can see
No rest and joy, no peace, no good,
In a house so rich and gracious.
A man can drink and sleep and ply
All day without a bit of bread;
A baby that could understand
The troubles and the woes I've shed;
A little child that knew the pain
And needed it to go to bed;
A little friend that knew the call
That made a man so great and small,
And needed what to do and bear
And did his best to keep it there.
Life is but a day in
======================================== SAMPLE 635 ========================================
 to the right, and now, the people turn
And turn about and face the bearers thus:
"Quick, quick, the others come.  All hands must stoop.
Alas, I must return to Acon, or I die.
Alas, I must come back and leave my home!"
Then, like a man in whom a terrible grief
Feels itself felt throbbingly on all around
And all about him, the stone-blindness flies
Till it becomes a pestilential road
Between his hoof and his well-laden head
Flew with a rapid force: no halt, no stay,
Till they had reached his home, nor any hope
Was in his daring enterprise undone;
But, climbing, climbing, as a mountain height,
The steep descent is precipitous and steep.
Then, when he reached the bridge, he spied a crowd,
As of the mountaineers gathering round a heap
From seed or furrow, toward him stretching forth
The yellow treasure of the open rock;
And round him, like a troop of little doves,
Came crowding helpers, waiting for the steps.
Afoot they came, to welcome him in awe,
A minstrel-boys, and men of little note,
Of men of little parts, and hale in voice,
And all of whom were stoutest, and the more
That came, the more would speak, the bolder voice,
But rang with might and main; the jousts they took,
And smote and struck him hard and loud and coarse,
And the old man threw back his ancient staff
With all but threats, and straight another sprang
With well-nigh might and main and with the sword.
Then was the people gathered, and the earth
Rejoiced for joy, and all the land was glad,
And many men thereafter went their way
To welcome them; and all the land lay dead
With that keen-headed soldier, far and near
The miser of rich gold that came from far.
Then there arose a mighty shout and shout
T'Alas!  the Duke's men hastened to the door,
And the long battle-axe loomed terribly
Up to the forehead, and the spears were poised
Full dexter, and the thrust was yet far spent,
That to the right and left the blood gushed out,
And out of hand and thigh and forehead rolled
The sword, and then by right the shout was stayed--
And then the Duke and Count Aceldama's head
Had fallen, and on their knees his head declined.
When the Duke saw those highland castle walls
Hold high the noise of the battle-axe and fife.
But still, as on they went, the Duke stood still
And heard again the ringing of the drums.
The trumpets were blown, and in their multitude
The first man fell, the second ... then the Duke!
The third ... the fourth ... then the great trumpet blew
Out of his hand, and in its great excess
His voice grew faint and thin, and a long shout
Went up from half the populace: the Duke
Sought the great door, the third time, and the fourth,
And in it looked the mighty Duke's face,
And now the whole was black, and in that face
Pale, and as white as snow upon the stones
That grow from the steep hillside of the Seine,
And red with fearful streaks of blistered mail,
A hand upon its errand turned, and traced
Upon its dark and white and turquoise plain
The lines that ran between: then on the gate
There rose a cry, in the Duke's voice, that bore
The trumpets of the Tuscan trumpet-blast
That rose and fell out.  Now through the land
That had fled for ever, no man dared to come
Before the face of Charlemagne, as men
Wade through the desert out of their green league.
Then, as the trumpet's name rose on the ear,
The Duke looked in his face with vengeful eyes
And answered: "O my sons, is this your sign?
What does is here?  'Tis I, who should have lived
To see the sword to part my flesh for aught.
Nay, and I follow a shadow: it is yours
To slay me!  Now the coming of the Lord
He knows of no such covenant.  If yours can
Make war against me here against the law,
I will not die--but live."
And in a burst
Rang through the crowd with such a fearful yell,
It pierced the ear but pierced the heart within.
And some who stood before that terrible shock
Saw death in the young Duke
======================================== SAMPLE 636 ========================================
 upon
"The present world I read to-day
"This is a day of many hours."
"For a hundred years," I made reply,
"To do with, and for the Statesman's sake!"
And many a thousand tongues and eyes
Flashed forth and trembled with applause.
"Is that the time for this great war?
"Why how can we accept it then?"
"I read it for myself. I saw
"The stars and planets in the sky
"Live with the peace of God. I bowed
"Like a slave upon my poor straw bed.
"Your smile of faith I could not see,
"And I would know the stars and flowers
"Have come to give me solace there
"With their abundant meanings."
"Then I turned and walked on the waves,
"For a hundred years, and then the moon
"Was sent with my great travail forth
"From the deep blue hills of the North.
"I heard your praise for thousands more,"
And the hundred lips could move me not.
"I heard your name upon the waves,
"I heard my heart rejoice in thee.
"Yea, I was one and not a slave!
"But you--you knew not what my life
"Was when it was too bright for me.
"I followed, followed on my soul
"From the grand new Regions. I have grown
"To wear the crowning signet-stone
"Upon my brow, and it shall be
"My everlasting throne. My God
"Will smile at this."
"And when my earthly kingdom's passed
"I shall return tomorrow to have done
"The deeds of ages. I shall see
"The splendor of the angels once
"Of my eternity."
"This be the truth," said the old man;
"The truth that comes with beginning,
"From the first moment on its fall,
"When all these vessels that are passed
"Are filled with faith; be not dismayed.
"The truth shall come to this, and we
"Are one in God's eternity."
The words that fall from my old book,
All broken,--whether the last drift
From off my mind or from my heart
Hath now, in all the years of years,
Found some new wisdom-root of grace,
Or else, as one by one, the pain
That brings to life the old refrain
Is sweeter than the last.
From this beginning
To this beginning
I knew no more.
"Doth it fit thy speech?" she sighed.
"It is such a thing to be desired.
"O mother! O mother! who art so young!"
I was at that time reckoned wise,
Of this wise he was the chosen one
Whom, when light was on his mind,
She of the Church had made so fair
A pillow for his perfect head.
The name of this one, and I knew,
Was--nay I did not name him then.
Was--nay, not these, the name to me,
A name like that now on my heart,
When the flame had left the earthly shore?"
"Nay, mother!  Shall I tell thee then
How these things have been?"
"With her hand in theirs,
"With her eyes on me,
"Weeping and dying,
"Weeping and dying,
"Yet we may read,
"Learn to read clearly,
"Learn to read clearly,
"Learn to write simply
"Learn to write slowly,
"Learn to write slowly,
"Learn to write slowly,
"Learn to write slowly,
"Learn to write slowly,
Walk on the way of day,
"Knowledge so opportune,
"Knowledge so o'erawrd the time.
"If thou hast any message.
"Flatter me not and say
That I am thine, thine, and no
The wailings of my misery!"
"Do not, mother, stir me,
"Else I can go away
"Before I can obey."
He is the same who says _so_ of all the women who marry men and
"My mother, I can ask her something."
"O sister mine!" she said, "what pain I feel,
"What agony, to see thee thus afar.
"O sister mine, mine in married life,
"The same who said that she was dead
"To whom thou hadst no earthly love,
"For whom thou hast no earthly home,
"No hope save this, the place which thou hast spann'd
"For whom thou askst no more."
Then they, who never know when death shall take
"Thee
======================================== SAMPLE 637 ========================================
, and Wm_.
And I'll tell you what to do--
If you will, will you?
The first man in the world
Who will be master here--
What will follow his own hand,
What will stand your table near?
And who is neither man nor beast,
But a burly mountain goat.
Then who is neither man nor beast,
But a monster of the waste?
The trail of a horse,
The descent of a horse;
And the road,
When he is nearingneedles,
When he scours the wilderness,
When his back is buried in snow,
When his back
Is buried by the hill,
And you can see the sky,
And the water rolling past,
And you hear the crowman crow,
And the bittern call,
When he goes to hunt the deer,
And the horn-trees heave,
And the fern-muft pines,
And every mossy bank
His tireless course can hold;
And you can see the blue,
And the cattle feeding on it
Are more than they can hold.
And if you see the sun,
And the moon above him rising,
Oh, come to me, old man,
And do not ask him why;--
For, till you ask him where,
He will answer you,
And your tongue shall mingle
With your own forgotten speech,
When you look to heaven on high
And you hear the morning cock;--
And the traveller on the road
Will be near you, and will be
By your door till you go home,
Where you heard the kind earth call
"O come back!"--when you are called,
And the hunters come, and then
You will hear the brown bird call
From the dingle tree again.
The foxes they are brave.
The heifer lowing down,
And down the glen without delay
Are waiting--the black Ass burrowed in the dark of the dawn.
The sun was bright and quiet in the sky,
And he began for the race of men.
It was morning in the heart of the man that had fought for liberty.
The sun rose on the shoulders of the dead,
And the life that was was of the things of the land.
In the breathless light of noon lay the earth awaking;
The sun rose on the shoulders of the man,
And the life of the man was of the things
that have fallen into the dust,
As a song of slow music through shut doors of dreams was singing;
And the man of the man was of the man's heart.
Oh, there were the men who would ride from the west
To the east with the horses in full chase,
and the old man in the face!
Oh, there were the men who would fight with the old,
forgetful, and the good;
The old man's hoofs in dust, and the cattle-yarded trails
through the heaving hills;
Where the heath is dry with the stones of the road
through the heather on the heath,
And there was the horse that would ride in the cold
in the night,
As a man with an old man in an age of gold.
Oh, the old men with the hoofs of the heather!
The old men with the hoofs of the heather!
O, the old men with the hoofs of the heather!
How they sped to the end of the earth
over the heath,
With the cattle down the hill
and the heather on the heath!
And there fell on the sun a glare.
The sun rose on the world's rim verge
and the old men that were true to the east
and the hills with the heather!
And the black men they are there!
They are here, they lie down
in the hollow of the heather!
They sleep, they lie down
in the hollow of the heather!
There's a race, they'll be there,
and a race, they'll be here--
and for battle or death
they'll fight,
and they'll fight,
and their dead bodies spread
in the fields of the heather!
They'll crowd the heath again,
they'll crowd there with men,
they will crowd,
they will crowd,
for the spirit of the heather!
They will lead, they will lead,
they will lead them and hold,
never a mile from the land,
They will pause in their strife,
and they'll fight, and they'll kill,
and they'll kill, and they'll kill,
and they'll fight, and they'll die,
and they'll live, and
======================================== SAMPLE 638 ========================================
,
and some modern clergyman. It was a strange thing to be
found in a street after a year. But the fact that there was
pleasant--that the city was a sort of a little away at once, and
the people called the country _floweret_ and called it big a stream,
and the river was a river in a peculiar city, for there was
no such thing as a country in England. There are some who do
prove and persuade the people. There are some who
ever have barely had any game. We know the names for the
country and the speech of the river, the river and the river,
and yet it is but a mere chance.
"The little stream runs on ever since the June 30 and the
thirty-seventh birthday that the people called the River
"The new world lies in the same body."
"It is the same old story, but it was not the days of the
"The Old Temple is a good place, but still
The wise old city lies on the same peak
The only true plant can be planted by the people
The _tu vanta_ can be known as "The Old Temple
will be common for all that it has, or good grown," and
we have no reason to doubt, since we know of no land in
_Canto XI._ During this scene, there was a family of Kent
people who had been known as the "Flower of Purbeck," whose
pleasant banks looked like an ancient garden that turned into a
rich garden and gave out the sun its odour. The name of this
shady city had not, as we have learned from related in
different periods, been divided into separate names. We
allude to the names of tax-collectors, "for those who get
something of the most peculiar and dangerous species; and
few of them be named _cattle_. Only let the names of
rock-bells and of daffodils and the dotterels belong to them
still more often, it is easy to name a sign-board, for it is
the _true seal of the bottle-holders_. The book for a
century has some beautiful defects which is often admired.
"Dr. Henry Collins, at present, was kinder than any of the
cottages of his time--the _lamp-house_, too, and the
bright-eyed girls of whose cheeks the light of youth were
everlasting."
"_Quibus Divomilitis hominibus, &c._"
The poem of the _Labienus_ was not a little forgotten edition by
the editor of these works, but was in the hands of one who was
presenting the poem till his library opened to him. The author of
his _Lives of the Poets_, which is thought to have been the
best work in the world so far as it is known, was a poet more sincere,
and more beloved of the people than the author of the poem.
"Quo Meissum desertos amores
(sancto vulgi compassi) caelo.
"I am not content with the name of the town, and with the following
"A book was selected by that fortunate and worthy pastor of the
"In the company of Dr. Harold the author is justly entitled,
"Who is acquainted with the times and times of old,
with the events of this great war; and, by the favour of
Amphiarae of Plotroni, the author of _The History_, has the
poem on which he is admitted to have written. This poem also
appears a good deal to the author of Sir Thomas Overbury's
poems, the finest in subject are those of the author's
poems, published on the disc_. With sufficient delight will the
poems of Sir William grasp such a fund of good writing, and
"When he had recovered his health into his own restored hand, he
corresponding to his own. There has been a unity of authors in
great-storming literature; but their power to retain a larger
ignorance, and to hold up their quicquid, are more general and
contemporary. Our author's poetry will never be subject to
poetic beauty or pleasure. There is no invention in the master
and business in his writings, which have their unity of
versification, and which has a true circulation. One thing is not
eloquence or harmony, but it is that which perfect is, that the
genius of the poet is an ideal in which he endeavours to be
consistent with his own subtlety. We cannot therefore suppose
that it is not written in his literature, but that he believes
that the author of the _The Short Time Book_ has never since
======================================== SAMPLE 639 ========================================
, and so he went
Into the country. In a month the town
Of Ephesus was a city, not far from thence;
But all that in its ancient name springs up
Were Tempos. All the years of his youth past
Had gone, with good report, at early morn
And when the town by barbarous force was besieged
By the victorious conqueror, so the King,
That he being captive, soon foreseen by all,
And after, with his people, to the King
Believed he would be King--but in so short
That his behalf must all in Babylon,
With all his host, had been destroyed at sea.
But this was not my purpose. Him with those
That followed him into the air he sent
Careful at first to seek among mankind
For tidings of the ancient King; but now
Had I been found in haste, and he in heaven,
And to and from the royal city too,
With them I sought again. My parents' seats
Were numerous; and from every eye I saw
The ancient and the dreadful, that the towers
Of Thebes and lofty Babylon were fallen;
But for their sake I built a little town,
That from the midmost city on all sides
Might be deliver'd, for they built it fast,
Not long in the same country. All astounded,
From their own fault and from their own unmerited
Longings, longings, discontent and sad thoughts,
And heavy heart-ache, all these I had
Of peaceful days; but now at length was free
From that o'ercoming folk, my fellow men
And children had enough. So on the day
I first beheld this people, who were grown
Of womanly submission; I beheld
With pity, not reluctance to embrace
Their new-found father. I, with all my heart
Somewhat assured, was inly so afflicted
Of happiness that I had then beheld
Part of the ancient land, that I should see
The sons of sons-in-law glad, glad, and glad;
But all my care was now to see the remnant
Of their illustrious line, and whom my eyes
Relieved with eagerness to speak their thoughts.
Meanwhile, a little distant from the rest,
There I beheld the eagle of the hawk
Who bore the billow and the northern mare
Alike in many a fold; and at the flight
Each seemed to stop, circling in turn, his feet.
As soon as I had reach'd the threshold of my thought,
Within me I distinguish'd, by the laws
Of nature, man, and beast, all others sav'd.
He who on earth is with me, and in Heaven,
In flying visitant oft brings us aid
Of him, who with his lighted match eludes.
Athena, feeding on the dusky plain,
After short pause, impatient of his toil,
And in wing'd accents meek, him thus address'd.
Beyond the ocean, father of the earth,
All isle, and wood, and thicket, and the sky
Themselves in my belief, and in belief,
Hear thou and understand. Thou shalt behold
Them also, and the night cometh, full of light
And softly, with soft wing, promised to invite
Sleep to a sweet repose. Perchance thou deemest
That building there, by reason of their pain,
When these my guards, within these walls, must be
The stronger fortresses of both these warriors:
For should they here return, their loss be like
To death, their doom is in the deep abyss.
To whom, therefore, answer thus the Queen of Night.
'Him answer'd then the feather-corse which wings
An raven, and with his sharp beak the hawk
Ever indued on yonder nether shores,
Filling the night with his delicious fare.
Oft in the day, waking, to all delight
He goes abroad at morning, to the dance
Of yonder silver-leaping squirrels, there
To hunt the boar, or at the herd-bell's yell
To lolling coo, or at the close of day,
To sport him in the leafy covert; him
I also with delight abroad will seek,
And seek him, when no cloud constrains his brow,
But is by sleep subdued, and day and night
Frequenting sleep till first day dawns again.
So saying, the silver-wings light-talon'd
His golden plumes, which had their several way
Had fashion, and at once sent forth a gleam
Of day-break, such as beam'd through the clear sky,
Ascending or
======================================== SAMPLE 640 ========================================
.
_Vide post._--The old school books,
Which are read with great care, have their textics and
traditions in a sheltered nook,
Where the sunbeams slept
And the shadows of night were in dimples up-sweet.
The children sit in the croft by the road,
The hamlets and the hamlets around,
The old wheel grates and spires of the school, the
kitchen is the house-door,
Where the old wheel grates and spires
And the sparks and the sparks up-reared in the crannies
on the rocks
To the music of bells,
Where the old wheel is the whirling, whirling,
tiredham, and the linnets',
And the chimney the rattle of the bells,
And the milk-pails are filled with the murmur of the streets,
And it's then when the fire is done it
That the children sit in the corner and look after the
kitchen ark or the school-room,
And it's then when the shadows are falling
That the children sit in their stalls by the twisted
lofty walls,
And it's then since the fire is extinguished
That the children sit in the corner and talk of
children and of books,
And it's then the fire is done it
That the children sit in the corner and talk of books and
those that have turned from the old school;
And it's then when the fire is extinguished
That the children sit in the corner and talk of books and
those that have grown up or left;
And it's then I go to my attic
To see the pictures and muddies and the little sparrows,
And sitting down by my side
I'll ask my wife and children to hear me and talk
of them without ceasing,
And that soft little cradle where they grew up into an
earliest garret.
My dear little daughter, I would advise you to send for
you a slice of bread,
And a honeycomb and buckwheat and pumpkin pies,
For I know that to put these in your pumpkin pies,
And to bake the doughnuts, and to boil the pies;
For I know that to put these in your pumpkin pies,
And to bake the doughnuts, and to stir the pies.
_Ride up and make a pudding of sherbet._
See how they make the fire burn bright!
They are very beautiful to sight;
For their brows are very white.
See how they make the puddings liquid,
And they make the sugar cuts in gold!
See how they make the sugar boil,
And they make the sugar cake, my jo!
And they make the doughnuts, my jo.--
How they make the doughnuts, my jo!
I would as soon have the new moon
To see my dear little daughter stubble;
So we would be happy and light-hearted,
And happy and full of affection,
Together to see our little daughter;
And she should be rock'd cradle-comfort,
With our little babe a-sleep on;
We would sit and sing by her mother's knee,
And she never say a word of a lie;
We would sit and talk and tell her to her dear,
While she is asleep, while we are singing,
And she never asks a kiss from her mother.
I would as easily pass by the other as I should;
I see that a man is a fool that would know that another
wish to do;
A man that is proud and will make nothing of himself--
And that is most cheerful and very will make the best of
The other man's son.
The other man's son--he's very kind,
Being honest like him and being honest;
And, as I have done, good-bye to you.
Good-bye, sweet daffodils, good-bye,
Good-bye, dear, to my mother dear;
And ever farewell!
Crush'd, saucy little one, no more,
For your mother will have a new one;
You are a very small thing to touch, I assure you, no very
much.
My dear little daughter, I have a notion, a real little fairy,
That a nice little chap is a very nice little cousin, I see.
Now, then, please tell me what it is you're about on a little
pavement,
That you're looking at me?
That I'm a rich man?  Well, then I can't understand;
But the other man's just a little cousin.
Then I'll ask you to come and run down upon your knee and
bear it,
As I have said, in silence.

======================================== SAMPLE 641 ========================================
, and the others.
Haste away, the host and host had called
Their friends, and in a second space, arrayed,
The chosen few, the ten together
Of the old regiment.  Thus the rumour
Of torches, war and festive wine
Roused them.  At last the ancient council
They launched and launched into the harbour.
The harbour is not yet, save in the gloom
Of desert wilderness; the waves, that swell
And swell wildly round the pointed rock
And restless sands, are all astir to land.
It does not seem unforsaken.
Hark! the voice of a minstrel.
One has said to me,
Had he served himself in that war, his art
Would not find out the secret of the heart
Which can be born in any country.  No.
His art, it seems, can be but of the sort,
And therefore, with a casting eye, he moves it.
And yet he does it not evade me.  Neither
As yet our country's foe has turned his steps:
If he could, he can; his sword, his power, is hidden!
He fears lest it may be his hour when they
Will find him out again, and strike him down.
But if he did, if he refused, he came
A conqueror who was so justly vanquished.
He can have died for us and not for you.
He was not then slain: our shame would not be hidden.
What would he, even if he had his heart,
That would not perish with the rest?
Oh, this
He does not know! he is not there to speak.
The crowd has made obeisance.
I must away--you understand?
The Minstrel who died there is done down.
Nay, he will find no audience.  In the street
He can leave silence--he is near the end
Of the long lane.
We go into the courtyard,
The last room by the roadside.
No one would speak, speak, or look out.
That was enough, he said; it was done--
Of course we two were, after all.
How many of the neighbors think of this?
The moment of my death is, I believe,
That the Minstrel who died there, at last
Was killed, in the part of the old black settle,
Under the eyes of the Minstrel Ahr.
So the procession passed,
The guests were gone.
A noise of water falls
Upon the landing,
As it were from the mountain walls.
The last line of music is going to blend
Music with my parting.  I am parting.
"Hark!" is singing
The Minstrel Admetz to the Minstrel Ahr.
He has gone.
What would he have done?
There is a long road past, and the last
Will be the cross road; the cross road to the Castle
Must take him.
There is a long road to follow,
And there the right road to watch,
And into that little room in the castle
The last of the mail road.
What is the wrong side?
There is a long road to watch for,
And a long road to follow.
What is the cross road?
The highway as much as the loorcock
Will carry him home.
What is the cross road?
'Twas on the summit of the mountain
Of the island, the head of the tower.
The cross road that was only a wanderer's;
There are houses in the mountain gorge,
And a cross road through the long track--
The cross road from Castlereagh.
I heard you call upon my wedding-day,
And the first step you made--it was not I--
It was not I, and it was not I.
I am the brother of that church below,
And she keeps guard over me, and I
Am the mother of her own darling-sister.
I am the sister of that church below,
Who ever knew my need,
And on my nails will pour the holy oil
Till I am ready for the wedding-day.
Then, lastly, keep your troth,
And let me bring you a wallet of gold.
And keep the bride to be arrayed,
And decked, and all unguardedly.
The long road from the town,
And the little grey church below,
The little grey church that looks up to heaven!
"I am the bridegroom of my bride,
And, father, I will take my place among you!"
Then you shall sit with me beside your mother;
And your two daughters shall bear you company,
And in the morning bread shall be
Among
======================================== SAMPLE 642 ========================================
.
The moon, the starry sky,
The silver-rippling foam,
The magic of the eye,
Gleam, glimmer, gleam--
What happiness! what gladness!
What mystery! what mystery!
O Soul of mine, O Heart of mine,
Come to me, come to me, come to me,
For ever and for ever,
As from the City I emerge,
From the cool air I hear
The happy bells of the limes
And the happy notes of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the weary thoughts of the limes
And the weary thoughts of the limes
And the weary thoughts of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the happy sounds of the limes
And the weary thoughts of the limes
Where the happy sounds of the limes
And the weary thoughts of the limes
Are a burden of melody, made by the efforts of art and of nature:
The melody of Nature is accompanied with music, and the poet
The poetry and poems differ from the poetical taste by the
The poetry of Lucretius is not altogether unknown, and it is not
conscious that a profound imitation of Nature in some of the Roman
imagination, or genius, or genius, was in almost spiritual proportion
and immediate it is not doubted whether the poet was a master of
half-consciousness of Nature, and of the human form.  In a few
the writers of that poem gave rise to the glory of the work
masteriously admired; and though he was a reader of thought and
imagination, he has for a time led him to contemplate an ideal
world beyond any conception.  The poet, when he first felt the
spirit of the poetry which had been his earthly master's, is
indebtedness to his work.
"My dear friend,
There 's a great book from Heaven,
And with it was given
To an angel by Heaven.
And I--this, truly--
Love the book that I love best--
Will be the first book in Heaven,
Thinking my books are the best."
Byron believed it was his choice to have the poet's heart for
Hesiod in her opinion, as to that which was his only choice; for
that Angel is more human than good, even in comparison of all the
the angels, even to the most unholy spirits of all men.... She
conceived, and, with an air of innocence and sprightfulness, the
"So I read your first book, and its special story
Gave me the satisfaction of my first coming to my age;
Praised you the works which I had learned before from childhood up
thence and up to the second, and, with awe because of their
efforts, I yet resolved to make a new song of your name,
"I am the only poem I ever yet have sung for ages;
As the song changes, the melodies become still new;
And I think the last song of the whole will be forgotten,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 643 ========================================
, and some other good
Than to give such a service unto these."
The very farewell in Marmaduke's eyes
Appeared to strike him with ecstasy;
He started at the sound, so far remote
That, though he knew it not, he could not pass
Between the shafts, which made his heart to dance
With such effulgence; and though he could none
Butstand him, and the earth should hide his face,
And shield him from his sight, yet something there
He could not recollect, or yet could hope
That he should live as ever--what he did!
For, being in his power to fly that chase,
It chanced that he was following close behind
The Duke's horse, who on one side had thrown
A dart, which, through the ironhole, he swerved,
But found himself alone with his own foot,
While, from behind, the wounded knight could fling
A little dust, so that the ignoble knight
The heavy stroke upon his courser passed.
But in his way a-foot now ran the fay,
And after him, approaching close at hand,
Whom who he saw, he drew him on the fay;
For now the cruel courser had no more
The strength of his limbs, except to make him faint.
Now was the noble Duke a little past,
And he unbarred the breast from off his breast:
He wished to see him, being in a swoon
Some three miles from the place where he was set.
But he was now at last upon the plain
Where he had lately entered, and had died,
And had no tidings of the knight again.
At such a time, he said, not sooth he naught,
Whither he went, nor where he was, he coughed;
And soon as he had found himself at large,
He entered from within, without a tale,
Where neither man could tell his name, or who
Had come into the lists, he found he still
Expecting that all this should be his last.
That it was he, whom ill it pleased to go,
And after found that he was with his sword,
About to die away, in agony
And anguish, and at one of these had died,
For the world deemed, he had been dead or dead
Had not his father's memory kept his head.
Then, as he thus had done, he went his way,
To be his husband's mother, and to die,
Wherever he might be, 'mid those, not nigh;
And having him deserved to live and die,
And to have him reported in the dust,
That his own hand had been against the knight
In battle with the Saracens which same night,
He made him prisoner, whence he could not spare
To be refused; and, since he could not bear
These four consistent shades of every way,
He has a faithful kinsman; he is weak
To bear a lady's name; he would speak true
Without him, and to speak a word of blame.
His speech, unless it served to one of those
That in such cruel actions had been done,
Had not the Count Rollánd, at his own cost,
Or Oliver, the battle's very son,
Urge him to follow; and the count had said
That he would bring the battle to an end.
The Count Rollánd has never crossed his side
Without a struggle, giving up his life
To this; and now has so inflamed his pride,
That he no longer is a battle- rife.
And so he goes his way from the hard side
Down to the plain, and there, alone and still,
Alone remains, alone, without a wife.
And if he finds one there, or other near,
Who so should find, he needs must weep for her;
And had he here but just appeared, or here,
That he should weep, he might not see his child;
But he was weeping for his darling's sake,
Who came in wrath and smote him on the neck;
And not a minute could he longer keep
Than weeps his daughter with her mother-sheep.
When they came to the Count Rollánd, he said,
"Fair comrade mine, how changed is now thy face!"
He cried, letting his lifeless hand rest on
The knight's right breast, and so he grieved amain.
"Ah me!" he cried, "that I have lost my wits,
And, false to God and man, has left my shame!
May God, our Father, hear my sins of yore;
Hear also what I say to you; may aught
Obeiter
======================================== SAMPLE 644 ========================================
s from the sky.
All things and beasts of varied shapes
Hold different existence;
Some hide the light in others, some
In others perish.
Yet each in order grows, and more,
Dear as it is to mortals
Each in its turn from others' lives
Comes to an end;
Each strives in his own substance, and
Affects itself to others;
Some in their course of life affect
Each other.
Each in its turn each strives in a
True, perfect, perfect pattern;
The more they strive, the less they get,
The greater they conynter.
And still more things, tended with care,
Each in its own appointed season
Each for itself, each for itself
Its own peculiar attractions.
Thus too each thing its own direction
Confronts itself to others' effects,
Giving its own contentions
To other's operations.
Thus too each thing its own direction
Confronts itself to others' enjoyment;
Each one must own, without offence,
That each exists a perfectruly.
If I with all my powers of sight
Sought to penetrate unseen,
Do not too much see where I might,
Or where, or how, or when;
Neither should one elsewhere seek,
Nor ever here find true,
I wish the lost, lost world could not
Fulfil itself with you.
Take back the lost, and build up all the old,
And give the new, and name the false for gold;
Give me the right to face the coming time,
The old experience, change, and cancel rhyme,
The old and present moment of your life
Hold all too much, and all too much to stir,
The good and bad, alike in you and me,
Hold all, and bear the better with each heart,
And whatsoe'er your will, however high,
Your heart may turn, yours still hold all in tether,
Hold all to me and all to none else given,
My whole life, yours, mine!
A new and better world,
No matter what it be,
A better plan, like mine
To make of each as he would have it be,
The world, and man, the world's law, and the vow
To each his neighbor's will, man's work, and his own;
A world to come, a world-power, to fore-doom
Self-will, at last, balance themselves on time,
Judgment, and just-means,
That I am something in my way
Though all men say that I am all,
Yet these men hold me not a saint,
For I am blessed with all their arts.
Yet this to me is something great;
And surely 'tis the reason why,
That my heart cries so loud and long;
And that I have not lived in vain
If I were what I have, or might be, men.
As I a ship
A sea-boat is
That ever takes in hand
Friends, enemies,
Who fight against a star,
So here is one,
Sero I am and his
Here's one with me,
The other with the whole.
A god-like man,
And a most wise man,
Had said that he had fain
So many things.
Had shown its skill
For so much skill.
Who's playing a good game?
'Tis true that man
Is better than he.
There is no need
To tire of his
Is the play-box.
In hell she's made
What she's missing.
Oh, who's hungry?
There is no need of food
To feed the hungry.
'Tis not the gold.
'Tis not the gold.
And yet because
The wage is cold,
The wage is gold
(To get the heart to hold,
To get it, and so forth
That never more can say,
"I will, or not"
But it's a cross
(To get it), "I will look
"On the stars and look at the sun
And look at the moon by night
Until the day is born."
I'm here to show you how
And I'll show you how;
I'll show you where
The world is, there.
The world that heaves
Its heart's-ease cells,
And keeps its wealth
In nothingness.
If I were all my life
Then I'd be yours;
I should be yours,
And no one stirs,
No thing besides
Would make me yours,
But only a few hours
I have no words to say.
The words they mean are the words we think.
That saves the thought and the thought, in fact,
======================================== SAMPLE 645 ========================================
:
And this is the way you would get--
It is better to go and meet your fate.
"We are suffering much; the sea is at us;
We are longing for the ones we love;
We know not the woe that was ours,
But we know it all through the days of our years--
Oh, for life on life with a bitter cry!"
And he rose up and looked at the sky.
"It was better to be free,
To be free and be free;
We are weary, and we would go--
We are weary, perhaps."
And the wavelets rustled and glistened,
And the weary tide beat
As the wavelets rustled and glistened,
And the wind came in at our feet.
"It is better to go and meet my fate;
I am dying--I am going;
We are going; the road, the shore;
They are blowing over with blowing of gales,
And the foam is flying high and low,
But I feel it far more than the seaward wall,
And the old wall's dripping wet,
And the old wall's dripping wet,
And the cold wind hard on me,
And I know there is never an insect more fleet than our feet,
And the cold wind never so sweet,
And the fire-flies that hover so thickly between us and ours,
And the gossamer web of the night,
Of the clinging snow-flakes and the shadow-flowers,
They are dancing in the sun,
They are climbing on the stone;
But the hurrying, crashing, snapping,
And it is so close, so close,
Just an old chamoisier,
Is cloven by the lightning mists,
And his eyes are full of tears, and his body is rent and
broken,
For you can see the lightning mists
Flitting past like angry eyes,
And the white and crystal corsets
Of the sky.
And he does not dream it is fair,
Nor that it is strange at all;
But he watches the stars come out, and the moon is over
And the leaves hover,
And no one in the wood can hear,
Save the gulls on the water-plain,
The small birds singing so sweetly.
But I know the sky is blue,
And I know there is but a sky
Full of little tender blue,
And the clouds like mountains are bright without chasing;
Only they spread out like curtains,
Stretched out like sheets, like sheets;
But the little flowers open,
And the birds hide their heads with their wings for a night,
And the white and purple clouds
Roll in masses up to the moon,
And the great blue dome looks toward the wind from behind,
And the white, blue sky looks into the hills again.
Down the road, through the country, the horses and little men
Trampled, tossing, foaming, foaming,
Tumbling,umbling, foaming,
Part in jaunty, part,
Hill and dale,
And in troops they all go marching.
With laughter and shout,
With laughter and shout,
They go marching about
Cannon, hill, plain,
First of all,
First of all,
(Cap, cap, to bell)
Late, in winter, inside the iron iron horse,
Steadily, and first of all,
In the black, iron, burning street,
With a martial flare, the bright lights giving out,
The laughter and shout from within the walls of the town,
Flaring, blowing, flaring, flying,
Fighting aloud, and dying,
Coming out to the call;
And they follow after,
Coming, going,
The red, the white, and the blue,
And in numbers one following another,
There is not an eye that can follow them;
For the million faces that fight against me and fight against me,
For the thousand women that love me and serve me and choose me--
It is better to die for the than to forget and be lonely,
For the ones I have left behind me will know it and follow,
And I will not follow them, lying back in the dark,
With the one dear hand in my heart.
When I go back to the town,
In the long, long line,
A million voices tell their grief,
The million faces turn.
And when I go out on the street,
And never in any place,
Is anyone waiting at my gate,
But one of these little white faces,
And one is coming out.
And my tears begin to roll,
And my weary face to turn,
And my body is almost healed,
And a
======================================== SAMPLE 646 ========================================
,
"Blessed the heart whose joy has been so brief!"
I loved, but could not love me, and we walked
From morn till eve, and heard the night-wind's song,
And watched the waters wreathe their locks of foam
With whispers, as the shadowy twilight crept
Along the shadowy shore of dimpled woods,
With whispers, as a sudden sense of life
Fills with its spirit a vast harmony!
I found a few white blossoms in a nook
Where the sky, reddening and blushing bright,
Hung over them like some vast golden book
That teaches down the hour of life its need!
Upon its downy nest the robin came,
And, singing, pressed my hand with his poor heart
Among them; and he brought with him, I think,
A little heap of baskets for his bride,
With baskets of gold, and a white cloth too,
And a gold band round the lady's waist who wore it,
A kerchief round her head, and, like a pearl,
A scarf round her hips--a ring of lightest joy
For all--but most for love's elusive flame,
And, in its lightest touch, that all the day
It seemed to gleam and smile and disappear.
Her bosom was not cold and pale with love;
Her cheek's clear roseate hue was as the fire
Forth from the dark, and brightened into light,
As though the light dropped from a moon, whose light
Puts out to glimmering morn her virgin stars!
I thought the nightingale, all heaven above,
Heard his heart's music in the woods; he sang
One song only--only that she, his own,
So sweetly breathed, can teach him how to sing;
That she, from whom his soul's rose-wreaths had blown,
Had found a poet's soul as fair, and proved
For him a secret voice in wood and field,
A song divine--and that I cannot find
The hidden sweetness here--what though the strain
Should fade and wither into echo still?
O'er the wild wood with gentle wings I caught
The song's sweet voice, and saw his spirits move;
For he was bright as them, and as they brought
Sweet rays of passion from his brow, and lit
Sweet flame of love and fire that illumed his soul.
They brought the song to Arthur and to me,
And there the bright song spake of knight and king,
Of war and peace, of freedom, and the peace
Of God--O! I could never love like them!
I loved him once, but now--I cannot sing--
O! I have known the glory, I have seen it--
My soul has braved the winter's blast and sun!
A great light shone,--and Lancelot knelt alone,
And he, the kneeling slave that prayed at her feet,
Laid his own silent hand in his own thought.
I have seen the tenderness in his sad eyes
When the soft hand, which sanctifies, and keeps,
That glows and burns, and sparkles in the soul,
As the sun the morning star, through all its clouds!
I have seen him in his sleep at Camelot,
And in his face and hands, and by his side,
And by all hope and all forepast despair,
And in the strength that once had conquered fear,
And in the love that once had been his thrall,
I have seen him in his face; and by his side
My own, my own, may be, and that is mine.
For now the world has changed its king, or God!
And what it once has been no more is true;
He comes no more, but he, like change's own cloud,
Is flash'd from chaos into shining sun.
And where a cloud, or happy heaven, has come,
I know not if he is, but I, as well,
Even, a shade, and I, would speak his name,
The world has changed its king, and he is mine;
And I, a king, to whom I once was earth,
Felt his eyes open as the stars that shine
Fixed in their places by the unfulfilled;
And I, too, heard the song of all his hours,--
A song of love, that made the past go home.
I was not here, and I am here again,
And when the morning comes I cannot see
Whether the sun is going to make the flowers smile;
Nor hear the singing wind among the tall pines
That crown the woods, and, smiling through their shade,
Mourn for the flowers, that see their footprints in
The
======================================== SAMPLE 647 ========================================
.
Happily, by these simple words.
"Ah, when thou wak'st, dear love, 'tis plain
That things of greatest and of worst unheath'd
Await us in that happy hour."
"Ah, soon, dear love, 'tis plain, my love's."
"Thou would'st be such a precious boon from me."
"Nay then, dear love, it is not good
To kiss away a precious sacred mood."
"It is in vain, that thee I love so well;
It gives one's life too much, too rich, too rare,
To look into the grave."
"Nay then, dear love, it is not good
To press away a heap of feeling sad."
"It is, indeed, the duty and the thought,
And then, the secret, then, the treasure's sought."
"I'm sick at heart that love can never come."
"O yes, dear love, we're waiting for thy kiss."
"My heart aches, and a thousand times I moan."
"Dear love, farewell! for love will come soon."
"My heart aches sore, and day by day,"
"O yes, dear love, for thee I moan."
"O yes, dear love, for thee I moan."
"O yes, dear love, for thee I moan."
"O yes, dear love, for thee I moan."
"O yes, dear love, O yes!"
"O yes, dear love, 'tis all too true,
And true, yet sure, O sure, too true"
"And right, dear love, for thee I moan."
"I know not how, and yet I moan."
"Love that thou hast, and faith that thou hast,
I know not how, I only know, exist."
"I only know thy life; but when
Thou must come back, come back to me,
Back, love, away!" ... Dear love, be true."
"Love 'twas, and true, but false that is."
"That was, the world said not 'twixt thee and me."
"Nay now, Love, no!' but _that_ for thee?
"Nay now, Love, no!" no voice reply'd,
But, as he spoke, another sound crept by.
He could not pass the words, till all at once
Echoed an answer to the choral choral choral's tone.
And now, as if by unseen power compelling him,
An impulse stirr'd him, and a glad surprise,
It look'd to my soul's spirit, as if something new,
Which I cannot believe, could have shaped to _thee_.
The music ceased, and he was heard alone.
"Speak on," I cry'd, "the truth shall yet be known:"
He answer'd, with a soulless look of fear,
"Say, what is love?"--that questioned love, with a brutal sneer.
I thought, because a man may well desert his love,
Because a man may finally desert his love--
This I must answer,--that I can but do so.
I did not hear him, nor believe he did;
Nor yet believe he did;
Nor yet believed he did;
Nor yet believed he did;
Nor yet believed he did.
I did not hear him, or believe,
Until the last wild-rose, in its sigh,
Call'd to the garden-close;
Nor yet believed he did.
I did not hear him, or proclaim;
Nor yet believed he did.
How passionately, the whole year round
In its fresh and blooming festal air,
Brought to its lap that full-grown flower of love,
That cried to the sweet birds, and the warm earth above;
Then held it up to my soul yearned towards the sun,
And laid it on his lips, and lo! it was at last.
The weary sun-flower, dead within a week,
Grew stricken and waned, as if with ceaseless pain;
The tears fell thick; the flowers were sorrowful;
And yet I held my heart so close to mine,
That I forgot the sun-flower's withered dream.
"But you're the first who set this sun-flower low,
And let it bloom for you, to fade and die."
The world is full of sunshine, love, and melody,
Filling the world with melody and love.
Who hath given the gift
Of the dream that moves in us?
What is he who loves,
Love that glows like fire,
And, above our weakness,
Still our yearning,
Longs
======================================== SAMPLE 648 ========================================
,
D. C. Cf. Lib. l. 4.
I, Robert, have no friend."
"No heart," quoth he, "nor ever shall,
Without an honest heart's content;
Since worldly fame hath lost even so
The name of love, let it content."
John, on the ground, with eyes upturned,
Stood gazing on the empty grate;
And when he came himself returned,
Him listed he his double hate.
"It is no fault of mine," said he,
"That I should grieve for thee so great,
And yet I can't forget thy heart
Until I know that thou art mine."
"I have another woman, kind,"
Quoth John; "yet, though I love her not,
Yet I, the man, am better pleased
Than thine, my dear." And as his glove
Turned to himself, his cheek grew hot,
For his love soured Cupid all the while
Had hissed with thumping at his heel.
Quoth he, "And though I love thee not,
Yet will I love thee better still:
For I can quench this fire of thine,
And I will prove the flame of thine."
John sighed, and felt himself to be
A heathen slim, a heathen slim.
The air grew dark, and thick with slim
Gold tapers, and a subtle smell
Crept from some thievish, hollow well;
And like a slim swan's swift retreat
The wind crept up the hollow street.
And as he neared the outer lawn
The sleeper's limbs were all a-ripple,
His head turned backward ne'er to mark
A woman's footstep glancing soft.
"Ah, my sweet!" he muttered; "thou art safe
In some warm valley of soft sound,
Far in the forest, where the heat
Is passionless and life-blood bound."
John's lips quivered with excess of pain;
His eyes glimmered with sudden fire,
And as he gazed, there rose again
A clamour from the street below,
"O John, the man is saved, he so
Shall pay the price of love to thee."
Thereat he smiled and said, "The price
Is the bargain of the heart's desire,
And the price the price should not be paid
By the poorest in the bargain trade."
Then his face shone with a heavenly glow
As he gazed on the little gate,
And a flush of passion rose and fell
Upon the maiden, who stood there,
And saw the light of love assume
Her better body to her share.
"I go to pay my vows," he said,
"For my soul to love is free;
And I know that thy heart shall be dead,
If it break its spell on me."
He turned to go and hearkened well
What the little rogue had said,
Drew near to her, and spoke no word,
Only bowed his head and prayed.
Her face was like the image of
A light boat in an ocean stream:
And her soul soared up to her lover's height
To sing her praise in loud and high tone.
"O friend, in thy long life the charm
That hath been on thy kinsmen shed,
Did not thy heart renounce the charm
Of thy sisters, and thy head bed?"
"Yes, I have slain my love," quoth she,
"And the price of my life is at one,
But the price is thine alone, my sweet,
I paid when my life was one."
"Alas!" quoth John, "the guerdon find
In the guerdon of my crown,
To God's gold gate the cup I bare,
And to the saints I'll drown.
I am the resurrection-key
Of every woe.  Be thou my son,
And I the deathless one.
The love of my heart is thine alone
If thou art made a son."
So they went forth to take the death
Of him who slew them, and the charm
Revealed to comfort and a charm;
And when the gift of the Holy One
Was brought to both on this side,
The peasant's wife knelt down alone,
And low she bowed her sunny head.
The good knight's wife knelt down alone,
And her tears fell fast on her crown,
And her soul began to sing her praise,
For the love that knew no guile.
Then her eyes grew bright and full of light
With the love of her Father kind,
And her lips in high, sweet harmonies
With that love of her mind.
He went away in the wilds and
======================================== SAMPLE 649 ========================================
 of the
I am the laughing-stock of Rylstone,
That growls at every bend and bend.
For every fool is wise and sick,
And turns a nose to every friend,
And laughs himself to every one,
That does no good, but does no good.
And this poor rhyming fool, that cannot
Put stuff upon the heads of players,
And makes himself a sounder man,
Spends his life's oil, and never gets
Enough of peace for any wily
Devout chagrin, nor need to fret at all,
Till presently, too late, his fatal
Maid burst in tears and sobb'd at the clamour
Of crowds of players, and his spirit
Tortured and fled, and left them all
Triumphant, crying shame upon him,
The writer of this sonnet!
I am the pretty little wight
That sits upon your window, O!
The sun has risen, the moon is risen,
And let us all be gone!
My house is full of roses,
And all fair trees are here;
But our house is full of wattle,
And all the birds have fear,
The winds and all the insects,
And all the swallows of the air,
And all the odd little house people
That are about my doors.
I live by myself and others;
And the leaves are all in rows,
And their leaves are all for singing,
And their little children clothes
Have a wonderful air of talking!
I live my life of singing!
And all the birds have songs,
And all the flowers are blowing!
I live my life of singing!
And all the flowers are here;
Autumn leaves on the cherry trees
And swallows all in sheer despair;
There's a rainbow all the sky
And sunshine everywhere!
With a great big heart, this wise one!
It is full of golden things
And is ripe to understand
How the days will go--how long--how long--
And how long after all things--
And the war will cease with wars!
Heard you, O Sun, my little friend!
I hear you on the ferny bent
Wherein your golden horns are blowing,
And heard you in the afternoon
The wind the old guitar is blowing;
In the moon no aimless tune!
I only know I hear you playing,
My thoughts are far too proud for song.
You are fair and you are good to know,
But I, too, am quite tired to play.
When you and I, my baby dear,
Were out upon the field,
Our hearts were high, our weary feet
We had not learned to yield;
And I alone kept ward upon
Your dear papa, my deary,
For whose dear sake we had no cause
In anything to sleep.
You have forgotten, O my Sun,
The little dream we dreamed, the dawn
We dreamed, that had been fair and bright
Before we had awakened,
We had not had much cause to mourn.
It's past, your hope has taken hold
Of us!  Why should we wait,
Since you could scarcely know enough
To make us love fate?
The days of May are over;
And you are not yet weary?
We have been laughing, we are kissing,
And singing, dancing,
And lying awake, our hearts are breaking,
And I am wearing older.
There is no solace left for me
Since my dear morning day,
And through the woods I heard the stir
Of little leafy May.
By the river, I am weary,
So weary for the West;
And many loved the day, to her
Who lived and died for me:
And I alone kept ward upon
Your beautiful papa.
You have forgotten, O beloved,
Your beautiful papa;
But I am not like other people
Who never saw a rose,
But like those babies at their play,
They never know how drear
It is to go to sleep, my dear,
And never wake to fear.
The bells are ringing joyously,
To-night, in the golden weather,
And my darling comes with her.
To-morrow, with early snow,
She'll melt into anon;
She'll melt into a sweet May-rose,
But, my baby, I don't care
Whether she be green or black,
For I think she is the same
As when I was a little boy,
I don't think she is white;
But the angels of the air
Will be coming down in sight.
I'm playing with the cherubim,
The cherubim are playing;
I cannot see yourself at all,
======================================== SAMPLE 650 ========================================
, a man with whom,
When this fair woman's part was mine,
So much I owed myself.
'Tis this, good heart, that does
Purge all your labors, all your cares;
Do not be afraid,
Treat this sweet air,
Take at your beads a little prayer.
This is the world's great work,
That all men's hearts should richer grow;
God gives His gifts as He takes His own.
A little work is all God can sow;
So never doubt, or doubt, or fear,
He makes His heaven in the wide sky clear,
And, if we fail, He'll give us rest at last.
And when at last the day is born,
And through the fields of Heaven creeping,
By dawning light we'll find it dawn.
It was a blessed sight
To see the work that God would do;
A sight to make men glad
When work is done.
So God's best blessings fall
From Him who sent them in the light.
He sent them out of sight,
When we are all born blind,
The light shed in an endless stream
On every human mind.
So He will care for none
Who watch and wait and pray,
But each man of us shall see
A sun and a joyful day.
The sky is full of gray,
And the wind is in the palm-tree's shade;
The leaves are in the ground,
And the river in the swamp is made.
The sun is full of calm,
And the wind without a cloud is blown;
The misty clouds that float
About the earth's great globe have gone;
Yet I will think of thee,
And the shining stars upon the sea,
And all the beauty of the world,
And hear the music of the sun.
The sun is shining in the west,
And the wind is in the palm-tree's shade;
The sky is dark with cloud
And I will see a little maid,
The little maid who works among the flowers,
With her flaxen hair and golden curls,
And round her dark eyes in a dream,
Pouring from her eyes and heart
The splendour of the summer's gift.
Now I have found her in the wood,
A little maid who binds her hair;
Her hazel moccasins she sets
In leaf and flower upon the bough;
And now she stoops in her golden bows,
The golden locks of her hazel moccasins,
And waves her yellow curls
With laughter loud and wild;
And now she hangs her basket high,
To let the sunlight from the cloud,
On the stooping bough and bending bough,
And dances on the stream,
And sings a little song to make
The world afraid and sadder day
A joyless mockery.
Such were the joys we saw,
Such the delight that never dies;
We can but give our hearts away
And die forgotten there.
When the day goes by, I stand
By the blacksmith, Ilmarinen,
And watch the working-man, Ilmarinen,
And loiter through the village.
O, blacksmith, tell me truly, brother,
Where are the honey-grasses?
Right in front of me comes the mother,
And the brother dwells at home.
"Blow, blow, thou merry fire,
And let our children have good fellows,
For here at home are honey-grasses,
And here among the hay.
Blow, blow, thou merry fire,
And let our children have good fellows,
For here at home are honey-gashes,
And honey-grasses grow."
O, blacksmith, Ilmarinen,
The best-beloved, metal-smithy,
Had laid an iron barque in the wakeful fire,
And let the fire burn bright.
The first hours of the night were given,
And the second watch'd the night.
O, blacksmith, Ilmarinen,
The richest of the master craftsmen
Had built a magic dwelling,
And as its smoke went rolling on,
The light burned low on Ilmarinen,
And on his home-sick tools.
O, blacksmith, Ilmarinen,
The meltingest of all metals,
Had laid an iron barque in the wakeful fire,
And let the fire burn bright.
Now the second watch-hour was given,
And day and night were still;
At home the two old men were seated,
In work-bench, in sledge, in wain--
The old man, Ilmarinen,
Smoking through his crackling fire
And sinking to an old man's knee:

======================================== SAMPLE 651 ========================================
, of all the
"Thy speech is like the wind in the wood,
Where the leaf, a moment, drops its bud;
The bird is silent in the bud;
The bee is silent in the bud;
"Thou hast no need to search for seeds,
So hast thou the power to build,
Thy feet are on the earth, and they
Stumble as the wind blows over them."
The clouds came down, the thunder of the angry West,
And, with a bridge went from the North
To swamp the Valley of Untram,
And in the middle mount the stream was crossed.
And lo! the stream came on, in wild unrest,
And then was lost in tumult, and a cry
For help and pity, but for a breath of air,
Shrieked through the air in an ecstatic cry,
And in a moment all was still,
Save such as drowsed among the swaths of slime,
With hoarse moans from a low-hung hoard of hate,
Whence, in the midnight, like a famished hound,
A heavy axe is leaping through the ground,
And, with a crashing stride, the stream was drowned.
With lifted head the mighty stream was gone;
The hurrying water sped to meet its flow,
And in her wide expanse the stream was gone,
Glad as a father, but with wistful awe.
And now, through mists and vapors entering in,
And lifting up a fearful shout, the breeze
Saw with exultant wings the broad blue hills
And towering woods, rise up, and follow through
The tumult of the waters, and their feet
Are on the high, and many an idle seat
And many-colored table spread below,
On the slope's summit, lying to be fed
Awhile with the light sunshine and the rain;
But when the wind, with a great voice of joy,
A little twittering dove did send away
And fluttering in the depths, the stream went on;
And like to one amid a waste of flowers,
Who finds a weary waste is not his own,
He murmured, "O my stream, if thou be there,
O river, softly with a tranquil breast;
O river, that so freshly sweet and fair
Wearest not that thy waters may be blest,
Come from the farther shore, take thou this boon,
And bless me with thy flood, and come with me
To where yon stream doth turn its wandering way,
And see the eddy where the eddy breaks
Into the dreary deep, that lays its head,
And sends a mighty ocean rolling round;
And thou wilt hear the roaring of the river,
And the long pebbly levels of the earth,
As through the thick-leaved branches one would hear
The mighty thunders."
Then with trembling hands
He raised the fragmentary of a stone,
And said: "You are gone, O man of mine,
Yet will I enter on the bank; I know
Thy name, thy work, thy pleasant words, thy songs,
Thy ways of swimming by thy crystal walls--
Thee, Peter, many years ago,
Once more thou didst make beautiful; now thou
Wast idle, and no more canst pass away.
"And even in the midnight of thy years,
Fain would I plunge into the river of dreams,
And take my last farewell, that I may rest
More peacefully, with thee.  Let me in,
That which thou askest me to grant, that I
May keep my life, and keep it from the grave."
Upon a morn of March, the sun went down
Over the hills; the little leaves were brown,
And nothing so remains of which to say,
Except--and yet they seem.  At times they seem
To look upon the future, and to feel
That it is near, and yet they seem so far,
So near, they are so lost; and when we meet
On the bridge amid the snow, these last of many
Are seen to cross the bridge, that spans the stream.
The same dread power has lifted up some form
From the high cedar that has made the arch
Three centuries by Time, and brought to light
This little rush of leaf-wet horror round
The aged granite while the rude storm blew.
On the fourth year, in the same month, the same
Still power has brought unto the rocks and hills
The same dread power, that brought the earth to be
The one that was to be.  They cannot share
The universal loss of this for ever;
And in their hearts they feel there is no power
Ever like theirs, and
======================================== SAMPLE 652 ========================================

And the wild wind doth rise.
For all night long the rain drips down
From mountain and from tree;
But the little birds do love the rain,
They love the rain at night!
I went out to the chimney top
To get the coal out of the house.
The door had growng when I got in;
I did not get up to the garret,
I got up and on my feet
I got a piece of new down-fit
Out of bed with my cat and her.
I got down out with the garret
That had been me and all the sheets,
And my sister and I pulled out
My things and went to see the wreck.
The mottled mottled mottled mottled moe
Was mopted out and lined up with clothes,
And I hadn't got a decent coat
To put upon my Sunday clothes.
And the mottled mottled mottled moe
Was mopted out and lined up with clothes,
And a-dry-down upon the floor
With her little patch of red molasses,
And her brown ragged gown of red.
I got one up with the garret
That had been me and all the sheets,
And pulled out the nails, and pulled out the shutters,
I got one the other flash-fire
And a red-hot rod in my hand.
I got into the barn where the wind was loud
And the leaves were strewed on every tree,
And soon I heard the clatter of the feet
And the clatter of the birds around me,
The clatter of little voices,
And I was all alone within the room
With nothing of the things I had seen of,
No of everything at all
But a little table, a little cupboard,
With a cloth and a cloth of gold to give light,
And a cloth of gold to keep light.
The fire chirped in from the dresser's back,
The smoke, from the chimney chimney chimney.
The candles were lit and a red-hot fire
Kept mounting slowly to the west,
And the whole night long I sat alone,
Wrapped in my stiff, brocaded gown.
Then the door rose wide and opened to me,
And sank in the foamy flame,
And I said: "Farewell, but I have waited,
And you have waited long, and I have waited,
And I have waited long;
But your door is closed, and your curtain is thrown
O'er the house of the ghosts that I have seen--
But my heart is filled with ghosts!
"When I had gone away from you
I had not then remembered the way,
I had gone to the hills that day
And there I saw no ghost at all;
Only the dead leaves they fluttered
In the wind, and crying followed
The long black line that I had looked at.
O my sisters, the ghosts that I followed!
O my brothers, the ghosts that I followed!
"But in the far North all day
The dead leaves fluttered in the gusts;
And the wind that I loved had died away,
And the dead leaves swept on the gusts,
But I saw no ghost in the darkness,
And I heard no spirit calling me,
And I heard no spirit calling me:
Only a few black leaves floated
Away to the far North,
And my heart was filled with them always,
And I heard no spirit calling me:
Only the dead leaves floated
And the dead leaves swept on the floor.
"The dead leaves swept on the floor,
Trees swept down the great high hill;
The wind came chill, and the rain came keener;
And I saw no face among them standing
Whom I knew so well.
"But, O my brothers, the ghosts that I followed!
Night closed around me, sun and moon;
And the wind came chill, and the rain came keer,
And my heart was filled with ghosts!
"But I stood alone in the house of ghosts,
And I saw no one, neither friend nor foe;
But I heard no one, and I saw no one
Come to my side to hear my children's cradle;
And I saw no eyes among them gazing,
All along the street was a dead man falling,
Crying: Wrap us, Brother, please release us!
Thief and Nobility, gentility, freedom,
A beautiful body,
Broken down to the roots
And the grasses are brittle:
Who changed her body when
From her woman to men?
The night is still and the moon
Is beautiful;
And the wind, it
======================================== SAMPLE 653 ========================================
 of 'em.
So, a' ye baith like to see,
Ye may learn wi' what they be,
At the first we thought na lang;
And in a' our days o' youth,
We've't moss'd it, man, forsooth!
A little blither time, I ween,
Has made us baith sae bien.
The birkie in the bower, a birdie blyse--
The birkie in the bower, a birdie blyse:
I mind me of the time o' man and wife,
When my mither first did life and beauty see;
And, oh! I mind the time I went to heaven,
By the lang-tailed spaird, the land ayont the sea.
But far awa' the changes are a' past;
The cauld warse's at an end; God's overcast!
I leave to them the bonnie lass I lo'e,
Oh! gin I were where Gadie rambles last.
How lang, how dreary, blinkie, blinkie,
Is my bairns bairn, and Megie in her e'e;
For I maun gang a foot-gig in the kirk,
And I maun gang a foot-gig in the kirk.
Thy hair was aye benty span, thy lips was sweet,
In dancing-bairn's light gairs, and twirling gill-drops beat;
Like dew-bespangled plumes that on the mountain grow,
They ne'er can be to the sleeper's heart so dear;
What were they feats of a' the sons o' man?
I'll sing thee a song, bairn, and a' that;
And if thou'lt take a step, why, thou 'rt a king,
I'll sing thee a' the fairest, and a' that.
A bonnie lass he ca'd me lang hither,
Her locks were like the corn, her brow was brent;
And ayont the rocks, she'd mock me at my e'en,
When loud, as loud she cries, 'A drawe I fuvien!'
But now when she is married I gang hame,
And see my sarks and e'en my belted glove;
I've seen them in their luve, but darena tell,
For a' their love is but a gowd and aisle chile.
I saw her in her beauty blushin',
As o'er the lily she was sae fair;
And aye the lily an' the blossom,
Was lyart at her een sae rare;
And the morn was sweet and bonny,
And the night was sweet and fair.
I saw her in her sweetness,
And on her lip, alas! Ye'se trow!
Methinks I see her gloaming
By a spring-brim in her e'e;
I saw her in her beauty,
On the banks o' wavering lea;
The rose was bonny 'fore her,
But it was withered sae.
The bonnie rose bloom'd in her morning
As she danced beneath the wave,
An' the lily cruddled her blushing head
Wi' the bloomin' o' her grave;
The lily-bloom on her bosom,
Was blooming at her e'en;
The bee-buds were bonny, a'--
The flowers sae sweet and fair,
I 'll sing of the garlands thatang to the sod--
The tears that we weep for the day when God gives us the
realms we may breathe on them, to which heaven is now
rejoice!
Hae ye been a-gipsiebing
The parson ofneedicie?
Has the sodbin a clog-stane,
Or does yon ploughman sae skilsie doff?
Has yon wee auld encumbrance,
Or ony ither carlie?
Or has yon auld carle-dog beetle druff
His wee bit nostrils?
He claps o' his crony legs
When we're owre a' noddie.
He waws loud at the Poll,
He howls at the Poll,
He rails at the wun thing,
He rails at the wun thing;
He pays me for all aforetime
The fremit o' commonalty!
And he gies the lash-tail a twirls
When we're owre a' i' the breezy n
======================================== SAMPLE 654 ========================================
e, of a German model--the
poem of this poem is
found at the bottom of the Inferno
_Goes out: he knows not if he goes_,
Behind the stove there is a tree
With a great swelling of its boughs
And of its branches has a trunk....
The other branches are shut up
And they cry: _what is this, popin, popin_,
They asked before the other two.
And if he does ... they are free,
And have gone out to other worlds....
_Goes out: he knows not if he goes_,
Behind the stove there is a tree
That has a little shadow, popin, popin,
And of its branches has a shadow, popin,
The other branches are more quiet.
The other branches are cool and quiet:
And so they sang and waited for
The mighty shadow in its gaunter
That the shadow in the tree
Had a fierce power upon their senses
And they looked in that tree with a fury
And turned and asked, _Is it a tree, popin_,
That with the sun's blood and the blood
A fierce fierceness and blood
Crave the fierce hounds out in view.
A tree ... but that is not a tree--
But he ... that is not a tree....
For all the trees there are a tree, popin, popin,
And they have not any shadow anywhere
But he ... that is not a tree....
Out of all shadow it falls on me ...
Behind the stove ...behind the stove ...
There is a smell of apples ...
And the noise of leaves and apples ...
The garden, the garden ...
That was another hour of rain,
But that is not so delicate
As that one has forgotten it....
_Goes out: he knows not if he goes_.
The sun gives it a face like a face that has been born,
But the air is most bitter and it has never been worn;
There are hands that have never touched, hands that have never
clasped,
And some of them wither away in the darkness of the place.
_Goes out: he knows not if he goes_.
The sun gives it a face that is never deceived,
But the air is most bitter and it has never been believed;
There are faces without eyes; but we cannot help wishing
The sun gives it another, but it has never been used.
I am afraid to live out of sight,
I have never been used to it.
I am afraid to move away from the place
And face and face of you that died,
For all you said and felt and said,
You have been tired quite through my side.
And I am tired to put away
The things you wished for and be gone,
I am content.... But I ... you are unborn.
A wind that would blow a rose
To pet you and hold you so,
Made for the wind to blow.
A wind that would blow the rose
To stay you and keep you so.
Beneath her hair and chin
She shall wear star-tinted pearls,
Shall be a rose to stay you long,
She shall wear star-tinted pearls.
Her hands shall be as nets to hold you so,
She shall be a rose to stay you long,
She shall wear star-tinted pearls.
_I pray the wind that is blowing
Far out of the land,
He will not wind his way with me,
He heeds me not, sees not, knows not, knows not..._
_I pray the wind that is blowing,
He will not wind his way with me,
He heeds not, sees not, hears not, knows not..._
_I pray the wind that is blowing,
He will not wind his way with me.
I pray the mist that covers me
She does not rise with her,
She does not lift her head so high,
She does not whisper to and fro,
I pray the wind that is blowing,
She does not answer to and fro.
The wind that will blow a rose to stay you long,
Its breath is sweet to stay you long,
She rose a little way from you,
But out of wind and storm she goes,--
_O where is the wind that will blow you,
Will you come back to me, if you must come to us,
Where all the lights are over and the streets are black
But the wind that will blow love to us,
I pray the wind that is blowing it, I pray it, back to us
That we may hear and we shall see and know,
As a little child he will cry, cry, cry,
======================================== SAMPLE 655 ========================================
, and are not for me.
For some have deemed, and others have denied,
That his will is the wind and his will the sand,
When he has no wish and no power to hide,
And he shall be satisfied.
But some have dreamed, or dreamed no
Prayer from some unknown shore.
Not the sea. No wave. No shore.
So the seas change not if once their waves have beat.
Not the sea. Nay, God doth not so contrive
His purposes to change in a sea of drift,
But he shall be satisfied.
The sea's not the sea, for ever the sea is;
And its purpose is hidden in the husk
Of the sea's and the wind's. The sea is fickle;
And with the waves it hath no hope for Thee.
For the sea's not the sea, but always its range
Is above hope.
So the sea's not the sea, for ever the sea is;
And its purpose is hidden in the husk
Of the sea's and the wind's.
How a man may know
The mystery of the land,
The mystery of the sea?
The shore is not the sea,
Nor the one word that speaks free.
The sea is as the sea,
The gulls are lighter than words are;
The sea is as the shore,
The gulls are lighter than words are;
And God hath said so, Lord,
That men shall all find rest,
And God shall give no rest.
It was the sound and the sight
That watched his children one by one,
That God's own angels watched his ways
And served their chosen heirs to praise.
For they had seen the wrath of God
And the daggers of the sword and spear.
And they had seen the leaping blood
Beat in the veins of men and men
Yet, in the night, the death-shod feet
Stood in their midst, and their dead breath
Was a fresh breathing in their blood.
And they remembered the fierce hand
That smote with death the ancient folk.
And they had heard the hearts of men
Beat in the might of God and hate
And their high heart was touched with death.
And they had seen God's own high wrath,
And the lightning of his sword and spear.
O bitter wound, O blood of tears,
For blood of souls made red with love.
And they have seen Hell's writhing throng
Sweep like a whirlwind round their heads.
And they have heard the roar of guns.
And they have seen the last voice say:
_"_We have no heart, Lord. What ails us, pray?
O sore of soul, O sore of heart,
We cannot sing Thy sweetest parts,
We cannot help weep Thee._
And every soul is sore as hell.
And every soul cries out; for Thou
Hast seen us, and we weep;
And every soul cries out on Thee,
Write Thou no sign to make us whole._
Yet every soul cries out on Thee,
And every heart cries too;
And all alone, on earth--alone,
For none of all God's true to Thee,
For all God's dearest to Thee,
As one of God's true men to Thee.
And they have seen the last light fail;
By day they kneel and pray;
But, still they turn and gaze upon
The face of God to-day.
And God is touched and weeps anew
For the lost souls around;
And sorrow turns their pale and blue,
And comfort is not found.
They have not mourned in the world of men,
But their hearts beat fast and sore,
And their eyes are filled with grief again,
And they cease to shed no tear.
And the old men stand at the bridge in tears,
And the old men stand and groan,
And the gaunt grey keepers by the cross
And the spent men hold the crown.
And their eyes are filled with tears,
And their staves are full of woe.
And no light brings them any cheer,
For the Lord of all is dead--
The Christ who died on Calvary,
On Calvary, on Calvary,
_Christ is arisen_!
They are gone, they are gathered anew,
In the land by the Western Sea.
And the weary and weak of them all
Lie on the Red Sea coast.
But no light brings them any cheer,
For Christ is risen to-day;
And they feel the presence of Him
Who rules the world for a space,
Who took away the Master of Kings
And let the souls of the sons of the kings
======================================== SAMPLE 656 ========================================
 the rest.
"The sun that saw you coming down to earth,
And saw that you were coming all too soon!"
"Alas! alas! the world has little worth,
And you must weep to think it all too soon.
"The joy of love is mixed with pain and joy;
I cannot think that you could see me now.
What have I done to make the world so gay,
To make the world seem like a funeral vow?"
"I have not lost my soul. I pray without
One prayer to pray for me when I am gone,
But my heart aches with every drop I drop
Before the eyes of one who cannot hear--
And I must weep, if I should hear alone
That voice of pain--it cannot bring it back.
I would that I could hear the world go by,
I would that I could hear it through the land!
"I would that I could be the meanest thing
That human being has, or devil's dower!
I would that I could sit upon the bower
And watch my soul's true love that cannot yield
For fear that he would see me in the course
Of my high-prized, lost, and steadfast ardour
Of all my life, and for his spirit's good!"
A moment more... It was a night of joy
For one not sitting in a sunny bed,
Who had to take a little of his wing,
And to have done a thing that he had said
And in a sleep so sweet a thing had done,
But as he went he murmured, "Nay, my love,
I will not leave you with my lips alone
For this one moment; nay, I cannot make
My soul immortal; nay, I will not take
One step, or one far look from out the street,
To that dear, happy girl who needs must stay
To feel another's; ah, my love, my sweet,
My beautiful! My sweet my very life,
My life will seem to have its end with you
If I will stay."
Now the next day he brought
The happy tidings. "See," he said,
"I am a sinful man, and have no skill
To bind false vows, nor on the sacred height
To plant a base false fronting on the right
Of God, and to be followed to a mask
Of solemn power. Only let me be
A man to you. And be a man to me,
And if my heart be dipped in love, to you
I will go down and die, go down like you,
So that your soul be mine."
Then said a voice
"I can't deny it, if there's truth in you,
And if your love it is, in all these years
I'm bound to love you. Farewell. Farewell."
And then, as if a door were opened wide,
A flaming sword flashed through the glimmering night,
And through the dark gleamed bright a flaming sword,
And through the dark a burnished sword,
Hilt bared and girt, and breast all glowing bright,
And lustreless he turned the breathing stone
And struck his breast, and so fell down, alone.
Down the night fell a swift and silent breath,
And the great sun rose on his worshipped home.
The night fell on them--and it was death,
And all within their house was death and death.
They knew him not, nor did he tell them,
But still lay silent, cold, and listless,
Alive, and waiting for the word, to pass.
He did not, and they knew before the dark.
He did not know they did not hear his words,
But stood to hear the words of God. He sat
In the dark house with a dull, sad face,
With a closed eyes; and while they listened
The shadow of the moon began to rise,
And died, and none could tell, or read, or say
What a mad thing he was. Then they arose,
And went and came, and on the mossy bank,
Under the moon, and through the quiet night,
The dead man lay; and in a dark ravine
Heard all about the house and in the light
The man who owned the place.
He heard the wind cry through the leafless trees,
"The wind has taken away my love, I know."
Long ere the dawn he did not speak until
With a dark stone on the floor, the silence reigned
As though it were a presence of the God
And all the place was void, and there were still
Dead men no more.
All night he waited, and again he slept.
From the house was still the wind, the wind was
======================================== SAMPLE 657 ========================================
--or they are still
A-maying like the sea;
So, as we're grown too high,
Know through experience--
To live as other men do;
Take off their hats and gowns,
Take off their tunnies
And go to other homes,
Take in their _own_ homes
To live with better men,
Take in your _other_ homes
Another household fire,
Another love, another life
And new establish the whole--
_Which is not love, but unbelief._
There are yet _one_ kindred in all the world
Whose names are not yet large enough to sing;
Whom I have seen too long,
And who so boldly fling off all my life
(O never heard of in my young life's song)--
With the same frankness and the same clearness eyes
That used, while Alcibiades rejoiced,
To gather up my lyre and to pour forth
That strain, of which I sang, all the long day,
In which I sang but now.
And if it be Prometheus, who can say
Why didst thou not intend to fetch this lyre,
And call me to the forest, and to wander
Through all my springs?
O, had I been in that sublime solitude
That knows no passion?--was it right enough
That thou shouldst ever be mine?
Then were I more, I'd try a different strain,
But, O, I'd rather have my lyre and harp
Fly out of all the world, with thy wild self
Soaring beyond the reach of human hands--
Lest I should do so.
O to be happier than to roam
Through all my springs! to linger all my powers
In leaf and all my blossoms--when the moon
Will seem a shepherd-king, and I no more
Will care for me.
_Eve._                                           _of_
_Adam._                                 _of_
_Eve._                                    _of_
_Adam._                                     _for_
_Eve._                                                   _of_
_Adam._                                           _of_
_Eve._                                           _for_
_Adam._ And didst thou not cry, Adam?
_Eve._ It was a tree which spoke,
And said his name is Adam.
_Adam._                                          _for_
_Adam._ Three generations must be born,
Of that three nations one,
The others form the central sea
That parts the four.
_Adam._ And this is asked by Him that died
For Eden's sake;
Who asked Him to unfold the first.
_Eve._ If aught else be told of _new_,
Of _new_, of _new_,--what _new_,--
I am not unaware;
For no one yet has power to tell
What heretofore I dare.
If I remember right,--
Though long before,--
Though young, yet not so old
When you and I do wander
O'er the abyss of Time;
Though hope seem brightest lightness,--
I may not rightly prize
The gift of your delights,--
The actual and the fancy,--
The sense of earthly ties,--
All joys that surround us,--
Yet leave a little behind us,

======================================== SAMPLE 658 ========================================

Our old hats and rags about the streets.
The houses of the old cathedrals
Are not for such as these,
But all on rag-time, the most bitter of the throng
Is an evening blaze without a bolt or latch,
And the air is full of poison and the sun has lost
His brightness and his warmth
Which is not for the world to suffer.
I look at the street, and in a fluster
Of orange and pink and gray,
The world is old.
There are houses hung with orange,
And the houses of the old cathedrals.
But a little way back,
Through the streets they come.
Like a flock of birds they come, by and by,
Go their flight.
Sometimes they come through a mist of flowers
To a low, blue sky.
They have lost their power,
So they stand at a distance in the mist
That is not for the world,
But only for the world to suffer.
They are not with me in the solitude
They have hidden away their magic spell,
And who would be free of their magic loom
In the shadow of a star-lit night
That is not for the world the flocking thought
That was not the one with the world at all.
There is a shadow on the city
In the dark.
There is a vision and a murmur
On the roofs,
Where a sound of music comes
As of a little stream
Which moves a little while,
Then I stand
The gray stone and the trees
And the wind in the chimney,
And the wind the elm and pine
And the light in the windows
And voices soft and low
"Open, open," I say,
"I come to bear the news
To the place on which it looks
That its chief city is a city
Of many millions.
The gates of that white country
Will be shut forevermore
Lest it should grow cold
By the touch of it.
But it shall shine again
As far as it was before,
Though many rivers in their course
May roll to the left and the north
Of the lands it holds so dear.
For it is not in the world
But at present,
If something great and great
Have fallen on hands and knees,
It will be
At any moment's end
That I could hear
The mighty voice that tells
His wonderful art
Out here in the world
"Open, open!" I say.
And if I should dare to tell
The marvel of that voice,
It comes through the centuries
But not through the years
That wait, from the crowd,
That it tells me of the things
That have no meaning here
Nor how things went.
The world is less to me
Than the vastness of the sea
And more of mystery
Than the uttermost
Of the wind in the night
That tells us moving tales
Of shores and skies and foam
And the wind in the wind
That moans and sighs
Between the night and the stars,
That is not moving at all
Like a garment upon a sheet,
Or the shimmering silver flight
Of a star from some distant height.
The wind is out of his prison,
At sea, in a whirl of flight;
The surf where the surf is breaking
Is the track for a sail to-night.
The sea is a marvellous flower;
The surf where the mist creeps down
And the wind in the blind black tower
That is silent.  It lies
As the shape of a woman
Who has danced on her lover's crown.
Where shall the lover rest,
Where shall he seek his love
Who has followed her lover.
I shall take his arms, that are faint with the cold,
And hide them beneath the white northern heavens:
The sky is a garden that knows no rain
And the sea is a path that no wings can follow.
I shall break through the gates on a sun-cramped chain,
And go to the chamber where love is waiting,
And find, with the roses on either side,
The flowers broken and scattered.
The rain and the sun will have song before they sing,
And I shall go dreaming at dawn to find him;
The birds will be happy and heart is gay, because of the words
That he had spoken.
The wind and the rain will carry my message home
To him on the shore of the dark called Atherrim;
The birds will come back from the fields to nest in their nests,
Because of the message they loved that day.
They will come back to me with the songs they were singing to me.
As I sit in my lonely room
Beneath the stars and the gloom
And walk along
======================================== SAMPLE 659 ========================================
, who is the third
Of that white company so beautiful?
Say, if you see that venerable man?
Sir, your companion lives by the Red Sea;
And does he live there, in the north or east?
Or in the west? or where the furthest shore
Of the long sea lies distant from his home,
His friends, his kindred? Your own eyes askance
At that so simple, asking nothing of?
Oh, you may tell a tale of mighty men
As wondrous as the marvels of your eyes,
And how the mystery of the stars grows dim
In the great wandering of the coming years;
Tell of the secrets of the earth and sea
That hold the mighty in their secret caves,
Of fabled secrets of the dark unknown
And of the new created, and the old.
Then you, O poet, tell us, on a voyage,
Whereon the ends of time are overthrown,
Of the vast darkness, and the times and times
That are on foot as 'twere upon the waves,
Not by the legends of the far-distant shore,
But in the story of a hundred years,
Innumerable generations.
The sea hath many thousand sands,
The sea hath countless tongues;
And I must go out on the sea
And never rest a foot,
I must go
To the far-folded home of the morn,
To the far-folded home of the morn!
The far-spread hands of yesterday
That tore the sea-gray lands
Stretched out to glut the sea
With corpses of the mermaids;
The far-spread hands of yesterday
That flung their garments by,
With the sun's blood, when one died,
When two had lived and grew old.
The sea hath many thousand sands,
The sea has thousand tongues;
And I must go out on the sea
And never rest a foot,
I must go far, far-off,
To the far-land of the morn,
To the far-land of the morn,
To the far-land of the morn,
To the far-land of the morn
To the far-land of the morn,
To the far-land of the morn,
To the far-land of the morn.
What can I leave for the world?
What can I leave to the world?
The vast sea, and the sky, and the blowing fields,
The unchanging mystery of the sunset and morning,
The imperishable mystery of the morning,
The imperishable mystery of the morning;
The imperishable mystery of the morning;
And the white menacing cliffs above the sea,--
I leave the world to the beggar,
I leave the world to a beggar,
I leave the world to a beggar,
I leave the world to a beggar!
How long we rode through the sunset,
How long we sighed through the twilight,
How long we looked through the west-wind,
How long the leagues of the desert;
How long the leagues of the desert;
How long we walked in the desert.
How long we rode through the desert.
How long the leagues of the desert;
How long we rode through the desert.
The clouds that whitened above us
Were moored by the winds of evening,
By the streams of the evening-tide they waelt,
With the wind they waelt, with the breezes,
With the billows about them, and the sun,--
How long they moored by the ocean,
With the gale to help and the billows to quell;
How long they moored by the moonlight,
With the clouds for help in the desert,
With the rain to help and the wet sun,
How long they moored by the moonlight!
How long they moored by the ebon flame
That blazed on our oars below them,
With the tempests howling around us
And the wails of the south-wind, how long we?
How long we rode through the desert,
How long the leagues of the desert;
How long the leagues of the desert,
With the rain in our hair, and the sun in our eyes,
When we knew the sun was descending;
How long the leagues of the desert,
How long the leagues of the sky-line,
When we sought some other lover,
But they found him never to die in the dark:
How long the leagues of the desert,
That the dawn is closing in darkness,
When we sought him in darkness--
The Greatrill sounds of the desert;
How long the leagues of the sky-line,
And the sun is close to our longing,
For
======================================== SAMPLE 660 ========================================
 to this day.
In the next _Favar_,
Of the King's Daughter,
All's gone!
_Faust_. If any one could find a stable
I'd have my pack of horses at 'ome,
And all the corn out of the barn,
As I have eaten it all the time.
Then I'd go forth and fight my way.
With a great scythe
There'll be a big blue bottle of hay,
That will cure the sick and make you sad,
And my little bag all pulled and bowed,
But you shall have the yellow purse.
I'll buy my coats and knicker hats,
When the King comes.
_Favar._ Then'll I be there,
And playthings of the city.
I'll buy my starchy hat and sword,
From my little girl and me;
By the little white-faced little word,
As I sat in my yellow bed
In the yellow bed that the King had heard,
With the little white-faced man,
As he lay awake and far away
When he came to the other side Eve.
_Brag of Luck, and a bag full of rye,
And very good mutton between the eyes
Of my Mother and me.
Oh! the King is my father,
They call him the Luck of the Road.
Oh! the King is my mother,
Where's my Mother and me?
And I'd give him a collar of gold,
And take him and feed him and feed him and feed him,
And buy him and feed him and feed him and feed him.
_Brag of Luck, and a bag full of rye,
And very good mutton between the eyes
Of my Mother and me_.
When I was a boy I lived in a town of a large gaudy and respectable
kind of a country both stranger and stranger. The country is always
respecting me, but I have not the heart to answer for it.
_Favar._ From what region soever it be,
Would be a happy clime.
_Favar._ This, my dear master, is a great way to know that we are
_Favar._ Good reason?
_Favar._ Ay, sir, if you knew what we mean,
I should have liked to see you start
At something like an Adam's rod,
So I do fear I must outlive
This monstrous thing.
_Favar._ I'll tell you what I know not what,
I see it now.
_Spiral._ Nay, by the Gods, I am so bold
That no man knows it of the world.
_Brag of Luck, and a bag full of rye,
And very good mutton between the eyes
Of my Mother and me.
_Favar._ Now look.
_Favar._ And look.
_Favar._ I see, my old one, is it not
This long, long while I used to be
For women and for children's sake,
Or else to wear a garment's hem
Between the dance and the caress.
Yet 'tis my gift to make this flesh
From a woman's soft touch free itself,
A thing worn out by many toils,
To nurse the mother and the child.
_Spiral._                                                  _of
Prayers._ Forgive me if I doubt your claim;
And pardon me if just or too bold,
I pray you tell me not your name;
I am the earth, a mountain, I,
Where neither duteous planet be nor sky.
Then pity me not though I complain;
I am the sun, and you the trees.
_Favar._ I would not be all day, I engage the stars.
_Brag of Luck, and a bag full of rye,
And a bag full of corn and a clay,
So I will eat what you're to eat, and live as they give you
I am no man, no man, I am no woman.
_Brag of Luck, and a bag full of rye,
And a man full of corn and a clay,
So I will eat what you're to eat, and live as I must die,
I am no woman, no man, I am no wife, he is no wife.
_Brag of Luck, and a bag full of rye,
And to see it come up to the light;
To see it come down like an April cloud full of rain,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 661 ========================================

and is, if I have read so, on a little note.  The poem is the
'Infortunato,' because of his long absence, which was one
verse day in Florence, and is certainly to have been written
unknown to any one but within the city."
 The meaning is that Dante never mentions this line, but
the meaning is that the reason of this passage has
be suggested.
CANTO XXVII. Fourth Ledge: the Avaricious.--Twin Honorius and
Astolpho.--The Angelic Love.--Prophecy of calamity to
Beatrice.--The Angelic Inn.--Lano Trissure of Montemalo
If thou hadst, Stella, some small delay,
Thou shouldst have given me the sun to see,
And I should rest,
Mute were the hours of second night to one,
And then
The selfsame self,
No life, I deem, as thine.
And if thou thinkest
That a new moon will crown thy books,
Till in thy soul
That joyance august shall fly,
When thou hast read that book of deeds
Of love, which God Himself has made,
That my sweet love, which late betrayed
My other sense,
Now to these few, with such a joy
As if it turned her from the truth,
Could not become a thing of naught,
While now I read of her who brought
The truth!
Tell me, if thou hast met
A Grecian fool, that know'st
Thy station at the door?
'T is a new thing for one at home,
A new one, and for many a year
It hath been shut for many a year.
Not from the bower or the grove,
Not from the cot; nor from the kal,
Nor from the sheep; nor from the vale,
Nor from the hill; nor from the vale;
Nor from the forest-lands, nor from all the fields;
Nor from the hill, nor from that vale,
Nor from the fields, nor from the vale;
Nor from the thicket, nor the wood,
Nor from the woodman's sound; nor from the blind
Lead man, but slowly from the world,
That I may learn,
And when this world's remainder come,
Make thine appearance, and come forth.
As the small vessel, which hath gone,
Toward the region where the sun
Doth in eclipse before the day,
Should he sometimes turn round, and stay
In his course, to see if it would go,
And he go; for it will go in vain.
Farther, farther off, he should attain
The high promontory's eastern bound,
Upon which, tow'rd heaven's midmost height,
The sun then with his shafts had quelled
The utmost rigour of his fires.
Now he sits high in Cassius' reign,
The great and powerful Charles is dead,
Who long in darkness lived, and now
This life, and to this life a prey,
Gave no more energy than to have lived
In the firm limbs of Hercules, a being
Who with soft breathing, as with blood,
Were exiled from the limbs of Hercules.
He was for ever passionless;
For never had he risen up, or set
On his aerial throne; but, for all those
Who lived and died of him, that life
Had left their hopes behind.
There was a time
In which he saw us from the depth of death
In our sad life, when our fair days
Were fewer and more glorious; and himself
He made to dwell below in air; to dwell
In depth of awe and cold oblivion;
And after death, he took us for his wife.
To death, that all mankind were by his side.
But the cold earth produced him no cold breath,
And now this life they led away beneath
Is but an afterthought and living scene.
For some of us were dead, by some were left
Beside the clear and silent river, and
There was a wood, among which brake alone
Was my grave habitation; wherewithal
It bade me enter, and some kindly act
My husband for my dame received; and there
I lived in sorrow, like a man who lives
In great abundance, and whatever seemed
Dissension, I was content to be his wife.
And with me went the lad, who had so much
To say in telling, that my wound was healed,
Which then I had received, and which remained.
Him then I heard lamentable on earth,
And could not enter, though he sometimes used
To intercede for
======================================== SAMPLE 662 ========================================

The moon in her pathway;
And as she rose from her couch in the deep
The nightingale droned out, "Merry, be merry!"
And she sang to the bluebird,
And the thrush, a disconsolate thing,
What is the use of you?
You have no wit for singing,
Piper, thy best, thy worst;
Thou hast no word for each thing
Which thou couldst not have nursed.
If there be any sign
Of sorrow or of fear
In thy large eyes, like a spark
In the silence of the ear,
That a tear may fall unheeded
Downward on any tear,
That any brother may not be mistaken
When he has written a letter between you and me.
Dear, let us say, that our hearts are bound
Within this little body which now is sound,
That our souls, as pure as their vision, are
Yet changing at the moment of meeting,
Though I myself be old, be old, and go,
And count each throb a moment as a bow,
And feel myself a moment, and know
I have not been deceived.
For I have heard,
Being a man, a man who cannot change,
A man who knows no other ways of change,
Nor any change; but I have walked unknown
Unto the life of Nature, and I know
'Tis hard to be deceived.
Then let us say,
Even that our lives are as simple a way
As ever a creature may want its clay;
And if it be not for the general cry
Of ribands, let our pride be still the same,
And our crude voices cry new louder, "Well;
Good-morning, sir, good-morning," and I go.
Yes, every blessed moment bless the hour
That brings us forth a more auspicious flower;
And if too precious to be weary we
Would grow beyond all use, and toil and strife,
And every sunbeam in the world's great sun,
Aye, an inch hence, I never go alone:
Yes, with a perfect text, all I could tell
Was, that although you daily did me bold
I might possess another book, my hand
Was heavily upon my heart, and I
A moment loved a book, and that the end
Of its bad fruit seemed hopeless to extend
Over the utmost verge.  I wish, indeed,
I were a little nearer to the sun,
And yet more often than to any one,
And yet more often, lest it prove too late.
But 'tis too late; and all my love is vain;
I have a doubt whether I ever have
Aught whatsoever in my heart holds mine,
Or whether that, indeed, it is too late.
Or whether that I shall but bend my head
And think, God knows, against my prayer that mocks
My prayer, and I shall never more be there.
Let us go forth and breathe the air as though
In a proud tongue, and thank the Lord they did.
My sister, the last of the labourers,
With the brown stalks of her glossy hair,
Was a darling girl who wept and smiled,
And her look and expression was air.
Her face was more fair than the finest cloud
That ever kissed a sunnier day;
And a very young girl, who was all the crowd
Of people that stood around her,
Was just the one girl for them.
When I was a stripling,
A lad came by,
And I carried her,
Made of me a bow;
And my mother placed
A cross on her face;
And I carried it
Up to her feet.
I carried it,
And I carried it all
To her feet.
It was there.
I was sitting there
And my mother came,
And I put it in the chair,
And I read to her name
All the letters,
All the phrases,
All the letters that had been read to me.
I saw her eyes were blue,
And her mouth was red.
And, "How much?" I wept.
And, "What do you think?"
I said, at the thought.
"Oh, dear my dear,
I thought about you;"
And I went to bed.
I saw my sister's mother,
Quite in bed and white;
Her bundle she carried,
And her little staff,
And when she was walking
The whole night through,
I heard her cry
That she cannot walk;
Her breath came in the morning,
And, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
She cried to her mother,
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
I saw my sister
======================================== SAMPLE 663 ========================================
 of the
The _Midsummer-Night's Dream_
I remember this home by the river-side,
My first-born, and first-born, and it seems to me
The same that I nourished, both here and in the sea.
I will not see it more, for, step by step,
The same to the same, as you did of old,
I will find myself again by the river-side.
I cannot see the fields and the farms around,
But I fancy that I shall see the woods
And the places where my soldiers had been found.
And I fancy--and it's all in vain, this place
Where the mist-drifts are mist-drifts, but not a trace
Of the river is there,--and nothing is seen
Save its own little patch of sunburnt green.
I dream of it all--from the battle-plain
To the trenches where my soldiers were slain.
I dream of it, when the guns fired low
And the bullets rained from the Humber-gleam,
And the thunder went up like an earthquake now.
The little square-looking men,
They marching away from the Main to the Line,
With musket and musket and feather-cock shine.
And I sit here alone by the river-side,
And think with my head on the ground once more,
Though the hands of the foemen are thick on my side,
That once I was brave when the green war-floor
Smiled through with a smile on the faces we bore.
And I wonder that each of us carries a lance
As fatal, or full, or as good, as his chance,
While some of the others are flaming death,
And some of the others are doing their best,
And some of the others are just in his blood.
And I wonder who made them, when here, at the fight
And the glory of laurels, like me and my sire?
It was you.
You were looking down.
You sat on the boat's edge.
It was just a coast road.
It was just a little way to the sea.
There was just a boat a-sailing away,
But you never saw a ship.
And it was so close
That you turned on the road.
And across the way
You lost yourself.
You were still, and all day long
I was looking into the wide, wind-beaten room.
And my heart was thrilled with the old command
As out of the window I sprang, one night,
I could see the ship.
We had not a boat to sail again.
And I stood, in a place I could see the pier,
And it was not only a way out there
That it took anything out of the sky,
But something beyond the shore
Fell and touched the light page.
And I thought that in a quiet place
The sea that is written to give me pain
Has always spat out a word or two
When I see a light page again.
And as I listened there,
The shadow of light began to grow
On the face and the darkness of the room,
Like a mist out of the sea,
And a sound of singing and running and crying,
And I knew that the man that was dying said:
"There is something out of the heaven,"
And the face of the man lay white in the room,
As the light fell from the ceiling
When I left my home and went abroad,
And the face of my wife, Elizabeth Torpenhow,
Was as lovely and young as ever
As I came home again.
Her hands are white for the pencil,
And those of the cloth are blue
Like the eyes of her lovers
That shone with their love and knew
That they were the dear ones
That came to my life, Elizabeth Torpenhow.
There were two souls that went forth one day
To greet the other, and I turned my face
Toward that half-opened gate, where lay,
Like a sick man's palm upon his face,
The only one of her warm place.
There is no heart in that shadowy room.
But my soul was singing a chant of praise,
All the rapt soul of the old romance,
Till it seemed to my lips were lips of flame,
And the heart of my girl was fire.
There are no stars in those shadowy fields
But doth burn love's sins away,
And I burn to the soul whose lips would burn
For the kiss which cannot be told.
There is no God in all the land and time
But is consumed by hate,
When the woman loves as she loves too well,
And her heart is full of love.
There are no words or looks
======================================== SAMPLE 664 ========================================
t,
That you would wear it with a will.
He'll think your very pleasures both
By half the world's perfection:
_This was his lady, and this is his wife._
For which I will sing
The praises of Spring,
The praise of the Spring:
She came to earth again,
With her cheeks aglow,
And her voice in the woods again:
_This was her dear and blessed mate._
From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).
This book's named
_Cantrikin_
_Romance I am_
_Romance I am_,
_Omar in_,
_Omar of_,
_Omar of_,
_Thou whom I love now, both in_
High heyres and low downe downe. Amen._]
_I love my God, and all her name's.
I am _thee_, and _he_ loves righte_;
_He knoweth, knoweth, and _he_ desireth,
And who in me such loving favour
Hath, one day, wonet me thus for ever._]
Lord William was a lady gay,
And kind of love to all in France:
But she was ta'en by an accident
To be belike in every dalia,
In every dale, by castle-wall,
In every greene, by greate forest fois.
She was to love anither goan,
In a small spot that tane anither;
And he was wont to rowe for ay
To rowe upon the grattan lea.
He loved the rose and lily all,
And she with pleasure;
The first spring-day, he loved the lily,
That ever freshly opened wist!
I would be now her properte!
She was to love an ain man Iste,
And had him ay her glowering hande:
But he was nought to me so beautee,
That she was never mine to seene.
And he loved syngly as a mou*
On anie daye--"How happit me!"
He couldnae see, he could not see.
He was to love an ain man Iste,
And had him ay her shining face.
The lily on his bonie face
Lay warm and sweet as any maiden;
But why he deyd on me to hie
There is no fedd, there is no fard.
His face was wading to my troste,
His face, I ween, was ever there,
For the loue leaves of his lang luve dropt
Neuer so luvis beautee a sweet haire
Nor so musicke as his lyfe eare.
Ode--Doeber-mercy for ayeve!)
Is oftentimes methought it saide.
He might not know of his owne poynt,
How that he loved my Ladyhed;
But when I couldnae better led
His widow'd auncient plaints
Her child, her dearest--all was saide.
My maister had naething else,
That I could ca' them to my breast,
As it was with a' such carelesse carelesse carelesse carelesse and
A wanton bodie should be mine:
An' forfirmament, an erring thought,
Her child, her dearest--all was sair.
I cannot tell the date, nor yet
Seem'd itht be e'en right such a pet,
As was it in the north, or was it in the south,
Till chiels mate'd out an' kin' mettle with a chap:
She paled wi' pride, she paled wi' pride,
When up and crew she up and doun,
Lang lads an' lads about the chiel,
An' she herself was fe' and weel,
As lang to licht, to licht to me.
My straffe I wrought it out an' doun,
Myself I set it to the till,
An' ay my bed I made the sicht,
Fu' clean the bed that I got in.
A waefue' heart nae licht had,
I thought the waefu' heart wad reive;
But hard I crush't it in a shed,
An' soon the weary world will gae.
Lang had I sleepit out a hole
O' licht, in days when I was young,
For sic a bosom bare the
======================================== SAMPLE 665 ========================================

With its boughs of box-tree leaves,
And the pines that lean them over,
And the hum of the blackbirds' trumpets.
All the day we pass them by,
Till the sun sets dim and lonely,
Then returns life's evening sky,
To the thicket where we hide them.
The clouds of the summer-time wear the blue,
The leaves begin to fall; their soft wings fold
Like wings of birds, close-circled and bright-set
The trees, and their foliage, and bushes unfold;
Till the sun seems parted and the leaves drift,
And, lost on the heaven-wide hills, the birds drift.
My soul was like the sun that never sets,
Nor dips its skin in sullen lukewarmness.
My soul was like the night that never blows,
Wind-shaken--
Rose-pale and wasted in the light and gloom
Of all our days.
Now, when my soul is lying, its soft bed
Of scent and song and smells, my soul will lie
Unclasped and free,
And the sweet peace of sleep will wax therefrom,
And it will lie so still, and watch, and pray,
For one sweet kiss;
Then, like a flower, will droop,
On a night as lone as this.
My soul was like a calm and peaceful stone.
There is no grief in life;--with all the days
And nights
The earth ablaze,
And all the woods ablaze around their boughs,
And all the days
My soul was like, and all the roads ablaze,
And all the ways
My soul was like, and I was everywhere
The sun and stars.
O Lord of life, O Lord of life again,
I pray you let me dwell amid these pain.
I am a beggar with a crown of thorn.
Lord, I beseech you, let me live!
But let mine head lie in your hands,
And let my cheek be as the myrtle-wreath.
O Lord, have mercy on me, and my heart
Be as a serpent's, as a bird's, the dart
And blown dart of my dart.
Lord, I beseech you, let me be
As woman's, as a man that drinks the blood
That falls from a wound that you have given
Or ever the moment grew his curse
It makes me strong and merry.  O my God,
I pray you, let me be!
I pray you, let me be!
I pray you, let me be!
By the dear God, ah! dear God, I beseech
And pray you let me be.
I am a woman;
And from her womb
Have I torn her soul,
My limbs, and my face;
And in barren space
She dwells as in water.
She is scattered
Like a ship,
And I walk,
She is shaken
By a passing of wind and wave and water,
I am driven along the windy ways of the sea,
Like a ship that is driven along the windy tides,
I have found my soul,
Forsaking my soul.
When the water drips,
And the sands are dried,
And the sea's so steep,
And the sky's so wide
That a man may see it and be sad,
Oh come, my heart,
Forsaking my soul.
For my soul is set,
On earth or yet heaven,
Or somewhere out of it.
If you be the little bird,
That singeth in the tree;
If you be the little bird,
That cryeth in the tree;
If you be the little bird
That flitteth in the sun;
If you be the little bird,
That shrieking singeth as the wind
That clameth out the word;
If you be the little bird,
Most happy in the rain;
If you be the little bird
That cryeth in the wind;
If you be the little bird,
That singeth in the rain;
If you be the little bird,
That singeth in the rain;
If you be the little bird,
That singeth in the sun;
If you be the little bird
That speaketh in the rain;
If you be the little bird
That speaketh in the rain;
If you be the little bird
That speaketh in the rain;
If you be the little bird
That speaketh in the rain.
Oh mother of our loves,
The darkling air above!
The earth and waters above
Are whispering to your prayer,
And rising upward in love
From shining doubt and doubt,

======================================== SAMPLE 666 ========================================
ly there we find him
In our boat in the ice,
Under the snow and wind they bear him
With a swagman's pride and cheer,
While his heart is so sad that it seems to tremble,
And he wearies from the while;
But his heart is so sad that it seems to tremble,
And his heart is so hard that it seems to tremble,
As he sees the western ray
Sink into the shadow of the mountains
In the misty, silvery haze,
As it floats adown the ways
Of the valley winding in the valleys,
And it seems to us that all that is is the fairest
Is the shadow of the fall
Of the shadow of snow on the world below it.
I have a friend who owns my friendship now,
Who lives in all, the only friend I know,
Who lives through all, and that is in him.
He is a native of a famous clime,
Remote from villas richly piled and vast,
And on the wilds, on mountains high and low;
He never knew the sun and rain, his mind
Suffices not his country and his kind;
But often when our friendship is gone by,
We feel a kindlier influence on us try,
And while the stranger wonders as we talk
With his own face and with his flowing dress,
We sometimes see the sunlight on his cheek,
And in his hand a pointed finger walk;
But in deep silence to a message speak,
With no unseemly caper beseeching.
He is like one who walks in his own land,
Or when a stranger asks him for his hand;
While with a cold, blue look his face is wan,
And the tears fill both his hands with silken-play,
And he makes signs that he is worth the day.
For he is rare and he is far too poor
To be the heir of that most dear-bought home,
Nor evermore his home shall own, but where
It is his native strength must keep its place,
To sit without his master at his side,
And, having once his strength and heart espied,
Conferring mutual love with one another,
In union close as death can interpose,
In mutual interchange of mutual woes;
But he is poor and having in reserve
To take what he may give, if he will have
Such means to gain by service of his kind,
As it is fitting he should fill his mind.
His soul is sick of pleasure and of fear,
He would not in the world find means to find
What he should mind in any worldly way,
If he would have his care for nothing yet,
And what his heart holds in his back must bear
The world's contempt and strife and strife and sin,
All his desire in his, the world's disdain,
All, all, in his he casts with all disdain
And aching for its love, too far apart.
He has no outward answer to his wants,
Nor knows that any good his efforts tend,
Yet evermore he dreads their fatal touch,
Yet seeks at home to find his wish or not.
As if the man were in his work alone--
As is a hand laid in a mighty hand,
And no man acts so good but by itself,
And then is gone to rise and be his land,
Though the dull slave that hath his master free,
Is more alive than dead or ever dead,
Yet nevermore will feel his soul's disdain
In any other land than this his heart,
That man is more than dead or ever dead.
And he was true as any true man is,
His blood flowed calmly through his throbbing veins,
And he was kind as any common man,
None could weep more if he were dead or cold,
And he was right as any beast that dies,
And he was tender, kind and gentle too,
And right the same for all that love gives
For noble deeds, and true men's lives.
But now the last days come and go with them
And the blind days go by in heavy train,
And the blind days their sweet and sorrowful
Linger and wait till none may linger back,
And I, with tears that I have never seen,
Sink and rise, and nevermore shall look
Out of the windy dark that creeps between
The dark to mine and my sad bed again,
And wake, with lips as chill as any stone
And eyes that once have shone, remembering
The old unquiet yesterdays, and those
The old sad times whose words were never told,
I see no more than one who has to weep,
Though every word in his sad heart is wet
With loving thoughts that once
======================================== SAMPLE 667 ========================================
, _I_ am prepar'd; and all must yield as being
innumerable of those who have died--
_Et ce qui saet qui saet qui saet_.
There is a great deal to be learned in the life of some of us,
_L'homme afflicciade, l'homme encombre, loi,_
_Che ne s'en va sont plus de la crapaudier_
_Ses yeux ne graces la quelle sauvage, sa ville, loi._
_Et ne s'en va sont les neaux de bois qui sont ne leurs ville,
Et de beux mauvais pour la ville et de sa ville, loi._
There may come the epitarm,
_Je veux plaisant d'amour_
Or the epicure, and yet
_J'ai dans l'amour a bon brune_
May pour lui-lure où l'âme
Chaste, ah sa m'amour; que
_J'ai ce n'est raconté_
If the syllable be _cho_--
May chance to be used for the _ne trophé_
Naming if it be found in a letter
To carry the title instead of
To the register of _our _lo profonde_,
By which _our_ names assume _our_ name,
And are by the owner for ever?
If the _e_ is on the _deskyr_
_E_ or _fence_ of a _rope_ may be found
_Lorait l'amour, l'amour_, l'amour, l'amour,
If there's _plaint_ in the _ne trophé_
_Lorait l'amour_ or _necké du poi_,
With the _cowant_, the _cowain_, the _cowain_,
_Che s'en va sais puir_ or    _rofoil_,
If the _coward_ have not been _mouve_
(And what _should_ we do, then, O'Mulligan),
I shouldn’t think that such a thing should be,
If the _coward_ had not been so _stef_ a _fye_!
If his life were now_ and the _coward_
(And all _who_ are _cowards_ who've no _nobody_),
If he had not been _poched_, with the _roof_,
And the _roof_, in the _roof-full_ of his _roof-full_
And the _roof-full_ of the _roof-full_ of his _full_.
If he could not have been _cousin_--
That I think this very great insult
Should have brought to this country, since
We can't make it out what we say about
For the cause I've invariably come to,
And the _cho_ is not to be done in the _roode_
(And we that are _cho_ needn't try _so_
_To get into the _roode_, as _we_ are.)
He'll be a _coward_, if _he_ will, then, if not--
And this is the reason we did the _roode_,
And these (how good it is in a _roode_)
May be made into different sections
Of bits, we must tell you, between the two;
And he that is _cho_, in the _roodes_, is _cho_--
In short, he's as _cho_, in the _roodes_, to _cho_;
In the _roodes_ he only _cho_ in _cho_,
And so he _cho_, in the _roodes_ or _cho_,
And so he _cho_, in the _roodes_ or _cho_,
It must be owned, that this people and men
Are no rulers in their own proceedings from
Under the freedom of the _roodes_ he'll do.
And if it was ordained, it must be so--
And, by the gods, it should be so--_cho_!
In this land--this land--this people and men
Are the only true religion we have known,
For it is the _roodes_ that they now keep and hold;
In the _roodes_ no medium between _cho_ and _cho_;
In the _ro
======================================== SAMPLE 668 ========================================
, _The Bookman_,
_The Bookman_, _Columbus_, and _The Duchess_
_The Trade in the States_, _The Duchess_,
New _England_, _The Dawn_, _The Verses_ Laureled,
_The Trade that I'm writing_, _The Text thereof,_
_The world for an answer to palms and to sash_,
_It's oh for a touch at the end of a paper!_
The Trade that I've finish'd, in desperate pride
Searches the world for an answer to fame;
Which, as soon as the Horn is out, if it ride,
_At least it's a match for the pride of a name_.
So, so, _Hear me--I answer'd--I'll answer you--_
_Your_ country is call'd for, its strength is unknown--
_No,--I've a word to answer to, no--one_--
_To_--no,--you're the servant for _one_.--
I've written _one_, _one_, _till my last hour be past,
_The few that are faithful and fair to the last_.
I'd ask you to see me at my "Yes," in a row,
_The few that were faithful and fair to the last_.
You'd think I could see, at the close of a day,
_The few that were faithful and fair to the last_.
The love that was due to all, I'm afraid,
To those that have loved all the world in the past--
_But the one that is loyal and fair to the last_.
And, so, I can see to my chair by the light,
'Tis a very long journey all must have gone;
_But 'tis only the ship that sails, with the night,
_That breaks into sight--
My ship to the breeze, to the light of the dawn._
We shall live in the forest on the islands,
And shall break on the rocks that we love so well,
And the waters will flow from the brown log islands,
And we'll sail to the beautiful and purely, purely, purely,
As the waves of the sea in a crystal-hearted glory;
And we'll sail to the beautiful and purely, purely,
As the waves to the beautiful and purely, purely,
As the waves of the sea in a measure eternal.
Oh, how lovely is the moonlight,
Oh how bright the dewy lawn,
Oh how dark are the blossoms and
How a soft life of love is mine!
I like my dreams of distant places--
I like the gentle sound
Of my own beloved, my own native hills;
I like the music of the sea--
I like the music of the sea.
'Tis like the dews of tropic flowers,
That ooze from ev'ry sea;
Like the sweet breath of the tropic bowers,
From the bright clouds that ooze by me.
The trees with silver palms and blossoms
Are covered over me;
I dream of starlit skies and moonlight,
I dream of hours that flee.
The songs of birds in heaven that wander
Are only one and all;
The winds of heaven are absent from me,
The sky is desolate.
Oh, my beloved, my own beloved,
My own beloved ones, stay--
Come to the garden, nestle down
And watch the moonlight, starry,
As over me she wheels her loom
Through the transparent shade;
She seems to me like silver flowers,
That float upon the air--
The moonbeam of the world is absent,
The night is silver there.
Oh, beautiful to me the dew-drop
That makes the daisied grass
Silver and faint and pure.
Oh, beautiful to me the wild-flowers'
Madrigals sound so blithe--
Oh, beautiful to me the eglantine's
Such delicate blossoms, such as brine
Against the night-so beautiful as she
Beneath the moonlight lay.
Oh, beautiful to me the dews of night
The cool green mosses throw,
Oh, beautiful to me, the buds of light
That make the night-air blow;
Oh, beautiful to me the river's
And crystal brook, all cool and clear,
That leads the sun across the sleeping
Moonlight so beautiful.
Oh, beautiful to me the lilies--
How beautiful they grow;
How calm they sleep in the deep night's
And the midnight moons are growing.
The moon and the starlight are keeping
A delicate silence above
The dark-blowing of the water,
======================================== SAMPLE 669 ========================================
, in _Rudyard's Magazine_, 1660.
The _English Review_ seems to be an imitation of Lord
Homer, and is thus (if there are any here,
Known with his tropes, to these he gives a queer;)
As, having nothing, sometimes used before,
He, or a goose, may also be a _fore_.
The phrase here spoken, may not be so blotted as to say
The author of the "Ode" thereof, which is omitted, as being
subsequently unrevenged.
Of the two of which, as taken, you must know, for certain, as a
few of those who have taken it, to sup with a little bill-of-the-Due
St. Andrews, is the town now of Memphis, famous for its wine and
chalice.  Why should you think of anything but a senseless, stupid
drunkard, a fool, a fool, a knave?
cabber-board.
"He who, by the laws of nature, men civilized,
Perishes, without leave, without a care,
Does not, percase, make himself, pray what's your own case and
judgment of it?"
"O! how curious is he who can, by means of which the people
enjoy him!  Then, too, the knave, the fool, the knave
The mighty Pan, the beautiful young Pan,
The glorious god of whom we do not care,
Whose art is nature, and, in spite of instinct,
He knows the world at large.  A voice, 'tis clear,
From every land, with some peculiar voice,
Some unknown language, and a musical,
That's far from pleasant, and to him is clear,
Though but a wandering sounder.  It is not
Quite so to him, who, with a duller choice,
Feels not the least objection to produce
A stranger to the manners he admires;
We still mistake him, for he ne'er desires
To know that wisdom, and to think we know
The kindness of ourselves; that these most excellent
Are but as clear, and yet distinct themselves
By very weight of matter."
"True, the first is the great and the minute,
The minute of man's existence, how short, how swift
'Tis to catch, and settle o'er and o'er again.
The middle of the world!  The very brink
Of an impossible gulf is this one drop:
The next, and nothing else, the middle of the world!
That's what we call the equator".  The third of these
Is the third bubble we say in an atmosphere of trouble:
The fourth, the well-built doublehouse!  That's the thing!
We know there are around us, where the wings
Of motion are befitting, and a motion of air,
As that of a spirit.  So to us is clear,
O man, the Heaven thou givest me.  To us, I say,
Life seems a varied round of years, and death seems varied
With life and every thing, from east to west.
Man is a circle around him, placed around him,
Yet moving as we go, with our tent, the mind,
We take but pleasure, and the spirit hovers
Along the hollow circles of his brain;
And what a brain and intellect devours
Of truth and evil, and of the good and wise.
We know those hosts of matter, can we use them,
Can we?  After this, all is prepared; the mind
Is linked in heaven, the universe complete.
That is my creed.  What matters it to thee,
Freed from its bonds itself, to that, if I
By Art and Nature find embodied Christ,
The Self-edCompanion, and the Wife, to whom
The mighty Mother brings her sacred brood,
Must serve a spirit in the sum of things,
If she be of the world the blind, the human,
Because that she can play the Mother's part.
And, when our minds are filled with doubts and fears,
And our perplexed conduct ends in tears,
The world is emptied, and the final scene
Of things material draws upon the mind,
With all its burdens and misfortunes, to the end.
There are who would not cross another's way,
And lose themselves in the abyss of error,
To form, and measure with the human heart
The shadow of true love, that we may know
Our loyalty to her, that she is worthy;
We shall not know how often some will say
That she is worthy, and the good man tires
Of service that he does not, and desires
More strongly
======================================== SAMPLE 670 ========================================
, who lived
An hour, and then went out again again and tried
With absolute faith the cause of Jesus Christ--
All, all were here--the earth--the earth--and God!
But I could not believe that the angel of God
Had made him a man like the man of us all,
And as I have always been wondering at him
I do not believe he had ever had more
To do with the devil in us--or for him--
We were all of us dead; so his hand caught and crushed
A man's hair and a face of us--and a child--
You, who have made no happier paradise
Than the sun on the clouds, and the man in our sky
Who, a fellow whose heart was a lightened brand
To brand it and lay it there in his blood,
And his hand caught and died when it clasped the word
--O God, I am ready to die!"
And the woman, again, in the light of an angel's eyes
Looked up with a wistful look and a glance
At the sun so glorious as bright and cold
On a mother's face: she had looked on him
With a woman's look, and another's blush,
Till the world seemed made for a little while
For a little while--oh, that look!
Not the least of the things on earth
That the earth has ever known!
But the thoughts that were too deep to brook
At times when the world was stone;
In these days of infinite youth
Were his deeds as they alone.
And a Power which never may be the same
Did in youth and love set free,
The Power that is only known
And who knows the heart of a man
When he goes to the grave;
And the eyes of a man are the same
As the eyes of the years to be,
And his own is the same face
With which he is crowned to-day,
And his own looks remain
To the eyes that stay not him
On high into the hills,
And through what troubles and years
But the path that led before
Bears on to the place he knew
For it leaves him no more.
There was sorrow before that day--
There was sorrow before today--
There was sorrow before that day--
There was sorrow in all the way
For the one that was loved by me,
And the one that was kindred and known
In the world that is only one--
There was sorrow in all the way
To the one that was gone.
There was sorrow before that day--
There was sorrow behind the way
To the one that was gone.
There was sorrow before that day,
There was sorrow behind the ray
In the one that had been more true
To the one that was more untrue
Than the one that is left to die
In the one that is left to lie
With a woman's looks and a man's
Cheeks like the down of the skies
And a woman's smile that lies
Where an angel's smile lay an hour ago--
And my love was good to my life.
But sorrow has come to my life
And sorrow has left me to grieve
For the one that was vowed to leave
This girl for my soul to live.
"I'll write to them now, for to-day,
I'll write to them now. I'll write."
There is sorrow beyond that day,
There is sorrow beyond that day--
There is grief that ends with the flowers
And the saddest tears they make down
Shall tell to old, old and young
And the saddest tears that ever I've known.
There is sorrow beyond that day,
There is sorrow beyond that day--
There is grief that will never come down
When the world grows old and gray.
There is grief that was false to me
And a woman false in the night
Will find again in my life
As she was true when I was light.
Heart of the heart, O my love,
Heart of the heart!
There was a time, when love
Was fresh and fair as her.
And then there was a time
Ere she was strong as her.
I have heard her singing, and have known
What a wild hour her eyes,
What a wild cry of rapture of joy and pain
For the love of her face had slain.
I have met and loved and found her,
All the sunsets shining;
All my days that saw her,
To our love returning.
She was lost, the way was long,
And I wept because she smiled.
And the grief that made her mine
O'er the sea brought not its stain.
And we breathed each other's love
In those old dim eyes again.

======================================== SAMPLE 671 ========================================
--"
"They are so sad to say, and sorry
What a plague must be!"
Wonderingly asked she: "How can
I distinguish them?"
But she felt a pain--a pang; for
He had left her alone--
He had left her to her grief
(What a God!) and a stone.
But a worse curse will fill my path
With the past; and the years--
Wretched woman--wretched child!--
Will have work for her tears--
In the long march,--the drear steps
Of the war-trump's thunder-call,--
In the pause of sound and clash,
By the roadside and the camp,
On the field of death.
"What do you hear of the drum-beat and thunder,
The din of the men of the world?"
"They are neither fleet nor slow,
But a beautiful world below,
Where the dead are waiting, waiting,
Waiting for the hero-word."
"But what of the men of the world
Who have suffered and suffered thus--
With what strength they can endure--
To endure--to endure?
Do they dread the wrath of God?"
"They have struggled, fought and died,
And have suffered for their cause;
But the world will never mend.
Do they dread the wrath of God?"
"They have struggled, strove and died;
But the world will never mend.
How fierce the faces of men!
How hard it is to speak--
"They are neither strong nor weak
To hear the battle-cry."
"Yet long ere this is heard,--
"I saw a ghostly sword
As bright as starlight gleamed,
On a maiden's maiden breast."
Yet the specter in the hall
Was fated by the tale,
To hear the dreadful words
Of that specter's ghastly dame.
"I saw the battle-field,
Where the lone and smiling hunt
Crouched, and the red-eyed Dane
With his freezing cap and gash.
And those meadows, all in bloom,
Where the red-eyed Danes met,
Crouched 'mid the dead; and, pale and still,
And cold as polar air,
The Roman ghastly phantom stood--
A phantom shape of blood,
With jaws of death and breath--
Upon his arm, as if to pierce
The sinews of his heart,
And the heartless carrion, hurl'd
Down to the haggard earth,
And the soul of the corpse.
"Yet my hand is steady,
I see the ghastly host
With their eyes of ghastly red,
As when with the bursting surge
They sink in their last abode--
The ghosts of the murdered and slain--
Upon their pallid ghosts
Of the slain and the lost--
The ghosts of the living and dead--
Who died in their graves,
And sleep in the cold, dead fires--
Who died in their fires.
"There are no ghosts, no ghosts
That sleep in the open house,
And the eyes with lurid orbs
That weep in an corridors--
No ghouls--threepers--
No spectres with pallid eyes
That peep through the floor,
And the ghostly whisperings,
Of the gibbets, in their beds,
That whisper to us, 'Come,
And you shall be our ghouls.'
"Then I will go to hell,
And that curse shall be mine:
And then I will laugh aloud
For the ghostly form divine,
And I will weep, and laugh aloud
For the shadow that over the bed
Tells me the dead are dead!
"And all too soon shall lie
In the silence deep and grave,
Where the old man rests to die--
And I will weep, and weep,
For the ghostly form they have,
That once was his ghouls,
Now they sleep in the cold mists,
And I will be their ghouls!
"The ghost of my dear, lost friend,
The ghost of my dear, dear friend--
How I hate them all, and start
With a growling bitter fear--
Like the ghosts of an angry land
Riding down to hell.
"For every morn my ghost will go
To the ghouls that will ride on ghouls
With the blood of their devil, who laugh
At the ghostly ghostly forms
In the lairs of the sin-smitten brain;
And every midnight will hear my voice
Ringing out from the gloom.
"Some ghostly ghost will circle there,--
Some demon--with evil eye;
Some
======================================== SAMPLE 672 ========================================
, who
daughters their deceased son.
As I walk'd by my mother
I seem'd to hear the voice
Of the one I love, in the hour of my love.
It spoke:--and, while my heart throbb'd with gladness,
The voice of my mother spoke.
I look'd for the words of her wonderful meaning;
I look'd for her voice in my solitude;--
And now, while I look in her face,
By night, as if speaking, I see her,
And hear one word, my own mother,
But hear only one sound,
One word, then,
Of heart-beats, broken or pent, to my lips,--
My love, my love's own heart-beats,
Without one sign remaining,
And yet,--as if saying, "Peace,"
I cried all day long.
We sat beside a grave;
And, as we sat and wept,
We heard the beating of the wave,
I heard the sound,--and slept.
As the song went on, the wind--
Somewhere, somehow, I knew
I heard the strain of the wind
From that unseen steep--
I heard the voice, the call, the sigh,
The rush and the sweep of the sweep,
Till I woke from my sleep.
It was a dreary place,
For the dark waves had left their trace;
I could not see the sun.
It was a sleeping place:
And, like a thing that dreams, I lay;
And, as I long have done,
I wish'd my grave had wu'd again,
And surely again I'd stay.
O Mother! when I sleep,
My soul's awake, I would lie down and slake my thirst;
I would be quiet as a child and breathe as I would sigh.
The night came on,--with vague and empty wings,
As of some weary ghost,--and slowly sped
The lonely soul to a sad place within the gloom.
The night came on,--with haggard face the sea
Was like a shroud, in which no moonlight came,
Nor any star; yet still I floated on,
And thought of my love and my own sweet home,
And how at rest she could not come to me.
I was so weary, for the shipwreck'd soul
Was too vast for death, and I no more could rest.
He came,--a stranger came,--a strange unlovely guest.
One day the sea came with its loud, full roar
And smite, and smite, and roar, and rush once more,
And then the moonlight seem'd to lift us shore
With its harsh, withering blaze; and dimly on the drear sea
Faint meteors gleam'd, and dimly lifted us
From that black solitude, when the black waves
Had slowly found us green with dead sea-treasures.
And one, who had been all alone, in the grey
Huge earth had borne him on,--it was a ship
Of huge, red-golden turrets, that had grown
Into the tempest's heart, and to be seen
And lost in the grey light! Through which I wept
And felt the sea flow heavily, till I slept
'Twas long before I woke.
And I look'd back,
And knew that I was dead. There was no shore,
No place of sail or wind, save where the sea
Had spent its wrath upon me, and the sand
Was deep beneath the ocean. All my grief
Rose to this hour, and I was lonely here!
And I lay down and perish'd in a cave,
And heard the sea cry, and the moaning wind
Whisper'd my name, and I felt the wind
Blow through the open portals toward the land,--
But all was still as death.
But a long while
I lay and moan'd in the large dark sea-deep bay;
And then, as I look'd forth, there rose to me
A wild and plaintive voice,--as if some God
Were in the vast deep, to lead me back to life.
How did it come to me? the strange lips spoke,
The dying eyes smiled, and the pallid lips,
The formless, pallid lips that, while a smile
Ran through them from their parted lips; the light and bliss
Of that last kiss, and then the last caress?
Ah, how my heart went with it, and a cry
Trembled among the stillness;--then I heard
The wind sing to me as from the hollow dark
An old familiar voice call'd back to life.
I look'd
======================================== SAMPLE 673 ========================================
, and also in the present.
At the dinner I had been thus eating,
While each guest was likewise made to eat.
At the dinner I had been thus drinking,
Until the wine had restrained my fright,
And the host was quite delighted.
At the dinner I had been thus drinking,
And my legs were all against the seat;
And the host who had nothing to eat
Said 'twas very fine, even when making
The very best breakfast of the night,--
When the dame took some relish on 't,
Then the landlord exclaimed
As he wished to do something for dinner.
So, I don't like the pot!"
And he then made up his mind to look
For the man who had once been drinking.
I was sure I never could bear being such honored.
I ate, I did not. It came down to a dame
Who sat on the stairs with the souse in her pail,
And had the poor fool's head in her pail.
She sat in the door, and her look stuck the other way,
And her nose and her neck were so sad that she said
She had taken the boy and the stick for his forehead.
But the other one said, "You must keep them all for yourself."
That night, when the fire was red,
Says the wife, "I'm de nos on yer bed,
An' it's likely they've never been wed.
I have been a good deal since last Christmas,
An' I don't like the stories I tell you of yett,
For you are the bravest o' timber in a house,
And, by Jove, I am sure ye are making for some greatness."
Then, up from his bed with a terrible roar
He sprang up with glaring eyes as if he had been maimed
To come in at the breakfast so thoroughly near the table.
There was a man with a bald head,--he was not the only man
That ever I saw on that little table.
He stood up erect,
All stiff and black,
With long hair crisp;
And his clothes were thick.
A bald little chap,
With a big round mouth,
He seemed to be in the place of the fellow.
He took his hat up,
And he looked so big
That the fellow, who saw, said,
"I don't do that!"
There was a man who had studied Calvin,
And knew no good at all,
His eyes were too hot for a man.
He said, "I can see,
On some sunny day
In a far greener land,
The wheeling of a mill;
I can see the mill-wheel run;
I can see the sun."
There was a man who had been taught to grovel;
He primmed it with hard words,
And cut off his nose,
And he swung himself off with a grunt.
There was a man who said, "The Devil's
A dull chap, I'm sure,
But I'd like to be married to a miller,
And not a miller in the house,
And not a miller in the house."
There was a man who screamed out
Whenever he could find
A dog in a crack;
And when he was over, he said, "Bow, wow!
Good man, that thing is behind."
A man said, "My name is Remman"
But he said, "Bow, wow!
I ain't a dog, I must be master.
I'm as bad as a feller,
And I'd be afraid,
I don't know a man,
Without me he's quite so well known."
They said, "You are wrong,
On your word,
And my word is naught to the young man,
My name has not yet been changed."
The man answered, "Nay!
Now, suppose you are right,
You may stay till you come to-morrow;
Take care you are not left in play;
Be good as you are."
"How is your master?" said the man,
"Now he's in a pet;
He may be in a pet at first,
The play is his own,
The dog is master, but it's hard
To be a dog alone."
There was a man of scrubbers,
Who wore a thread,
Called his dog a dog, and banged him,
And went to bed.
There was a man who had a gun,
Who swore him shot;
Then spoke the word of the jailor:
"Will you forget?"
There was a man who had a sword,
Says he, "I did."
Who drove a cart and beat
======================================== SAMPLE 674 ========================================
 and _dramatic_, with other of these two
same character.
_translated by A. J. CHALESTS, Book I._ ARCHIB. are very
English.
_Translation of Homer_ (1774).  Here the editor of the _Portrait of
On the Same_ he did not present, but bade all his friends raise
houses; _Chronicle_ [1774), a study in Ancient History, and
believed to be the best.  He was of imagination, and had the
_Versève ævo præter
Prænder ventres
Mantica pendent circum Milesis dominabit._
_----Semel abundans hæreniscus_, v. 1.
A line from _Orpheus_, as in his account of the Fifth Edition,
this covers two texts, the text of which is here given to
A _dramatic Angoras_ appeared in Phæacia.
_Beaumontem_, a _Orpheus_ that dwells in the bay of _Orpheus_,
_Ogilwald_, _and many an idle tale_, _see_ Hessel_.
_Bishop Blanus_, _University of Michigan_, _Columbus University_.
_Bishop Blanus_, _University of California, Los Angeles_ ("_
_Bishop Blanus_, _University of California, Los Angeles_,
_Bishop Blanus_, _University of Michigan_, _University of Texas_,
_Bishop Blanus_, _University of Texas_, _University of Texas_,
_Bishop Blanus_, _University of Texas_, _University of Texas_,
referred to, in _Bona Napoli_, to _Bona Napoli_, see this
_Brynge_, _University of California, Los Angeles_, _University
of New Brunswick_, _University of Texas_, etc).
_Brynge_, _University of Texas_, etc.
_Brynge_, _Queen Bess_. (Brigadier-General Palatine).
_Brynge_, _Queen of Louis III_, Act i, Sc. 2.
_Brynge_e_, _Queen Anne V. (Bughcluding, _University of California,
_Brynge_, _Queen of Louis XIII_, etc), etc.
_Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, etc.
_Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, and _Burns_, and _Burns_, also called
_Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_-men, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, etc.)
All together--the _Burns_, _Burns_, etc., etc., etc.
_Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, and _Burns_, and the which is
Burnes, _Burns_, _Burns_, and, etc., etc.
_Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, etc.
_Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, and _Burns_,
_Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, etc.
_Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, etc.
_Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, and _Burns_, as this book does.
_Burns's_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, etc., etc.
_Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, _Burns_, etc.
Then--and then comes Surturlo--she lays eggs, eggs, eggs, eggs,
She makes a noise and tumbles, and makes a noise like an army.
She sets the egg in place of Surturlo and O-Higg,
And makes a noise and tumbles, and makes a noise like Surturlo.
She tumbles it into a lump like a lump of some ox.
She sets the egg in place of _
======================================== SAMPLE 675 ========================================
 and a
I don't know what you mean by this bird,
Not to know what you mean by that bird.
But the weather is rough and cold, and all frost is the cold
To think of the poor little thing I had sold
In the warm little cage by my side.
I thought of a cage, and a bird, and I played
As cheerful as if that bird had been made
In happier times.  And I looked and I saw
A bird, just as happy as if that bird
Had come again from another bird's nest
To fly to heaven and be in the breast
If he had been happy.
As I grew there
I was almost as happy as glad can be.
I thought of a bird, if it watched him, and flew
To heaven and left me in sorrow.
Then I felt
That he lived, and he lived, and I loved him too.
I knew he had been happy, and loved me too.
Then he left me in sorrow, and left me alone,
And I walked in the world, and I walked through the gloom
And looked at the sky as if seeing his face,
And heard his voice, though the ear was still steady to hear
That voice I knew.
And I walked on,
Till I caught
Something of birds
That was watching the willows and clinging things,
And then--I said, having looked at my bird,
I shall look at you and say something of your heart.
And I went to the fields and the blossoms and flowers,
And heard the first birds, and then I grew
As though I had looked at the trees in the spring,
And walked in the summer, and found it a theme
For thinking of summer.
And I stood in the spring
With my bird friend,
And I cried and I sang,
And I laughed and I cried
And I laughed and I sang,
And I laughed and I sang
And I laughed and I sang
And I made the best rhyme
Between us.
And there in the house
I read the least least
Of the carrion crow
And the raven of the hawk,
And of ferns on the elm-bark
Which sing to the leaves,
And the woodchuck and thrush
Which crowd to the house,
And the swallows and trout
And the greyhound thereby,
And the snake with the brown
Wandered over all these
And belled over them
When he came and he came
Like a flame in the spring.
Then I walked to the house
And I sang to the tree,
And my heart was so stirred,
And I said, "Bened new-throne!
I'll open the door to you,
And be happy no more
As I sang to the birds
And the moon on the heath
As I sang to the trees."
And I made answer
From the tree and the fells,
And I said, "O dear,
I will open the door,
And be happy no more
As I sang to the trees,
As I sang to the birds,
And the voice of my mate
I shall say to the woods,
I will bid the world wait.
"We'll be friends by the fire," said my mate,
"And we'll talk of our voyage by night,
And we'll share the new moon with the shade
And the dew on the leaves, and the stars in the height;
But I'll wander by handful and pull,
And I'll give you a lift on the wing,
And when I have done, I'll come creeping up hill."
Then I used to fear no more
Because of the weather-cock's roar,
And the wind that I shook on the hill
Found me a beast of four,
I'd eat all the meat I had got,
And my supper I'd eat
O' the ears of a mouse, and I'd break
The rest of the crust 'neath the chin.
Then I changed to a spider who'd come
And was drawn by the twine of a broom;
And I joined in a lyric that nobody knew
Of the birds and the blossoms that grew;
But I wouldn't make out of my tale
If the birds were the friends of the day,
For they all were a pair of blue birds
That lived in that leafy place,
And I knew that they both were a pair
Of blue birds and green bunnerets there.
And I knew that with wings, though I'd said
That I also had wings for my bed,
I was good for the flowers that grew
On a bush of the Hesperides,
And I know when the birds got them green
In the fields and the
======================================== SAMPLE 676 ========================================
 by the way;
But when _he_ had _taken_ up his course again,
He did not like old _Kicking_ for the train.
The first, who was a _Youthful_ being rich,
In _poitou_, had a Uncle Sam to pitch;
Then _Ugly_, eager to _damn him_, as he passed,
Was _Tutchin_ with his load of ten per cent.
And one, for one was honest _Tack_, whose name
Was _Doctor Bendels_, who was rich in fame.
The other who was _Doctor Faust_ or _Saint_,
Was _Dryden_, _PoetAttick_, who was rich in
The following pages of which, one might say,
The cripple _Poet_, now, _Nes Kepler's_ day.
There never were such poets, in all time,
As these who in a _golden-peck'd, or _C sublime_
Fill up the space the _Dango-field_ has filled,
For which this world would be an age of grief.
It ever, in our day of labour, we
Would sometimes dream, and dream it o'er and o'er
Preluding its old mystic remedies,
That would beguile long tedious hours of care,
And make us cheerful with the _Happy, Dear_;
And that, at times, which to the present hour
Our fancies may be exchang'd to our own,
At times, our thoughts were bent for our good-will,
That was to make us happy, and to bless
Our book's _Good Night_, when it shall have repose
In the next _Laureat_ of the "Babelos."
To tell that Heaven remains beyond our dreams
'Tis but the _Bookman_ of the morning stars.
There's the _King's World_--and the next, no doubt,
Hath _Covent-Garden_, in his "St. George-Holes."
In a few minutes more or less, I dream
Of those old spies, who, in their curious barks,
Had left the rich _Dome_ of their wealthy lords,
And to the _Lor_ themselves for ever keep
Lawless watch, as they used to do their deeds--
And now, their hour was come, when destiny
With some _giant pen_ had set his destiny.
A letter 'twas directed by the King:
And as the matter stood, what did I see?
I scarce can think about the few days gone,
When I was vex'd, and tired, and hungrily,
List'ning to those strange voices, which I heard
When I was ill, in spite of all the fears
He wore about me, when I saw them not,
But heard them as they never nearer grew,
Crying as if some fairy trying to draw,
"What's this?" and then, as if some wizard wag
Had told them _last_, I'm flippant for it all;
For which I'd have an answer, and to name
The silly words, ere we could well Sym.
I'd have it, somehow, if I _couldn't_ find
Some place where _I'd_ be at such a feast;
'Twould be a good one at the holy feast
Of _Some_ Old Club whose _god-like language, wrote,
Was in itself a _prettiest_, my Lord,
Such as _my_ language hath already said,
_The last of my few "_Fauns_" shall _sons_ be led._
Now, where so many faithful hearts are laid,
And all those faithful _spirits_, far away,
Who are out-door, and say,--"Here_ once again,
_The last of my few friends_!" while I account
For him whose spirit, _like his lyre's accord,
_Somewhere_ his whole life blest to _me_, my Lord,
Somewhere shall bring his _Child of Yesterday_."
No time for idle pondering or pretence
To prove itself, was all I could surmise:
The _Child_, my Lord, could not without injurious
Account for every piece of treachery,
And had no heart to wound it to the heart;
But he who has a heart of gold, well known
For what it is, can never, never hide:
And therefore, if a man's his only Son
Who lives above his God, to Heaven is shown.
It was the time when _my_ poor _Wife_,
======================================== SAMPLE 677 ========================================
, _M'Pompey_, to secure a safe retreat.
Now through our brazen portals as we pass
The Fates in triumph march with thundering feet:
Our hearts with hope of triumph still we hail,
And keep on steadfast marching through the fleet
The joyous song of triumphs that await
The brave who press to die in honor there,
So we, the weak, but valiant, may not share
The toils we lead the glorious to the fight.
But in the morning, in the golden morn,
When the full light of life no farther leads,
We'll sing along the dim and stony glens
The dreary music of the dreary tides,
And watch the melancholy main that shows
The sand-dunes nodding, that the sea must shun,
And watch the heaving ocean's hollow sides,
Whose mists the weary tread of weary souls
Ever must wander o'er the troubled deep.
Far from the sea-worn shores, and far from home,
We'll wander, in a dream of rest, where flowers
And silent waters are, and sweetly-smelling
Curl the broad shore; where, on the sands reclined,
Or 'mid the fading mists their waters lave,
We'll watch, with eyes upon the mountain's brow,
The clouds that hid it from the earth below.
And thou, oh Daughter of the Verse! whose charms
Unlock our heart's wild wandering to thy breast,
Like thee no more can any riper trace
The fleeting seasons of the mortal waste.
Thou wast not formed for Nature's social schemes,
Nor to the world were nature's wonders given;
'Twas Nature formed her world, whose grandest gleams
Forever followed Nature in the heaven.
But thou dost fade, as doth the floweret die
On autumn's bosom--all the live ones ye
Who gaze on it with sorrow and despair,
Like starless night concealing cheerful day.
The world is dull and withered.  Far away
Thy beauty haunts me, like the faded flower,
But I have flown where sunless glory breaks
And my last sun is setting.  Oh, my bliss,
That day, when suddenly my spirit paused,
And all my heart for that sweet home of home,
In every shadow of its earthly gloom,
Seemed filled with kindred sweetness of delight,
That in my soul was whispering hope's sweet words
Of happiness and peace.  The spell may close--
Thou shalt be mine, but not without ambition--
Upon those hills whose solitudes are laid
Like Heaven's own gardens, shall my spirit rest,
Fairest and purest--nay, most proud, and bright,
Oh! if a day there shall dawn goldenly,
When I shall come--ah, then my path may change.
Yes, I will come, though dark and doubts may change!
Though cold in time, and manhood's honors all
Lie scattered round me, and with bitter woe
Weeping for what that one day shall not bring,
Yet, oh the earth! the earth, its all! it will
Never seem other than its frailest life;
To me 'twas given by the gods to give
Thee treasures which thy soul had loved to spend,
When life was full of happiness and light,
And I was happy in my youth and joy
Of youthful fancy.  I will come to thee
With the first words of solemn power and love,
And will be moved and love fulfill'd in thee.
Forgive me, dear! forgive me, for I speak
No words but one, and thou shalt be the bond
Of one true woman, thine, which, but to feel,
I should not live to own.  Thou, but to go
The best way, for thy life, and the world I leave.
This is my hour--do not repent.  Yet see
My last light back--the first rose of my life!
I ask'd thee not of me, and what I ask'd
Thou didst not say, I tell thee; 'that thou art
The richest man, but I am far too poor
To have thy heart--thou art my life and life.'
I did, and gave thee my immortal love,
And gave it to thee, when thy heart could feel.
No thought but this can banish anger wide;
For all men know what wrongs have been done to thee.
And thou art here--my own dead brother's wife!
O thou in whom our joys delight to be!
O dearest of the living, thou in whom
Thy memory's like the light!  My soul doth dwell

======================================== SAMPLE 678 ========================================
 to a woman,
A man or a woman,
But I love her and she loves me,
She is the finest woman.
To love her and to bury her,
To live and die with him for a day,
To take little children and little children,
And then to die.
To feed her, to live in her narrow chamber,
To take back all the bad things of her life,
To be the thing she was always making,
To be a cheerful, a cheerful little wife.
She is a beautiful daughter,
Always thinking of him.
And she has lovely daughters,
And says she'll marry them now, and then
Will take them all to her heart,
And kiss them all to her heart.
The mother that knows the children
Always thinks of them,
And always says what he can do.
And the mother she thinks it his duty
Not to lie with them,
And always says what he will.
She thinks of them all for the mother,
And she says, says, what he will.
And the father says she must wait for them all
Who play for them all.
She thinks of it almost a hundred times,
And then she looks around her in vain for them all,
And they go to die.
She tells them of a hundred wonders
Hidden behind that fateful ship,
And of a hundred things in the ocean,
That will not yield, does not tell,
And of the hundred mysteries
That come to her as yet.
A thousand things that they know of,
Even though they know that I sing it,
In their sleep do I steal it,
In the dark do I steal it,
Sell their sleep,
Sell their sweetness,
Sell their sweetness,
Sell their gladness
In the dark do I tell them again, and see the ship
That my boat is passing.
To the sailor on trowel
I come, O captain, to sweep the ocean,
I come, O captain, to sweep the sandy sea.
The long dark passage before the gate,
The long dark passage before the ship,
The long, long passage across the ocean,
The breakers running before the mast,
I know of the passage, I know of the road,
I come, O captain, to sweep the ocean,
I know of its secret, I know of the way.
I know of its secret, I know what way,
I know of its secret, I know of its strength,
I know of its triumph, I know of its length,
But I welcome this passage as master of it,
This pilot of ships, this pilot of stars.
What is the story that I tell you?
I know of it, I know of it,
And all the way beside the nursery
I see the strangest thing in the world.
It begins in the dreamy daylight,
It stretches and stretches and stretches and stretches and spans
Till the sun looks out beyond the window
And the world is still as well as the sky.
And all the wicked naughty creatures
It makes into that hour,
It stretches and stretches its hands,
And stretches its legs out, and stretches its legs,
Till it stretches and stretches its legs out,
And stretches its legs out, and stretches its legs out.
And all the good little people they
Who are very carefully preparing to go to the play,
It stretches and stretches and stretches its legs out,
And stretches its legs out, and stretches its legs out.
And it stretches and stretches and stretches and stretches,
And stretches and stretches and stretches its legs out,
And stretches its legs out, and stretches its legs out.
But I do not know how to carry them in, or what to do,
And I don't know which I'm sure, and I don't know which way to go;
But I know all about it and I know what way to go.
I never think of it, or I think it's too bad to tell.
There's an island of it, neither in bottom nor bottom,
There's a narrow exit to the sea, by which none can enter.
And some day I'll roll it over and over and over,
And then I'll roll it over and over and over and over.
And when the folks shall come to know of it and go to the town,
I'll roll it over and over, and over and over again.
And when the folks shall come to know of it and go to the town,
I'll roll it over and over, and over and over again.
Then the folks in blue-bells shall have the better things to do,
I'll roll it over and over and over again and again,
And the fairy things to eat of the children
======================================== SAMPLE 679 ========================================
.
This poem was born without any credit, but to the mere
impression.  Mr. Blacklock, in the letter quoted by Mr.
Blacklock leading a present-sheet he writes to Mr. Blacklock.
This translation is dated July 18, 1747; and having been called
complained in the Notes and notes of his "Elegy"; but it is
unlucky and unselfish, and deserves a copy of this inscription.
This ode contains the first MS., with the exception of Mr.
Blacklock leading a present-sheet he writes to Mr. Blacklock.
This ode is translated by Dr. Blacklock, as begun by Dr.
Scalpeck, an 221, and are again added to the above.
This ode, I have not quite forgotten, appears to have been
copyrighted long ago.  It appears to have been printed by
Subscription, and is not quite safe with the Indians.
These odes are called the Ancient Mariner's "Elegy," which is
quite overlooked; but they are all dispersed over the whole place.
The Odes are now called the Play-House of Godendom
which has been brought to pass a few years ago to the Royal
Montmartre, and belongs to the chief city.  The Ode adressed by
Lamb.  Being present from two of his songs in the Woods of
This is a song of the merry earnestness
"Of friendship and affection;"
and which is part of the performance from a performance in the
These three are also included by Blacklock.
To-night the isle is moaning
It sighs to the gales of sleep,
And far above the wave is calling
The gentle spirit Peale.
The silver notes of song awaken
The midnight breezes of the sea.
From the earth's silent river,
The melody of the bird,
The wind's unceasing warblings shaken,
In the bending of the tree,
They come from unknown lands,
The ancient songs and stories tell,
The sweetest story that they know--
A fairy's spell.
From the grassy hill,
The moon's enchanted face
Speaks with a wondrous grace;
In the airy foliage
The wind's unseen delight
Seems trembling into light,
As I sit there dreaming
My long lost love to-night.
The moon and stars are keeping
Their watch o'er me; the night's asleep--
Though from her darkening heaven
Far, far away, her light would peep,
Like a meteor's flight, toward the gloomy
Cloud-pavilioned height.
There are some words for me,
Some words for both of God and man;
And there are some of the sweetest that Heaven sends us,
As the moon and stars do, and in them, our thoughts of His
Miracles, in forms of heavenly thought,
Our minds, and thoughts sublime.
They are the mirror and the light
Of the invisible mind of God!
And we see things that are,
And that they are, and are,
And are we, and are, though the world is made of
So many thoughts and sounds,
In this world of lands, where the great seas
Lift up their lofty mounds,
And their numberless sands
Are sands upon the shores of these fair, happy lands,
And fields, that with a happy harvest yield to the foot of
their fathers.
My thoughts are of the land where I and my love
Together wandered, hand in hand as I
Beheld them, blent in my own love, far and near;
Together, blent in my own love, far and near,
I and my love, and he were blent in one.
And I am glad that I and he are blent
In that one love, that both of us are blent.
And I am glad that he and I are blent
In that one love, that both are blent in one.
Ah me, I see the shadowy boughs, I hear
The shadowy water lapping in the moon's pale hollow.
(Ah! the wind, I have heard,
And have followed, where the branches shake and the flowers are
stricken....
Ah me, I see the shadowy boughs, I have followed
up and down,
In the hushed grass by the shore where the water is
never still....
Ah me, I see the shadowy boughs, I hear
the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
and the wind and the wind,
And there's not a sound in these deaf depths but is
murmuring near.
Ah me, the wind, the wind and the wind
======================================== SAMPLE 680 ========================================
, R. C. and others.
_Midsummer Night's Dream_, Act iv., Scene ii., Scene ii., Scene ii.,
_The slow-sinking sun-flower fades and changes_.--
_A new-born babe now nestling in his arms_.--
_The new-born infant smiling on his mother's breast._
'Twas now the time when Zephyr gently blows,
When first on his fresh limbs the early snow
In slippery flakes comes dancing, fresh and fair,
When all with vernal breezes well agree
Mellow and sweet, and sing in every tree;
When the tall cornucopia's ample bound
Into the fire-pan fits the youngling's breast;
When the nice ear-dow'ring, twinkling of an eye
Stirs in the new-bespangled field, and she
Reclines with age her crescent, and, at length,
The frolic boy begins his sports with strength:
And now the horns, just pealing from the sky,
Sigh with a happy, joyful chieftain's joy.
With such a choral loud was heard to swell
The thronging notes of love, that, wildly flung
As to a war-pipe, through the echoing glade,
Loaded with the soft strain of the west,
From many a blossom burst on every spray
And flung it dancing to the breeze one day.
In the cool, liquid glooms the waters glass
And brightened all the earth--the woods appear
As if their home from all surrounding seas
Were in the blaze of joy's unrivalled blaze,
And all their banks in brightening shadows spread
To catch the glowing heats, and to the shade.
Or when, with the cool wind, the moon, the sun,
A little while the heat of heaven hath spent,
And wearily upon its edge doth go,
And o'er the brightening waters leaps the snow
And throws its mantle, cool and low, around,
As the eye catches in a fearful sleep
Of weariness, and silently it creep
Where the sun, scarce unsightly, looks at last
On the blue summits of the fading west:
There, from its shelter in the cypress' shade,
The weary traveller oft would seek repose;
But, when he heard the rosy night-flowers breathe,
He felt that the bright-beaming moon was gone,
And, though no moon, their shadows did not scare,
He must have slept as quiet as their shade.
At length the sun, when from his cave of rest
The blessed moon arose, at length would rise,
And with her rays set in her milder ray
Restored the world to light, and made the sky
In glories brighter than the pilgrim's eye.
In a green meadow bordered by the streams
Where streamlets stud the shadowy side below,
With grass o'ergrown, and flower-emblazoned beams
Of lucid hue in many a richly-scented row
Of beauteous flowers, as if the fair moon, Love,
Had left an orbit for the travelled snare,
To shine upon the world, and be with them
As shone the world beside unto her birth,
And be the soul of them that love the earth.
And all the people murmured at their prayer
And gazed in wonder on its mighty power:
They heard the spirit whisper at its sway,
They saw its majesty as it passed unseen,
In the light beauty of that airy scene!
Nor did the hurrying spirits of the wood
Tread on the very shadow in a breath;
The air was honeyed with the breath of flowers
Whose breath was magic from the flower-soft bowers;
And by the power of that immortal power
The spirit whispered to its mate, "Beowulf!"
As to its sullen master it doth seem,
In speaking words of wonder and of fear,
While some bright morn the silver wavelets gleam,
Filling the wide and weltering atmosphere;
As if the clouds should make the coming spring,
And spring should bloom the coming of the spring!
In the still season when the leaf is dead
It fears no more the winter wind, for spring
Will soon be one year longer, and it said,
Once and again, that "never, on this day,
Shall summer blooms in this calm world away?"
When you have told of all that summer day
When the wooded violets were bright and green,
And everything but Nature change to May,
There may you see the berry hang between,
With yellow sunshine burning on its stalk,
While v
======================================== SAMPLE 681 ========================================
,
A book for men to read, that they may hear
Who need no rules to rule, and be obey'd.
So, when, that they have learnt, the book is spoil'd,
And their sole study, that it is complete,
They are not lost. So time their books hath spoil'd.
No wiser man than to be dull in heat,
And keep his temper, 'stead of cold in play.
Whence and what art thou, who hast taught them plain,
That they who care so much shouldst honour gain?
With a large art thou art, their style to see,
A piece for each, which thou didst never see.
But though thou to these arts thyself apply,
Yet, for the world's applause, thou art not he.
That I a worthy priest may have obtain'd,
And made a workman to my name, thou saidst,
That I should live; and I should be thy guest,
For thou wouldst die, or I should be thy guest,
That I should live. And I am he that made
Both me and my counterfeit; and thou, this hour,
Art my best workman! and, therefore, with the power
Of doing, such a favour didst thou send,
That with the boon thou mightst be well content.
Now it is mine, and freely I respire
To thy request, that thou be satisfied.
So having promis'd thee a happy day,
Thou didst thyself come and comfort my design,
And that day's work finish'd, for which now I sigh.
And, with a heart that loveth, I do think
That all else perish, since I so do miss
Things that in beauty there do not agree.
But, O my gracious Lord, what may it be
To thee or me? It cannot be but this
That I did pledge to thee, in everything
Which I in full am free to do or say.
The task were difficult, and thou wert marr'd
With a knowing charm, that thou thyself didst leave
To me as to others, till thou didst receive
The gift of life and beauty with thy love.
This day thou tell'st me all thou didst conceave
To leave me in this world where thou didst live,
And that thy love should not need change me now.
True, if thou have a heart, a mind, and know
That love is all which I do own to thee,
I will not give it, nor it will go hard.
The heart's sweet blood moves freely as the wind;
And thy faith's bound in its exactest parts
Is as the sea-wind to the shore, whose waves
Do ever race up mountains of green hearts,
Whose heads with white and yellow and brown locks
Do curl themselves a little when they've done,
But which, O my beloved, are not one
That I did speak to thee of love or sin,
But rather some good angel come to win
Thy heart into his hands and teach thee strength,
Which nothing I can give or hold of, wards
To those most patient spirits, who do weep
To keep the eyes bright to see the souls they keep
For ever weeping,--I, their slave, have sinn'd
Both in my wisdom and my liberty,
Never to have a thought of me in vain.
Look, I do show thee what I am, and what
I will tell thee in what manner I am come
To give thee help. I am a wretched man
Who wants the help and now a help of none,
But from his daily bread eats up more measure
Than he who though his daily food is scant
Suckles his hungry heart for dainty food.
O thou who least of all on earth dost prove
To him who wants the help of this world's love,
Best help I thee who know'st the worst; for I
Am of the world too blind to love too great
To come therein, and yet I do adore,
And though I feel the sorrow of my life
And see its joys go over, I do fear
That I with grief am driven 'mid the noise
Of wicked men and women, whence all hope
And fear of my despair is over me.
I am a beggar on the road, yet, O
Pray for me in my wilderness, for I,
I, in my need, will bring this beggar back
Back to the haven whence he came to me.
Come, let us see the horse of his own heart
Come quickly in among us."
Then the man said:
"Hast thou a care
That I must have, or else I'll have thee take,
That thy revengeful wrath
======================================== SAMPLE 682 ========================================
--
There is a music in the air
That charms our eyes and lips--
The sweetest thought there is in view
That makes our dimpled cheeks grow red
With the bright drops that fill them.
One day as I walked out on the dike
Combing the orange sedge,
I saw--as I stole away
A tender light--a face that seemed
A violets-shadowed Grace
That leaned against a mirror, and
(Like any pen shed pen)
My heart took fire--with so much awe
As I could hear her voice,
As that strange light wherein I saw
The very soul of all these stars
And the holy souls of things,
While here and there her dark eyes shone
With something of an inner light
That lit up all the heaven.
Her words to me--
"Behold," I said, "the new hope born
Of God's Eternity,
Beauty that finds expression there
Of all the joy that wraps its earth--
"Behold, how rapt within my soul
Are all the lovely things He brings;
Beauty that makes His whole heaven round,
Beauty that knows no passion's wrong;
"But in that mystic Name, which brings
Faith, hope, and understanding too,
Beauty immortal, love that brings
The Father's breath back to me through
Who made it mortal, and can say
That in it Love is also Love,
Which is the living soul, and He
Who makes it mortal for a while
Can call it soul."
And she, and me there,
As if before her solemn shrine
She watched a star come forth and shine
Above her dreamless heaven of song--
And a sweet child for ever; and a throng
Of angels, as in days gone by,
From far and near her, with a joy
As bright as dawns that softly die,
"Love me, love me," the angel sang,
"Love me, love me, love me!"
It was the wild night bird
That sung all alone,
It was the wild night hawk,
With a wild love that came
Not from the dead,
But from the heaven above
Unto her home on high;
With the wild light on her face,
Or a wild dream in her heart;
With the wild light anywhere
That shone there.
So it was I and she--
By the wild night birds that flew
About her and about her and about her,
(In wonder 'tended to their winging speed),
Borne on the wild night breeze
Bore her, and on the singing air
Sang her a meaning, and a prayer
Of love and wonder breathed therein
In notes of joy, and thereupon
Stood ever floating something white,
Whose mystery, and whose spell
The charm had caught, and she was there,
The lone night bird, and in her flight
All things, save but her, were sure
Not to know love, but the unseen,
The unseen.
A time, a very long while, when the sun sank behind the sea;
Then she fell back lonely under the sea and again was drowned,
So the ship was come up from the darkness, and the waters shore
and again took refuge in a strange dark screen above the sea;
At the dawn she leaped up steadily over the grey old ocean's edge,
And the wild waves bore her onward, and a great way off she came
To the land beyond the sunset, and to a world still unforgot.
There were hearts that beat in the sunlight, and the sea and the sky,
When the first white light of sunshine streamed round the craggy strand;
There were tears and shouts of triumph, and the voice of one
They loved one other and denied; but now we weep because
they two, the eternal and the eternal, have parted,--
What is the story of the world? Yea, it hath been told,--
Errors that make the dead and the living, and love the dead,
And the spirit of man with a light that is deeper than the old.
They are here.
And the heavens again are brighter, and they sing on the seashore,
And the waters of earth-life murmur more sweetly at every door;
In the days that are gone,
Ere the sons of Greece and the Greeks came back again to the earth--
But now the dead are coming, and with what gladness and mirth
They are welcome to the earth--their faces full of the light.
They are here.
They are there.
They have come.
Their ships bring guests; they have come.
They have come.
And again the dead are coming, and again the sea-birds sing.
How
======================================== SAMPLE 683 ========================================
: The Squire of Waltham Abbey, Reverend Arthur
Milton's Sir Roger de Coverley, author of Bredenhampton,
Milton's Sir William Temple, author of Spenser's _Grundriss der
Horace's Sir Roger de Coverley, author of Tringham's _Travels
by Sir William Temple, Esq;"
_Llewellyn George, July 18th, 1869_.--See his health in London._
Lusitan Drinker appears to have been the great fellow in "London,
renowned for his talent in hunting the deer, fighting with the
Or whenever Willy writes to me
Of some poetical mixture
Of songs, that give the Muses ease;
Of good-for-nothing beans, and chucks,
Of bad drinke-mugs and mucks;
Of bad gar-guest, and ill-made grooms,
And bad drinke-mugs and muzzles;
Of bad gar-guest, and worse-mush-plunk,
And worse-sarks, and unhands;
And worse-milk pottles, crosswise and flush-brush,
And worse-milk pottles, worse-milks, and worse-tubs;
Of bad drinke-mugs and muffs,
And worse-milk pottles, better and worse-mash,
And worse-milk pottles, worse-milks and worse-buttons.
"Blessed be the great Lord!"
Say the bells of St. Marg'ret.
"He loves Whom the London people love;
Many love him; some cast lots;
Others for their bells and hats;
But he loves them.  What is he worth?
Many a love-knot.
"Many a love-knot."
Say the bells of St. Peter.
"How many a love-knot."
Oh, sing a song of Pitcairn,
Oh, sing a song of Weemhain,
O, let the sea and sky be one,
And one's heart beats true and brave;
And some have faith, and some have morn,
And some have deaths, but still we're torn!
"O, let the sea and sky be one,
And one's heart beats true and brave;
All else may fail, and all be done,
Or ever hope to save;
The whole wide world, the whole wide earth,
May one great love,--as well as this,
Make all things new, and meet, and miss,
And keep us strange--our friends, and chance
Of change from far, and change from far--
Be all alike a dream or fickle,
The very faith of one's-self-knower.
"O, let the sea and sky be one,
And one's heart beats true and brave,
And one's love, and one's love, and one's love
Are one and all alike a grave;
The whole wide world, the whole wide earth
May one for one, and one for only,
And keep us strange--our friends, and all
The doers on that night, and all
The birds that sing--
"O, let the sea and sky be one,
And one and all, but keep you fair,
And one and all and all, and nothing
But only care, and sorrow and sinning,
And sorrow and sin and sin and care;
And keep us strange--our friends, and all
The doers on that night, and all the birds that sing."
The King has sworn by His imperial will
To keep His word, and so, they say,
He'll move His feet, and stay His English hill,
And bring them, with the dawn of day,
Their welcome and their prosperous play,
To Glastonbury, for the King's wet hair,
To Glastonbury for the dear child's cry,
And leave their homes and farms for evermore;
But no, for all, the King has failed,
His servants, and their household maids,
And left their revels in our streets,
And made them merry for their pains,
And left them to themselves again."
The King is mad, the Queen is mad.
"Yet, for the man, that loves her most,
He loves her most who loves her most,
For though he is her thrall, he is her thrall;
And is not she, but many, many are
Whom he has found so deeply scarred
She needs must love them all, and she shall know
That he is false to her he loved the best,
And that her hopes
======================================== SAMPLE 684 ========================================
 and John together with
himself, and with him will be found.
As I was going to sell Love, one night my father and I saw a
merchant to-day--he exclaimed.  'How you go?'  I asked him.
'Go now!' said the Man in the Moon.  'Come, Daphne, and show the
ladies,' but he said nothing in the tone, and went on.
Thereupon the moon shed its glory on the wood, and the great
arctures became great, and the air moved together, for it was
'I will never, I assure you,' the dear Sage answered.  'I will
never, I believe, do again;' and the large stars began to
rejoice.
'But I was a scholar after the school of Love, and still had a
The moon was behind the wood like a little gold-fish in an
unfortunate plight, and I soon lost sight of it at the mill; now,
however, I thought in joy that I had been here, and that I should
The Friend of the Church has a garden
Of tenderest thoughts and most tenderest wishes,
That fall themselves where they would not.  From the hush of
the world is the seed of all things: first fruits, flowers, and the
others, and all nature that is fairer than flowers.
In such a hurry the world has come to a loss: the flowers which
here I behold seem to have met this day again, and with the
joyous hues of the meadows growing on every hedge, and with the
full sound of the waters on the shore of the green forest at
the foot of the shore.
To the left, even of the most part of it which is the nearest
forest, and a part of its shadow is not more than a tree; while
thou lookest well to know that under it it the seeds of all
grow in vain, as thou seest.  And because to them thou art
underfond and fickle, thou wilt recollect only of this country
Another mode of cooling shade.  The foliage of trees in
our country is chiefly owing to the keeping of the herdsman
together with the shepherd himself; but the people are all
afraid to bring thither some shelter which may open a new sky
under the clouds, and no shelter can they find, but they do
not shrink.  God elsewhere has removed this shade of the valley
also on that side where it was raised to the very last circle in
the clouds.  God elsewhere made a refuge of the pitiless
happiness of His Angels, and here he set down this poor empty world
where he entered a new world--yea, in this new earth--and
there we are, and I have seen the same things, and the new
creatures of creation.  This world is not in fashion, nor does
it fitly return here: yet we are not only creatures; and in
life we form the universe that is all food, and the soul is
with us; no creature is content: and food is not for us,
but as food for our eating and drinking we carry the sorrows we
perish."
With the words of the Lord, which were kind to him I answered: "I
know nothing, and the life of such man is eternal.  And, in order
that every thing grows towards a greater life, there may not be a
heaven below which is but sky and earth.  Because man's nature in
consequence is divine in himself and in his own nature."
And I: "So may that, by working on thine own image, thou
know more than the world could possibly stand in it; for then I
was the flesh only with thine own life, that lives and is
living, and thou art now become food of this world."
'Even as in summer the frogs leap up and besheheheth them,'
he said, 'not ere their tender young ones have become
pitiless.  Therefore I say that they who were living, cannot
hold such men!  See old folk, ye who are living by reason of
knowledge, forsooth, and here see how ye nourish your love, and
those accursed.  To each one of these things I tell you an
immemorial chanting of the eternal God, and he said that he
gratifying the triple world with His two hands.  Let the
nineteenth day of the month turn thee to day."
Then I saw people go by me wherever they met, as if glad
with the speed of the holy angels; as, in a rock that is seen
that from the top of a great cliff is silent; therefore it
seems to
======================================== SAMPLE 685 ========================================
 the poet:--
"I have not lived a life of toil,
That might have brought me here annoy:
I'll stop and think of all old spoil,--
A life which others would destroy."
He drew the bow before its keeper,
And bowed, with proud and simple pride,
A low obeisance, bound in sugens,
As though proud man's proud heart would hide
'Gainst such a claim as such a bride.
The next was called Theocritus,
In fashion garlanded with flowers:
His brows were fair, his locks were ruddy,
But in his eyes a lustre lingered:
Like ruddy wine that's set in sherds
His cheeks were ripe and full of berries:
And sweet beyond compare were savors,
Most fit for heroes, good examples:
A man, no doubt, which youth approaches;--
A young man, chosen for his hour,
Which never would be chosen marriage:--
A brisk young prince, who ne'er would doubt
To be a heart of such a flower.
Yet, ere the coming of the bride,
He still was mute. He only sighed
When, with a pang, he ran to hide
His bashful face--his eyes were closed:
And there were tears, like water which
Cling to a bubbling spring, went out:
Eyes dark, and lips whose luster glowed
Like violets, yet no word showed;
And, like that drop where all is lost,
The sweet blood gushed, and ere it ceased
The wounded hero lay and bled.
He felt a longing for the years,
A hope to die,--a hope to meet
The blushing face that still appears
So beautiful, and half so sweet
With youthful beauty's loveliness.
This thought would be a thing of nought,
A something vague, and yet a thing
That such could live and such could not;
And yet it is a thing of nought:--
To all it can be most absurd:
To all it can be much is best,
And yet its end is close at best;
And this, and more, perhaps than all,
Is but a sad and lonely pall.
The third, he thought, was something glorious,
A strange delirium of delight.--
But this was nothing but a painting
Of which the poet idly writ,
And still it is a thing of nought,
A painting of a maid by night,
A thing so noble in her worth,
So terrible in worship brought,
That they were wonder-working women,
As they are, and have been, and have said,
But since she was so little children,
A fellow has been born in Rome,
And of an only daughter come,
Who now must be the heir of him
Whom all this vain world did devour,
For whose lost beauty could be won
By no true lover of an hour.
The second, he could see the light
Where the smile clung to that cheek so fair,
Which like a fair bride, coming in,
Made him a rarer than before.
He looked at her as she stood by him,
And then began: "Alas, dear lady,
I saw my Lady wandering
From her sweet home in the town,
For she was dressed in the gown
Which for one night she had bound,
And yet was such strange things to hear,
For she was beautiful indeed.
But I was only little heed,
For I could not as yet befall,
Although I was fair, and could be
Most beautiful in all the world,
But I was never more at all.
And yet--what need of more alarm,
Lest in her father's court there be
More shame than all the women are
Of this our time, and less remorse.
A few days longer I will rest
My hair, that hangs about her neck;
As well she is the pride of me;
But if she be there, say but one,
She is lovelier far than you know,
For in that garden of strange flowers
Her father's tomb is ever seen.
And though she be here, and so long since
She is seen on the balcony,
Her face is the first thing I ever saw,
Her voice is the voice of the world's old law."
Then came a whisper to that lady
Upon whose bier was written "Nay"
(If she were rich in Christian gold),
Whence comes the music of that night,
And why is it, lady, that you talk,
But listen with me?--I know not!
For I was walking with straight ears
Of the
======================================== SAMPLE 686 ========================================
, with his own hands, and the other female pair-
thousand-handed, had gone on with Pallas; but when Pallas
appeared the messenger there in conference, Antiphus son of Priam
refused not to speak. "Alas," said he to himself in his surprise,
"what ails you, Peleus? Is it not enough, of what you told us,
that you have not done it? On your own part I am wrong; be not angry
with me; for I am not come of an alien race. I am not to meet
your own displeasure, for I know you will not do me wrong. It is
because I am ill, but you said to me that I was a feeble man and
tried and ill-born."
So saying he bade the old man lie down, and he flattened the
ground with the sharp sting of a great wound. So far as a man
can see the pointed sting of a thong, the point of his ears
trembled on his hands; the hurt his heart felt, and the
knees tore at once as he lay stupid in his slumber.
Then in his sleep Agamemnon laid him down in a corner of the
halls, calling to his men fifty men and a half only, who
were being wounded and of the battle, but to the two of whom
Agamemnon revised over them, saying:
"Hear me, friends, hear me as I say. It is not right that we should
dishonour another man who, as many as we are, would fight. Who
is this stranger whom we have seen fighting with resolute
settle for the Trojans? It is Agamemnon son of Atreus who has
the care of every one of the Trojans, who has not seen them
strangers before him while he is fighting; he is about to perish
in the hope of leaving his comrades, for he is no longer
lucky of the rest of them."
The whole people approved of him, and they then answered, "Agamemnon
and Achilles have had much sorrow; let us go to the house of
Priam, and I will tell you the story of my sorrow also. We are
fighting round the city of Troy. Achilles was the throust; and
we know no other reason why we should not encounter him.
When we had come inside the wall of the city, the Achaeans made
ready for the city. Idomeneus was first to come forward in order
while he was younger, whereas Idomeneus was as old as his
father, and he still is here now. Idomeneus is taking me by the
right into the wall, whereon we both of us draw a breath and
draw a breath. As when a man in any trouble looks down and thinks
not of what is going on before him, and it is well against
him if he can have no hope of better handling himself and
hiding off the evil threat he hath gotten from him, or is
already saying to the house the message that was sent him,
even so did those of Troy refrain at the cry: but their
people still fear to do so, and fear lest their brave son
aplee his coming."
He took the shield of valiant Hector, made it fitted in
the same manner, and himself was moved to defend his
comrades.
Thus did they fight as they did then, and the two held
shields. Idomeneus and Idomeneus kept no blind look-out; the
fight is fought at the Trojans, and the two who were fallen
thereon are beaten down with stones. The valiant Glaucus,
Oïliades, Antiphates and Hector of the aweless aweless son of
Priam, are slain by the hand of Hector, and Hector has
come to the house of him who will fain learn whether it is the
due and the victorious son of Priam, and yet they are not to
die until he reach the ships, for no man comes to the rescue
of his son.
Thus did they fight as it were a god, and the two did
fighting, and Meriones son of Nestor, the son of divine
Oïliades, while the two fell on one another. The son of
Peleus being by the feet of Achilles went up to him and
sped him with his spear. Meriones and Idomeneus, two men
did so, and one of them leaped across the ditch. My
friends, this was the foremost man and the fastest. In revenge
they struck one another off the cliff's top with a hound running
fishes have been swelled the whole
======================================== SAMPLE 687 ========================================
, _a ca d' amours_, and the _e ances_
_That '_might be_ the name for which _I serve_ it
_C'est en est_, when I have done that scath'ry
_There's not a book I'd read about so pithily._----
When I had all these critics wrong'd about me,
I saw--they must have been well out of order----
I had a mind to close it and get out of it----
What, though it was not for myself that I'd read it,
Yet something better than my sense would fix it.
The reason was this, I could not bear to think
That I should read the very words they think.
Yet something in my verse or in my prose,
Compared, may well demand an answer, shows
That the least known thing is to be understood,
Though it may come between and not oppose them.
I have done the work which you would gladly do,
Pray then be good, and so will keep it true.
A spirit doth so in each man's nature lie,
That he can read the very words I write,
And then begin to feel, when I'm dispos'd
In my short time by that same zeal of your,
Your very feelings I will let them light:--
But if your hope for me seem less to you,
Why--for my sake will I begin to write.
'Forbid your light'--O, Heaven, it seems too late----"
And I, whose steps have led me there to write
A step less light'--I know I owe it much;
But when I do my inkstand to conclude,
You'll hardly find the letters I describe.
To say how many books of verse I've writ,
They're most refined and justly pleasing wit;
Like those which are preserved by the best few
I would not fail to name in any wise,
Unless they were by you of every age,
Which, if it's so, would be a pleasing page.
There may be too much nonsense in a trice,
It should not be annoy'd to keep it worse.
There are some authors so too full of scorns,
Who write not of the 'insolent Lays of Spontes,'
(Who can't be cured of any lack of roomes).
There are some authors so as strong and fresh
As not to let them come into my flesh;
They can't remember any one but you,
And that's the only one I have to write.
There may be a diviner couplet like
Some of those authors I've already painted,
The types of saints, which I have oft admired;
And I presume, if they have been the same,
The church would answer for the same hereafter.
There are some who have drawn the line of praise
To all young authors whom I well admire,
Who are as good as any wise in lays,
And to be good is sinful to the friar.
But for such names, such pranks, and tramping ways,
They both can't keep off scribbling any time;
Nor yet regard dishonourable lays,
Or change their style to follow my sublime.
Some as you notice may find fault with me,
And others as you find may think of some
Which they profess, where I was made to be,
But the good names I speak no tongue can frame;
'Tis more by far, than I would choose to name.
A thousand poets I see standing there,
All clad in purple, clad in blue and green,
Like the last garland for poetic hair.
There is so many that I still can see,
And I can feel as I have felt of old,
As, in my youth, I danced with joy to see
The very freedom of the voice men hold,
And to a holy, calm repose would yield;
Then I grow old, and the sweet, sunny weather
Would change my very life for aye before,
And look no more upon the sun than after.
But I am old; and I must keep my youth,
Rather than go astray and lose my heart
Where nothing meets but what I have to sing.
I could have loved, but no one loves the whole,
As that I should have loved myself and you,
If you had lived, and I had been your soul,
And that I love you, I should have been you too.
I loved no man till I could love him
And had not found a heart that could be sad;
I loved the lonely road through the world,
Myself a song, and the lonely sky a dream,
And, sitting down, I could love him better
Than he
======================================== SAMPLE 688 ========================================

_Lump._ Her own sister.
_Mar._        For my sake.
To be happy.
I was happy in time.
A long, long time.
_Mephistopheles._ And when that day comes?
_Floure._ I'll see it--ah, then!
_Mar._ We'll walk together, I'll see--
_Mar._ What will the world then?
_Mephistopheles._ We'll talk together till morrow!
What will it be, then?
_Mar._ It will not be--we'll talk together!
The world will have some time since then.
_Margaret._ Now bring the platter to-morrow!
_Mephistopheles._ I will.
_Mar._ What is to happen! _Faust._ I'm sure to catch her!
_Mar._ No indeed, Faust. (_Fausts_). What! you'll catch her!
"Mephistopheles, I will catch her!
Faust's no fool at all!
Mephistopheles, I fear we'll soon be here.
_Mar._ Now, yes. Now, now, you see, glad faces
All have their own way.
Faust would take her in a manner gentle,
And her sweet eyes grow brighter.
_Margaret._ From what?
_Faust_. But then I will be sorry. Only
Because the devil strikes me all in this time,
And my first impulse is too true to force it.
_Mephistopheles._ I am not well--my good friend.
_Faust_. Your pardon.
_Margaret [appearing outside of the door of a large and beauteous
and beautiful apartment; and listening to the music of the Lady
The moon is on high.
Faust! I hear it, I know it too well.
_Margaret [approaching the curtain and playing from the
Away from the hall,
The moon, on her throne of silver,
Circles with delicate motion,
And in an elysian fashion
Moulds her beautiful halo.
The star of the night is beaming,
The golden rays are beaming,
So bright is the gem of my dreaming,
As if that silver were gleaming.
The star of the night is beaming,
The golden rays are beaming,
So fair is the gem of my dreaming,
As if that silver were gleaming.
Wilt be in such splendor then, my fair one?
_Faust_. I have made thee fearful,
And my heart would not move thee.
Methought thy cheeks were bared,
And the moon thy form adorning;
For the beauty that is in them
Makes all of them love thee.
_Margaret_. A dance will so be,
I shall not stay for thee now.
_Faust_. Would thou mock me,
And thy charms seem slight to thee now,
For like magic is the charm
Thou wouldst have had e'en now.
Faust [the young shepherd of the] west,
Gives thy kiss to the moon--_nds_]
Hail, hail! Thou shalt bless us!
Away from this world,
And all shall be well!
Away from this world!
Away from this world!
The moon, as she rose,
Sits high above,
And we part in the dew.
Away from this world!
Then how can I love thee?
Away from that world!
And all that was born,
Methinks that I love thee.
Away from this world!
Away from that world!
'Neath which all may see,
I shall yet like the Gloom--
And they'll break our sky!
Thy lips were a-bloom--
The moon was so fair,
And around that rich sea
Thy waves flowed to the shore!
The fair trees and clouds of night
Were the gems of thy lustre and light--
Thy blush was a bud that blushed
With a moon-red and rosy red.
The stars of the night were the gems
Of thy radiance--the moon on thy wings,
And thy robe was a sunbeam-gleam.
But the star of the night was afar,
And the moon's disk was a shimmer of fire;
The winds were the silks that were love
To thy spirit and thy attire.
The stars of the night were the gems
Of thy glory--the moon on thy breast--
And the star-bells were threads of fire!
_Frosch_ [_s
======================================== SAMPLE 689 ========================================
, William, xii.
"But I will send up my own bill, Bill, i.is," Mrs. Marden Bill.
"Now I wish I were where one gets," said Bill, iii.
"But," the plumed gentlemen replied, iii.
"Then I want a wife," said the plumed men, ii.
"But I will," said the mourning woman, ii.
Rally, jig.
Rally, jig.
Rally, jig.
Resolve, rathe, rathe, rathe.
Resolve the matter up, my dears, iii.
Resolve, rathe, rathe, rathe.
Resolve, rathe.
Resolve, rathe, rathe, rathe.
Resolve, rathe, rathe, rathe,                     _Big brass band_.
Resolve, rathe, rathe, rathe.
Resolve me double reign,               _Big brass band_.
Resolve, rathe, rathe, rathe,                   _Big brass band_.
Rump, totly, roll.
Red, gold, Rut. of red.
Rumpus, prim. of red, and then, tu, more.
Rumpus was the son of a ter-faced jade.
Rumpus, prim. of red, sharply.
Robin, Sankin Joe, and a musical air.
Rumpus, Grandfather. (B.C. C.).
Robin, Grandfather. (B.C. M. Housman.) (B.C. M. Rumpus.)
Robin, Grandfather. (C. M. B. B. B. B. VI, and the
Coridon, Grandfather's own son, 5.
Protrograde,Protrograde, 7. (B. VI.)
Protrograde,Protrograde, 1. (BEN J. Housman.)
Protrograde,Protrograde, 11. (BEN J. Housman.) (B. Housman.)
Protrograde,Protrograde, 11. (BEN J. Housman.)
Protrograde,Protrograde, 10. (BEN J. Housman)
Protrograde,Protrograde, 6. (BEN J. Housman)
Protrograde,Protrograde, 11. (BEN J. Housman)
Protrograde,Protrograde, 11. (Cunningham, 9.)
Rumpus, City of Shadow. (BEN J. Housman)
Robin, Grandfather's general. (BEN J. Housman)
Robin, John, a John, ruler of the realm. (BEN J. Housman,
ruler of the realm. (BEN J. Housman)
Robin, King of the realm. (BEN J. Mousman)
Robin, King of the realm. (BEN J. Mousman)
Robin, King of the realm. (BEN J. Mousman)
Swan, swaggen, swaggen to the sea. (BEN J. Housman)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (BEN J. Mousman)
Swan, swaggen into the sea. (BEN J. Mousman)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (BEN J. Housman)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (BEN J. Mousman)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (BEN J. Mousman)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (BEN J. Mousman)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (BEN J. Mousman)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (BEN J. Mousman)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (In Mousman)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (BEN J. Mousman)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (A B3/4)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (A B3/6)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (BEN J. Mousman)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (Mousman)
Swan, swaggen to the sea. (BEN
======================================== SAMPLE 690 ========================================
.
On the way from Rome to Avignon,
That overlooks the way to Florence)
A goodly company assembled
Sate in the Empyrean' graveyard,
Rejoicing greatly as they sate them,
'T was in the darkness of the night,
They said, "It is the time of prayers!"
And at each pause the holy bell
Was giving out a glad "Yet aught!"
For all to whom most earless listen,
With the dark psalm, "The things to come!"
As if some curious dream had entered
The dark grave yard, or some strong sobbing
That on the night-time of the year
Is not yet ended,--the fair Florence!
I saw within her grave-cloths folded
The ungathered May-rape round her knees:
Her gentle hand was on her breast
And on her breast a glowing light
That in the dew of dawn was lighting,
Whose fingers brushed it as it lay
Their leaves upon the fresh-turned lea,
And on her mouth was gently breathing
Such fragrance as will haunt the May,
And like a pure-toned chorister
The holyesta girdles her
And on her feet an urn is lighted;
While from within, the low tone stole,
Like music, the impassioned tone,
Like the faint voice of a saint rebuking
From out her soul.  "Yet may it be";
And then she held a lily-white
Swathed in her sunny vestments white,
And from the earth--as from a tomb
The clear air caught her as she stood
Bending her head, and as a lily
Concealing, from its resting-place
Uplifted in some garden place,
Lay in the rain and on the grass
A maiden, veiled and unafraid,
Her lovely presence, and her face,
Bright with the glow of ancient dreams:
And o'er the marge of faery brooks,
That bathed the lakes and rivers run,
A twilight remnant of the trees
Sheds a warm shadow, where the sun
Keeps back his lustre, as he leans
Over the grave of Easter day
To light his splendor on the way.
And o'er the warm and virgin lands,
That porch, and sunny-ankled grove,
And grove, and pool, and sunny cove,
There was a group of flower-priests,
Each as her own peculiar garb,
Who to her hand a tiny purse,
And, while they whispered, pressed it round.
They brought her in with tiny purse
To take the basket home, and there
She sate and waited till the gloom
Fell on the withered house and bare
The stain and blazon of the day.
In that same vase of human things,
Which the brief type they took of life,
They lay the lifeless form of strife,
And on those worn-out things their eyes
Were fixed, that look so mournful wise
Upon the dreary house and home.
These simple customs were not mute;
They dwelt around the winter's way,
And though the naked housewife's axe
Had made a woe of all the day,
Nor the familiar hearthstone flame
Upon the silent church-tower gray
Might well the unheeding ashes tell,
They felt a deeper interest dwell
In each wild sound and flower-face, where
The autumn, like a sudden sigh,
Breathes of a warmer summer sky.
Her home was in the far-away
When spring had scarce begun to blow;
But I shall find within it here
The blight and ruin of all earthly things,
The desolation of the earth,
The darkness that I shall not see,
I shall behold them one and all,
And passing o'er the mountains all
Behold a fairer form of her.
And she is now--a noble queen--
Her stately steps are seen to bend
Above the rude and city-walls,
Where many a cottage seems to lend
Its silent homage to her steps
As bashful as the tender palms
That o'er her infant bed up-breathe:
And now a purer breath is gained
By her who wears the plume it hangs
Above that humble humble home.
She loves the snowy-bosomed tree,
As if to guard her father's life
Where he and others could not be.
And now she sitteth at her side,
While all the summer land is bright;
And looking back across the page,
With sad, maternal glance, that told
Of her who, with a mother's care,
======================================== SAMPLE 691 ========================================
 the lads and maids,
Sitting at their loom.
"Oh! my wife's been pretty fain,
And I've asked her whither?
And she's left behind where she has been,
And she is to wander
Alone, alone,
With a heart that never fails to beat
In wildest joy and glee!
Oh! the world-devouring brood
Of evil brood and vile!
Oh! they'll come and be so small--
But they'll not come with me!
"I've a little garden-bed,
With a rose-bud fresh and fair,
Built by bees, who never care
Where the sunbeams play;
And I've also little more
Than the world, in all its charms,
Any time can give of joy:
Let them come and be my friends,
Let them meet with me at eve
At the garden-gate;
And I'll make them all come straight,
With the rose-bud fresh and fair,
Where the moonlight is not there."
And whenever the moonlight is
Shining over the orchard-trees,
Or when stars are shining dim,
When the wind is up at night,
Or when flowers are waking white,
Then the lilies all have gone
Hither, thither, every one!
I wonder what on earth shall be
With the moonlight and the flowers,
Shall save them and the state of things.
Will the angel of the hour
Be never in a strange disguise
To greet and hide me from the sight
And lead me when the starlight glows?
In the starlight every flower,
Will the angel of the hour
Be never in a strange disguise
To greet and hide me when the moonlight skies?
The world and I have wander'd ways,
The paths of darkness and of night,
Have met, have parted, and been known
In days of dawn and nights of morn--
The world and I have wander'd wild,
The path of darkness and of light.
There is no rest for them at all.
There is no rest for them at all.
The world and I have wandered far,
The path of darkness and of light,
Where stars are shining everywhere,
And breezes whisper everywhere;
There is no rest for them at all.
The world and I were late indeed--
We wander'd through the fields so fair,
Nor saw the moon, nor heard the rain,
Nor heard the wild birds desolate,
Nor heard the nightingale complain.
I heard my heart beat thick and fast,
I saw the great drops gathered fast
From the wide darkness of the night--
The great drops, one by one, set white
Over the moon. "Come to my bed,"
I said within my restless head.
"I'll not deny you need not say
I made the oath I swore to-day.
I'll not deny you have no doubts
When you are seated in the shades.
I'll never lie in bed nor wait,
Or be forever at your gate;
I'll never, never, be a fool
To drink my wine in the cool rain
Wherein my dreams shall come again.
"I'll ask you every hour that's mine,"
I said within my restless brain,
"You'll know my dreams, that I would fain
Have something of my fairy train.
I know my dreams; and on a night
When all the lights are out and cold,
You'll sit in your beds and watch me light
The fire-light of my fairy fold."
I'm sitting alone in the fire-light,
With my eyes lit up gorgeously,
And my willing soul that's full of dreams
Is busy with itself and pleads
Not only to laugh but to sleep.
And the shadows of the past and young,
And the old bird desolate and torn,
Have left me alone in the sun--
I'm sitting alone in the fire-light
Where a little wheel of light
Flutters about the silent room....
I'm sitting alone, with my head down
(He's got a cherry-tree in one,
It's not in the air but inside the fire
I've sat up all the night and spoke
Of things I cannot say or show.)
I'm sitting alone in the fire-light,
That's caring not how I shall be--
Now in my chair I sit and watch
The shadow of my chair for me.
It slips away like a speck of pink
Lying just on the window sill:
And the wind, as it passes, whistles
A mournful note to fill
The lonely room with little flickering notes
So keen they scarce can tell
How
======================================== SAMPLE 692 ========================================
's
"Husband's!"
"There are not many men of good habits and qualities, and of
country.  There is no mention of any so-called indulgence between
relationship with their manners and habits of life, but at times
There are many good drinks for gentlemen and gentlemen, who seem
melancholy.  We have selected twelve men of our own age.
We have also seen some examples of our own drunkenness, which is
necessary to drink wine.  We have also other companions, among the
Who is the friend of every faithful friend who knows him?  He is
hard, the man is filled with wine, and the wine is worth
cheerful.  We have also seen the friend of every faithful friend who
Hebrew health, and the French physician have given an exquisite
We have already said that repine--
Good wine.  But the very same cup we drink
Must be filled up with poison.
I have heard of a juice in your wine, and I am sorry that it has
quenched.  I have also heard that it is wine, but my soul is
deprived of this kind.
You say I am sorry for me.
You blame me, companion and friend, for this kind of
dishonour.
The other companions are always going to pot, and the mouth is no
pile.
I know a person who may be doing me anything by myself.
Now, friend, tell me about yourself.  The friendship that I
have given you I will never forget till at last I have
declared this forbid, and then, friend, I have come to set a
call upon yourself.  You know it has been an unfavourable
companion.
You know another woman who may be serving with me to-day in a
banquet.
You know her, who may be serving well with her husband.
You know she is but a trifle ignorant being she will serve
me wherever I come.
She is the trifle under which you have made her your play, and
you may take it the first time.
"It is more than the can of us," you say.  You have always been
marrying me, but I know you know that I have never danced with any
one save through the dark hours and the long, long night.
You have made me all myself a fool.
We laughed always to scorn him and I have always understood he
Was that you, madam, that you must come
back from the court of love, with your robe upon your back
and your long white hair about your shoulders?
You are not asking for your hair which you have combed.
You think of nothing but what clothes you wore.
You say you are old, but there are some things to be told about
In spring, when the little birds are building, and the air is
full of seeds and flowers, and everything is loaded with fruit
and light, and the buds begin to spring, and the bird sings in
its nest by reason of its own music.
You have a gift that no other man could wish for than you, a
fragrant gift that you might have bestowed on the ignorant.
You were always thinking of what I might ask you if you
would give me some work of joy.  You were ever thinking of
all that I might ask for.
Do you remember the time of our meeting by the river, and the
meeting, and the chatter and whiz of the water, all natural
instinct in each other's arms, and the laughter of children,
and the chatter of children, and the chatter of the water among
the grass, and the chatter of boys and girls with their little
laughing laughter, and the chatter of boys and girls in their
glad laughter, and the chatter of girls and boys as they lay
stretched to me?
I am glad that nothing has happened since I left you.  All day long
I have been seeing you, going to see your face and to take your
rags.  And now that I am going home--again I will go back to
the storehouse, and see the girl who has made me the
servant.
"Now, Madam, have you forgotten the last time I was with
me, and do not forget me for a moment?  I am going to make
you rich, and see how I can take my place among the
multitude of those who love you."
I am certain it is nothing for me more than that I had said to
my friend, and in a worse thing than she was, to take away my
crown and place among my other friends--and to take away my
treasure.  And the last word that I returned, and we met at
the corner
======================================== SAMPLE 693 ========================================
;
Then, as the chieftains of the South,
They wore no proud rapacious crest;
But held his helm, and, on the sands,
With glancing eyes and open hands,
He hailed the hero of the sea,
And bade the parrakeets be free.
This hero's grave look had such air
Of solemn sadness in her eye,--
It had no single fear to bear
The soul that launched it in this cry.
"Oh, would to God, that it had been
A life of love to linger here!
Were we the earth, dear love, like you
Who dwell here by your father's knee,
How blest would we have been to view
This night how happy you might be!
"But I in this would dream a dream;
And, did I only here, I swear,
I had been happy to have been
A child upon the rocks to hear.
Oh, why should not my sleep deceive
This night, beneath those moonless skies,
Of that which breaks and is not cheers?
In all the world was none so free
As youth, and love, and youth, and you!"
Then she, by the light of the moonbeam,
Begged him, "Oh, how happy you'd have been,
If you had lived in that sweet home
That we were wedded on the green!
And you in the land that's called your own,
And I in the land you've called your own?"
He felt a chance when all seemed strange;--
He glanced, like some sweet lily change,
Before that face;--she was alone;
He kissed her brow, he kissed her cheek,
He sighed and sobbed her words of cheer,
Till they were only words of love
(And thus the answer came,--and here
A tear
Was traced and traced upon his cheek
For years), as on his mournful word
He spoke with parting soul and aching eye;
For she, whose heart had long withstood
The grief of Grief, had been to him as good
As many griefs that man can scarcely dim.
And now that face had grown so pale,
Herself, a saint, of soul and form,
That every thought and word and tone
Of that sad heart had grown to his own,
And made a man to live and grow
So woman's heart could only know
Some other God than She.
The hours slid fast and ceased
With scarce a beam of human light;
The temple-cups and moonlight flowers
Drooped over the deserted grove;
And, like a pallid moon in June,
The dream-like silence fell on him;
And, when his place of birth was dim
Some wondering child gave conscious thought,
Some wondering moment hushed and still,
As in an awsome swoon;
And, though the child's large eyes grew dim,
His own still glowed, his own rebuked;
And, as he spoke, the bright still tears
Fell back upon his broken ears.
Now the fair morning rose, and in
The little chapel of a church
By two tall poplars rested soon.
But yet--the little chapel dim--
A man like a dark eye might see
The mother's face, as one that swims
Through dream-like water in a fay;
For there were faces bright like stars,
And hands on either side the praying
Stretched on the altar's lifted bar,
Which through the quiet church-yard met
The mother's face, in wonder still,
Between the living in the still,
As only a grave reconciles
Unto their Savior's, where he stands
Alone upon the threshold stone,
As if the grave had closed his eyes,
So still, not seeing, was that face,
And yet that form of human grace,
The holy eyes that dwelt therein,
As pure as the celestial grace
Of the first heaven's first angel grace.
Beneath the window were sweet flowers
And gentle music in the sun;
And as the sunshine fell instead,
They softened to the childlike air
That came from little woodland bowers,
And echoed to the murmured air
The holy music of the sea,
And touched him with the running flow
Of the salt sands that clove the shore;
And, while the sunset died in mist,
As the child's song died on the wind
The mother drew the infant child
Between her heart and her own--
The little Christ--the little Child!
He bends his face towards the west,
As if he kissed his new-born infant,
And loosed his mother from its rest,
As if, when the fond eyelids laughed,
======================================== SAMPLE 694 ========================================
's own.
"With such a man no better man than I
Sprung from a race that's born of seed divine,
The first in wisdom and the second made,
Who fell a lion in his pride of line
And ruled the world and fought another's right:
By reason which, and by discouragements,
He led his people and made laws for right.
"Thus, for his own part, he lived, and all
Within his orbit, as he went down to earth,
Till he attained the greatness of his fall,
And grew a part of all the human worth:
For man he made and trembled with a gnaw
That eats his heart up, being a living worm.
"Then, as we walked, we saw him mount the hill
On whose high summit he the world did see
That the great hunter was alive with us
And living, since he leaves the world as we.
And when he dies, be all things done to me."
"My father, father, son, and all the world,
It is not death at all, not fate at all,
But life that dies and knows life,--I alone,
And in the dark, not in the dream of death.
He, like a drop from the dark spheres of space,
Came forth from nothing, and his soul was great.
Till in the daybreak of this great humanity,
A voice was heard on earth: "In no part whatsoever I
Know ye, my children, of what sort I am.
"To what a vile end am I abandoned--dead.
Not that the dark enwraps me in this flesh,
But, for the thing I did, I fear no worse,
Nor seek to speak; and I have time to brag
Of all our former life for ever dark.
"If I can only hope that I be born
To nothing be a soul of granite, then
I have a hope and will have time to brag
I have a love for you and will be proud;
'Tis what is worth the living, and being proud
Of being loved, it is worth asking; and when
I have been tired and with myself grown old,
Then, with my own weak child, I fear, I stand
Stiff and unwounded, and the dreadful hand
Of Death has seized me, and all evil things
And wrongs are scattered in that dust, and I
Am but a child who fear not time nor fate.
"If, therefore, upon divers coasts and lands,
Be not my foe, then, wandering in my thought,
I should be even as part of all the good
Contagious as I was, and would be fraught
With sorrow, and would bear the weight of things
And think no evil. I am old, withal,
And wear a crown of thorns about my head,
And have a carelessness, and feel no dread;
And so I stand there, lonely in the night,
And, lo! the day draws on, and all the flowers
Wane in the light, and all the night brings dusky
And mists and shadowy, and the night a gloom,
And men grow old together from the tomb,
And I am old and sick, and must be old;
And then I hear a little wind that sighs
And sighs and sobs, and think of deathless things,
And hear a voice, and feel the sound of wings,
And think how foolish and who cannot live."
So was it with these words, and so against her will,
Until the darkness covered all the earth;
Till, following up the light, a dreadful cry
From out the darkness came a second voice,
And in the darkness came another sound:
Till like a spectre fell upon the ground
The dreadful shout of one who is a king,
And the old gods were wroth because of love;
And many of them, weary and burnt with toil,
Were by their fellows for the night-long watch,
And many turned to find themselves at rest,
And deemed it not a dream, now it is best.
It was the voice of one who is a god,
And in his breast is rapture, and an awe
That on the brink of destiny doth fall,
Bearing to heaven the blessings of the path;
And yet the voice of man--"Thou knowest not
What is against thyself; and what the Gods
Have done themselves are yielded forth to thee."
Then straightway, while they spoke, they gave to her
A golden chain, that hung about her neck,
And in its silver chain there gains or takes,
And in the chain it fits her silver locks,
Made gold and silver, for her head
======================================== SAMPLE 695 ========================================
, of the _Fauns_: and their meaning is "Elian."
That this _Goblin_ he has been upon,
By many strange fancies daunted,
An unknown knight to be found missing,
Which, having wandered about, is missing;
I think, if the knight had not been there,
To view him again, he was doubting;
I'm certain that, on his coming hither,
Of what sort of knight was he dreaming?
If _him_ so strange and so dull a spark,
The mere wooden, the _Goblin_ still gleamed on it,
That one would have fallen upon it;
For now my fine, _Goblin_ at rest was not stirring;
And I am glad that the knight had been sleeping.
The rest of the night came; some came too.
And, having withdrawn their last greeting,
Our new and our welcome quite drew
In, on to the inn, in the room, where
Our host of the Transva was waiting:
For, by very few men, I'm sure
He ne'er saw such wonderful faces.
'T was the outermost morn the guests heard,
As he lay awake at their passage;
Some were seated at distance, some near
His couch, which the wine made longer;
Some with mirth-lights in hand, and some
In with nosegays at lip, and eyes deep
Under glasses that made little think
What moccasins were being befitting;
But most, with wine, from the Knight's own hand,--
And his friends he let fall from his sight.
And soon after dinner the Knight
Had sworn that the feast was ready,
That wine would keep out the least bit
That was in the Court, and was yet to be set;
When out from the inn came an old wanderer,
Who should wander no more in tarry.
The guests were withdrawn from the hall-hall,
And the King himself sat before them.
Of Rhine wine was he took the last down
From his goblet, whose bright crown,
Fringed over his head, discloses
Deep down beneath his black nose;
And round the red cross on his arm, a
Last kiss of his dagger he ties,
And bids us no more of such matter
Have need of more wine than we were;
For we are the guests of King Ring.
Then the Lady, still watching his smile,
Said, 'Heaven's power lies beyond our control;
And if he should fall from our hands, the
King will be but a vain old Rancher.
With me, then, he shall come again, surely;
Yes, we are the guests of King Ring.
'We have drunk, and our wine we will carry;
This night, I expect, an hour's warning;
Give us then this Broglio, make merry,
Carry, though it be against liquor,
Give us wine, that we may make passage
Of this fool Brogagna at Home?'
With that he took out his own hand, saying
That the wine he had got from the bower door
Was red wine, which, when he had
Made his last ablutions, gave out the last thread;
Whispering wine, his friends he left there, saying
'May the Lord only keep this wine!'
And, to save us awhile from the heat of the banquet,
Down from the tavern he rose.
Oh, the wine! oh, the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh,
The wine! Oh, the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh,
The wine! Oh, the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh,
The wine! Oh, the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh,
The wine, oh, the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh,
The wine, oh, the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh,
The wine, oh, the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh,
The wine, oh, the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh,
The wine, oh, the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh,
The wine! Oh, the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh,
the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh,
the wine, oh, the wine! Oh, the wine! Oh,
the wine! Oh, the wine! Yet the wine is not red,
Nor swoll'lous and low, nor red, nor red, not
red,
As a rose should go up into heaven; and the rest
Is but green grass, like a swoll'lous vine,
Wherefrom we catch fire and sing. Oh,
the wine! oh
======================================== SAMPLE 696 ========================================
,
As the holy potter, toiling and sipping,
Runs through the village, up the wall;
Or, if it has been a-sheddin', will run into the barn,
Battl'd up and bared,
With a fork of tow,
You can see the old man ride,
Over down, across;
The old man, stout of hand,
Says, "It's me, shended pound,
I winced up, and that's clean,
I saved her this day;"
The gawky woman then,
As she opened the big door,
Smiled.  "Who called you poor?"
Well, sir, she opened it--
Proud with the thought of shame;
"Now, sir," she said, "Emma married me,
I want her at home."
"Good sir, she's just a trifle smothered
With compliments to me;
And then," he added, "my coat, I'm sure,
Is worse than she!"
She turned on him a look of doubt;
He knew how well he felt
She would take him out, without delay,
As well as the other do,
A-sitting in the stove
Just to hear that mother's voice
In the window-seat.
He had a crook to his leg,
Made out of hay, in a stubble cart;
In his face little beauty he saw,
Fitted with a perfect dye;
And, if you could help admiring her,
And she should ford this and that,
Just as plain as he could say 'em a-n-
-N-
(When the great big spider)
Thoughtfully he stole away
The good cobber,
And left her a little to learn about me.
The spider,
He went away with me,
And I never knew which was which was which was which to be.
In a snug little room,
With his wife and children
And his little pad,
The fly-spun toy
He built for animals.
"Your heart is hard to feel," he said, "and you feel very hard to meet
The spider,
He is hard to have a little mouse.  Go and watch his little meal,
He will bite you dead for it;
Make a rabbit of my skin, and it shall be made of your own skin;
I am afraid to find a little mouse alone!
The fly-spun toy
He will swallow me twice, four times, to that.
Go and watch him as he squeals,
Shaking off the barley
Oracles he will use,
And let him get off the top
When he jumps into the top.
The spider,
He will come after me,
And throw all the toys away
With his big round yellow eye.
In that little bank of green,
Where the treasure birds are seen,
He shall grow, I fear, too.
But when he gets in the hollow tree,
I'll think his father thought he knew,
And ask him whence there comes a mouse,
Brown orgold, or yellow orchimes,
From the golden orchwister's beak.
And he shall tell you of his name,
And when his old grandfather tries
To be what I'd have lost, he shall tell you of his fame.
Brown and black and grey and brown,
In a wood that is not known,
Twenty years away,
An old man and cat, alone.
I cannot tell you what I'd do,
But really, this I know--
I am very sure of it.
And I wish I had a line to line,
Doubting whether shoe or no
To keep them all so long in mine,
I'd eat them all as well as I'd
Eat them all, though I should die!
If I could only feel my toes
Crept out by little little toes;
If I could only try to walk
Up in that tree, and talk to _talk_,
I'd eat so well instead of _talk_,
I'd have the whole green apple-tree,
High up in that tree, and where
High up that tree, so small and neat,
You never saw the like, I swear!
In the winter I get up at night
And walk about the fields to-night.
I keep a secret for myself
While my bed's asleep;
My dress is ancient, but my bed
Was woven when I was a lad.
I dream of it at half-past eight,
The day before I woke,
When from the clock, with eight o'clock shake,
Rose up a terrible cry,
And he called for me at nine
======================================== SAMPLE 697 ========================================
 of
"The King's Polly"
"A Girl's Birthday
"The Landlord," "William Wilson," one of the peasant people said, "is
A fellow in the East has not a thing
Of ugly face or frown or lofty thought
In aught but mien he's all the while
At that last stage's testifies a youth
So, as no mortal judge in truth can blame,
Just name yourself and play with him who plays
At hearts of men and makes them speak in him
The name of him who plays at all events
With that long theatre's testifies a man
He's not the first who sees another man
In this world's game, but also, having none,
The one who brings him here in what he knows
Is, howsoever well he plays at heart.
Here is the Place where, on a Saturday,
Old Goody danced with me, so long before;
But--"The Other Nine?"--Jane sighed.
"The Ball?" I asked.
"The Ball to me? Ay, yes, but not for you!"
'Tis a long, long time, but when I'll give you all
'Tis a long while and so it will end with you.
You're only a woman, though.
Well, many a time
Your mother wailed and shrieked, but as for sin!
Then I was thankful that the King would let
Some moments more of that vulgar fun
In me should be the more for streams of tears.
For you are all my own for I, alas!
And so I wish that you were back at last.
But there is only a place--a man, of course.
I wish you knew that night would hold to you
The memory of a day when you and I,
Together in the play, would walk with me
And make the fun of this time. We'll be out
At the Last Scene, and so, as we are out,
You'll be surprised to think. But it's the ball.
It's my own pleasure. I believe that I
Must be a man and woman if I could.
But when you are beheld from out the trees
You'll see the man who hanged these men. And you?
It may be I am here now with the King.
But if a man can see him and not see,
What's he but seeing you? Then, what's the matter?
I only see my Prince will see to it,
The man who killed this man, and that is everything."
He did not look at her, it was the King.
But when I asked what had become of him,
He answered, "This man is the Earl of Marlborough.
I'll stand out here and see him. Why do you go
And sit by me this evening at the table?
Forgive me if I am a poor girl, a minx,
Or only a poor girl, a ghost out in the dark."
And so I made them quiet for their words,
And then--the King would say, "Why, let him stand
And let him take you. How can you be aware
Of this?"  And then he would: "Yes, I am King,
And so you are, at least. You're only a Queen,"
He said, and stopped. "I like your prince, I hear,
For I was born in the great Red Stock town,
And I don't like such things as your poor child--
That's what you are. I'll have to fight the man
Who killed you, but I won't. Look at his coat.
I'll have to stand this trial, since I've fought
Because a man can see a man. I'll see
For what he knows of that, for what he knows,
Of what he does."
I said this to him,
"I will be your guest to-night; be you so kind,
Pray do me square the room and make yourself
A sort of auger and a kind of court."
And when the royal knight had said the word,
He left the room to do him sacrifice
And go from me--there was no sound except
The very breath of his own bridal-ring.
So, then, that after a long pause, he cried,
"The bloodhound is his fellow. Let me see
The way the king will take
And leave him, if he may. I'll say it out,
And have him to himself. That's how it came
Last night, when I saw you face to face,
And I and this Lady Alfred, our two lives,
Whom Arthur knew was weak and faltered, too,
In that great hour. The good King rode too fast.
You want to
======================================== SAMPLE 698 ========================================
.
_The King of Erin's Right_
To the Highlands, and to the North,
There was a young lady,
And they called her Peggie
'The hill of the Eagle_
She jumped on the crags of the Eagle's Nest
She sat on a flint-stone,
To run over the seas
She jumped on the crags of the Eagle's Nest
She rested on the crags of the Eagle's Nest
The Queen of all her chickens
The Cock-bird knew where she sat
The little boy came riding through the air
The dark-hued night clouds gather
The sky grows clear blue,
It's dime for the Queen of All
The Jack-o-lan's House
There was a young lady,
And when she came to the door
They stood up, the horses in a row
The men down in the street
The mill-dam roared as the hours went by
They are swinging in the loft
The mill-dam, sliding to the left
High overhead
The world like a nut with a nipping green
The mill-dam, as the hours went by
The little boy came riding through the air
The moon is like a ruby,
The midnight moon is like a pearl
The mill-dam lay on a stone
The three little boys were three boys
The Giant Boy's three jolly old companions
Come once more, and don't be melancholy
A blackbird whistles out in the sunny
The four corners of the sky
The stars are three, the way of the earth
The world is such a funny little town
The mill-dam stood on a mountain
The wind blows cold,
The mill-dam did not drag the stars to the ground
The stars have gone to bed
The four corners of the sky
The winds that walk along the streets
The four corners of the field
The four corners of the field
The wind that comes when the days go by
There is not much milk from the fields
Cross flowers, or wet sky
The four corners of the field
The things that belong to God are the same things
The four corners of the sky
The four corners of the field
The grass is in the fields
The clouds are in the clouds
Three men and a woman one sees
It was five years ago,--
I never saw the like
Three children who lived in a lane
If you are alive
Three years ago this old story
The dogs were three youths
The streets is like a field
The wind is in the air
Three old women with yellow hair
Happy and fresh as a flower
The four gates of heaven
Baby bye, baby bunting
Sorrow and babe-love
Young Ben was first to wake
Sweet are your eyes and fair
Singing aeol de Castile
Tinkle, tinkle, little blue star
'Up you raise your eyes and laugh'
Tiny happy little Jack
Troll on his Mother's lap
When the golden hoofs blow fair
Toll-boy, Bu-wee
Trow, Trow, to the milk-white sky
Toll-boy, Bu-wee
Trow when the grass grows green
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know]
Tri-color, trow I do not know
Tumb-tumb.
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know]
Tri-catavalry, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know]
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know
Toll-boy, trow I do not know]
The curfew tolls midnight
If thou wouldst rove in the land to-night
The bells are ringing to church,
The graves are green to the land,
But I lie here by my side,
With three bags full of rye
The day is cold and dark
In spring time, the year is old,
The wind is in the tree
The ships go by, the bells are
======================================== SAMPLE 699 ========================================
 I was one of the children,
They are good,
And my heart has been so broken,
That I cannot forget them;
But this song of sorrow
Is more dear
Than all melodies of lovers,
Or the echo of each other;
And for this my burden
Is so far
Boundless heart by heart of song-birds,
That it cannot be united.
I am old,
But my heart is young,
And my love is young,
And I pass my days in singing.
Now my life is done for me,
Sitting sad,
In my little cloak of red
Long ago was lost;
But each year, as it had come to pass,
I have seen her eyes, as they were glass,
Long ago with me have sunk in the lead;
And I stand on a sudden alone, alone,
With a heart
Burning not to learn more mysteries,
Dying not to know;
But my heart will never leave my eyes,
And I say to myself, "Ah, vainest,
Yea, vainest!
I have lost in my love's eyes--
Ah, vainest!"
Then, again, I feel,--
With my soul a-dancing,
I shall leap to meet her,
And her body will rock
Like a cedar:
All my young dreams shall vanish,
And the white dreams come,
And my body will lie
Like a cedar.
I will walk among the shadows of trees,
In the autumn evening:
I have watched them slowly
In the snow-fallow,
Blindly beating
Deep in foliage:
I shall hear their song:
"O, the world so dear!
O, the world so dear!"
I'll pass and never see them:
They will pass away,
But I'll watch the passing
Of the beautiful shadow of trees,
Sombrero and pavement
Over the sea--
Blindly feeling
Dead on life's journey,
Dying away
From life's way!
I shall die,
I shall die.
Come, dear children,
All you must
Not be so afraid,
(As sure as your eyes are aflame
With a love that is true to your name)
For the sake of the heart you have sought,
And your father for ever to save,
And your mother for ever to save,
And your sister for ever to save,
And your sister for ever to save,
You shall die!
They are ready at four when you come to them,
Every one,
With the roses of June,
And the light of the fireflies on hand,
And the dew-wet lilies afloat on the sands,
And the little can reach,
And the little can sit by the fire and spin,
On the back of the world and the gates of love--
But not ever shall the darkness above
For ever come forth,
And never, oh, never come out to you!
Never, oh, never come back to me,
Dear little sisters,
Never, oh, never come to me,
Where the flame in the heart of the world doth dwell,
In the garden of childhood,
Where the gardeners love to play
Under the budding green,
And they give as their gifts to pay,
Pleasure beyond all words,
Other and sweet,
Till their voices forget to sound.
But not with the dance,
Nor with the musical tongue of love,
Nor with the musical tongue of love,
Nor with words like these,
Do we listen,
Knowing all that in us is good,
And the good that is evil and bad.
It is not so young,--
It is not so young,
Oh, should you have seen it,
You would not have died!
It is not so young,
It is not so old,--
It is not so old,--
It is not so old,--
It is not so old,--
It is not so old
And it would not be told,
If you had but a boy and a boy,
Or a maid with a voice like a lily in bloom,
Or a delicate petal that hangs in a broom,--
It is not so young,--
It is not so old,--
It is not so young,--
It is not so young,--
We were all wanton and careless,
We all expected so much,
And we said we would never be tired.
But we cried out that none would do more,
And we wept when the light was gone,
And we said we would never be tired.
So we whispered a low good-bye,
We went on with a
======================================== SAMPLE 700 ========================================
.
It was a small and open book,
Its name was Neddy Brown,
The name was Robert Greene,
And what it read I think I know.
"Oh! Yeoman!" cried a little boy,
"Oh! Yeoman! May I read it? No!
They must not heed it! There it lies!"
"I cannot read! Yeoman!" his voice
Fell on the book and I could hear
His voice for so long years no more.
He read again, and it was o'er.
"Go home, go home!" I said,
"I'll read it all to make it true."
He found his books, his book was set.
Then stepped into my little room,
And, as he found his book before him,
He took its leafy hand in mine,
And said, "What's old, this new one, Neddy?"
He gave my hand a book of verses,
And on the parlor steps, just as
He left, on that same evening, his, him,
Who had to hurry for the third.
And when he saw the boy from fifth,
I dropped my book and read him next,
I learned how very glad he was
To find his book so sad and sad.
I know not how, but all my school
Is that some childish boy is Greek,
And all the little school is Greek.
"_Greek._ "MyGreek! I have not had some grammarsick,
I cannot recollect what he was at."
"Greek! what is Greek? What is it?" I cried;
"What is it but a name for pride?"
"Greek! is it Greek?" "Greek! no, it's not Greek,
I know not what it is; nor yet
It's not that other Greek I see."
"Greek!" I said, and straight I turned and peeped
Where laughing eyes and laughing lips
Saw Neddy tossed upon the books.
Methought I saw him first, before
I ever knew it from the store
Of one who sings a harp of the wild-fowl;
I saw him, one who mocked me not!
I met him on the street,--still kind
I dared not speak or look around,
Lest some mischance should notice me,
And then I chanced to see some more.
Her face was somewhat like a shrine;
It seemed to thrill me with its light,
And I became a woman, too,
And she had nothing more to do.
Now she was very lovely, made
For any such as we; or stayed
Himself at supper, and be she
A lady in the house who stood,
A pattern of herself and her,
Upon the altar of our God.
But as I gazed there, in the dim
Long distance, of a ruined world,
The light of that lost lamp began
To burn all out upon the sky
Behind the altar and within,
And in the temple, where he knelt
And his own place within the shrine.
They knelt adown as our young God
In the strange sacrifice of time.
But their old Mother Mary's shape
Seemed fairer in that sacrifice.
"Go back!" I said, my life-long task;
"Go back!" I said, "I'm ready now.
I've known what I have seen since then,
I'll let the old world go again,
Whatever might betide of thee,
I have a place to reach again.
"And, as for this old sacrifice,
I pray thee in my dreams to-night.
Oh! let me have it by my cheek,
And by my side; then may it be
I've a light cause for ever this,--
That love is a great mystery."
So we returned again to God,
And walked on in our blessed way,
And though the world in tears was dim
It still was constant evermore,
And the great Mother did not say,
"A good old Christmas here is given,
There is no fear on earth or heaven
As in the heavenly courts of Heaven;
Though this old temple's old as hell,
And yonder a new fire burns in heaven.
"The flame is kindled at the birth,
There are no fear on earth nor earth
As in the sacred shrine of God,
No smoke above the sacred shambles
As in the holy temple rolls;
No smoke in the sweet sacrifice
As in the holy temple shrines;
For here the holy fire is lit
By all about the altar's flame."
"Go back, O John, if thou art as the searcher of old,
Go back!" I said, "I am the
======================================== SAMPLE 701 ========================================
 of all the past,
The present with the ever coming years, the past with its
intercourse; the present with its ever turning memories.
"What has forgotten, but forgotten all,
The promise that forever and again
From out its depths the Future shall unroll,
The foreknowing and foreseeing fate?
Is not life beautiful and gentle as it ever takes a thought
Of all there is to-day?
All this, all this is for a moment gone by; but it is worth
One hour's experience.
"The past, the present, the instant it doth take,
Hath secrets fair as fair could be--
What shall the future reckon to the Present, the Present, or the
What can there be to-day in any future so far as this is now?
What shall there be to-be, and why not knowing, to be--old or young
Is the coming year or the going year really decided as to gain
So here the Future shall be as it has always promised.
The world shall be the freight of my packed soul.
I shall be the freight of my packed soul.
This sphere is the ultimate source whence I
Do suffer the tides of a single fate.
I can turn my gaze on a ship that's anchored bravely to the breeze,
To the distant, unknown strand, to the farthest seas.
I have no heart to welcome the wanderer, the darkness must be mine;
Though the light of my youth may disappear,
I shall find the shore I love so well,
I shall find what is better than dross to bear.
I shall sit by the wheel, and he will not wait for me
Till I reach the end of the journey--all its din and fuss--
And when weary, all the work will be over when I come.
And then, oh, then, if a friend will travel again
To visit me and take me for his bride,
In the far beyond I shall find his face,
But the place where he is not my heart's light essence made.
He shall be my friend and master here,
If he leave the journey I need for me.
If he come back, perhaps he will come
And give me to know that he ever came.
Oh, this I know!  It must be so!
But my heart knows the depth of his hidden soul,
And I know that at last I must leave him all.
Oh, I will stay till the sun comes down,
And he will return to me with his light.
Oh, how glad he was, with his light on me!
(How they see their arms and the clinging arms!)
I shall be myself as the light-topped boy
Who clasps the boy in his father's arms.
They shall know his face in the distant place,
I shall mix his kisses with mine own;
And I shall be myself as the light-topped boy
Who clasps the boy in his father's arms.
But I shall stay with him--and then, oh, then,
I will say that I love him the better still,
And he must not lose me; I must not lose him;
I shall be his slave though he be his wife.
Oh, I am ashamed of my heart at last.
(How they see their mouths and the eyes and the blood!)
I do not dare draw him in with my life.
It is I, madam; my duty to him is
My duty; it is not myself.
(How they see each other smile through the night!)
I do not dare speak; and my words are set
Before you to-morrow, and my life sped.
Oh, I am ashamed of pride, and the world--
Oh, I am ashamed of my heart.
I tremble beneath my touch.  I would see him,
And I know that he knows my heart.
And my heart will break, when I think of that
With my face before me, and my soul bowed down
In worship to the Lamb of the absent One.
Oh, I have known him since I have seen him
And grown a part of my share of pain.
(How he believes them words!)
I have prayed to Him for my heart's new glory--
And I heard him saying, "Go again, my boy,
And hide the pain, and pray for it, the glory
Ye may not share with a lost soul."
Oh, I have prayed to Him for his blessing,
And I brought his healing on my soul,
And gladly had I prayed to him, "Give me,"
And gladly had I prayed to him, "Tell me,
Father, how I love you."
There is sorrow enough in the natural way,
In the natural
======================================== SAMPLE 702 ========================================
.
(ll. 651- Hick), and in 1648 appeared to have made a great
"O Thou Almighty, qui prophet, possessor
Of worlds exalt, quelle at once the fear!
For in my womb that virgin breath she smothers,
And makes a virgin of my darling cleare."
(ll. 2518-utherford) Then was her first delight in God.  She
(ll. 98-utherford) Then was her first desire.  She first saw
God's second angel, and her third, the flesh.  Then God first
Breathed in her soul, a living soul, and in her breath made
It freed the slave, and took and gave her flesh.  But still did
God, as he saith, keep her and let the woman live!
(ll. 106-utherford) The second angel lived under a heathen
earth.  Up to God's pure bosom she is free and upright,
heaven it shall have a place in the sight of God.  There she
(ll.Joshua, the picture)
Eve gleams from God above,
She, the divinest,
Yet the loveliest,
Still the centre of all.
(ll.Joshua, the picture)
Eve gleams from God above,
She, the divinest,
Yet the divinest,
Still the divinest,
Still the divinest,
Still the divinest,
Still the divinest,
Yet the divinest,
Eve gleams from God above,
Yet the divinest,
Eve gleams from God above,
Lending the soul to God above.
Eve gleams from God above,
There gleams the loveliest thing,
There, through the night of life, he sings to her:
"Eve gleams from God above,
On the earth they died,
Eve shall not rend
Breath from that breast
Till God shall wipe the stain away.
Then was I born,
Rapt with this morn
Of all the glorious light that is gazing
When the stars are withering,
And the worlds are withering,
And the heavens are withering,
And the heavens are withering,
And the mightiest things are withering,
And the earth is withering,
And the sea is withering,
And the world is withering,
And the world is withering,
And I will come again:
Leaving the skies above me,
Reigning triumphant over me."
(ll. 116-129) It was then that a beautiful deed was achieved.  He
(ll. 100-129) Then was the greatest and greatest of all the
flock.  The stork was the first to come down to earth--the
new-born; a good old stork was he.  The sea-cliff of the deep was
Then he opened his mouth and spake unto God, and said:
"O Father, what can it mean that thou hast spoken unto me?  The
Buddhistrift, from within.  The ancient stork he spoke to me:
(ll.Sharpe 'scapathless, 'scap thy scathe upon the ground)
Never had such a thing come unto my birth,
Nor ever have I seen so fair a thing,
Nor heard so sweet a song, as this small bird
For the first time.  It is no wonder, for I know
That it is Ogier's self.  I am his friend,
And of his council he alone can tell."
Such was the speech the blessed angel made.
Then in a moment forth he took his way,
Bowing before the star, that was no star,
Nor was the weary man's familiar load,
But he beheld a something strange and new,
Richly remaining of the ancient worth
That through the ages yet must pass away.
It was the star of the Stork that was to come
(Heard from the deep!) at the approach of eve,--
Stork of the sea; his hoofs that were fleet and light,
And his eyes blind to heaven,--by that light he saw
The Stork come hovering in upon the deep,
His ship that was to bring him safely home.
She stood upon the shore and gazed away
Amid a crowd of people terrified;
Then, as a storm-cloud scours the sky in spray,
She saw his eyes still fixed on her fair face.
"What doest thou, little bird, in the grey air?"
Flies the great Stork around her, and she said:
"O little bird, thou must be gone for aye,
St
======================================== SAMPLE 703 ========================================
,
Fetched in at New York post-end.
By the good old trusty R.H.T.H. Ward
The _Times_, and _Ways_, are kept in the same order,
And that is why I should not pass my life on
Any more dangerous passage to the House of Pardon.
'T was not a little that I liked the Letters,
And yet they did not hurt my mind, that's all,
At best I was not _pulpy_ at the Shakers,
And therefore now I never hate myself
From all the World--myself, a long time past,
I well may be quite thankful that no harm
Can come to me between the Now and Then
Again, while on the top of pleasure's brow
I always felt a momentary taste
Of feeling for myself,--myself, dear God,
That I might get myself so very good,
And, of escaping, find at once the way
To Mirth-the-Cupouse and the old D-Hye-Halls,
Where, when the People saw me at my work,
And knew me always coming out to England
(In fact, I was a _human_ Hymn, I swear,
As that which shows me afterwards at _Bou-t-e-Be_.
I had a letter from my Delphic priest,
Beside the church of St. Augustin: then
He said that I must never meddle with
This royalties, and I--a simple girl
That I would not exchange, if I had him
Whom God would please to call my darling mine,
And make myself the cashier of my lot.
He went to Drury Lane, my patron Pye,
And got me, to be rid of this sad affair;
I put him there--I never cared much more,
For his good name was ever standing there
Upon his faded lips like vinegar,
And so I found him lost them on the road,
And so I wrote to him this single line
Of gratitude for all my private sins,
Supplying this, that if I ever spelt
My private faults, and did not make excuse,
Then I would have my name at home in town,
And he would take my hand and bid me visit
My dear paternal home, and seek again
My much-loved home again; if he had not
Entered this very room that, on my soul,
I found a present from my much-loved home.
This place was once my study well acquainted,
And when the morning sunlight, stealing o'er
My waking vision, brought sweet interest
To the young mind,--that at this moment's end
I could not keep the undisturbed taciturn
Enraptured gaze, that spoke the while my soul
In most unuttered words, to that unknown
And inaccessible residence
Of all the worldly, worldly, worldly state.
He was a man of life's great wilderness,
Who lived a life of luxury, and died
Of poverty; but one day, when I awoke,
And visited the church, and found him there,
I saw a blessed Vision in the sun,
A happiness, and felt it, and I went
And stood within it while the years went on,
And there I found him, as my picture is,
That happy Memory, and I sat by his side,
And talked and thought, and wished the passing years
A little longer that I never knew
That I was happy; for I knew full well
That I might meet with him, and that I ever
Could see him with his brother, as he stood
In the church by the grave, by the old mill
Where the miller made his mill, and that the miller
Told of much trouble, and the miller said:
"I can't forget the church, though after ages
There sit upon the grave four daughters of
Beau Marguerite's--one that loved her well,
And then my sister Catherine, the third--
I think the eldest of these five may die."
The parents, when they saw that they were grown
Evil and old, was one, as she was fair,
And Marguerite's mother once more grew kind
And joined a smile to her fond heart, and kissed
And then we parted.
But at midnight,
When a child lies asleep, the old man's wife,
Who in it were a stranger, said a word
Of wisdom, that was like a foolish life
To the young brain:--
"My eyes are shut.
I will no more remain.
Shut! shut! I will go down and leave you."
And Marguerite bowed her head as if
Her life had
======================================== SAMPLE 704 ========================================
, the
whole of the volume must, as long as they live, be in the
print. In the former case the paper will be made of her son's
_Liber scriptus est pulcherrima_, where the Author is now on the
"Veneris immitiem joena tempore nubem in punctum,
and the cyphera in the latter of the sixteenth century."_
The following extract from Virgil, Theocritus, Book iii. p. 133,
this stanza is omitted from the edition of 1743. The whole of the
verses of old at iii. p. 226, and the lines which follow as a
confusion of the famous epopee in the Phaedo, were as rendered by
Caelius, Book ix. p. 597, and the line which ends here in the
first book of the Phaedo (xxxviii. 155). The original of the plot
is identical with the earlier editions of the reign of the
"AEneis" and "Theod. Pilgi," vol. iii., p. 531, and this
the original of the "AEneis" seems to have had the charge of setting
Thrace, and where the "ax-heret," is read by Mr. William H.
Gryll, and other works of the same name, written for the greater
reason, Coleridge's lines were copied from the old Greek _Myrg.
"Sic vos precibus pelagi sunt
Occultior ters enim qui dura uirum;"
and the description of Sappho, and the description of the
Myrrha, and the twins of another name by Helen caused the
defect, Caeliotes, or the daughters of Enipeus, to be equally
_Book XXII._ In the presence of Tereus, Helen is changed into a
thoughtless child. She is recognised by her husband, and
_Book XXIII._ The reader is now in _Book I._
unrestrained, she is now in a strange land, and in the Presean
sits on the sea-shore.
_Book XXIV._ The reader is impatient for his approbation of this
epistle, for he willingly acquiesces in his own countryman, the
youngest of his race, and the mother of his parents, who is
_Book XXV._ From which, Lovelace has taken this magnificent
word: "I am a Muse, and am an ear, and, like a goddess, have
made for me a garland,
"These nymphs a thousand loves impregnate;
But that more sweet by far, more pleasing none...."
To the same effect:
"Thee the fair, this nymph, in happy time
Sits on the spousal Pantheon among the gods assembled.
"This scene of fairy land shall ne'er forget thee,
"Nor Ida's pine-tree shade, to mortal eye."
(Schoices from Whiteloc, xxii. 10), and, to examine the facts,
"I'll to thy bower, and, with the dance, prepare
Fairer than ever young Astraea's power."
"I'll leave thy spousal, and with dancing take
Fairer than ever to thy blissful bower."
But the poet has already laid his duty to "The Lay of the Last
Virgil," and the first of the sixteenth century, for his poetry
"O nymph, those lines shall never fade
Of faultering trust or promise cherished."
The style of the second, and of the latter, is borrowed from Linton
Sedem fitted with an adverbial line,
"Praeceps meus quoniam mensibus asper erat,
Armaque ut nunc maturae fregitur ab imis."
It has been observed that the "Ode to Delia" was written as follows:
"O nymph, she sleeps not with her lord alone,
Who thus to slumber's summoned 'd' ye wakeful crabs
The soft sweet-brieked beds, and fill with slumbers sweet
With sweet-brieked beds! the heaped-up billows break
Along the waters, so that wet she lies awake;
While at her feet rest her own dear loves apart,
And 'mid the moving leaves in quiet rest."
He is a great Dane, according to Esthwaite and the early history of
"_Ce in rupe eumai par natura obti et componere factis
Nullus est animae mutata, si perjuranda neg
======================================== SAMPLE 705 ========================================
 my hand,
And make this young girl's eyes glow,
To bless with her soft cheek her chin
And smile on us, one and all.
She'll be mine while she grows up
With the little red rose to her chin,
And the little pink nose that still looks out
From the garden of longing and pine;
And when she grows up and up again,
It will please the little girls
To kiss their lips and say,
"Little Brown brown little girls,
For the dawn of a woman's kiss,
I am wearing you in my hat."
But I'm dressed when she grows up
With her nice little pink chin;
For her red little mouth to oh,
That red rose is always in.
And I love her so well,
And the rose-cheek of her pink skin;
And I hug her and kiss her so well,
That her little red nose peeps in.
When I'm busy with eating my toys,
And my mother is just in the house,
I feel like an aunt at the attic,
And tie round it tight little mouse-nest;
While she sits at home by my side,
And outwatches me by the leg,
Oh, she's so polite-looking!
And she says, "Dear mamma, be good
As you are, and very _good_."
And there's nothing the matter about,
Unless it is always in play,
And she looks at me in the face
And says, "Oh, dear mamma, pray
Tell the little girl all about it."
But there's one little girl
In the attic I'm keeping now,
With two little sugar-trees,
And she never looks at me.
There were three hungry kittens,
And they went to school together.
One was my sister's grandmother,
And the other was the one
That could shoot anything.
I tried to pat the kitten;
I tried to turn the kite
My brother had he seen,
But I let him bite my brother,
And he killed me, one and all.
I was a little cousin
To a friend.
I took my lunch until it made me very nice.
I asked him if he would stop.
He says, "No; what are you at?"
And I calm to him and kissed him,
But his queer great eyes were not the ones I see
That I saw there in the garden,
When I was a little cousin.
I sat down in my pallet,
And all my friends cried out,
And I tried hard to keep my courage
Until I got quite worn;
And then, how I could tease them,
They were so hard to bear.
How they liked each other,
They were so cunningly designed,
I didn't know what people were like
In the world when they were un-joined.
I was weak in learning
Of what people said and did
About the children
Who wanted them to be taught,
And I wanted them to see,
That they never could be trained,
And try to play the game.
Why, I didn't care,
To know what was ahead.
And, when I tried to drive them,
They never could be trained,
And I learned it,
Well, some of it,
I knew that they were stupid,
And I said to anyone:
"That's what everybody goes on."
And the people said:
"If us both
The young man and the old,
The bald curly head?"
"The bald-haired head," I said,
"Is our own;
The very best of all
Is the young man and the old."
"But why does one so spry?"
Said my friend,
"As a little idle boy,
With no eyes,
And no cheeks?"
Our two friend made a speech
When he threw himself off his head.
You couldn't talk that way,
And I don't know.
You are quite sure
Of that.
How does it take me?
My soul knows how to thank you.
And--now they have to go--
"Go on," I say to them.
My thoughts soared up so high,
My thoughts soon soared below:
"Go on," I say to them.
But I did not go straight:
I never was thinking of fate.
My mind was on the spot where I lived,
And I was well and glad of life.
I was sitting on the friendly stone
To watch the children as they fed,
And now I watch them in the dark
As they go up the steeple to inquire
Where's Mary, sweetheart, where are you?"
I went to the kitchen, but I stood
======================================== SAMPLE 706 ========================================
, the "Cuckoo Bird."
I'll tell you how she sailed, that morning,
At six o'clock in the morning:
Sailed over yonder billowy sea
And sang a song for her lover--
I have a loving lord, maybe,
Grateful to his love and lady.
The sun is low, the wind is still,
The sands, like silver sands, lie still;
And all night long beside their bed,
I hear the patter of their tread,
The tramp of many sparrows, and
The talk of many homeless ones.
And I am happy, for to-day
I have a love-song for my dear;
The wind is singing of his love,
From tree to tree the music swells,
I hear him sing of all he saw,
All the merry, merry things,
"My love! My love! My love! My love!"
We have a garden of little hills, and all around us
The greenest or the fairest flowers blow along,
Our own fair garden is the garden of the dead,
And all the sweetest dainties in the world are there,
And all the rarest roses in the world are there,
And all the rarest roses in the world are there.
The lilies which we love with a most deep devotion,
The golden lilies by the river are most fair,
And where the lovely lilies are we find the lilies,
We find the lilies of the lilies of the air.
And all the sweet aristocrats of all the roses,
I love a little garden with my love for thee!
And in the midst are daisies, the pink and white anemone,
The tender blossom of the lilies of the hawthorn,
The daintiest and sweetest lilies in the world are there,
The tender, delicate Florence and the few that die,
And all the rarest roses in the world are there.
The daisy and the rose,
And the dandelion,
They live together in the fields of softest dew,
And sweetest lilies in the world are there,
And sweetest lilies in the world are there,
And fairest lilies in the world are there!
The daisy and the pink,
They live together in the fields of softest dew,
The daisy and the dew,
It is as fair to look upon as fair,
As flowers, in the air,
As the world is ever after after after,
Each one to the other, "Oh! We're both too true!"
The daisy and the red,
They live together in the fields of softest dew,
The wind may whistle them to rest,
But here forever in my arms I rest,
For all the golden roses in the East
Are waiting for me, waiting for thee, my love.
As on the windy sea,
The mermen wind in the morning bright
From the southmost realms of eve;
Ah, that was a summer day,
When all the wood and the beech and grey
Were filled with a merry delight;
When a bird sang in the oak tree's leaf,
We heard the voice of the oak tree, oh!
The voice of the wood, it was ever thus crying,
"Hear me, oh, hear me, oh!
And my heart is light with thy sweet love, I know!"
Through the early dawn the sunlight lightened
On a cottage small and gray;
Through the evening dews the sunlight pierced it,
On the roof it glistened and shone;
In the wind a voice of joy it echoed,
And it said, "I'll come again, love!"
Down the path, the sunlight gleamed on all sides,
In the wood the voice of the oak was uttered,
"I'll come once more in love, love!"
Sweet the voices of the wind through the sycamores:
"Wilt thou come with me, O oak-tree, to-night?"
"We shall meet in the greenwood there at morning,
Walking down the path by the tree, love."
Shake the icicles, cover up,
Shake the icicles, cover up!
From the sleet the snow came forth
In the driftwood, like a cup.
In the wood the voice of the wind cried out:
"Wilt thou come with me, O oak-tree, to-night?"
Through the wattle-penes the wind's cry rang,
At the door the snow-white pony sprang,
And the steed went moaning by;
And the white snow-white pony rocked,
And the white snow-white
======================================== SAMPLE 707 ========================================
;
But how canst thou the mighty God of Heaven,
Though he were come to lay the world in fear?
He sits upon the topmost mountain-top,
And clouds of every hue and tint and sheen;
He calls the flowers, and all the birds that bloom,
To breathe round him a holy hymn of praise:
He bids the streams and rivers cease their flow,
And gives to each his natural, fresh, and fair.
Thus nature is, from instinct quite apart,
Created man in different parts to be;
Yet from such several and such various sins
She takes in all, not t'other half so free.
In yonder garden growing every year,
One little year, all Nature's wants supplied,
Whose holy names are in her heart and eyes!
There is a garden where the breezes play,
And here, a very pretty house of friends,
There is an orchard, which I do not know,
I think it is the pleasantest of friends;
The little dog and little dog will walk,
Or on his curly tail will lay him down
And then will chase the orchard-lion out,
While he is drawn unto his master's garden;
He will not leave it till the autumn-reeking,
Then will away and let himself alone.
And here beside his shadow will he sit
And drink his cup of triumph while he may,
And on the shady trees will wander thence,
And play himself as well as any other;
But if some chum or simple olifant
Should come unto his door with merry cheer,
He would not heed the door but well ye're prattling,
Who're out of hope into the world to hear!
Then will he dance and dance upon his knee,
And take up pleasures without fear or question;
Then would he dance with all his might and skill,
And with his foot walk right into the bushes:
But first he would say, with a merry voice,
"Thou'lt find me here, for I am wondrous weary,
When I sit here, with none else on my feet,
Thou'lt find me sitting here on any bier,
For thy dear Master's sake and mine' sweet pleasure;
And with my finger still it in my hand
Upon his book, both for instructive finger,
And unto him will set my book, and say,
For thy dear Master's sake and mine' sweet pleasure."
To be by his side thus to some shady grove,
The acorns near him quickly there to see.
And as he wished to live on, his delight
In this sweet paradise the youth did take,
For thither he had turned his thoughts from thence,
And there he saw a tree that shaded him,
A little green above a field of bloom,
All full of birds that loud begin to sing,
And many a little dog there was likewise there,
And with his share of comfort his companions,
Who staid in silence to attend the feat,
The while he ran, and as he ran did fight
The hart, hind, hart, well pleased at heart, could not
Remember what he viewed again on earth,
But wished again another tree to win,
And so he took that tree the master's charge,
The dog, who had not ceased his flowingbands
To gather in that pleasant place, and thus
Began to tame, that same old noble brute.
So he began to tame, for he was fond,
To be a living, good and simple brute;
And thus, by his ingratitude beguiled,
They both together in one grand accord,
Nor did these folk for love of him complain,
But did that he to them began again;
And both together, after many prayers,
For their advice would do him grievous wrong,
When he from this thing past away; and they
To their next home returning in a day
Did take their journey all the truant youth
Did take farewell of him, and with them went
The rest, and joined in friendship sweet farewell.
The Angel, then, into their several lands
Of orient pearl, the constellations warmed,
To visit Michael Zanche, and inquire
Who was his father, and his friend, the fair,
What city was his, and what country life,
Wherever it was fortuned more remote
And unknown to inhabitants of sun,
Or to all eyes, wherever now the eye
Beamed with the fire of love, or hung like tie.
There came an answer to their curious phrase,
A little farther on, that he replied,
He is no earth-born man, whom chance or foes
Hath separated from his race divine,
But one of nature
======================================== SAMPLE 708 ========================================
t,
In the front of the field, where the first wind
Kisses the scattered flowers, all in a burst.
Here came an eager man, with a long neck,
And a gold beard, and a face like a ruby,
And one eye dimly beautiful like a gem,
And one a little pale, and a thick, full chin.
"Sir," said the Baron, and clasped his hand;
"There is a Prince here, who is worthy of a noble land;
So it was written then by the lasses long dead.
But now 'tis reported that by this word I
In a dragon-bag has been girt and laid,
Wherein is each an oblong piece of gold;
But the dragon and the knight, who in the fray
Were knights and burghers, and mustered their powers
Upon those robbers under our tower.
"The law they have enacted, the law they have not made,
Is, we are all and all, an infernal pitiful crew,
We must send up all our vassals up handsomely
To a serviceable lady that's quite beyond view,
That she may do duty in her own person,
And she may follow her own self as well."
"That can't be, my lady," said Sir Rupert,
"I think so, and may think so; but I assure you
She's a dainty lady, I think so, I swear,
Though she wears a gold trappings gay frilliter,
I've a rich shawl on her fingers, I guess."
"O my sovereign," said Roland, "your life's betty,
For I can see my own lovely lady,
Who has me, and I have nought to confess,
She has lace and gold trappings, all blushes and blushes,
And she paints my own dear face in my lover's cap.
"Her gown has a mass of silk, she has a good vester,"
Says Guy, "and I've nothing but red bathaullours,
She has powder and patches, she has a good shawl;
And she wears a gold comelier even than a ball,
And her wings are a thickly tangled web,
The prettiest ever seen, by the eye of a wench.
And a wonderful gold ring she has, and a red tumblel;
And a silk purse whereon to dance the fair lady;
And she is a rare bright yellow ring,
But the necklace she worked under were diamonds all,
Of the best of her shop, or she made a silk ball
To serve up the ladies, and to wear them in.
"Then the dame made a ring, the damsel a ring,
The dress of poor Frank was as white as the down,
Her lace made of red marigolds was still,
And her gay sparkling diamonds were seen all alone,
Like the good puce of a lady who's far away;
But not half so precious as her great heart was,
And so, as I fear, she will sometimes get a
Poor thing brought up by an Italian leak.
"She threw a silk purse in, and the dress that she wore
Was a mere piece of emerald, bright yellow, or red,
But which there was only a stitch in the brothel,
And she bore three round breastcaps, with white silver in it,
Which, in fact, she had woven for us two of those pearls
On a shelf, as the third was a very small set.
She gave us the dainties when we came from the Styx.
"And, as you best know, I thought she had made them.
They had all got to go to the Styx, and to keep
The whole of her gold ring, with pearls in their hold,
For a piece of gold ring. She had got them of gold,
And the necklace she fastened upon her own,
And the ring she had worn for her finger and wrist.
Then I sent her to call the Ser Brunzaleaux.
She had heard that the Emperor was a good friend,
And a letter was sent her by messengers
Down wherever she went. She had sent the King thither
With a robin and blackbirds, in every neighborhood;
And the King sent, with all those fine curious things,
Roses, redolent roses, sweet jessamine flowers.
"And she looked like a lady, who lived in it too,
For she was a fairy; and she was a fairy,
And all the King's daughters were sisters of one,
And all the Queen's daughters were five sisters.
They were six sisters, and they were seven sisters,
And all of them wanted them,
======================================== SAMPLE 709 ========================================
,
And the whole wide world in the human world.
So little a man can say,
"As this poor mortal may,
What was he, who with one eye
The great sea of knowledge and law?"
But the stupidest sage,
Of this shallow, unanswerable age,
Forgetful of truth,
Is not troubled, as other men have,
To think that the world in his grave
Is only a place for exiles or for pleasure or for fear
But where's the man that went
To the trap that waited but yesterday?
When the light was going down,
Went was the minstrel's song,
In the fields to sing it round,
In the meadows gay and long,
In the pleasant latter days,
And at night when sleep was sweet
In the meadow-lands they found
All the music that they knew,
That only the stars in heaven beamed,
And that alone was the spot where he should return.
But when the bugle-horn
Came through the twilight loud,
And when the warriors of the field
To the castle-doors were borne,
Went the craftsman from his place
To tell him that he came
To find him out a place
Where the portal and the piers were thick.
A little maid, and watched him in at work,
Hoping to see if he would find his work.
"There are many," said he,
"There are many, and many
There are, I know, who have found this place!"
Then in his dream he heard
The voice beside him near,
And on the casement there
He saw the woman pale as snow,
The woman kind and pale and still the form of the land.
And he looked in wonder and rejoiced,
The man in his dream, and he marked his father's face.
It had been like a palace
Of stately columns and fair
Freshly covered with grass,
It had stood on a hill
With all its high walls of stone--
A palace fit for gods
And chieftains to see and adore--
A temple fit for gods
And chieftains to see and adore.
It had a high wall
That stood on a mountain side,
And stood in vision and thought
Till it took a mountain side:
A palace fit for gods
And chieftains to see and adore.
"They are dead, or buried," said he,
"They are dead at any time!"
The mother with her baby babe came back to her,
The daughter with her baby on her knee,
And the mother who had been both young and old and now
Sought her, as the shadows play on the brow.
"A son," she said, "is not forgotten yet,
The son whom you may see in every one
Since the time when this life began,
But he may have been a man--
He will not come again!"
Then the mother took her baby in her arms
And kissed the little child's wet, pricked-out hands.
And the mother who had been both young and old
Sent her son away.
And when the winter came,
And wintry days went by,
And there were men and maimed,
Yet found them faithful soldiers true and brave--
Then stood the baby on the hearth alone,
And gazed out, gazing far abroad.
His eyelids fell upon his hands: his hair
Was tangled in his hair,
And his face was hid from the other brows,
Until the sun sank down and hid him up,
And left him looking on a little face;
Then he felt her arms and all the warmth
Of his breast and side;
And there's not a sign of a sorrow in the place,
For the heart will keep its Christmas time,
And the eye that looks on him shall behold
The face that he loved as a mother's when her people say
He was the man that should have the boy--
The lad from Heaven's great mission--
The little girl, to whom he may be king--
Yet never had such brave men fought
As now--to those within the gate
When a little girl and her father went
For to battle all that maketh free,
And to battle, and to fight, and to fight
That the little girl and his father may be the same?"
But the soldier cried in his agony,
"O God, that I came to save my brothers!"
And the soldier prayed in a trembling voice:
"O God, that I fell to battle!"
And his mother, the little one, said,
"That our little lives might end in one,
And it would bring to one at least the death
Of a little girl and
======================================== SAMPLE 710 ========================================
, whose life of 't is,
My spirit and the life of 'ine is.
Thou makest my life so lovely,
Thou makest my life so sweet,
That my tears forever faster,
And my sighs begin to fleet.
The 'shell,' that is the word for all,
And thou wilt have thy flingings wing-like,
A requiem lay for every song,
For every flower but Spring-time's.
O Soul, that is no word of pain,
But a burning word of love,
To whisper thee the whole refrain,
And to reach the love thereof.
Soul, in all good things thou art,
That thou art, and must be,
For the good things that are,
Borne on the wings of love.
Lady, thou hast a mother
Who loves thee evermore,
Thy love she makes to thee more
And more than ever before.
The raven of life is a god,
And thy heart is all to thy mind,
And thy pulses beat to his drum,
And thy wishes enkindle his kind.
Thou'rt a god for nothing' sake,
Though thou art but a dream,
And his will and mine he makes,
And mine breaketh the supreme,
And his will is my will to perform.
So he puts the whole world to his whim,
To my will as he chose,
And he calleth my will as his will,
And my will is my will;
O let him be merry
When he taketh the revel,
In the merry revelry
Of the merry revelry.
When he waketh me light from sleep
With the freshness of a great love-sky,
With a kiss or two I'll take him up,
And walk by him with a love-sky,
To wed me as he chose.
But as we fall on live men die,
We die, and are cast into the grave,
And the rose of perfect blossom
Lieth not alone, but also,
Full and fair, and sweet, and red,
We die and are cast into the grave.
O the voice of the woodland!
O the wind of the woods!
And the wood-pecker's billow!
The voice of the wood!
And the echo, how gracious!
And the voice of the stream!
And the echo, how gracious!
And the sound of the wind!
And the voice of the woodland
Is sweet as a song,
And merry as the thrush's.
What's the voice of the woodbird,
O, the voice of the songster,
That carols for one
The whole day long?
What's the voice of the woodland
Can it be so sad,
And heavy, and mellow?
And sing to the nightingale,
As she wanders from her cell,
Who singeth for joy
Not her own, and for some
Of her own, and for some
Of her own, and for some
Of her own, that not one
Laketh rest, or leaveth rest?
O the oak's grief of shade!
And the oak's heavy sigh!
And the voice of the woodbird
O what sounds are they!
As down in the deep wood
Of the dark, silent, lone,
The hunter's cry
Came sound, in the still night,
Of the forest, the wild-wolf,
And the greyhound! he heard
In the branches of trees,
Like a sound of the footfalls
Of the deer, far at the door,
The manacles of his den,
Where the wolf lay down.
"O weary hunter," said he,
"How doth my Darling stay?
And why doth our Darling so late
From the fields return so late,
And my dear Lord so late?"
"O hark! and hark! how thin and clear,
And thinner, and yet so near!
And yet in the boughs above;
How thin and clear, and clear."
"O weary hunter!" said he;
"O hark! how thin and clear!
For I must be dead, and all
The earth is not here but the sky
Doth open, and all the trees
Are open, and all the earth
Doth stir and make a noise;
And I must begone from all
The loud wood, and the pale hill-stream,
And give over all my joy.
"O leave me, leave me, lonely beast,
That so fearfully so mourn!"
So fled the tongue of the beast
And solitary he rode,
Through the forest; and now there
They made the green
======================================== SAMPLE 711 ========================================
-and-riddle!"
Away went Gilpin--who but he?
The night was dark--the moon did pour.
And still as fast as he drew near,
The moon her fleecy-colored spread
A glory on the river's bed,
A terror in the land of shades,
A light upon the lake's dark bed.
He came--he strode--his heart beat high--
A steed was in the stable--
But yet his words were of politesse--
Of something foreign to his France.
He did--and meanwhile, heart-sick with fear,
He turned and looked around--but found
A trace of writhing, stiffening necks,
And many a muttered, groanous word;
Aye, on he galloped fast--but ere
He felt his breath upon his cheek,
His blooded throat, his brow was pale--
He could not tell which way he came:--
"I come," he said, "by break of day,
And you will show me a pleasant way
To where my lodge you first survey."
He turned--he saw the moon inroll
A tall and shining water-palm;
He saw the star upon the pool
Gleam white and level with the damp;
He heard the water lapping down
On a soft and silver bed of down;
He saw--he heard--and oh, how dread
It was!--below, around him spread.
A stir of insects in the air
Was there--of leaves, of green, or grey;
And--such a mingling of the rest
Of the wild-swerving river's hue
As finds at once the eye can view--
He saw--he saw--how in a trice
It ran, the bright _magnet_! flit, and flit.
Away went Gilpin--who but he?
The air was dull--the boat hung still
And moved not--down--from out the hill.
Then turn--who knows what comes to pass,
He stared--in a superior way;
Then stared--who knows what comes to pass?
The moon was risen--he was tall!
And every wave that kissed the sands
Seemed to have made a downward plunge,
Down--down--till he was lost. Oh me!
The shape returns--he does not see;
He weeps and struggles up and down;
Then--who knows how?--if every wave
That swept his body might have heaved
Or have the will to win his grave,
It might have tossed him to the wave.
Still, still he weeps--and watches creeps;
At last--he can no more endure;
And still, as one who knows he weeps,
He leans above his bier for cure;
And--who knows how?--if every wave
That swept his body had a grave
Why, then, it happened, that the body
Should have been forced to bear the dead
Out there--alas, far worse than all!
At last--he feels his throat grow cold!
Poor thing, he never could have wept,
He only thought the water broke
In froth or smoke--and no mistake.
And thus, as thus he sat upright,
He thought--"My pretty ship, you see;
My boat, you know--" but, by my troth,
I think, on board this very night,
You'll soon get back to your home right here!"
And thus, poor thing, he little thought
Of outward tack and reels of oars;
And yet--he scarce knew how to thank her.
He gave some words, but could not pay;
He thanked her more, but could not pay;
His mind was--where?--and that was why
He ventured out on such a sudden.
Away went Gilpin--who but he?
The moon shone out--the tide was high--
And thus he said--"I'm glad I've got
A gun, because I hunt in spots.
Pray, who's the gun? Poor thing!--poor thing!--
And yet it's safe to tell me what!
Now, Gilpin!--so you want it to!--
We'll stop some hours or so, poor thing!"
Now, jug or mug, go quietly away!
And still--alas! that I should say--
One minute more, or so--to-day!
To-day is the ferryman's last hour--
The last--who checks the ferryman's power;
And, if he stops a moment, soon
His boat before the _Hycerao_.
Away went Gilpin--who but he?
The man was tall,
======================================== SAMPLE 712 ========================================
ing in the wind;
And, when the clouds are hushed, the startled sun
Comes up to face her as a shield to thee;
Yet, like a knight in armor riding on
Through the bright gates of glory to the fight--
Such as he saw in battle and in fight,
He sees his sister's armour shine in light.
"No more of these poor relics, where they lie
Crown'd with bright wreaths of ever-whirling gold;
No more of these poor relics, where they lie
Beneath the cold and pitiless heart of gold!
No more of these poor relics, where they lie
For ever,--choosing in another clime
Another love for them, nor yet a while
Make them the playmates of thy loving prime,
Nor yet the thought of them, but only such
As they are in the present.
Alas, too fair!
Not such again!
And yet they lie
So pure and fair
Among the mouldering dust and mould!
And yet they lie
So pure and fair,
They seem as if they slept at death's high noon;
Yet, when the summons comes, they lie and wait
To show to other alike, if they will
To gather from the mould
Another hue of rose!
Alas, too fair!
Now, when around this diadem of fire
Lifted the wreathing curtains of the night,
One bright winged shadow, floating, intervene,
Bending upon us from some radiant sphere
Of song and flowers and light;
Upon the living and the dead who watch
With superstition, and the dead who think
Themselves at play
Some fancied lullaby;
Alas, too fair!
For it is but the light we see to-night!
A flitting cloud
Across a blue and gleaming river runs;
But what can be
Is more than a vague and shadowy fear!
A spirit-sound
Floats, and around
Is the river's gleam and motionless gleam!
A gleam, an iris, a gleam,
A floating cloud, to the sight a dream!
And now we can
Behold the span
Of a well-known stream!
And we can gaze
Till on the dim
Vastness of space is lost in space!
And then we can
Utter the words of a soul renewed,
When we are near
To the source of light!
For surely now, in a dream of awe
And anguish, a great sorrow moves
Before us!  But, when our eyes are closed,
That vision is past, and the stars unclose!
Went forth to chase the gloom
Of doubt and horror on
The world!  This babe was born
In agony's most dreary morn,
A bitter mockery,
Till lo! a mother's care
Lit up her infant's form to throw
This young one to her breast!
She looked into her trouble,
But no--'twas not a child of clay
And anguish--woe is me!
She knew not that to bless
Heaven's unapproachable distress
Was as a flame, till now;
But, with their flickering torch,
She waked a weeping sire to wrath,
And the heavens blushed with fire!
Waked from the sleep of the last repose
We twinkled out the shadows of our slain.
We lay within the caverns of the dead,
We saw beneath us grim Death's iron gin.
We heard the slow death-stroke of the sun;
We saw him, with his golden crest beneath.
We could not see the shroud that covered us,
Yet gazed upon the light, and saw the wreck.
We slippered down, and found the sunlight fair
Like gold beneath the clouds; along the way
The red road rippled, and we found the fair
Waste shore-worn furrows of the salt sands lay,
And heard the long loud surges smite on a shore
Whereon the surf of coral thundered high,
As we were gathering friends, and on the land
We turned about with many thousand hands
To pluck the remnant of the scattered sand.
I watched the gull, a little way above,
With aching eyes and heart as if for love.
She heard the winds that would have hushed
The heavy surge of waters raving wild,
And saw the white cheek of the angry seas
Look rugged on those waters, and her heart
Would burn thereat, till the great God would laugh,
And the cold waters drown us with their joys
To see her laugh; and in that heart, the whole,
I saw the fires that would of old
======================================== SAMPLE 713 ========================================
's, and the New York line.
"The present moment with the present came,
To wake my languished lord new doom'd;
"And now, a messenger, my love, I pray,
Bid thee good night, and quickly write away:
"Or, if thou canst, in distant lands repair,
And visit the unmeasured pastures there.
For he, so strict of oaths, who first ordains
A free, a kind one to embrace, in pains,
That soon, the tedious journey thou shalt see,
To thy long pillow next the groves shall be:
And since, at earliest dawn o'er hills, and plains,
Thou find'st the present hour, I'll tell thee plain,
Where, all the blissful scenes of happiness,
Joy, smiles, and friendship, bloom'd or pass'd in bliss."
The time for mirthful leisure now employ'd,
Let every thought, each scene, each time employ'd.
And now they vanish'd and with distance came,
And o'er the mountains swept the evening shade,
Where laughing rose the incense of the flame,
And sung those mighty glories of the day:
And here and there a duteous lay is play'd,
That plays on ruby lips, as round it glides
The melting night-beam, or the ruby side.
"And now the time for waiting zephyrs, hark!
Why do thy silver voice provoke our stay?
And now, all breathings, hast thou bid thee rest,
Since youth, whose joys must thou despise, decay?
The flowers, that deck the bridal bed of sorrow,
And breathe out fragrance from the fragrant spring,
And bloom, that, like the night's untimely morrow,
Dawns on the world; and all its prospects teem.
"'Tis night, but not in yonder vault or green-
A mortal wretch would feel his woes unsped;
Yet, to that truth, whose spells had many a charm,
How oft at heart have we with rapture read
The wonders of thy face, how oft in thought
Have we believed that Truth, so oft brought forth,
The bright effulgence of a fairer morn!
"'And oh! when soft into my troubled breast
Slumbers the sweet remembrance of the hour,
When o'er my soul a gentle guardian prest,
By whose mild power all present thoughts are power,
That thou art present at the silent hour,
And there I dream, and wander as I will.
"'What then? or who 'midst such luxurious hours,
'Midst these delights? oh! tell me which is best?
'Tis but the purest light of all the rays
That streak the moon, or give it evening's rest.
"The gladsome bird behold me, and admire
The charming chant, which makes me love the gale.
Oh! speak the language of my trembling heart:
I give it freedom, that she may rejoice;
If she some joy or goodness comprehend,
'Twas this that stirr'd my very soul with joy.
"'Then, hark, and with what voice thy charms shall tell
Sweet dreams to rise; these gentle gales that keep
My life with motion, are no idle breeze;
The winds I breathe, and waft my soul on high,
Like some loved spirit through the air that glides,
Or like a benison to charm the soul of care.
"'Oh! for the time when thou wert dragg'd with earth,
To breathe new life into some purer soul,
Who, from a little pretty child at birth,
Thyself, with one blest glimpse of joy, didst roll
Up all the mighty spheres of neighbouring spheres,
And with sweet music crown those happy fields,
That seem'd so blest to live, and ever shall be blest again.
"'Oh! by that blest'ry, that celestial smile,
That blissful, blushing, and beauteous star,
Which we have lost for ever in the while,
To me are given, dear one, by thee, dear heart!
'And, oh! let her, that hears and does not dream,
In the broad circle round my future days,
Lift then her looks, all sorrow and delight,
As I can raise her looks with gladness and my praise.
"'The gladsome bird behold how brightly glow
Those lustrous wings of thine; the happiest day
That brings such bliss on this eternal brow,
Is the fair morn of my celestial day.'
The scene of joy and rapture, as I thought,
I now can
======================================== SAMPLE 714 ========================================
, is the _Villa_,
And _Nunera_ with the good
Of the _Tyrantium_ is the _Villa_
Of the _Obras_--who may tell us
That we are not so well in knowing
Whether we are to see at once
Our own native countrymen.
Yes, and _Arullo_ the _Labildine_,
The _Hesperides_ of the _Burgher_
_Cometh_--that is the name we use here
For our own names. In fact we said
That we are from the _Hesperides_;
And are they from the _Villa liberae_,
Or only from ourselves? Yet the _Nunera_
Of a long life must now be told,
That life is very pleasant.
For _Nunera_--that in days past
When I was taken in with _G----_
And made myself a friend, was one
Of the _Deccanies_--blessed _Cyndenes_,
Who, when the _Grecian_ youths were grown
To women, must have gone.
_Car._              _Car._        _Car._       _Car._       _Car._       _Car._       _Car._       _Car._        _Car._         _Wheel_
_Comes_--in short, with the _Munera M----_
In short, by the _Ganges_ we have come,
And see _Glori_, that is the last
Of our own lives. The name we take
Shall be of that most famous man
Whom this time hither we commit
To banishment.
_Car._                              So we must endure our doom.
With death in this wise it shall be found
We are no longer here.
_Car._                                            _Car._
Ye heavenly palaces of Rome,
With many a lofty citadel
Of lasting fame, now hold your peace.
May all your fates please her, and may all
The ills which time inflicts of sorrow
Now lay them out and bury them.
Thus be it mine to future times
To raise the blush upon your faces
And to present and enjoy your own
In her most famous book of ancient books,
With laurel all the year upon
With sacred leaves, before the sun
Meant the sweet birds have sung this hour.
The voices of the trumpet and
The voices of the double drum,
They all are mine: my name shall be
The famous trumpet, heard afar,
And the sweet bird of evening!
The trumpets that we call to-day
Shall sound to-morrow morning's praise
In honor of the mighty dead
Who died to keep our country's name
As their immortal memory is--
More glorious than the breath of fame,
Whose tomb can make a nation's life!
_Car._                                     _Memory._
I' the vale called Ida'scas,
I met with Jove's imperial crew,
Then hewed the earth in rough disport,
And wept beside the royal ship,
And prayed that in her loss and fall
We might make offerings to her name.
That they may vow for me, and prove
Their deities by my sweet love,
I vow in truth, I ne'er will soil
The verdant pastures with a spoil,
Nor look too late for the spring-time
When I will rear my house for aye,
And all the little children dear
I will have littered in, but we,
Although they were no longer three,
Are not forgotten! All things new
And reappearing hence shall be
As was the morning in the air.
These solemn vows shall last till life
Shall have an end, when time begins
And we shall hear the trumpet's strife
Forget not yet!
_Car._                   
======================================== SAMPLE 715 ========================================
, of course,
A pair of Peers, and quite as well as Peers,
Painted by Pallas on the lovely plains.
But I don't tell you all:  you know the art
To paint a Pallas's various form and face,
And I would give attention to the art,
Were it not done by Vulcan?  Yes, I do.
Well; that is how a workman must be found
To give his life a painting.  That's the art.
See, it is all for you, it is for me,
To paint a Pallas's various form and face.
Now in this place of painting, come my way,
My brush will paint you as I know the art
To which I must describe you.  I can go
With every line about you, every picture
I get of you, and more than I dare do.
Come, here's a Hoos-Hito Tior-kultur man,
And he'll be made as good as you, you see.
And now, my brush is ready, for today
I have an abstract given you to view;
What you can do, I'll keep with both my art,
And that will be the saving.  In a day,
When it grows light, the pots of all the size
Must turn the other head, for so is need.
Take this example with all care of mine:
Don't let him see you can't put out the shine.
'Twill kill you quite.  It is the single case
Of painting it has put a woman's face
To lead you to these scenes; it will be well
If any of you will be left here to present
A matter that's needed for a while;
And you will find, because that's what you'll do,
Nothing to hint at for the moment through.
That is to make an artist; let him try.
The task indeed is very difficult,
And yet he does it so, you see, he does it.
But there'll be reasons for it; and I'll send
A sentimental letter to your friend,
My cousin, given it to the Prince
Of dear Valemora, which I hope will send
Back to Dad McGuire, to tell him this:
The letter which Dad McGuire received,
And which Dad McGuire himself received,
Which afterwards the Prince himself received,
Has been with several men, I know not where.
I wish to see you in this paper forth,
And see who wrote it, I'm afraid, in proof,
To tell him the real truth of this result.
This is the very point in which I feel
That I shall soon be made a governor.
This is the very point that I shall find
By saying that I am the man behind,
That while I hold upon my word and hold
As I am bound unto my promise, though
I swear it by the king's most high behest,
I'll give you all the slip, it must be told,
In terms with which I cannot hold the gold,
I offer you the list of my affairs,
And so insist that you will be the man
Who thus procloses half the golden year.
How does it take them to do this?
We may not know, and may not speak.
But these I trust to your good wishes.
And if this man himself attains
Your wishes, I shall be condemned to death.
(I do not wish to see him marry me,
But I shall pay you something for my debt,)
His duties are as constant as the stars
That look upon the sun.  He may be wrong;
He may be wicked, but he shall not bend.
The courtier will be glad to pay me back
For having been so tedious, would be loth
To have his day before the reckoning.
I know my time is brief.
Lose not the power of learning this way:
You'll find your judgment in the end awaits.
So, friend, before your day comes round,
I'll teach you how to make it plain.
I know the public need no rules
To know its due observance.  Why
Should I presume to show it all
Regardless of the public eye,
The public does no law to show it?
But yet this book is mine and this
Will never hold the mind of me.
My friend, I am content to stay
Till Monday's circus waits thee here.
O let the circus have its play!
Be mine to guard it far from here.
And when you leave me for the road,
I'll guard it for the evening star.
'Tis said of old that men of men
(I know them well), in days of yore,

======================================== SAMPLE 716 ========================================
, and C----k, who knows
How to support them?
I, to be brief,
Do nothing of age; I am not too old
To see too many faults; and I am weak
To give too soon a little love to men.'
These thoughts, when questioned, I can only say;
But when I ask them, they return with the thought;
When seated at my elbow in the stir
Of half emotion, and the conversation
Is jubilant, I do not dare to ask
What I have lost; a thought I never had;
And whether such a thought or such a thought
Were too severe or pleasing, which at times
If mixed with too much thought, and so intense
Its agony, and so intense its agony,
To call my own attention but an hour
For what it is would seem to me appears
Like far-fetched metaphors, which, while they're new,
'Tis not enough to vex their reader with;
Yet what they give, they give; and that can be
What moral strength in such a man should change
Those few, for these, for those who have a love
That something must be had, for those who change.
Yet love, that's heaven for beauty, when a spark
Is man's to kinder stars than this, has made
A sunbeam there, and there a moon must be;
And nature gives a beauty to the maid
From out her hand, as she a chaste affect
Has given to children, who would greatly woo
A passing drop from out their mothers' eyes;
And love can so much cause their feelings much.
I do not ask for beauty, that is rare,
For, if there be, 'tis worth a heart to break;
For it's enough that beauty's all in this,
They could not do the same, though it be pure:
And this is what a fine young heart should feel
In all its parts, as in its mother's milk.
I love to look upon your glorious brow
In kindly thoughts of passion, and in love
That makes you sweet and modest; and to know
That you have quite the freedom to remove
All thoughts of selfishness and pride from me;
To look upon your eyes in which a tear
Shines like the dawning of your love-lit eyes;
And open to mine own calm, tranquil love,
The quiet, guarded thoughts of your pure mind,
And still the soul of this young heart of mine.
I do not ask for beauty, that is rare,
For, if there be, why, I could ne'er divine
A pure, devoted heart to Nature's charms,
Or with a love so dear, make it more fine.
I have not been an idle stranger to
The noisy din of every London court,
But have conversed with Fortune in her school,
And learned by her mild, gentle rules amaze
That only few can feel their bosoms' peace;
Have learned a nature of most sovereign sweets,
And sweet philosophy and sacred lore,
That the most delicate, and the most refined
That art has ever drawn from human thought,
Have been, in my opinion, to have caught
The very devil with her atmosphere;
Like the effect of some vague, wicked design
Or wicked motive which may never dare
To steal from its exact existence there,
Some gleam of heaven that may be always there.
What is this world but what is every day,
If all the world be all--a crowd of those
Whom it has looked upon as things of clay
Who see but parts of this world from themselves;
But only see that they do not believe
In something more profoundly than they do;
And see that they believe but all they see
Is only in this world beyond the verge.
What is it that I like not?
It is too bad to think, because I see
More than I even hope.  I have not much
To fear.  The very reason is not worse.
I have not found myself a long time blind,
Feeble, blind, indifferent, and dull;
An idle fancy; a false hope; a lie
Repeated, and unworthy of a truth;
A lie that I have never spoken to,
And that I never heard, or never saw;
A foolish echo of deception, drowned
In folly; an unmeaning monotone
In an unconscious night.  For oh! when thought
Flies round a heart that, like a thought, is fled,
What should it be but evil to believe
That every hour is a day of days?
That life, like a remembered dream, doth seem
Like a remembered mask of memory
Of something that is hidden in the heart,
A fragile and vague desire.  It seems
======================================== SAMPLE 717 ========================================
;
And when the rest of the tribe had vanished like the sun,
With the smoke of the cooking was the little hill-side inn.
A stranger to this country,
As I met him crossing the bridge,
With a hat and cloak, and a cloak,
And little red feet in a box.
"How now," said I, "Is the water
Still going out in the sea?"
But she answered nothing, "I'm making a boat," and she pushed
A sharp rope through the piggery, and thrust the rope through,
And just as she hung over the stoop,
The rope broke her short and she fell out.
Then the door creaked, and I watched her die,
As I drew the bolts, the door creaked!
And there was the sea, and the little red yard in the sea,
And the little red yard in the sea.
I went back to town,
From the tavern I walk to-day;
I went to law,
And to buy a straw hat,
And a straw hat,
And a straw hat,
And a straw hat,
And a straw hat,
And a straw hat,
And a straw hat,
And to wear it said I would not be glad to please you,
For it is worth going to you!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," he cried,
"To have you all ready dressed,
When I sent you my looking-glass in the tide.
Why, you know I used all night to run outside:
It's a long way out there, of course,
And it gets so bad you can't go in,
That's what's good enough for you!"
She pushed the cold water through the mould
With a little groan, and she cried
To the king, "Aha, I'm sorry now
At my poor old king's wig so badly shorn.
But the country looks such a queer place
As is ruined here; it's so narrow an' thin,
You'd better go down if you're only here."
And he made a great rout,
And he pushed the cold water through the mould
With a little groan, and he cried,
"Oh, let me stay out here,
Or I'll run about
And get a bright look
Of the old king's wig,
And a green hat,
And a long coat of top,
And a long nose,
And a long nose of top.
And when he was dead
He was all but a seed, and he wanted to be fed.
He went to church to read,
And early in a morning,
I don't know what to do
Unless I went to church,
Or I asked a little bird
To sing to me,
And I heard him sing to me,
"Oh, I'm glad I sing to thee!
I'm only a barefoot,
And I'm only a barefoot," she said,
"As long as I'm a camel:
I'm going to be a king,
And a little queen of mead
With a big black coffin."
"That is only a drum
To beat down my drum,"
She ordered a quick-grained surprise
Of a little baby-boy.
She was wondering,
Very perplexed,
How she could have known,
And why she had come to shout
At the housemaid and the king.
"If I'm tired of telling me
That it's only the carrion-bird,
Just come back and see
That it's there for me," she said.
"I'm very sad
To think of it,
Only think of him
As a little gaunt,
Grown-up taller with his breadth of limb
And his eyes and his legs.
"I'm thinking of him,
As a little dog does
When he starts to spring,
And then growls about, and how he stops
Running all about.
"No, he's only a dog
As like as he can be,
And I'm only a gaunt dog,
And a little man with me."
"Then I'll have a new hat
That will keep me warm;
And a big black cloak,
And a doublet,
And a riding-cart,
And a big round yellow muslin gown."
"That has forgotten
The road to my bones,
No matter how far
And it's getting to town," said the little dog.
She said to the king:
"I have only a thing
That I cannot sing
For I cannot sing.
"Now you shall not sing,
If I only had time;
But what matter? you'll sing
And when you come,
I'll sing it awhile."
The
======================================== SAMPLE 718 ========================================
, who is it that comes
So late towards the sun?
I see no shadow, and no voice I seek,
But it is gone.
I find no voice so tired, it is so very weak,
I would fill my empty place.
I would fill my empty place and come once more,
But it is gone.
I am content and wise, and yet so long there is
Between me and its loneliness that nothing seems
A foil for love's sweet rarity,
But like a child come home to me with arms.
I am content and wise, the only wise who care
For the great thing and cannot.
I am content and wise, and yet I would not stay,
For, O my darling, I am content and I am content.
The Lord is good; the clouds are gray,
And all the world is good to-day.
The air is as before;
The wind's in the east, and there will be rain
And then the wind will wake again.
The clouds are thick in the sky,
And the sea is at rest.
The lights of God are there,
And He walks everywhere.
I cannot choose but hear
The still, slow, sharp refrain,
Until the last great thundering of the rain.
I have no heart to love,
I cannot even know
The little pain He gives,
The little pain that He takes best.
He is not like to me
When I am far away,
God's sweetheart, bright and free,
Is waiting to be gay.
I have found Him, dear,
Who all the world sees here,
And I would make my prayer,
But for the weary sake
Of Him, and all His love,
To come, and come, and take His part
Who is my soul's true love.
I have prayed for you in vain,
I have searched in vain
For you and Him and you,
And I thank God for each;
But now I know the worst is best.
I have prayed for you,
I have wept all the nights and tears,
Sifted many a doubt and dread
From eyes that are shining still.
I have wished myself to see
The Master, sweet and true.
I have found Him all my days,
Hath a heart to love and wait.
I have loved with you, dear,
I have laid His head to rest.
O loving hearts, so warm and true,
Is He so very near!
He is near and my love is near,
And He hides all fears away;
He knows that I am weak and frail,
And I would have this day.
I know that I am weak and old,
I know my life hath been cast in doubt,
I know my work is not good or bad,
I have found Him and let Him in,
I have wept, and said, and sin.
I have laid His feet against my door,
And I watch His soft eyes that are weary,
That are weary, and sad, and alone,
But I wait for His smile to have shown me
And deliver me, smiling and sweet,
With his softness, as though I would shed
Light and strength for the sorrows I've waited
And would hide the tears and sins of me.
I have lived for you, love, till the end is peace;
I have wandered through dark nights of sin,
Thrown in the night wind, heavy and calm,
The highways of earth are beaten and black;
Yet God is my friend and my comrade still,
And they who shall wander may come to me.
And yet, while I watch with the eyes of Ruth,
And hear the steps of her footsteps fall,
Some friend or traveller may know my strength,
But I wait for His smile to have known me all.
As one who stands in shining place,
And waves a brand in either face,
Where lies his ghastly, gleaming face
With one hot, red and sudden grace,
So I, with breaking heart and sight,
Went on to seek Him in His flight.
But when I claimed His feet, and cried,
'He will not find thy Christ outside.'
Then all at once His look delayed,
And I did nothing but looked down,
And saw a face, cold, and glorified,
White, beautiful, and full of frown,
That I did not see there in my place,
But marked no whit His face to find;
I tried to call His face to mind.
So, then, I went, nor seemed to know;
All was when my poor heart did bleed;
But with my cross still clinging there,
I found one Christ, and healed my care.
What I have seen
======================================== SAMPLE 719 ========================================
 our fellows there,
As we did when in youth together throng'd
The paths of peace across the shadowy vale
Where they stood watch beside the sparkling wells,
And where, amidst the fresh and fragrant bowers
Of early bloom, the cestus and wild flowers,
Their spirits slept. Then, as I gazing thro'
The opening leafy shades, the air was filled
With sudden joy--so was it--then the scene
All vividly expatiates--the same youth--
A boy at first in blushes, and around
A grave in grief; a solemn, manly man,
Frequent and full of knowledge and of truth.
These had been just the same adventures all.
But yet his eye--what matter with what light?
The scene that led him to the hall and porch--
Had then to sink into oblivion's arms!
It might have been that he was all in all--
No doubt that such a painter, here and there,
Had lost his skill and marvell'd at the work.
Still gazed his eyes a moment--but the scenes
Gag'd on as if preparing for the worst
Of what ensued were those that to the crowd
Seemed just to have produced an hundred schemes
Of art that soiled the cheek, and made the eye
The very hue of pleasure to the hue
Like pale faint tints ere they were overborne.
He took his pencil--'twas his proper work,
For every artist seems to have his whim
Of following Nature's law in his own way.
The very air about him seemed alive
With a new sense of pleasure as it came
He could not see, or hearing, till he stood
Among those groups that group'd around his hearth,
The figure of a man, of whom the crowd
Might well call up; he saw that, on the throng,
Beside the hearth, a venerable man,
And in the midst, a page of noble size,
Gave him her handkerchief, and said, "I trust
It is a spirit more or less divine."
Then on his right breast, smilingly, she wrote
The words, "At length I recognize your tribe;"
A line which, when conjoined, led straight across
That forest path, which led him to a walk,
And, even as he said, his mind did move.
And so did this old man descend upon him,
And the old man beheld, with puzzled eyes,
The forms which, as he journey'd on, eclips'd
Them wholly, and did point out where, in fine,
The chief threw down the hat, and straight the gown
Lifting across, said "Lazarus, thou stoop'st
Too low, for such a wonderful effect."
I know not where or why, but some time now,
While gazing blindly o'er the precipice,
Could see him linger, and have given up
Eager his strength to climb; e'en as the youth
Whom first he saw, was by a shout ennobled,
"There is a mountain here, all smooth and crown'd
By mountains, and a tract of verdant meadow."
So he climb'd on, exclaiming--"Perhaps this man,
Meeting us in his valley, is not there!
Begone, for now, the air is dull--that cloud
Has smitten with its showers the vesper clouds,
The wind may drive to summer the long streams,
But still the sun goes down--that mist is off--
And yet, alas, we must not hope to rise,
Though yet we must be near him!" Then he clasp'd
Her right across his bosom, saying--"Trust God,
If ever thou canst bear to look upon
Thy kinsman, and to see his face again,
I think, thou wilt rejoice that he is free
To come within his castle!"--"No, Maurine;"
And smiling she replied, with that frank voice
Which, when a little used, renew'd, and brought
A sadness in her mild blue eyes, which shone
With love's own light, and dwelt delighted there.
He had been sitting all that day with his
Far in the forest, watching the slow fire
Leaving behind him in the field, and oft
In idle sport ascending watch'd the maid,
Now resting on his knee, and now perhaps
On his broad back, with gentle voice and mild.
Her eyes so earnestly upon his cheek
Had rested, and such gentle lids of blue
That never closed a stream of silvery light
In noontide; and her mouth was not quite closed,
As was her wont, in gazing. Ah, my heart
======================================== SAMPLE 720 ========================================
,
And "Polly!" for the day grows old;
She's fresh and fair and bright,
And on her memento lies her gold.
The wind blew loud, the day drew clear,
It smote the blue with sudden fear;
It chanced a little maid of the town,
But her lover stayed her hand down,
And thus addressed the maid with sighs:
"O my dearest dearest, dears,
I love you most.
"Your home it is a dungeon dark,
Wherein so dark an one I see;
But you have gained the better mark
And go forth to my prison tree;
"In the early morning hours,
You have come the same thing to see,
And when night cometh, sit upright,
I'll tell you all my liberty."
They led her to a gallows-tree,
Where mosses for the feet did hide;
They led her to a gallows-tree,
Where mosses the foot did hide;
And there she saw the foot-prints run,
And there they left her company.
They led her to a gallows-tree,
Where mosses the foot did hide;
"Now shall I have my morning meal,
And hold the doleful company,
But I shall miss them for all my woe,
Although they love me dearly so.
"They shall love me, etc."--"Hush!"
"In a shadow I shall see,
But in the shade of a lofty tree
They shall love me purely evermore."
When I saw two youths sit
On a high Alpine spot,
I said, "The valley's dark,
And I'll no longer pine
Until I meet my fate,
But I'll freely pledge this gale,
Which soon will laden sail."
It blew on their heads, they blew,
No time did they delay:
"And I'll build for the river and then
Rush down to meet my fate."
Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
To the West as they Bides should desire;
And they thought to their true-heart, "We are tired of the West,
And we'll be as happy as certainly as any turtle."
Three children went sailing away to the West,
With none in them living to comfort their case;
And they said to the one, "We are tired of the West,
Because we have tired ourselves almost of the race."
"O come!" cried another, "O go to the West
And beg them a smile for to take me away!
I have done what my heart long has feared of the best,
And now in the west I must bid you good day."
Three pretty girls came riding into the West,
To the West as they Bides should entreat;
And they said, "O come to the river so free,
For we hope to meet our fate shortly in the sea."
Three pretty girls in white scarfs did come,
Upon the first blush of the summer day;
The youngest boy dropped his golden jar,
And the youngest boy kissed his youngest son.
They sailed in the ocean like fairies and men,
With a sweet loving feeling in every tone;
But the youngest boy dropped his golden jar,
And the youngest boy dropped his pear-tree spray.
Three little kittens came out of their boats
With a sweet loving feeling in each breast,
And the youngest boy dropped them a treat,
Then they all rushed out to meet their guest.
The youngest one stood at the river's side,
To take their little Fish away;
The youngest one dropped her golden tide,
And the youngest one dropped her golden spray.
The youngest one dropped her golden hat,
And the youngest one fell down to her death;
But the youngest one dropped her golden hat,
And the youngest one dropped her golden spray.
Three pretty girls came out of the West,
From the West looking up at home;
But the youngest one dropped her golden tide,
And the youngest one dropped her golden spray.
The fairest of all was a little Boy,
In the East she shines like the sun;
With his golden feet and his silver tongue,
And the light of his golden tongue.
Thus their meeting they did not cease,
But the youngster pressed on his eager knee,
To tell her all he could do to hear.
And the little one said, "O, my little Dear,
Let my heart be still when you're far from me;
I'll go to the South, at the close of day,
And tell your heart to me.
And you'll think of the beautiful words you said,
As you sat down at your Father's knee;
And, all because I loved you more than
======================================== SAMPLE 721 ========================================
,
"Who knows but the piper that loves "muckle sheep?"
"I am of the Blackfriars but they were three."
"Nay-nay," said the Baron, "in heaven we are not
yet caring; our work is done for good, for I never know
what I do; and we're going to say the first thing that
I shall say after that!"
As the Baron turned the keys on his horse's foot, he
prayed, "Be seated, and you shall sit there till my hour."
"Friend," said the Baron, "surely it is best. Your Knights
the Kings of the East."
"Piper," said the Baron, "I think I mean Sir Hugh
"Ah! but the kind of man that loves the lads
"Sir Hugh," whispered the Baron, "you're lads as
you are. Sir Hugh is too well of mood
with your arms, and he must be in ferret there."
"Friend," said the Baron, "I know well the kind
"Ah! Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh, and I have a heart,
"The boor of the Duke's castle has set his casque
against the boor-piper, and he hath found the foe.
We will fight, my liege, for the honour and faith
this morning."
"So it befell in the days of your feast," said the
beacon, "that the boor was lord of the chapel, and
of the chapel in the cloister, and therefore his
adhere, not alone, for the boor came to his ear.
For the life and the glory of his age said not a
word, but our king, Sir Hugh, has his feet in the
deep moss and the thicket, and Sir Hugh is in the
roof of the wild wood, and his figure grows greater
lively and slow, as you carry him to the cell. Be
well hastening hither!
"My lord, then, my liege,"
the Duke said, "here, in the glade, I can find where
I can find the springlet that Ida holds most thick.
The glen is near our castle, and over its rocky
head the wild-fowl fly. There, in a thicket,
with young leaves, the wild cranes build their nests, and
there on the ground the timid wild-fowl build.
This hour has my castle surrounded me with
flowers, and in many moods, for my liege, I know well
that I am in love with you and am beloved. So
far did I seek my castle, as if a little wind
were blowing there. I wish I were where the sun
knew there such a wind as I would have it. But
what would I choose? If there, then, be enough of a
day, a storm's bound I will be my lord and liegeman.
In those days never has my liegeman left me a stranger
to my high chivalry, but I shall come with night, and
shall be your queen and my liegeman. Then as for the
others, I will be your bane. Then, Lady, let me go
with you, for you need not be a little false. And
when the third year has come again, when the sun shall
be set, how my face is wet with the salt wind
that beats in my veins and my heart too beats. Then
remember, my liegeman, you said you would bring me
beyond the shadow of false words. My word is that you
are the loveliest in the land. I pray you that you
might be dearer to me and more pleasing to me than a
my lady, and have pity upon me, for in sooth the
thoughts of both of us go with a gentle wind are the
most pleasant. Of my lord I have no care or respect, for
my heart is glad and fain of you.'
"Then Yude was my lord. He was my vassal ever, and I
had all the sons of God; there were but three sons the
most good and the noblest that were among men, for that
was my wedded wife, Yude was her eldest son, and she
had the greatest trouble, but the king said the other sons
of Arceisius, who were my friends of old. You are young
in the city, and yet it seems that you would be nine
years old, and your strength failed you as many as
other sons of those that you have men in the city of
Sodoma, and you came to my house on a sorry even-song
of mine. If my lord had never shown himself wicked

======================================== SAMPLE 722 ========================================
,
Where the sky is dim and the winds are still,
And the dim sea is clear, and the night is chill.
A little bird sits on the nest
In the nest I love so well;
'Tis the nest of my darling, and he shall look
At the little dove and brood and coo.
He shall look on her tenderly,
And his heart shall beat and swell,
And his eyes shall look in his father's face,
My darling, my darling, my dove, my dove!
And the bird shall sing in its highest grace,
And his life shall be sweet and bright;
The wings of the butterfly shall flash
To its little darling flight,
With a joyful song to nestle the little bird's soul,
And a joyful song to nestle the little bird's soul.
The little bird he shall never miss
The tender touch of his mother's heart;
Yet oh, let me have my way,
Where the rocks and the waters shall meet and betwee him,
Where the cliffs and the caves shall greet and be;
Where the birds and the birds shall sing in their love to nest,
And where shall the nest be hid from the sun and the showers,
Now the bird is silent at home, and the sheen of the dome,
For the friends of the nest are all gone to their nest.
He is silent, he is lost,
In the hole under the wing;
Like a wounded pride he flutters his wings in the flight of the wind,
But all in vain he has fled, and the child is behind.
And the bird has left in the nest,
That he may not yet discover;
Her wings shall not find a nest
Where the bones of the shearer should sleep.
But when the night-bird came;
We hoisted up the spindles,
And sang the evening hymn,
We laid us down to sleep.
And a rose-wreath we had woven
Out of the poplar's tangle,
Where the last light flickers
On leafless tresses of the laurel.
But woe to him who found it,
Who said it was the dawning
Of a gay, sweet-hearted guest
That rose to claim her hand,
The star of the night's long glitter!
And we thought of those who knew
The secrets of the night,
How they would shine, and wake too,
And shine for aye too bright;
And we sang the ancient songs
Of the beautiful dead years,
Who sat under the laurel
In the stone-wreathed porch of grey-green September,
And sang of the days of old.
And the rose-wreath we plucked was broken,
And the song-breath we wound in the wind's wild wings,
But the lips of the singers were still, and the songs of the
singer were only a beautiful, clear and beautiful story;
They were all gone into the land
Wherein no more the sun should rise;
But in a silence sad and vast
We heard them singing the old songs,
We were as lorn as sad old men,
And our hearts wept o'er the days of old.
Again the world's light moving round
Floods the night air with many sounds,
And over the world's wide face
The aching of the heart-strings sounds
As when the blast from the loud North
Rouses the tempestuous sea.
And the pale faces of the slain
Smile dreamily as dreams that haunt
The haunted chambers of the brain.
And the sweet breath of his dead song
Ripples through all our blood and soul,
As when the old, sad, mournful host
Heard three, or ten, one unchanging One
Filled all the echoing thoroughfares
Of the drear desert; so we sang,
For our sure song was one to a hundred,
One to a hundred, and three to a hundred!
Once in a hundred years ago
These words had power to rouse a king,
And lift from the dead grave the shroud
He wore from Lazarus at his heart,
And set a guard about him there
Against the centuries of his life.
His brow was grave and heavy with thought,
But a smile shone over his lips,
And under his eyes the wrinkled, calm,
Sad eyes of sorrow touched his brow.
And ever the shadow of his face
Fell like a snake's from his heavy, grey head.
Then he was wise, and a weary wise,
And loved a life when it was not dead,
But as one who was wise to avenge
His idol-victim, and to destroy him,
And unto prisons close the eyes

======================================== SAMPLE 723 ========================================
,
and then----"
"_If the little girl gets over Monmouth and does it any good?
If the girl does not blush, she's as well deceived;
For your mother looks into a different man,
She's not given in wedlock, and that no doubt _he's_ a _man_.
"_Then the mother of the little girl is gone to try again,
And the little girl's mother is told to be left to die again;
And unless she is left to lie down alone in the sun,
Her little children lie still and wait for the summer.
"_And all because when the sun changes your pillow
Must it be a place to make up our sleeping and sleeping,
Must it be a place to sleep in the dark and deep,
And secret and secret ways no man has ever seen?
Must it be a place to sleep in the dark and deep,
And secret and hidden ways no man has ever seen?
"_Then all because when the rain leaves the clock in the hall,
Must it be a place to make up our sleeping and sleeping,
And secret and hidden ways no man has ever seen?
Must it be a place to sleep in the dark and deep,
And secret and hidden ways no man has ever seen._"
"_Then all because when the rain leaves the clock in the hall,
Must it be a place to sleep in the dark and deep,
And secret and hidden ways no man has ever heard;
Must it be a place to lie in the dark and deep,
And secret and hidden ways no man has ever seen?_"
"_Then all because when the rain leaves the clock in the hall,
Must it be a place to sleep in the dark and deep,
And secret and hidden ways no man has ever found._"
"_Then all because when the rain leaves the clock in the hall,
Must it be a place to talk at night and my tears must fall;
And secret and hidden ways no man has ever seen;
But secret and hidden ways no man has ever found._"
"_Then all because when the rain leaves the window,
Must it be a place to sleep in the dark and deep,
And secret and hidden ways no man has ever found._"
"_Then all because when the rain leaves the window,
Must it be a place to sleep in the dark and deep,
And secret and hidden ways no man has ever found._"
"_Then all because when the rain leaves the window,
Must it be a place to fill in the dark and deep,
And secret and hidden ways no man has ever found._"
"_Then all because when the rain leaves the window,
Must it be a place for sleep in the dark and deep,
And secret and hidden ways no man has ever found._"
"_Because that strange thing in the night time's fashion
Ever wakes in the night like memory of the day,
And is born in the dawn but is slain by the hurry,
As it always does though the days be of no worth a way._
"_Because that changeless thing in the night time's fashion
Makes of all the years to come a-peeping round,
In the night time's end is nothing is nothing but nothing,
As it always does though the days be as gold and sound._"
"_Because the night is as a thing unto a man,
And his soul a thing unto the sky in flight,
In the night time's end is nothing but the spirit,
As it always does though the days be as golden light._"
"_Because the mighty law that made and sundered
Makes of all the world a law unto a clown,
In the night time's end is nothing but a shadow,
As a shadow arisen from a heavy cloud._"
"_Because the light is as a man unto a woman,
And his soul a thing unto the sky in flight,
In the night time's end is nothing but a shadow,
As a shadow arisen from a light in darkness._"
"_Because the night is as a man unto a woman,
And his soul a thing unto a sun in sun,
In the night time's end is nothing but a shadow,
As a shadow arisen from the light in darkness._"
"_Because when the moon and all the stars are vanished,
And night is all the world is anything,
In the night time's end is nothing but a shadow,
As a shadow arisen from a light in darkness._"
"_Because the night is as the man unto the woman,
And his soul a thing unto a sun in light,
In the night time's end is nothing but a shadow,
As a shadow arisen from a light in darkness._"
"_Because the
======================================== SAMPLE 724 ========================================
,
And some day shall come," he said to me;
"We'll speak of that," and so we two walked on,
Paola's top and canyon, to the camp-fire.
And he whispered: "Go not out of the city,
'Tis my wife's work-day now!"
And I went on and on, though I could not name him,
Though I could not tell him where I found him.
In the courtyard I wound up close, and covered him
As the red sun burned low.
So I covered him up with my clothes all hemply
That his face might have his fate.
He has seen the sun sink back to the ocean
Lying crosswise and warm.
And he says to me: "O son, there are no brothers
But they can no more harm
Thy happiness; only a few look up
To wonder upon me; but I can see to them
The reason of my despair.
"They say there is no help for these things of mine,
And one of these is a kind
Of a certain friendly hand;
And one of those that have found eternal mouths
Are the mouths of all mankind,
And I know that there is nothing strange in me,
And I hear that somewhere in my heart
There is no other thing to cling to.
"And they say there is no help for those
Who have gone to the end
With the fire-engines of desire; for there once
When they have gone to the night,
And come to the city of truth,
"I have been there to hear and see
What is there more to say;
For that which living is best of all
Is Love at last to stay.
And I saw when I lay in the dust
All my hopes of nothing new.
"And then where does Love come to me
After all this,
And where is Love my heart to me?
Can it be what it should be?"
And I heard him say: "Alas!
O my own beloved,
O my own beloved,
It is nothing to be loved by men
That comes after all the years
Of this world, and none of these.
"O my own beloved,
O my own beloved,
Where is Love my heart to be?
And where is the fire with which Love burns me?
And what is the kiss it brings?"
And I said: "There is fire to burn and water;
But I go to the end to hear."
And he said: "It is light to go
Where the houses speak without light:
Light is love, and love is flame;
And a name is Love without light."
And he said: "O me the road
That is new to me, and the way
That a man must follow to where truth
And the beauty of truth may stray;
But where Truth is found without light
There must be only one path left over:
Till ye build as ye are of clay,
Build an answer to the soul,
Build a song to be divine--
Love will live with you always,
That is song, and light, and music,
Where no grief ye shall find.
As I was walking all alane
I heard twang on the turning wind,
And the hard earth under me lay;
I breathed the earth, I breathed the day.
Yet more of heaven than man I claim--
I breathed it through and gave not space
For the voice that came in my soul:
And I saw how I came to be,
In the hour when earth was bowed to hear
And all earth's heart was a sob:
I saw the earth beneath me move;
And the sky above was changèd red,
And I heard the voices of earth:
Yet more of heaven than man I claim--
I heard the voice that cried in me.
All night through, by a forest dark and lonely,
A hunter in a forest old and brown
Lay dying in the moonlight and were sighing
For a fair and fairer maid,
A maiden sad with sorrow laden
With life and death and breath;
A forest dim with moon and starlight,
And silent of all life.
And O she was a fair and strange and slender--
A slender lightening tree, that stood
Close in the wood and darkly was to deepen
Into a strange new flood.
And O she saw a lovely hand, like moonlight
And gleams of silver, gliding down the dew
To pour the beauty of the summer's changes,
And see the flower of love, and be
A thing of beauty, and a thing of beauty,
And lift afar the trees.
But as the leaves came home at night, I said
Among the trees
======================================== SAMPLE 725 ========================================
.
_Vindicis quis estis meus?_
_Dic mihi potius fuit._
_Quis erat et fideles?_
_Si sis eram, sis eris?_
_Consilium personem meam, se meae, licebit, amem:_
_Denique mihi, dic mihi, nescimus;_
_Quis dedit?_
_Cui totus incipiant._
_Quis per inaccessos?_
_Quem tu post hac contulit, ipsi quisque per annos?_
_Quem tu, coniuratos, meus, mihi credite!_
_I am not angry; but you are kind._
_A miser is no merry man;_
_To all men false and jealous, if they will._
_Tortosa dies illa, pudica dies illa,_
_Futus illi, dic mihi, nescit, illa salit,_
_No man will drink the cup of pleasure,_
_Who holds no glotony no cordial friend._
_Futte Quirites vult, sed et huc abit,_
_No sage will act the scutcheon; I indite._
_Sic erudite: non mihi cura puerper._
_Fauni tu nimium nimium, non mihi cura
Virtus insonti; tu tantum non mora;_
_Indide pro nobis, et mihi non mala cura._
_Sic erudite: non mihi didicere voce._
_Fauni contra non magna est mihi cura._
_Sic erudite: non mihi didicere soles._
_Sic erudite: non mihi didicere vitae._
_Si pretium non mori, qui fieri amem,_
_Pulverulentior sua cum contulit artus._
_Sic erudite: non mihi didicere vitae._
_Quis erat et nimium deus idonere vitae._
_Quis erat et nimium deus idonere vitae?_
_Quem tamen, sic erat non est contenta quietae._
_Sic erat et nimium deus idonere vitae._
_Sic erat et nimium deus idonere vitae._
_Torquatus et nimium deus idonere vitae._
_Sic erat et nimium deus idonere vitae._
_Consules oculis non est contenta quietae;_
_Sic erat et nimium deus idonere vitae._
_Quam subito noctis non est ipsa fuit._
_Quin et noctis non est; sic erat, sic meus, illi,_
_Sic erat et nimium deus idonere vitae._
_Sic erat et nimium deus idonere vitae._
_Sic me det quit: nam scribitur esse feremus._
_Sic, neque hic erat auro patriam bene,_
_Sic me urbem, saeue puer, saeue, sic me urbem._
_Quod utinam nunc non moritur sua, verba,
Sic me urbem, saeue puer, saeue, sic me urbem._
_Sic erat et nimium deus idonere vitae._
_Sic me urbem: non me urbem, non sic erat._
Sic viri, sic erat, sic juvam, sic erat ullam,
Sic me urbem, sic erat esse, sic me urbem._
_Quicquid apud nos, non est contenta quietest,
Sic me urbem, sic erit, sic me urbem.
_Quod cupi nunc est;_ {then, now, for {clepius arte]
_Quem veniunt, si ego vos meus, non est reus_.
_Quo ea se officium est_ {then, forte, tore, to
======================================== SAMPLE 726 ========================================
 a great deal more or less;
But then, at last, as they had gathered round,
The servant and her spouse pronounced the sound.
Then the old priest, who saw the words obeyed,
Turned round and round, and said, "I've told you, as
Paid for this man, I've seen him with his guard;
You'll see a poor man, tried and foolish, here
And there, who made the fool of all mankind."
He wondered at the simple tradesman's skill,
Or disappointment in the trivial ill;
The youth's conceit, the gilded past, he knew,
And answered, thus: "There is another view!
"Obedient to these rights of man and wife,
"Another then! a thought before unknown,
"And this is what you mean to say, beside
"The men I knew, who had to guard his side.
"And that is what you mean to say.  That's true;
"He thought so; but you swear, as good as he;
"And, if I wrong him, this believe me, too,
"Another's, and another's, and another's, too."
This made the man in wonder mad, and bound
The maids in fetters to the winds around;
And he that heard the women's wail, and thought
That all is well, there's no man good nor bad.
And yet what say you? think you that a maid
Like her, who in her honour would have been
Fair to the eyes, and virtuous to the eye,
Should go about alone, and leave the world to Art?
What if she be to him that's not at home?
Why, there is still some mischief in the air.
Why is the man so mad?  Why write to him?
'Tis madness to be mad.  He owns the art,
Because it helps him when he thinks he does,
And when that fails he says, "I say good-bye,
Good-bye, dear girl; I'll take you to the woods."
I think if he were here with us for once
(Perhaps he is, or seems to be) to come,
Perhaps some day--and bid him come with me.
(And something in his manner, quite as sure
As we may think of all that's passing by)
If he should do so, he must have a thought
To put things in their flight before him, as
Our hero would have fallen, and even worse
Be justly so, but that the man must die.
(And then his manner being so like his)
A thing that's certain to become a knave,
He, being an easy-going fool, could do
No less than what men are forsworn by,
Had lived his life out, and no other thought
Had ever made him happy: then at last
He's dead and gone, and has no more to do
Than a fool in his turn:--and the poor man, too,
Has no more hope of dying.
"What would he do?
"He'd live 'way long enough to watch those lights
Down the dim church-stalls, for the moon is risen!
He must have found out that, had he been
The doctor said, he'd come to take a walk,
He'd come an hour too late.  He wants my change.
He must have seen the sunlight, not his eyes,
Not the broad moon, for the first time, are such
As look one way to where the moon is horns!
No, no, for he could follow where he would."
So spoke another, mourning in such tones
His hurtful memory to new things began.
"I want another, now; I cannot tell
Why he has wandered out with all his strength,
So many nights he's here.  He has found out
There is a friend who never knew his way.
That's the last word he ever said so said."
"Well," said another, casting up her eyes--
"I'll put those moonlight on him if he does."
"I do not like him over much--and if
He knew he'd give me time enough of thought
He'd have me now to work.  He may go wrong!
I never saw his face; he does me wrong!
For when I see him coming, all the time
I wish my wife should be a mile away,
And he would always go, and wait my kind,
If I would only keep from leaving here
The empty fortune and the lonely blank."
"He can live on," said the mother.  "Will he stay
Ever here at home, then?  Will he go back
To come to
======================================== SAMPLE 727 ========================================
, _Erotit caddis_, viro sæpe duorum.'
I sing the birth of the first Henry.'
It is one with the first Henry.
The second Henry, another Henry, being brother to one of the
Epitome, and that of Henry, Earl of New-York, being the founder of
The second Henry, being James II., surnamed for the second Earl
Of the Parliament of the King Edinburgh, George II., as being the
renowner of the house of Lawrist.
I sing the birth of Henry the Fifth and John the Second, being also
The King sits under the cairn-cock of authority: 'I prance
before the people, and with me,' he says, 'thrown out.'
The third Henry was a king of England after this Henry the Fifth
Duke of Glencairn, widowed daughter to James II., King
St. James of Mount Royal, the King's son.
Taken between the two, is a rule,
And given to the poor.
Thou, Lord of Life! wilt take
Thy kingdom from this stone.
O'er all the waters of this brook
Beneath this spreading oak,
A prince in crown of office thou,
To his worship art thou.
For the people's weal and grief
Thou didst on them bestow;
For they bled and bled--for they bled
From their evil pride;
For they bled both--who heard and fled
From their evil pride!
From thy crown, Queen of this world,
For this prince of lawful deeds;
Where our best tobacco-men
Are hanged, unhors, again,
Thou wilt have them--and their best,--
From thy cursed hands.
Then, Lord of Life! wilt take
Thy treasure and thy meed,
And with these nobles bring the prince
Again to his plead:
From thy crown, King of the Swedes,
For this prince of merry men
To his throne hast thou been Amen
For the rump of a king.'
It was little Laud that died at Kington Castle, when the Prince
The Parliament of 1644, having again brought her dead son,
furniture of the North in 1644, had just announced the funeral
In 1645, the Prince was sent to England to answer for this
unclean wish of the subject. The Parliament, and Earl of
conquered the sacro Salman to appear before the primeval eye of
Legacy, in the meantime, &c. began to enrich the cause
Josephus and his brother Laud as his followers in the kingdom of
King Henry VII., being willing to support him against the extremity
The King was received with a consent immediately after the death of
The Parliament of 1650, appointed in 1656 to be
reconciled, were put to death, and soon after the funeral.
Of the recovery of his languages any names are known; and the
perseverations of the learned are called upon to be written in the
On leaving the royal seat, he immediately took a present from
King Henry VII., the occasion being done by his son Thomas,
The fact is, on the present occasion, recounts a tradition that
distinguished from common superstition.
This act of apostatism was, in some parts of the northern
continued, however, with no doubt, the most important part of the
Palladon Church were those services assigned to the Emperor
PALACE. A kind of satisfaction have been made in the Divine
Church, C.W. W. D., on which occasions such
convenience, as when it augments that the King's design is
Deservedly considered, was predestined.
persons and subjects are more properly akin to the King, than
they are either. The Pope, or the Cardinal ofbane, or the
TUFT. A kind of devotion in the Church, of which, as the
author thinketh, the sentiments of a prayer were the sole
reflections on the image of this great and pious empire, in
which the subjects of the Church and the Crown are interwoven.
In 1645, the King was committed to the Parliament, who, in
attributes to the Parliament, gave him in as solemno matter,
because Sir William Drummond, who had formerly been
king, had issued his estate from him as the Sidney people
title. By this election the generality of the King was so
It is quite clear what a number of families after their time cannot
After this year the union was concluded and the dignity increased,
It is difficult to define clearly what a nation commonly believes
Once again the Parliament acquainted the nation with the thought
======================================== SAMPLE 728 ========================================
 to the end, and in one moment more
They fell, and then the darkness passed before:
And I can say from the beginning of the night
What things have happened since I saw and read,
How with my whole life wasted and distraught
My spirit was, in this last bitter walk,
A little lower than it was before.
But it is now with greater fury fraught,
With shame, and much with indignation fraught,
I tell it all; it is the same, indeed:
The folk that wasted it before, and they
That had it under such a wasteful sky
Had by another punishment been strown
Had not the punishment been stung with pain.
The ruin spreads out now and spreads again:
For now 'tis dead, as usual and in plain
And not a soul has any life again.
But what 'twas all would end when I should be
The victim, and of him the rest would see,
For that is what we bated those we killed.
And thus we are slain in this eternal dole.
There is no hope that he will live to see
My face again, or any soul at all
When I am dead and over me there roll
The heavy wreaths of death, and that I may
Remember what I lost and what I loved,
And what the thing I was; how much I marred
My joys, my sorrows, and my fears, and changed
My spirit into hell, how much I loved.
I say it now: that this is not the way
Of all we loved, that we must die, but soon,
When we shall reach the Last Hunting of the Crown.
This, this it is, for that great majesty
Of which I tell, that, having vanquished self,
I have not lived and died by overthrow.
I am not yet grown guilty; I can say
That I will die; I shall see some day
When this grim past shall all my being change,
That I shall see the end, and that I lose.
O thou, my God, that from thy wisdom seest
Truth, that art victory, and hast been vanquished
By a blind fury of the spirit that gave
Courage to men, that from without mispressed
Is no despair,--Behold it is not meet
For such a triumph to be done as this.
So the All-Giver hath decreed (and he
All will reply), that when we meet again
Peace shall be hers for evermore; but thou,
O my Beloved, shalt know that I love not
Though life hath been my gift for thee alone.
No time is lost for me to look upon
With eyes upon the past; no time to say
What all things suffer as they do; only
That my hands tremble as I cast away
The symbols that should help me bear them on.
When first I saw thee warm and beautiful,
So like a falling star I stood before
My sudden inner sight, and since I knew
Nothing, save thy dear self, that is to know
How much I loved thee, now that I am dead
I was not wholly at thy memory's touch,
So beautiful, so full of longing, and yet full
Of new desires and old forgettingfulness.
I did not call upon thy worth nor fame,
But just as all men worship thee at sight
Whom other men adore.  Thou art the same
Who, moving, crowned the image of thy face
Before the shrine where I lay hid from men,
And gave thy service many a golden seam.
I am content, Beloved, at the last
To do thy service even as I would do
Thy best, my first offering, since he who first
Sought thee and named thee now as thou didst,
Before the eyes of all the world, is gone;
And even though he seeketh night again,
He finds no rest upon his weary bed,
No voice to tell him; and no light in him,
And all the hopes and fears that vex him now--
Were only shadowed by the shadow of death
That hangs upon his soul, as it had been
The shadow of the shade that falls unseen.
This was my dream when first I saw thy face;
This is my waking up; this is my day;
This is the end for which I sought thy love,
This is the end for which I sought thy love.
Thou wert the image of my all these years
That I may bring unto thine eyes again,
Before I leave this life of body and brain,
Before my soul hath breathed upon thy face,
Before these live years pass, ere I move hence
Unto the utmost time and place of men,
Before I take the utmost life with ease,
Before I
======================================== SAMPLE 729 ========================================
,
and S. A. A. _foolish_, _unfortunate_, _unfortunate_.
_fearless_, _unfortunate_.
When at the grave for the first time I saw thee,
When I look'd first I saw in thy face,
And felt thy breath upon my forehead draw,
And kiss'd my hair, and kiss'd that self-same place;--
I seem'd to see thee, and to feel myself
Alone, unloved,--and unloved, unashamed;
O yes! a saintly soul by sorrow cleans'd,
I found thee sitting there, and here, and there;
And the earth, thy pearly dews were moist;
The flowers were sick and died; they never bloom'd:
And I have walk'd the world, and I have look'd
On earth--and it is ever after me;
But I shall see thee not, nor feel again:
Thee and thy sister, and thyself are one.
_A new_, 'twas said; but then I'm better known.
I shall no more say, "No, no! Oh, no!
But I have lived before!"
The tale's abroad;
I've kept it till't
And now I state
The tale's too late,
If not to wait
That we've no reason to hate.
For see, the story's all to see.
But I've got a new one--that's for me--
A thing that's all to him, and all to him.
The tale's not good--
I'll never be
So sure as that old tale's a lie.
We have no quarrels with the ancient folks,
And hate the old as the new styles,
But hate the new as the old times were,
And hate the old as the old ways;
And when we meet the old and wrinkled growls
We mock at the silver lilies . . .
The old days!  We've had to-morrows know;
And bitter-sweet were the old days, I think:
And bitter-sweet were the old ways of things,
And we're back in the old days with all our hearts--
And our bodies are so old, you'd think!
It's back in the old days--again
I've heard the thrushes and the blackbirds sing,
But the wind's my own dead-lustever song
When the old days are gone and the grave is gray;
And we've stood by one another and laughed a little way.
I've watched 'em play 'em, long, long time,
And seen their warm dead beauty beat upon,
And then I've seen them fold their wings and sing,
In the old days--and we've found them there; and when
They came to the old ways with all their heart's content,
They say the old days have been good,
And we've seen their graves and the graves they have made;
But the wind and the wind, and the old days, are good, says
We've seen the old times happy and glad,
And we've come our very sins to speak,
But we're back in the old ways with all our hearts quite mad.
I am old. And I am very tired.
There's nothing left of my life so long ago.
There's a long, long dream and I'm tired of it all;
And it's hard to have what the old days called,
And it's hard to be what the old days meant.
Here's a chance for a chance, if my chance was fair
There'll be many a slip in the old days' way.
I'll leave them all--I'll have to stray
Along the old road, down the old track so long;
And I'll be the days, so old, so old.
We've been on the way from the world's first set,
And the way that we took the old road for the sun;
And we've taken a trip to the old-times yet,
And we'll say 'tisn't good, but I'll say it won't run.
There'll be lots of sorrows in old times yet,
And the place where we sleep so old's a joke to us;
So good-bye, old friend!  They'll be there on the trees.
I think I can hear the old birds singing,
The old birds swinging on tree-tops as though
There were only a bird left, flying singing,
A bird with a golden crest,
With a black eye shining brightly,
And a round white brow and a round, brown, sweet lips,
And a round, sweet, bitter laugh.
I think I can hear the old birds
======================================== SAMPLE 730 ========================================
 to the close."
"It does not pay the thought for such as these I had."
"I am a man of peace, and can forgive the care
Which I have borne, and many weary years,
Who've never found the way to peace; I hate
To live despair and worry and despair
In the great Shepherd's crook, nor to sit down
And count my treasures, though the paths are rough.
I am a man of peace, and could believe
That the great God, not only unto me
Did His most kindly mysteries; and indeed
I loved His service, not that He did see,
But that he seemed in manhood to partake
The strength of my great spirit. I had dreamed
Of the great work that follows day on day
To the last, silent, yet most grandly gleamed
The sunset on the horizon. I was moved
By a sweet music in the stillness of
The stillness of the twilight hour, and thought,
"This is the hour of peacefulness, and thus
Is not the Master and His works indeed.
But they are not His children, and they need
No tenderness and justice. All our grief
Is selfishness; and this is very sad
But for the love God grants us. Lord, I crave
Only to know what is most excellent
Of our own lives and of our fellow-men.
I have tried to do this for America,
And now the struggle goes. If I could feel
A greater strength within me, I would kneel
And pray for that lost spirit, who, for years,
Has gone from earth away, and yet may kneel,
Singing as best he could, amid the groves,
With the great master of his song of love."
A smile of light upon her cheek, as she,
Her lip exhaled in low thanksgiving. This
Brought her back with a sense of calm and peace
And resignation in her clear, keen eye,
She told of her own soul, pure and unchanged;
Of the eternal changelessness, which still
Surrounds her in true beauty. But the touch
Of that clear, mystic meaning came unspelled
Upon her, and her mind grew more divine,
And she felt full at once with all the power
Which stirred her, and, in this sublimity,
She saw the beauty of God, and thought
"We who may live in Him would build their hope
And cherished fancy. They are not in vain
Grown commonplace; to build the temple dreams
Of higher strength, not aspirations, stands
Or labours of the beautiful. In God,
They are not in the firmament of truth.
Build up a ship, and in a land, not hers
For service and for pain, or sacrifice
For good or evil. All that asks and seeks
Your work stands more than this, and more than this.
And you must build on sea, and build in faith
To freedom and to truth, and to the hope
Of future finding fullness of your work.
And, if a ship should come to America
And share the merchandise of thought, she would
Go forth rejoicing to you as of old;
And she, with perfect skill and heart and soul,
Must work the great commanded sacrifice
Of God, and work His will and wisdom there,
In full perfection. Let no splintered shrine
Be left to tell the truth that God is willed
For all things. Let no flagstones be left in faith,
And no grand martyrs mock the sacred hills,
For no great nations boast their blood and lives.
And, in the name of God, we know your God,
And know His ways. The world is better thus
Than most of it.
For this is a great nation;
A richer one than earth; a sweeter one
Than all the good; a finer, higher soul,
No purer vision of deliverance,
No higher vision of the perfect peace;
And this is the great America. God gave you
To build her a great city. But time presses
About us all, and we shall never know,
Although it were a soil beneath a sun
To be the greatest city of the world,
And no men say that God is good--the land.
No matter what we say or do, or say,
We leave the better things for fools to think
And men to praise and not to praise. So, God,
We'll build a ship and work our souls to sail
Beyond the world's rude sea, beyond the clouds
Of dust and thunder; build our little towns,
And give them wisdom till the day is come
And all shall know that this great city of Chicago
Lives in a world that knows no war or peace,
======================================== SAMPLE 731 ========================================
 that he may _never_ go to the pub!
For the town he shall take it for _his_ head,
And all that the earth may of _him_ retain;
(So he bought the red town of Gotham.')
Soon after his course he shall reach the Ford,
And there join his brother,--his "thelder-honey-bee,"
Which he bought with a riotous joke,
All his own to the town, which proved
He'd the price of the town of Gotham.
He bought that "the yellow-honey-bee,"
And that he may now try to sell his tea;
(As he sells it--but he'll go to the Wall!)
And he bought for the millions of girths and all,
(As he climbed the tree to the inner of Gotham.)
He bought for the millions of girths and all,
But that never again would he sell his tea,
Or get aught of the _old_ Irish motherland!
He bought for the millions of girths and all,
(As he climbed the tree to the outer of Gotham.)
"There's the stile in yonder tree,
But the woodchuck's sitting on it, I must beg!"
And the old man in the tree looked down,
With the marks of "The Crooked-Trot," on his thumb, for he
Had once seen the wonderful _crassee_.
"There's the nest in yonder tree,
But the nest is not on the grass, I must beg!"
So the old man in the tree looked down,
As the years went rolling on.
And the Crank himself had a chirping-stick,
And a parable and a milking-chain--
Which he sure must have understood
To have taken to his wife at the back of his trunk!
"There's the brood in yonder tree,
But the moneys are all in the barn, I must beg!"
He said to his wife, "What a naughty fellow
Is our young lady in the tree!"
"There's the nest in yonder tree,
But the moneys are all in the mouse-wrack, I must beg!"
Said the wife to her stile at the back of the hill;
"There's the brood in yonder tree,
But the breakfast is on on the table all,
And there's pie for the hungry poor
Which has brought them to the cheer-fire door!"
When this dreary and desolate town
And all that strange is, and hollow and brown,
Tossed and beclouded with care and with grief
The morn of Spring comes again with the corn!
Now no longer young Spot can be seen
In the country so very green;
Nor (save that one spot in the wood so close)
Can there be a place for a solace of mien.
No more with the sheep and the bullocks I'll roam,
No more with the sheep and the bullocks at home.
As far as the sun and as far can I travel
The plain of Athabasca must be but for me!
And when I come round the village church-yard
I'll leave here the goat and the sheep and the ewes,
And the fields of the mutton to ploughman dressed.
With my hat (will Aunt Reaister?) I'll make you a bed
For the bones of my playmates we'd beat here the dead;
So sleep, it is better to rest in my nurse's arms
Than live in the farmer's arms, with his wife and his boys!
And when I grow bigger I'll give you a bed,
Or a stocking to cover your head, anyhow,
With blankets well raised and fit mat by the way.
And as to the stories you'll wrap up in wax,
See something that's pretty by selling and sell,
Though perhaps you might stretch it to market to tell
That the things you have finished the poor can invent
Can't be cooked without sugar, nor can they be rent.
If you're bad enough to be beat by the wind,
What's the use of a sleep that has broken you clean?
With your wife and your son, I'll be bound to be seen.
My dear!
So then I'll remember the morning I went
To my old homestead to sell off the sheaf
(For though I had tried with all skill and with skill
To go to the village I never returned).
I'll think of what I have propped up so high,
I'll think of what mischief the haymaking went,
And the farmer would plough me--I'll not vary a straw;
I
======================================== SAMPLE 732 ========================================
, _Furios, vesdegit eodem!_
Doubtless, we no more know than to what
Beauty is in the form we see,--and yet
The heart most truly gilds the form so well;
The hand most sacred to the Maker glows
Because it shoots exultant at His will;--
The eye most earnestly regards the sight,--
And nature gives the soul to nature's law;
And the sweet presence of the gentlest form,
The music of the summer-lands with glee,
The softest breath of summer-noon, the breeze
That comes in purity to breathe of thee,
When, in its gentlest whisperings, the bud
Thrills for a sweet soul's lips, and not a word.
Innocent, it were sweet, should that profane
Sad word be spoken to the lowly heart:
The simple ear would hardly touch the dearth
That makes its sweetnessHoly. Its sweet art
Is not by earth alone; and in the heart
This heavenly truth,--in fancy,--shines above
This little flower of love, which lives and moves
On this thy borders, and resembles thee.
My heart is weary of the joys I had.
My heart is weary of the songs I had
From all the winds around; and, though a cloud
Of sorrow sit upon it, and the tears
That fall, the burden of the weary hours,
Are not so heavy on my heart, as they
Whose blessed morning visits me with flowers.
When thou beholdest me,--my happy child,
The soul of things that heaven and earth contains
Are of the earth, and of the boundless ocean;
And how shall it be possible, unless
Thy soul possess thee? When the day of grief
Broods o'er with days of trouble, and the cup
Of woe be to the lip of Jesus known,
Then can thy tears wash out the grief and shame
Which else should perish rather; when thy face
Is sad with love, and thou art sweet with joy;
Then are the days as if to thee too grieved;
Then doth thy bosom ever more with love
Keep all things holy, and the gates of heaven
Be opened to thy feet; and in the name
Of saints there are, who in thy being dwell,
And on thy countenance, thou and thine,
Both in the living and the living wait.
Then thou art happy; then to Him who gave
So freely life, that there he grew from earth,
A childlike being, and without a joy,
And gave to earth its life. And when the clouds
Of sorrow passed away upon the world,
And men and angels stood within the door
Of God's own dwelling, then the heart of man
Rejoiced in his, the soul of man appeared
To answer every need. Then is it meet
That all who now are working on the right
And great and good, find entrance in the way,
Making a noble city; and these hills,
These verdant valleys, are as safe from all
As from all dangers; and these plains of joy.
Therefore thy Lord hath given thee great possessions,--
As costly clothing for the poor and weak;
And thou shalt live with it, contented out
For ever to the kingdoms of the earth,
Where sorrow may be born; and angels dwell
Who, early sent, would stand by to receive
Him and his blessing, as of old. And when
They sent him hither, they sent him to heal
A life of life's old throbbings, with his heart
Sick and afflicted, they would lift him up
And bear him to his bosom; and their hands
Would leave the world to Him who suffered there,
Ascending from his bonds. And in his death
He set this seal upon the brow of God,
And sealed with dust of happiness. Then came
The solemn service of the heavenly throne
And rested on his feet upon the cross;
And when the King returned unto his throne,
His hymns of praise would soothe the world of sin,
That the world 'gan to sing and cast away
His glory from him; with a brighter light
The sun of righteousness set forth in Heaven;
And the good King, to bless the new-born Prince,
Clothed him in glory round, and said to all
That should have crowned him with a crown of bliss,
Whereat their brows were milder, and their tongues
More eloquent. Then the great Father spoke,
And with a smile did answer to the King:
"Be of good hope; this will I do for thee,
Both to the Holy Spirit, who of
======================================== SAMPLE 733 ========================================
! Why is it you and your old
friends, you that are so old as to eat and sleep, and to
believe that in your behalf you shall be able to hold
our vows?
I know these times are well, but I know them all.
These children are not what they were, and what they ought to be.
For the rest, though you are not such companions, and one is
I am sorry to think that they are not what they are.
These grown men,
All my good or evil years, are changed in their time.
The children are grown to be all, and this poor little man,
I don't think that he is more than thirty.
Do you remember the Old Forest Days, when you were meek
and a tall man, and wore a brown hat, and had the gift of
Aunt Effie to the schoolmaster, and a name of the
great-grandfathers, and the son of his father, and the
father of the fatherless?
That was my day at the Jubilee, and I wish the boys had
been a part of my daily learning, and I know that I
am a part of the fun of every boy, so that the boys
are grown, as they tell me, any more.
Yes--they are not dead, my boys, so they are both gone.
You know that they can't really be, though they are in the
far away countries and are living in the home of the boys,
and hold the tongue of you.
Do you know that they are alive, you little dears?
Do you know that they are alive still?
Do you remember when they lived and taught you what it was
to do, and that you knew?
Do you remember the laughter from the lips that kisses you
to laughter and to tears?
Do you remember the little laughter we laughed at in the dawn
that told its secrets?
The laughter that is born of pain? Do it, and say it, and
do not tell the story, but say it, and keep your heart
repetition.
When you said your prayers to-night,
The first pale morning streaked with light
Gray dusk and dreamy dew
Stifled your light.
When you were glad, we said,
The world went by your way of lead
And you, your brother, slept.
We said not to that end.
The sky, the chilly moon, the dead
Strange Dark, with wide eyes' yawning red
Stark eyes and heavy head,
We prayed that we might go to them.
But now they lie alone
Beneath that awful dome of blue
Gray twilight's awful dome.
Long nights of weariness,
Gray mists and silent fell the rain,
And all was drowsing in the lane.
Now all the sounds are still.
The dead may walk in fields no gleaned
Make music in the dead:
But still the living sing,
For ever and a day,
Singing the same refrain
Of hope or fear.
For, where the roads run out in sunlight,
And time is on its way,
The birds are singing in the distance.
Sorrow is gone away,
Sorrow is past,
With autumns and change and death.
In their little dark nests the moths assemble
And the sad winds hush each to each the night
Like a little lamb asleep in peace,
And each with her dark hair peacefully
Lulls the tired bee to rest.
Little dreams have I of the night wind
That sighs the dull night long.
My heart is at sorrow's end,
My thoughts are for desolate flowers that perish
And the sun that had else never shone
Shine on the world now gone.
The stars of the east have a darkness upon them,
The wind has a strength on the waves that are flowing
And the stars of the west have a darkness of blue
For only a dream can I dream of of when going
I shall forget and be going
Beyond the land that I love.
I shall not know what is passing,
Nor what is life to me,
Nor what is death to me,
But what is love to me.
I shall look back like a lover
Worn and despoiled of pain,
And seek through the years
The place where my dreams are
That have passed like a cloud
To my lover again.
I shall look back like a lover,
Forget not, and dream no more,
For, ah, when my tears
That tell of the stars
Have gathered in May,
The garden of light
Has blossomed for me!
I shall not see the season of sun and hail and dew,
I shall not hear the winter rain they come
======================================== SAMPLE 734 ========================================
,
The last day in the week, and the next day of the week.
The last day of October; a few days before the rain.
The last, as the wintry days went, I remember it plain.
The last, I think I can imagine how a great cloud on the air
Rose up to the moon so beautiful-different from what it is;
Its silver lining cloud, the tint of a dear, homely star;
It vanished, and the same was the very same;--forgive me, dear,
If I have not the right to remember anything, or see
My home so very dear, so sweet,--the dear, the dear serene,
A long, long way across the flats,
And the same, oh, far, a mile beyond.
A long, long way, my little wife,
Though her eyes were wet;
But though she had no maiden's smile,
And she never was sad;
Yet the face of my dear was sad and glad,
And God was glad.
But the song was only "Ave and Jean,"
And the words seemed never "Ave and Jean."
'Twas the same the sun left the land when a stranger left the place
That is called the "Ruddy Gourmand."
And the same that I heard in her life, and that by turns she knew,
And the same, oh, far, beyond all other names she knew.
The same came to me in the morn to-day; one morning came a blast
Of grief, and she came in the night, and left her all at last,
With a heart all drear, unearthly, and unkempt, sad, broken and weak.
Oh, I shall not still be happy, if God has deigned to bless me
As I have been a-forsh whatever I shall be!
And when there came a sudden gust that screamed and swept the trees
And the woods were filled with music, and the hollow breeze
Made of flutes and violons flutter ethereal wings,
And a glow was on my spirit, and I knew it was not dead,
And I knew it as this after all, that my poor heart needs must lie
E'en in death's arms alone he waits to meet me,
Who with death for ever at my side,
That I must not die, but live and die!"
And the same old song had seemed to come;--
"Ave, Jean, your hand when my love calls,
Pity and save! If you will love me, then
I can no more but say, Farewell! Farewell!"
And again when that night comes and goes--
"Ave, Jean, your hand when my love calls,
Pity and save! In the sweet Spring weather
This flower I'll remember, tho' it be
The gift of my last happy year,
For you alone I'll ever be true.
Sweetheart, remember,
When winter blows the snow,
And my last hope from my heart will depart for thee,
And thou, my heart's one true-love bee,
From dewy dawn till the break of day,
From the dawn till the sun wends its way--
Come, heart, for this
Is the word that I would be
Though thy love were near and yet far from thy heart,
I never have lost thing of joy;
And all the more,
With her sweet smile and her glance gay,
That one who has loved a month was alone in her arms,
And has breathed in her heart
A day like a day without motion,
And thoughts unuttered that were my own every day;
It is not my pride, my grief,
Nor yet my pride;
But a bliss not to be had in heaven above.
Oh, I know the world is too wide,
And I know I am but a wanderer,
But a beggar with grief to aid and to save.
I have known it long and long;
But the strain is not strong;
It will burst all bonds of regret like a song
Who has wandered so long on the way of tears,
And my grief has fled
From the world's highways; and I have prayed,
And I know that I longed for the day of tears,
And I know I was weary and faint, and sick,
Though the weary way had left me weary.
Oh, I know that my soul was sad and alone.
When the dew left the stars shone,
And all the sky was red
With the warm star-fire, and the great winds sang
On the world's highways,
A hundred paces trooped into the night,
The sun above them,
The little people jostled like
======================================== SAMPLE 735 ========================================
.
v. 43.  In this particular I should have said: 'Tis a proof of the
knowledge of the ages which it was not wont to be.'  I have given
sense and judgment in the old world.
v. 60.  When the first generation of the young men of the place
departed, it was often to pass and have been so long a year to have
it by itself, but he, having returned a long way at last, came to
see those who were old and lived in those males in the first
excellence.  But his friends, who had remained behind him, now found
that the first part of the story was wanting, and the latter was wanting
the males of that number in such numbers that they never saw the
sharpers or nails, nor was there ever a trace of disappointment or
tears from either in the extreme excess of agony.  They all
existed and departed without being sorry: but the males were
commencably as they were a very little distant age, and was driven
away with care, to the city of their fathers, and to the country
where the brothers live.  As soon as they had come on the day of
destiny, the males fled from the males by a single effort of their
 males, for they had not got any food.  This would have been
in danger if the males had not fled from uttering the terror of a
doctrine to the city, yet they were not able to fly.
In spite of them there was clamour and lamentation, and the sire
said, 'O my noble partners in the distress of the Cyclopes, we have
escaped from the ship when our brave fellows were lost.'
Then they called together the gods, the gods who live in Heaven:
goddess of light, the daughter of mighty Oceanus.  She was the
mighty source, and was the mother of the race of the giants.
The daughters of Oceanus, of whom the whole group report that
the whole race who sprang from Oceanus was child-like; she was one
of the sea sons of the Muses.  The rivers raised their heads
and descended from heaven into the sea, but they bore not her
head from their home, for they knew her not, neither of the women
whereon Oceanus kept himself in it, but lived there with a god
whose name was never named.'
Then Neptune, the great son of Saturn, answered him: 'The daughters
of the mighty sea, Neptune, now have I spoken according to the
princess of the ocean, who will even now enjoy a festival after
long wasting, for the people of the Cyclopes will never let one go
straight and round the whole isle, where he will stay till the
close, and then speedily bring all his vessels to port.  Let us
draw on board the freighted ship for the men who dwell about the
city of Circe, both she and Laomedon, the best vessels that have
ever sailed hither.'
Thus they spake one to another.  When they had made their drink,
Ulysses perceived them and took care of his guests.  He said
that he was very near to get ready his dinner; he found they were
both of them dead, and had made friends to him.  They were of
further difficulty to get seats, for Jove had endowed them with
sent them in a body of Myrmidons, the son of Aeacus.  They were also
famed for helping the Achaeans.  On this the god put them to rest
the winds of their oars in the deep harbour which is close to
the town, and when they had accomplished their rowing, the
 dolphins, that had been carried off by storms from out the
lands with Neptune.  He was to sit over them, and it was now time
for them to do so, and it was time for them to break down the
brine from the ships, and to take away all that yet lay behind.
Then he said to the Ethiopians, 'Look now, and see how I can do
as I have to do.  See how far you are going through the waters;
for of one labouring only or one man brings matters to mind."
He spoke to them and they rose up instantly; they then went their
ship through the waves, yea, and the sea rose above them.  But
Odysseus with his twenty sons of Priam, each in his armour
did he take to his own ship, the which was fastened in his
horses' hide.  And as he took it they cast their spears into the
water, for he thought that he would not fare on shore too, but
got on board a schooner
======================================== SAMPLE 736 ========================================
tching the _Gueb'r_,
A _Zug_, a _Zuggie_, a _Zunny_,
The _Yendar_, in the field,
The _Bromius_, or the _Cicero_.
Hear this (tho' not in tune),
We've searched each _ thor_tory_ root,
And find each _submerry_,
So _subl_ you see the fruit,
And _submammy_, _Subl_, _Submí_,
Which these _by Nature's_ laws,
And _sublings_ of the course,
A _subplext_, a _subplext_,
And _subl_ it, _submerry_,
Which these nine symptoms disagree,
Which makes each _reverend_ and _sen_,
In our weak hands and temper.
The tenth, _tenth_, to be the best,
Is the faint fig-leaves, the dryest feast,
With the three _s_ to be mingled,
Of fresh _plum-plum_ and the fourth,
And the eighth _thumb_-pinks, the hollow vats,
And the eighth _rubies_, as many as suits,
Quite as heavy a number of throats
Which the third _row_ of the _Fates_
But the 'squire 'lowed out, the whole rout
Gave the _ribler's's'_ decorum no slip.
The tenth, _doughboy_, in a trice,
Used the plainest _cattle_ of _scrip_,
And the sixth _girly_, _fifty-six_
Brought the dower to the _warrior_,
As he used when alone to play,
Played the _sway-weary_.
"_He's the best _frikey_ yet.
Little child of air,
Little fellow, 'twill laugh with you.
Little girl with the look so merry,
Little girl with the look so merry,
Little heart without a wrinkle,
'Neath the surface so smooth and ruddy,
Little head in a kittle handful,
So wroth is her (a lovely riever)
And her smile, as bright as the diamonds
In her own blue comeliest tiever."
"Ha! ha!' the old Manse cook
Caught the great fish in his hook,
And though little boats were floating,
Not one chit, or little tackle,
Would the fish be seen to quench it,
For the pride of him had passed it.
'Gloriel! gloy de gli'mo
Splendid, gloyd'rin co mil'gen!'
"Hew, hoy, quel, quel!
Gloriel, gloyd'rin co mil'gen!"
Now the old Manse was humming,
Laughing, quitting, quitting,
Gasping, quitting, peering,
Peering, peering, peering,
'What's that?' cried Drake,
For the craft of him was skurrying:
Stick him, quick as thought and braying--
Almost out of breath for flying!
"Ha! hoy, quel, quel!
Hough, hough, quel, quel the bubbling!
Dive, plunge, lop, thump,
Let the bubbling settle crown him;
With the bullets whistling patter,
Let his foes see who
On his light guns glowered!
Quick, rap, curse, kill him,
Let the Spanish lightning gleam,
All the bullets playing,
Pounding, splashing, flashing,
Laughing, splashing, playing,
With the _houghs_ of his comrades,
Plunge, plume, lance, tripe,
Through the thumps of his comrades,
Down through the thumps of the wreckers,
Down through the thumps of the wreckers!
"Well, well, what _can_ they do there,--
What _can_ they do there, brother?
Round and round they bump and splutter,
Puffing, splashing, dizzling, clashing--
Plunge, plumb, quack, quack,
Through the thumps of his foes, close together!
"What's the _hero_ that we're seeing?
All the dogs we're baying, brother;
Watch, snatch up one another, brother;
We'll not let these creatures harm us
Whom we doubt of such a danger
======================================== SAMPLE 737 ========================================
 I must stay.
O woe is me, my heart has borne me sad and slow;
No solace do I know but her dear loving look;
O woe is me!
O bitter grief is me
That bears such deep, deep misery
On mortal sense alone.
For I have found her sweet,
That lately kissed her feet.
O with what joy I view
Her wond'ring eyes, the blue,
Her angel-featherd hair,
Her snowy hand that there
Has been unfilleted fair!
O grief is me, my heart,
Sad, mighty, deep, and deep;
No other pleasure here
But this poor heart can keep;
It cannot, cannot stay,
For this poor heart hath way.
But if it may not be,
And if it must not die,
In Heaven I calmly lie
In this poor heart, and lie
'Till all my soul can be
A home to these poor eyes,
O'er their sweet looks my gaze
To Heaven is looking bright,
And I with love and awe
The beauty they unfold.
Her father's grave is green,
The grave of child is she.
Fair as a star, when first he met the skies,
Her flash is like the smile of paradise,
But when I kissed it, where did then the shroud
That hangs like dew upon her angel-hand,
And all the heaven is beautiful?
It was in the days of old,
An often strangely still,
When she had thawed the mountain-weeds,
Like a child's yellow plume;
When down the winding paths of France
She wept to wipe her tears away;
And in my dreams it seemed to me
She saw an angel standing by,
And, leaning back in her golden place,
"Dear heart," she said, "the mother weeps
For the dead child who died for me.
I love to think of the beautiful town,
Full of children and mates;
But mostly I like to be mother, not sister.
"I love them for what they're like, dear,
For the beautiful, living ones;
I know they are dressed to the very best
As they always love the dead;
And my heart is like a lily-white flower,
For it blooms among the dead;
So be thou, my child, my hope of the fair,
And be thou, my mother, my own despair."
Then she put away her golden gown
And her shoes of linsey blue;
She packed her little foot-river
With a pair of her golden shoe,
Which she tied to a stool, with a cloth of gold,
And on it, oh, how I wept,
And I knew that she was in holy peril.
And then the angel-mother
Went down to the river shore;
But she cried to the lovely river,
And she wept for a long and happy day.
The angels were dead, and the angel came to my bed,
And he lay on my knees, a-shining by my side,
And gave me his hand, a-rushing in his pride,
And whispering to me, as he kissed my face,
"What ails thee, sweet, sweet river, who dost seek to save
Thy children from the drear and murky grave?"
"My darling, my darling! my darling! my darling!
Thy heart was as iron, thy life as fun,
But now, at my feet, I bind the wounds I feel,
And my cheek is cold in death, and I'm not to heal
"Sweet river, I love thee, but I know not what thou art,--
Thy heart is like a mountain, and thy thoughts
Like the wind, and thy thoughts like summer skies,
And thy heart is sweet as the rain to the flowers,
Or the heart like the mother. Yet what can I give
Or ransom thee, sweet, sweet river? My darling, my darling!"
She turned her down to me with sad, slow tears,
Like some harsh words of mother that all unspoken,
And lay upon my arm and no more wakened hears
"I love thee! I love thee! I love thee!"
I kissed his face and went the way he came,
Barefooted, barefooted; he took me by the hem
Of his long halberd, and plunged me underneath,
And I lay dead on my cold dead-field when dawn
Went by to the far gate where never man entered.
He bade me go with him and I was glad
That he was not there to take me; joy awoke
In the very heavens of my soul when he
Was not there to take me
======================================== SAMPLE 738 ========================================
, 1684.  The first couplet is commended in the
composition of the poet:--
Qui nunc radiantia tempore in tenebras, etc.,
qui nunc radiantia;
and the couplet follows in the couplet in the same sentence.
differences as to where the old couplet has been introduced, and
concluded a new one from its execution.
The old couplet had the same retent.
"And all night long we wandered in the moonlight throughout the
temperate of the day, over the broad back of the ocean without
still more distant from us.  When that strange night came, the
dawn, the light of the day, and in the distance rose sharp, even
so did we see the distant horizon to the north, then we departed
with the intention to return to the land, which had already been
a very little distance from the time, but we were already well
inside the going down of the sun; I suppose to return for a long
time in the west.  At length, however, we arrived before the
distance from one of the sea, which was lying about fifteen from
the shore.  It was a good time, so we emerged from the bank,
and stopped on a short bar all of it and sat down conversing.
the stream of the Sirens were divided into four main streams, and
in the middle seemed to be immense, and there was not a single
whisper in the next place to any two.
The first course ran at once to the west, and we saw a narrow
wall of rocks and a harbour on each hand and the entrance to the
city, and it was this way that we came out; and though I was
to have been protected by the appalling squall, I made my way
through it, as I found me wanting in that rock, for there the
last time, towards the end, the roaring of the sea broke out in
in the middle of our island.  Then we all of us turned back without
 Ulric, the ancient and the new, were left behind, and the rocks of
the Sirens, which have no discringing symbol, are as said to be
understood by the Cyclopes.  The shore and the sea join.  All was
dark, without, everything was still dark, but the cliffs above
whirl'd away as we sped along.
"In a moment he beholds in the rocks that were the most part of
the Cyclopean coast, and believes in that it is nothing but a
certain path up to Mount Oicle, which is a difficult one, but the
quite lost in one.  For all the isle so terrible that it always believes
at the utmost edge of the sea and is ever encircled by rocks.
"Hard by there is a country town, which is in the middle of the
isle, and some few miles south of it.  Now, when the men climb the
city, they come down to the middle of the island, in which end none
of the men remain, but they cross the mouth and land over the
plain.  Then they follow a can track along the course that is left
"When they reach the island they are on their homeward way, and
about to reach the salt water which reaches them to the salt
bed.  Their clothes are wet, their constant clothing is torn
about the head, and their clothes are all fallen into the waves
brin shoes are worn by them that have worn them.  Once in my
sleep I pacified them; and going down to the house of Circe I
heard, and we rested ourselves, so that we sat on the island and
dwelt alone, while in the hour of sweet sleep we were taking
knowledge of every face.  Circe, having no head, said, 'If she is
herself, she is not the daughter of Aegis-bearing Jove, but of
all the immortals.  Remember me truly and trust me to that
"Thenceforth we sailed sadly by land and sea, yet I always
perceived from my dream that Circe had got away, leaving me on
a quest of her eyes and heart.  She said, ' Circe, tell me,
how is it that you are ever so rude and unkind, and why you
are so hard pressed and unkind to her?  You know perfectly well
that I have seen many things, and have heard many times; and
yet I have never heard or seen so many things told in Circe's
case.  You do not believe that I ever was so much older than you
are; for Circe said, "It was only thus that I spoke to you,
that you were not alone;
======================================== SAMPLE 739 ========================================
,
With the _Eagles_ (they call it) on the horizon,
In the _Eagles_, the _Eagles_ at the head!
There's a _Spirit_; they're mostly _Spirit_, I'm glad,
If we all have not been left to _Eagles_, lad;
And, I guess, perhaps, they're chiefly _Mighty_, too,
If we all have not _Iron_ gotten to _X.
_Poco no, Quia fiat;
Seas of mortal change are spread
And the sun, divinely red,
Gives new life to the unstained dead_.
Now we're with the quiet _Ceryl_
And the _Ephodels_ on high;
And we'll sing of Love and Truth,
Where'er the lot's to die.
For the _Eagles_ they are living
And are dying, I believe,
And they are living, being living,
As our songs have power to show,
With their wings upon the living,
While the living heart is grieved
And the soulless spirit raves.
"But there's no need," the Father sighed,
"If we must call on the Human, and try
To prove ourselves the Force, and guide
The way to prove ourselves the _Ofodels_:
And we'll be true to our kind, and try
Our faith in the _Eagles_ on the skies;
And when the day of justice shall be done,
Thou shalt see us have right reason to praise,
For they're meant our best deeds and our _Restones_.
"And we shall see before them as they stood
In the long day that's breaking o'er us all,
The Righteousness which did good man's work
When men were nigh to die--too soon, too soon,
The Tyrants fell, and thou wert dead for ever!"
And then his eye was turned to the _Fiends_,
And his face was turned to the _Eagles_, friends,
Who with such a longing and such an awe
Did eagerly look round the _Eagles_, folks.
But they had not yet descried a foe,
Had not the power of the Thunder-Bird,
His breast to the _Okiades_ disengage,
With all those _Eagles_ had for freedom been,
Which now in their wild wanderings dost yearn
For life and home to those they love so well,
And, to give leave to their unquietness,
They doted on their _Frenzy_ still.
But still a company of _Dogs_ and _Cooks_,
Each with his dish of tempting fruit and rough,
Came on the road to the _Okiades_,
To watch the coming of that host of _Fays_.
And now they had not waited long,
In the _Okiades_'s happy state they came,
They had been ever happy in _Achitophel_;
They had _Eyegasus_ and _Horm-ginar_,
Their _Claws_ for hunting and _Cromlech_-mouthes,
Their _Spurts_ for hunting, and their famishing;
Not that the _Okiades_ thought like these,
They met, as they had been a year or two,
In that familiar state they were the best,
With every kind of welcome and unrest;
But no one loved to see them aught or more
Since they had reached the _Hygiasticoe_,
And all at once with joy most thankful he
Had found a friend, and found the man he loved,
And then, with thoughts like these before his eyes,
They both were looking on and looked amiss;
And they began to think of love and life;
How the old man would have had to be content
To stay with him 'fore early in the Fall,
When he would turn from the primeval strife
Of _Dryein_, _Riske_, and _Peacock Pie_;
And they would come and sit in the kindly trees,
And the _Okiades_ would be a happy sight,
And never dream of any other wight
That they were in the woods or raining dells,
But would have gone from kindly Robin Hood,
And never be a boy in any woods.
Then, after they'd had much longer walk,
They passed to _Lew Sarun_ on the road,
A youth who stood in broidered mourning silk,
And many others of the fairest breed
On grey and yellow hills were seen to trail;
And now they thought he'd gone
======================================== SAMPLE 740 ========================================
s were to be
The number of the rest.
But now I see how little can be done
Here in the garden.  I see the green
And grassy fields grown over;
And birds amid the foliage,
And clouds across the sky.
And yonder, in the orchard,
The apple trees are fading quite:
And yonder and the barnyard,
Heavy with hay, is fading quite:
And yonder are the children,
Sitting and playing in the sun,
The pink and black and white.
And yonder in the garden,
The orchard path is bright and green,
And yonder is the baby,
Sitting in open view, my bride.
She is very beautiful,
The sweetest thing that ever grew,
And how can she be pious,
How can she be good, and what can I?
She is quite beautiful,
And every day more beautiful
About her is the throng
Of little girls and boys,
And many a blossom in the orchard
Grows on her head, so says my song.
She is hospitable,
There is no sickness in her;
For when she has an illness,
She is nearly melancholy.
And when her mother dies,
The baby seems to have no eyes.
She is quite beautiful,
But her face is not so fair,
And when she is quite dead,
Broken is the golden hair.
She is quite, and all too,
If she were not so fair.
O, what a world it is!
It is not good to be
So very good to see our faces
Floating up upon the silver waves
Of golden hair;
To see our light, our deep, deep eyes,
Dim, as the dusk with tears.
O, what an evil world!
She is almost fair, she is almost good.
The yellow hair, the yellow hair,
The golden hair, the little head:
Her eyes are most like angels fair,
They shine so little, far, far:
But all are false, and all are vain,
Her light is but a treacherous rain.
O, what a world of weeping and of wailing
Weigh on my heart, that I must die,
Because I am so little, very fair,
And she so little, very far!
The little hands that made me what I am,
The fingers that are joined in her,
That fondly, fondly, with the touch of her--
She binds them all so closely, they hold me still
Within their fastness, that the deeper, faster,
Till they are almost broken when she looks at me.
For, oh so great a world as mine,
What can it ever hold so great a treasure
As this one gift--my God, which never was,
Except in such a good or evil day?
One gift, my God, one golden, priceless gem,
One blossom blown from where the wind blows free,
One star that felled a thousand times from far,
That set one rainbow, brightening all the sky;
An earthly crown--a rose that falls in waves
Of radiant glory where she sinks to me.
The very smallest flower that fleets not by,
Even to the farthest earth may grow
To grace the earth--as a good knight may know
Its loveliness, and crown its perfect bliss.
The very smallest flower, it may be asked,
Will fade when it has touched a drop of gall,
And it may be a little lovely lass,
On one side of the water, on the other side
Of the green water, on the third side of the water.
And though it may be a queen and not a king,
Its petals of all fragrancy must lie
As their leaves flutter to me in the summer air.
And it may be a queen,
And not a king, but an earthly bride,
And not a prince, but only one bright thing,
To shield her from the splendour of the sea,
That shall protect her from all enemies;
And you may know it by its gold-blown tresses,
But its gold crown is only a crown of thorns.
And who was Julia, my young heart's child,
But the bride of heaven?  I will not tell.
If it was not for these blue eyes,
And the sun of heaven, that were never young,
That I might go down to my grave,
I would be a priest, and never be
Frowned by other women for their diancy;
And if it were not for these,
And I were a worshiper, would kneel and pray,
And touch it with my hand,
And lay at its shrine my
======================================== SAMPLE 741 ========================================
, and the Duke of Arroar, of the same
noble town.  There were two old men in the Kingdom of Scotland,
sitting orderly by the roadside, one with a lamp in his hand,
and the other kneeling by the window, one with a book in his
hand, one with a lamp in his left; and, being close up to the
first, he read, "Do you believe me, Sir? that I have been the
far-offest traveller at all?" "Yes," he said, "and that I have
said.  And you believe it all, for the two old men, at least,
as I have said."
"Yes" said the Duke, "you know how it would be if--"
He said, "if there were anything more to be said--"
"Be still, Sir; let us go to the ball room, for there is a
moon-light at the window, and there is a bat that comes
beyond the window-sill."  And they all cried, "Oh, Sir, what a
deep night-air!  How we wish you were here again; if you must
"Yes, Sir; and then," said the Duke "I do not think we'd
come so far, for I have seen the moon in the sky."
And the lady, smiling and kind, said, "Yes, Sir; but 'twould
be a sin."  And all the judges sat, all seated, down upon
the daïs, holding their faces toward the right, and gazing
round the candle, half in jest, half in jest.
The Duke looked thoughtful, and said nothing; but, "Sir, what was
it though, for I am confused with that, for, though I had been
a little too good to do it, I have not seen anything like
it.  That is what my great disgrace meant.  This young man from
meanthe has a beard and eyes that are like eyes.  Look at
him: he is a man of business; I said nothing.  In this
very morning he has a beard; but the lady said, "It looks
like that.  Look at him."
At this the old Duke smiled.
The Duke smiled gravely, and said nothing.  And the young
"Oh, I cannot leave you this day without wonder, but you may
be as much as I am now.  I shall not ask it you."
And the old man said, "You are wrong.  You must have an idle
moment, and I am ashamed to have an ancient speech and a
old, and I dare not, for the time draws nigh to two."
The laughter faded and the red blood trickled down on the
 speaker, and the old man muttered: "Yes.  I have a word to do
and you are wrong.  Go to the ball room and ask your wife, if you
can; and she will give you each a word of her hand: I am ready."
The old Duke smiled and said nothing.  And the dancers went
on with the dancers; till the great crowd of music stopped in
singing terrible words of music and ghastly sounds.  There
was no sign of sadness when the people went in with laughter,
and the voice came out of the heavy throats at the entrance, and the
women came among them in procession.
"I have not seen you, my bride, since you have come here; and
my father, he has been my father, and he has made a great
measure of my life.  Let us go to the ball room to hear our
Then they turned and went into the ball room while the dancers were
bearing their load, and with hurried steps and interrupted treads.
"I have come here; you are a stranger to my father's estate."
But they could not move beyond the walls in front of the lecture,
and the audience stood without.
Then, as the sound of a great gong whirled in the corner there, the
diligence was heard to break out.  The cry and the rush of the
crowd rose about the board, the shriek of their coming was heard,
fearing lest the enemy should ever come in their van.  Many a time
fierce they were agonies, for in him victory was dashed in upon
the foe.
But when the great multitude shouted up in front of the
centre, and then, as then the old and disconsolate crowds were
thrilling his soul with terror, while the people kept gathering
round him, he stood still and prayed; then out of the door he
heard his Master unaferaid:
"Listen to him, my Lord, your friend: you are
======================================== SAMPLE 742 ========================================

Coyotes and other jays, wherewith I might
Incline my pen: but since the day we met,
Gentle mistake 'twixt thee and me is yet.
"Sweet visage of most harmless women! mark
How, when my face deceives my heart's desire,
Sweet looks we on, sweet lips that press and dar
Mean do reply: Here is indeed, indeed,
Else never could I kiss thee, sweet deceit!
"Foul tongue, there is a lying from thy lips,
That would reproach us both. I am thy kin,
And mine, alas! not knowing what it is
That bids us both to praise thee and to blame.
Foolish Narcisse is so perverse
In her sad looks and words, that he shall guess
If she were pleased at what I said, and this
Were foul to follow. Ah! thou wronged lute!
When have I wronged thee, if my tongue forbids?
No! rather bear me ill, than speak once more
Of what the future is. Let that befall
Thyself too young, and if my tongue forbids,
I will make choice of many.
"If thou recallest
The primal mien which ninety years before
In Thebes was reared, what marvel
That earthquake should have shocked thee, if thy mind,
Creative, took of old such evidence
As the Babylonian tongue devised,
When it was young, proclaimed a new disease.
Hence, O Sicinius! for the ancient age
Is blind as not to true perfection known,
If all the parts be dashed with such disproportions
As not to true perfection; justly then
Does the place groan with them. For very virtue
Is no more grievous to itself, nor more
Achilles' wrath, than is to all the Greeks
The use and wisdom of the Myrmidons.
"Nay, neither bide I to the issue now;
This I my words will fully comprehend,
Which also shall be well proved, when I frame
To what I am in knowledge or device.
Thee, Agamemnon, I devote to wrath
And retribution numerous, whose controul
Is oft the sooner moved; who, fierce in war,
Hath 'scaped among the Trojans, fugitive
As is that bull which, sacrificing, turns
His back upon the sacrificial herd.
But come, that we may make the glorious spoils
To gratify Atrides, Atreus' son!
I give thee fair Antaea, chosen of those
That, by my art, I made Atrides his;
I give thee lovely Thetis, for she loves
As much to him as thee; as much to me
As is a child of his; and as for thee
Methinks I give thee, that, when thou return'st,
Thou may'st be pleased to grant so brave a prize.
But of the three let none refuse to grant it;
In that no less than one may give it back.
Of the seven let none make all the rest,
Save only me; but thou, Achilles, curb
The anger of a father no man loves,
And I, by acting on a nobler cause,
Withdraw thee from my presence thus in peace.
Goddess excellently thou shalt have Troy
Sightless, who in the thunder of the sky
Hast set thy foot, and hurled forth thy strong arms
Against the lofty city, Priam's towers,
And thy own city, while Troy's sons rejoiced.
Now all these people, and with all their wives
Are to the battle moved; thou with the rest
And with the mules and with the horses dost
To Pallas' altar; they with wonder gaze
On thee, and on the bodies of the Greeks.
Goddess excellently thou shalt have Troy
Sightless, and with her children!--Such the praise
Achilles gave thee, when in Thebes he slew
The son of Peleus; for with thee he died
All aged;--and no memory remains
Of thy great sire, who all-forgiving power
To thee made known, and loved thee as a son.
His treasures shall he have, and such to thee
As none, nor shall he live an age with thee,
Nor o'er Achilles reign.--For these, the Greeks
(The ancient prophet,) shall not here be missed.
He said, and on Euphorbus' summit sat
At Hecatomb. There Priam's sons beheld
Troy by the altar, with th' appointed sign
Of Ilium and his household Gods, and there
Saw Hector in the midst
======================================== SAMPLE 743 ========================================
's,
On the land which he had bought.
Where the fisherman was walking
All alone,
Where the little ones were talking
In the surf--"We are going to bury our eggs," said the King.
With the King.
They came and the Queen was sitting
With a bill;
In her pocket (a pound large),
The fin-shells in the shell,
And the little boys (she had not seen them)
In the depths.
"We are going, O Queen! to bury our eggs," said the Fish.
They came and the Queen was sitting
By the side,
In her little green field of hers;
She was thinking, O Queen, of the Bee's adventure,
O'er the sea--
And she thought it over, O Queen.
"I am going, O Queen! to summon the Bee," said the Fish.
They came and the Queen was sitting
In her bower,
With a table of six or seven Fairy Elves,
On the crest;
In each face was a trace of the Queen of the Fish.
The little Fairy rose,
Laughed loud,
On the rim of her cushion threw;
"Who is this?" said the wee Elfin child.
When the Fairy heard, she smiled,
"I see,
Who's the Bee?" said the wee Elfin child.
They met again, the Elfin child;
He spoke to them,
On the rim of a cushion fl piped;
"Who's the Bee?" said the wee Elfin child.
"I know,
Who's the Bee," said the Royal Elfin child.
"To the watering-stand," said the Fairy,
In accents low,
Lifting the wee wee wee Elfin child.
Said it to the water-bee,
"Crowd a miracle over and over,
One little Fairy must live," said the Elves
In the garden, the time, for gnats and kings."
While listening to the singing insects
They heard the word,
A butterfly,
Hovering in its nest,
Came into the sky.
And this is the Fairy's way:
Who is this miracle over and over?
Who is this beautiful Fairy sparrowing
So long around the hive of fragrant flowers?
'Tis said that in the honey-bee's bright eyes
There burns a thousand thousand dewy seeds
All day long rosy dreams, and dreams, as kind
As if the hive were some miraculous thing.
Or else that the bees' sweet-beaten flower
Lies in the grass, and there
By moonshine in the fragrant dells,
The gentle Elfin woman dreams.
Now, when the day-god warbled, the wild birds
Filled from their folded wings,
And the young, woodland creatures moved
In dewy gleams,
And the honey-bees had not slept so long.
The flower-ferns and the misty heather slept,
Nor could the bees' faint hum
Startle the honey-laden bees,
While on her ears and hair
The buzz of bees went humming.
And through the mist-bowered dells
Came the honey-laden bees,
And through the dewy blossoms stole
The honey-laden bees.
All day, the newts were singing
Under the flower-green tree,
And when the wood-wind merely
Went down the fragrant dells,
They came to where the honey-bee,
In the hour that the bees found too,
Passed up the flowery hollows,
Filling the dews with humming.
And all the flowers in the meadow,
And all the little children,
All laughing and trusting the Elves
Glowed with the loveliest leaves of the bees
That ever float on the summer breeze,
Light as the dews of the dawn,
With every leaf of its beautiful life
Made beautiful with their sweetest flowers.
One after one, they came,
Their dancing-jubilant song,
And now they twine and sing,
Till the great earth, wide as the sky,
Thunders and spreads and is full of light,
And the whole great earth laughs with the shouts,
And their feet beat light
In the joy of their coming,
And they twine and twist, and twine,
And their bodies twist, and twist,
And their bodies twist, and twist,
And their souls, as the leaves of May,
Till they flash, and twist, and twine,
In the joy of their coming,
And the long bright flowers wend their way
Over the fields and the meadows,
Over the sleeping mountains,
Over the
======================================== SAMPLE 744 ========================================
.
_Nunc pueros musa puer eris,
Mantique in miseras ne posset,
Virum, prima donum, nunc pila sit,
Torquatus, tunc magis ille est:
Quid petulans nimium nuntii?
_The Poets, and their verses are very different; but I have
believe that these lines express great inconstancy and tender
condencies to the task of the Poet.
_Nondum, quoniam, Creonumque sepulchro,
Mihi crede, flammea, flammea, remotum bellum
Quam tuis magno in mille erebus:
Tanto, quoniam mentis nunc, flammea, remotum bellum_.
_On the dis-favour of the greatest poets of the Republic.'_
_Book IX._
lays the longest and most common of his poems.
_Book IX._
lays the last half of his poems.
lays on lines both fierce and cold, and black, and the
closed lines of his prose works.'
lays on all his editions of Pinto and Troy and the Scholiast
Troy and the Hellespont, and other fragments of his prose
_Book X._
lays on the whole line only striking, not at the first
_Book X._
lays on the whole line only striking and not at the second
syllable.
lays on another half of his stanzas, also in two the
following line only being less frequent, but with a whole
_Book X._
lays on the whole line only striking, not in the first
composition.
lays on the whole line only striking, not in the last,
elicitation.
lays on the whole line only striking and not in the last,
except in the second half of the couplet, only in the
former half of the couplet the third and fourth are added.
_Book X._
lays on the whole line only striking, just as the second half
syllable.
lays on the whole (6) half of his stanzas (7).
says described by various authors in the 3, 4, 7. In this
the fourth and seventh syllable (8).
lays on the whole (8).
lays on the whole (9).
lays on the whole (10).
lays on the whole (11).
lays on the whole (12).
lays on the whole (13).
lays on, _mes s_ in, _mes s_ in, _mes s_ in, and is cut into
construction.
_Book X._
lays on the whole (13).
lays on the whole (14).
lays on the whole (15).
_Book XVI._
lamentation of the past.
_Book XV._
lays on the whole, with the hopefulness and fullness of which,
_Book XV._
lays on the whole (16).
lays on the whole (17).
lays on the whole (17).
lays on the whole (18).
lays on the whole (19).
lays on the whole (16).
lays on the whole (20).
lays on the whole (16).
lays on the whole (16).
lays on the whole (17).
lays on the whole (16);
lays on the whole (17).
_Book XV._
lays on the whole (17).
lays on the whole (18);
lays on the whole (19).
lays on the whole (16).
lays on the whole (16).
lays on the whole (17).
lays on the whole (17).
lays on the whole (18).
lays on the whole (19).
lays on the whole (16).
lays on the whole (17).
lays on the whole (18).
lays on the whole (19).
lays on the whole (17).
lays on the whole (16).
lays on the whole (17).
lays on the whole (16).
lays on the whole (17).
lays on the whole (18).
lays on the whole (19).
lays on the whole (18).
lays on the whole (19).
lays on the whole (17).
lays on the whole (18).
lays on the whole (19).
lays on the whole (20).
l
======================================== SAMPLE 745 ========================================
; but with a serious air, the son
Of Argo, and the father thus begun:--
"In the first circles, he has held the sway.
So from his seat on Uther's throne he seeth
A mighty serpent, armed with silver scales,
Such as he once was armed with when a child
And bore his sire upon his shoulders armed.
And in the midst it lay, its head erect
On either side, and with its tail so wide
Did wave that never either left nor right;
For biting its bright tail, and widening soon
And waxing still its size, as if suspended,
With head bent downwards, and with ears together
Across the eyes, through which it took its flight.
And staunched thereony, so it seemed to me
That of necessity it seemed the key;
And yet the wretch, within the hearing fixed,
Thereby regained his former power and might,
And through his yielding arms forthwith appeared.
So I the sense of justice praised, surveyed
That very woe; whereat I felt my heart
Wax less and more bent, as I supernel.
O Heaven! how full of suffering it appeared
That I must hide! To run now I became
In person, and would have gone forthwith,
But that Puccio Sciancatto once more,
On my left hand, had put himself as he
Who ounce expects yon weighty ounce, so much
As 'twere my right side's shorten'd memory!
More would I say, but I must turn me round,
Leave it to Him, and let the beast go loose.
While I thus wandered solitary, I
To him, who was aware I did him drag,
The neck of my dead brother dragged, as he
The heavy-footed Marìa had dragged.
When him the beast had dragg'd, the murky dame
Who leadeth in the other world, with her
Follow'd him, still to honour me and mine.
There much stench was it making, for thirst of it,
One monk alone inspires it to the evil
With joyful thanks, to the blind demon kind;
And there he dies, and there above him justice,
Angelica, and for her brother's fault,
And for Geneura weep and rage the more.
I now address these two my gentle Guide,
Henceforth to do him violence and spite,
And to proceed more circumspect and full.
So he departed; and already slept
Currado, that unusual dream which came
Of him perchance, when that did him affright,
And left him thus resolved to do me shame;
But made him utter now, before mine eyes
No farther onward to depart, I wis,
From his strong shoulders I could bear away
The brand of my great guiltless innocence.
"And even now when he awaken'd, he
Summon'd me where his heart remained sad.
He said: 'In the great world, if but a child,
Ye are indeed those days of joys which pass'd
The while on earth ye liv'd in Paradise,
When there were joys so sweet, nor evil saw.
This is the world's true half, where are its laws,
Whence are now its large members made of pure,
And its inhabitants delightfully?
Now mayst thou see, how man is blind who goes
Where sin and sorrow both are found, and views
The universal form of righteous wrath,
When both shall to the same pains be just!
But, brother, we must needs go on our heels
In this same round, and not alone, but soon
Shall strike, as oft 't will strike, the balance of the world,
So much is just as I shall thee absolve.
"For though our members were entire and naked,
Yet would the Master have us powerful still,
And so attentive have we to confess
What by his own peculiar succour we
Have wrought, preserved, composed, and what we are.
He bids us on with rods and forks repined,
And on all sides but one the other broke,
Violent is he, and dares not speak yet;
Because on him this heat too much has fallen
Which he professes to us, and so oft
Calls us to tears, as that, the second time.
But since all these are taken from us none,
Either to us alone, or to ourselves,
We are disposed hereof to give an end
To that infernal world, whence comes the world;
Or else to give new wonder to ourselves;
If that which is most popular in each
Says nothing new, yet is diviner none.
"The place where we are set to see or go

======================================== SAMPLE 746 ========================================

The air is full of birds,
And the clouds are opening.
The trees are golden leaves and blossoms,
The clouds are silver doves,
The sun is high in the sky.
The sun shining in the south,
The clouds are making flowers.
The leaves are many, and falling,
The sun shining upon the north side of the West,
The wind rising by the road,
The wind blowing in the east,
The wind blowing at the west,
The wind blowing on the north side,
The wind blowing at the south,
The wind blowing on the north side,
The wind blowing at the south,
The wind blowing at the north side,
The wind blowing on the north side,
The wind blowing on the north side,
Over the fields the east,
The wind blowing at the south side,
Singing the song of the heather,
Singing the song of the heather,
Singing the song of the heather,
Singing the song of the heather,
Singing the song of the heather.
In the hush of early morning,
I hear the sound of dresses,
And the sound of voices, singing sweetly,
As the border country dances.
The young men full of laughter,
They bring their blue-green talking-sticks,
They lead their spurs and stockings
Right tenderly to music.
The girls pass down the country
In bands with prancing dancing feet;
They seem to think of joys that were,
And of the old, old times, in Rome.
Beneath a vine on end of the hill
The lights are twinkling like merry eyes;
They seem to think of times that were,
And of the old, old times, in Rome.
Ah, idle men and wavering maids,
Your hearts are dancing and jesting now,
Your frolic hours are full of peace,
The roses are smiling on you now.
O weary lovers, sing no more,
For days are long, and nights are long,
For day is dying all away,
And nights are long for you, young men.
Sing no more in sorrow of the heart,
For day has long departed to be dry;
But sing a strain upon the bier
Of all that is so young and glad to-day.
"A song for a song" (then all the people cried)
"A song for a song!" was echoed in all the houses;
The boy and his bride were quietly seated in the shade,
And the wind was blowing and the bells were calling the Sliddighead.
Tall and handsome houses shone in the northern end of the town,
In the meadow grass and the meadow grass and the meadow grass,
But not a song sang in the sweetest of all the limes,
For the whole song had only one song and a single,
That sang as sweetly as all the limes,
And now there is only one song for a song,
That sang as sweetly as all the limes,
And that for a song is a song of a song,
That sings as well as that for a song!
I sat alone by the wayside well,
And the clouds were rolling up and down,
And I marked a shadow on the lonely moors,
And the shade of a darkly ragged gown.
And there, by a poplar-girdled high,
And by one dim and slender stream,
I thought of the song that was sweet to me,
And the voice and the form of a fairy dream.
But now there is only one song for a song!
A song for a song!
The years that move in a mellow sway
And the lapse of a day,
A little pause in a weary while,
And a little pause in the endless while
That is only a song
That dies into beauty as long as a smile,
A little pause!
But the years go by, and the voice goes by,
And the voice that died I know not where,
And the voice that died I know not where;
For a song is a song, but a sigh
From a sigh that is sweeter than a tear,
And a sigh from a song.
The days that stir in a living spring
Are a song for a song!
And the years go by, and the dreams go by
From the starry-lit valleys of upper air,
And I hear the voice of the lonely sigh
That dies in the cloud,--
And a song that dies in the evening skies,
And a sigh from a song!
The days that rise are a hundred years,
And the nights that return as the days that were,
And the great and
======================================== SAMPLE 747 ========================================
-stain'd,
To see his tender little ones, whom once
He loved, now weak at last he could no more,
And gave, to make them, Heaven's so precious hours.
These are the sprites, the harmless ones of Earth,
Who, when they're sent to do what Heaven desires,
No longer dare to die; though far away,
They're only served by dragons more than fire.
If I were dead and you were gone,
I might do miracles by wires,
I might look forward in the night,
To see your friend in such sights fight,
I might look forward in the hours,
And say, "Behold, your friend in flowers."
And I might see--and should I see
The sun on heights, and when I die--
Thee, dear, though I had lost the day,
Still I could make my love more fair,
And say, "You look a little pale."
And I might see with you, till dawn,
The roses on the lily's thorn
When day is gone, and night is born.
And, in my lady's silver veil,
I might hold out a certain sail,
To see if ships came near, or near,
Would make new skies for me and you--
I might look forward in the night
To see my friend in such sights fight,
And say "Behold, your friend in sight!"
All may be taken--all save one--
And let them one to death be sent--
Save _us_. First, let those others go--
Save _us_. First, let them be content--
Thus with their soules that have been sent--
Upon the wholsome waters side--
As they have been they dare not hide,
But they are saved, as will them too.
And when at last the day hangs o'er,
And sunset opens like a door,
And daylight seems to be no more,--
Then, then my heart is with you, dear!
And _you_--Fair, Fair, will be my Dear.
Fair--but you'll feel all else, I know.
Fair, but how shall our true hearts grow?
We'll meet in each other's arms, Dear, so.
Fair--but how shall our young lives be?
They'll be so wedded, I think,--die!
That love us--that love--a flame.
Fair, how shall our dear souls aspire?
To the far-off, distant fire?
There's a light between her and mine, Dear,
A beacon, a beacon of love!
She's gone--she's flown, I see her--I think--
But that's too far away, Dear, too.
She smiles--beneath the tears that rise--
I love her to the close, dear one,
And think she never could bestow
One drop, which would not, should it stay.
She smiles,--a smile her grave eyes shine,--
But that's too far away, too far.
Could ever happy eyes have sought
So _love_, so _love_, so far away?
Could ever happy soul have thought
_That_ love? Ah, that was fay, so far!
Would _that_ have come, so far away,
To fly in that fair company,
To _that_ too far away, could _that_ stay?
Alas! we fly from hence, nor have
One thought, or aught, or feeling felt,
I, even I, for a safe escape--
A few short _last_ summers, felt and felt.
And now, farewell in my soul's best light,
Which is as heavenly as the day--what bliss!
For now I see the shadow of sorrow,
And now the rush of tribulation,
And now the peace, which once so dear,
As now my heart admits not, cease to own,
And now the dregs upon my life to be thrown.
O thou, the spirit of mine age, my life,
Who art my life, life, and to me thy face,
Who art my life, life, whom I have not the right
To rule in me--in thee, in me my place.
O thou supreme in love, O thou most fair,
Who art my life, life, and to me my soul,
I must make moan for aught I see or hear
Unless I moan, for my whole life to thee,
And for myself, my whole soul only, whole.
Till then, dear soul, when I have called thee mine,
For me in life I'll live, and leave thee not:
But when I die I hope to die with thee,
And when
======================================== SAMPLE 748 ========================================
,
The night is full of dreams.
The night is full of dreams,
The night is full of dreams,
The night is full of dreams.
The night is full of dreams,
But we were boys.
The night is full of dreams,
And love is love,
And life is truth,
And everything
Thine art discloses,
The dream thou gavest.
The night is full of dreams,
A little while
The dawn is sweet
With songs of smiles,
And daffodils.
The night is full of dreams,
But it is day again,
With love for love,
And all the songs,
And all the flowers,
The songs of praise
Are full of songs.
The night is full of dreams,
And love is love
And death is sleep,
And joy we sing
Is light and love.
In the black-soilèd night,--
The world without, within,
The stars are cold and grey,
The earth is full of night,
The world without.
The night is full of dreams,
But we are boys.
The night is full of dreams,
And love is life,
And everything
Within us twain,
Within the brain.
The night is full of dreams,
But we are boys.
The wind in the lonely night,
The wind in the lonely night,
The wind in the lonely night,--
The wind in the lonely night,--
The wind in the lonely night,--
We hear the wind in the lonely night,
We hear the wind in the lonely night,
We see the wind in the lonely night,
We hear the wind in the lonely night,
We 'scaped the night in the lonely night,
But we are boys in the lonely night,
And the wind in the lonely night,
The wind in the lonely night, my love.
Then you can buy the world to live,
And clothe the soul in wisdom's snare;
Or lure to strands of alien mud
The wanderer's raft from foreign land,
And fashion from his native sea
Some mirror for the feet of him
Who lives a lonely seam on land.
Or you can buy the death of death
With the passionate sense of things
That burn through life; or ease the strife
With storm and tide and tempest's breath
That drives men from their latter dreams,
And wakes the world's stern murmurs deep
With music and swift memory.
Or you can buy the dreams of life
With a fierce tale of severed ties,
And tell the tale of other days
In tales of alien seas and skies,
Of the unchanging summers gone
Around the edges of the world,
Of other worlds that lie afar
Among their valleys and the stars,
And give to the bewildered night
A rapture of remotest worth,
A dream no more for any song,
Than a strange tale of faery sleep,
A hidden wonder of delight
That has with darkness held its height;
A song of love whereof no word
But silent heart and weary heart
Can tell, but always knows the art
To lull the hours away by love,
A starry silence that is lit
To laugh the world into at love.
Ah me! what words can tell the cost
Of common speech, and how the fame
Of noble marshals, who have found
The golden city of the sun,
The glory and the flags of man?
Can this be life, and that the end
Of all the world is different still
To this, when all men seek you so?
And though you cannot bid men go
Beside the silence of the night,
Yet those who may for their own sake
Shall come to you, and they shall bring
Their homage to some other king?
Or shall the darkness of the past
Cloy with their presence, and make wise
Your eyes from out their thoughtful eyes,
And greet you kindly with a word
Of peace, and bid the dead rejoice,
And turn again to that old voice?
No! I would give the world away,
And leave the dead their freedom still;
For there are many thousand years
And many more, and many more,
And many more, if you would keep
All my life safe and well. But oh,
This faithless world, it is not so.
For I would give it all away,
If only for a little space,
To keep my love with all their hearts,
And give them all the world can best,
For there are many more than these
To live like you and me.
My life is yours,--if you have kept
Guard till you wear it, keep it now;
For there are
======================================== SAMPLE 749 ========================================

"_My dear,_
_In vain_
_The balm-tree's pith
_The heart of childhood we shall taste.
The morn may dawn, but never yet._"
In the old English ballad the poet is constantly met with by the
"Why, _will you leave me?_
But there's the civet that we got
In the old house where I've set
Two rings of rose-leaves, and the best.
Why did you never pass
The winter-time at all,
And not see the bright blue days
And the green trees o'erhead,
And hear the little laughing pigs
Who made a little frolic and lived on honey-cake?
If I were there again
And you were gone away,
I'd toddle down the house and pass
The open street with men.
And they'd know why the blind old crow
A-screaming in his wake,
And hush the housemaid in the grass
And wake the milk-white snake.
And now the sun is going down
Into the water-weeds;
And in the grass the little mice
A- scamper to their nests.
Come, leave off shooting
And follow me, my love!--
_You_ don't want to run and run--
_Will_ do anything;
_When I'm dead_, you're only a _very_ brave,
To be killed when I am alive;
When for _my_ eyes you gaze on me
You're the sweetest thing that you can see."
"Yes, I am black," said the crow,
"And if I only knew," she said,
"Why, maybe there must be more wistful pain
Than that last look at the dead."
"You never saw me?" asked the owl;
"Not if you see me with a straw."
"Not if you see me--never saw me."
_The bird that is happy, but never has heart._
There was a little boy out on the street,
A little Boy with toes and arms so small
That it made him laugh when he found them all.
A poppy flower hung in a tree;
A little Child came out to take them all.
"I have brought them all to you," he said;
"They are all very beautiful, dear."
"I bring for you the daisies," the little Child said.
We are so many and many and many good people have come to be a
"I will do for you now," he said.
"I will do for you now, dear," the little Child said.
"I would learn all to learn but a little before I die."
"No, no, no," she said. "If I knew what you are about, I would
"I will learn all to learn but a little before I die."
The little boy went from the room with muddled legs, the little
"But if they all knew that you are alive, they would know
why I have made all this as a play with you."
"I will learn all to learn but a little before I die."
"I will come to you then," she said, "I shall know what you are
thinking at."
Her little feet tapped, and she tapped again.
"I have brought for you now, dear, the daisies. What is left of me
"If I should only know how you are alive, I would do to you
"If I should only know how you are alive, I would do to you
somewhere, to-night, and in the morning."
"Where is your little brother?"
"To-night, a word to them. They will all know as well as you."
"So then I can't, dear," the little boy answered.
"They know as well as you do for me. Here is a little girl
with a rose. She has a rose."
"What, there is no rose?"
"I am alone, mother."
"They live by the sea," her little brother said.
"Your father died here, he died among his people."
"It is only a flower," she said, "and that will never grow."
"Mother, Mother," the little boy whispered.
"You are young and you are yet young," said he.
"Not yet; I can stand now and watch you."
"If you know what I know, then you will be coming to know."
"But if you are already young, mother."
"Yes, very soon. It is a trick."
"What are you doing here?"
"I am willing. You shall see why I do not try."
"Yes, I will. I
======================================== SAMPLE 750 ========================================
,
For he had in the house at his grandmother's,
And if he had not in the house at home
He would have been well and safe.
But when he came to the door,
Old Father Dory, with his child and wife,
Laid him down softly one more streak of white,
And over all his eyes a gentle light
Blew far away; and she was there to watch
And whisper with her little soul once more
To catch the morning light.
The sun came o'er the hill,
And all the folk were gone;
Only the castle windows
Were left all bare.
The ancient bell, that was so long and loud,
Was now a chimney-top; the chimney-top,
Was cold against the wind; and not a bird
Could build nor pile the corner of a barn,
For all around were peopled with the ground,
And the foundations of a ruin'd house,
Like as if someone were against the wall
Still falling from the orchard and the floor
Of a black settle in the wind.
He had his box and tools;
Ay, many an evening since, and other work
Had done his best to please these boyish guests,
And made him look again at work and more.
The sun went down, and all the air was still;
In the broad sky the old man's morning meal
Looked kindly down, and saw a flock of sheep
Huddled against the window side, and he
Was growing up, and now three gable ends
Were rising from the river, and three pillared huts,
And left him by the door.
And one was in the saddle, and was dight
With purple tools.
The old man gazed
Upon his work and did it, and he said:
'The world's life runs before this work begins;
This work is great, but all shall be forgotten
When the first ages shall have passed away,
And few and small things to some time shall be;
For few and small things to some time shall lie,
And nothing change except the world's, the world's,
And there shall be no change.
The earth is changed, the sky is overcast;
And, to augment the world, in some degree
The universal valour shall go forth
And every soul be equal to the earth,
By wars, perils, and death.
The day is gone, and the night is stealing,
And earth becomes as a kingdom of sleep;
The day is set, and the night awakes
And the mother, sleepless, paces by,
And wonders, being troubled, to and fro,
What ails the day?
The mother with her helpless child,
The sick child with her sorrow torn,
The beggar with his bleeding breast,
All that is left him with to be,
And all that is to be.
He comes, he comes, he comes, he adorates
With all his soft and silken folds,
The silken folds of his garments fine,
And his soft downcast eyes full in his line,
And his sweet uplifted lips, his chin
Twined once with little bits:
The little flowers that are his to grow,
And heaped with richness and perfume and gold,
His little share of food;
The sun that rises through the yellow air
Wherein his sunbeams rest.
His hands are strong, his body sweet,
His head is golden-brown and long,
His cheeks are roses in their bloom,
His fingers are like hands of doves,
The music of the winds and waves
His little heart hath known.
Yea, he that is lit with his young fire
Is like a butterfly, that to and fro
Hath been in his sweet service lost,
And hath lost all his home;
And day and night, and night and day,
Hath taken his flight away,
And is become as one that says,
"Ah, woe is me!" and cries, "Ah me,
Ye have this joy alone,
Ah me! what shall I do? what work
Or what work shall I make?"
Then I, having learnt his meaning harsh,
Say, having learnt the sea-wind's breath,
Had told him how the gull and gull,
Might fathom the mystery of death.
Some say that ere light dies,
And ere light learns to wink,
Ere night is born again,
Ere night hath learned to wink,
And ere night hath learned to wink,
Earth's night-worm hath learned to think.
That night when I, with planet-work
(Day's little worm) found space
To watch, and round my mind
What heaven
======================================== SAMPLE 751 ========================================
.
On the side of the throne a king sat;  [it] his beard was like
the snow when the thunder splits his back.
"He bowed to the Queen of the Straw-dressed Maidens, with
his eyes like the lightning, and his voice sounded like the
call of the storm-driven ships.  The King held within him
a high hand, and the heart of the King beat high with the
blood of his heart.
"There she rested from her chains and laid a hand upon
her lips.  The women looked and were pleased to see the King
and all his Queen's eyes glistened, as he gazed on them, in
gladness.
"They led me away to the ball-hall, and in the heat of
the hall they took me.
"There we left the ball-hall, and in the heat of the hall
and in the heat, and I saw the two little maid-gods.  The fair
one was a most beautiful child, and the other a marvel of the
beautiful.
"For the pride of our hearts he ruled the world, and he was a
mighty king.  In his boyhood he was fortunate enough, a
free, a happy boy.
"He wedded the man who was born to win renown and victory
for his race in freakish years.  The years passed on.  In his
folly he was always the greatest man amongst them, and never
any man under the sky more proud than he had seen before.
"There is an end of all earthly joys to the man who has won
 renown for his race and kin, but there is little glory in
the heavens that I can give you.  You were my son.  There is
a child shall be born to me, {19} and my heart is empty.'
"I would have the strength of my life, but now my heart is
broken out by the mighty shout of the gong, and I am left
troubling.  The people will ask me to play the Fiddlestead,
so I make the least of it.'
"I will play all the game of the mimic fight, but I will
play, only my own, the better game, for I have lost my
own.  My heart shall be broken, and my tears fall like rain
and I lose my own again.
"Shall I play at all?  Then I will play with the other
sill with my brother, so I will play to the last of the
swan and the water between us.  I will drown the eyes of
the other with my hands, so that the lips of the lake-fool
will not lie to the edge of them.  I will play with the
dog-fish, for the salmon cannot swim nor sea-gulls float to
the depths of the mere.  I will play me fair and win my own
arose with many another such as these."
Then the man was terrified at the words of the little craft
of his little brother, and he began to sorrow with a voice,
but with it came a cunning understanding.
When the little boat rocked in the bay, the wind gave it
respite from the weathercocks.  As for the man, let him grasp
him with his wings, and he will carry it out if I think he
swim for none of his craft.
And he said:  "Shall I play for you but for a little while?  The
Wind of the East breaks out with a great roar and the ship
tosses high in the water.  If you want to play, let the great
man overcome you.  I do not care if I do; I am older and more
Younger than you are and stronger, and I am far, I say, from
of old."
Then with a bitter laugh he answered in scorn:  "If you would
play for me one play, I will play the game, I am older and more
"The Fiddler, then, he is a terrible man; he is the god of
steel, and he has set his heart upon the doors of his mistress;
hath not his heart within him when he was laid low?  He is
gone into hell and he is out of his senses, and his spirit
has passed away like a cloud.  It is not the man that wrought
him; the froward Fiddler who is struck by the sword, he
waxes with rage and the sword is aye ready.  The Fiddler of
the beautiful womanhood cannot play again for a year; he
is struck down, yet he does not fall."
And with scornful laughter he answered him, but spoke worse:
"You are a hero
======================================== SAMPLE 752 ========================================
 in the fire;
And, as the flickering candle glows,
The tallow'd flames shall rise, and low,
As if to say, "Come, follow me!"
The evening is all spent.  The farm,
Where sleep the shades, is hush'd with peace
To the night breeze.  The homestead is shut
Between the slumbering logs, and yet
The silence is not.  No lamp is set.
Only the wind and the snow, and the warmth
Of the warm stove-fire, and the kettle boils,
And the stove, still warm, retains the names
Of the click of the measur'd feet, and, hark!
The click of the measur'd footstep falls
Upon the logs.  But see! the lamp
Is gone!  The hearth is cold, and dark,
And chill the air, as if the breath
Of life were chill'd.  Oh! who can tell
How chearful it was to be standing here
Beside the fireplace, blazing bright,
And smoking and grating like a fight!
A foaming burst of blaze!  The fire
Broadly has left its ashes, and the door
Swings open, and the snowy ledge
In silence bounds and sounds.  Oh! what
This grim and spectral mass of black,
And dismal vapor, and the sheet
Of white drift, and the sheet of snow
Which the wind carries upward, and the sheet,
And the sheet of the warm stove, and the sheet
Of warm stove burning, and the sheet
Spanning with black the flakes of fire!
I had forgotten how, in days of yore,
The gods went with us, and the air
To fill my pitcher; but no more
With the chill air, or the cold earth, burst
The heavy, icy-cold atmosphere.
Through the thick darkness, and through the clear,
Gather'd the gnat-dead leaves, which lay
Fall'n stiff and dead, as if with fear
Of some dark thing, whose presence is not here.
I did not hear their faint-voiced voices, but
They moved through the great throng, and the soft
Soft choristers of Heaven peal'd through the throng
Of dim, sweet sounds, soft choristers of song.
There was a youth, once,--one of a poet's vein,
But now no golden age is on him again!
The voice of the multitude still rang, and the
rhythm of the world, till, hark! a Voice
As of no wind, but a low, solemn call
Chanted forth from the hollow, and so there
Stood the unswerving minstrels--O, 't was Spring!
And over the earth, with a glad, glad cry,
Flutter'd the myriad tones, till the hills
Ring'd with the throng, and the earth, aghast,
Grows glad as they listen!  All the air
Murmured a welcome to the lifted strain,
As if some gladder, broader than the sky,
Spread its glad wings; and the birds, and the flowers,
Fluttering above, and the thrush, that tells
Of life, are flitting down from leafy bowers.
Even the clouds were thronging the sunny hours,
With a far, far-echoing sound, as of swans,
And the wind, a herald, slowly bringing
The tale of life, and the light, golden sun,
Which makes the hours to be, and to run
Through the dark, and bring the day to a close.
The flowers and the blossoms wept and sigh'd,
The stars sang loud, and the wind blew, and the
mountains, and the water-ways, and the day;
And over the world, with a still, sweet moan,
The voice of the thrush fell, and the wind, alone.
The trees to a place of green talk made their own
With green; the bushes hung shady, and grew
As bland as the sunbeams, or as if on
The leaves the wind kiss'd from a bough; or when
The soft rain fell, they seem'd to walk at ease,
And the fields look'd lovely, and the sky
Smiled, and the air was bright.  The birds all flew.
'T was an afternoon in the early spring,
When the air was mildest, and the scent the dew
As fresh as earth--the fresh dew dripp'd from the clods;
And the ground was all alive with the fresh green raths.
And now at full-noon the warm air, with a sigh,
Floated the warm, sleepy clouds
======================================== SAMPLE 753 ========================================
!  Thou shalt find thyself a thrall
Of vile, low-born, and high-born gentlemen;
But give us thine own female side again.
O Love of fools who seek a woman's love,
I never gave myself to such a one,
Nor can I now give you another bride.
By Fate I choose the lovely,
And that's the fate of all.
To live without the dalliance of wooers,
Tho' not to look on palfrey or prancelling geese
Shall be my death;
And that fair place where I
Must choose Love out a mate.
By Fate I choose the pretty,
And that my mate's mate Love.
I'll marry you, I'll marry you,
And that's the fate of all.
I'll marry you, I'll marry you,
And that's the fate of all.
I'll marry you to-morry,
And that's the fate of all.
I'll marry you to-morry,
And that's the fate of all."
There was a King and a large-eyed Queen,
And she sat in a bower,--
Where they sat together,
The Queen unto the bower.
There they sat together,
And they sat in a bower,--
The Queen sat with her maidens there,
With their maidens in yellow and bower.
They were dressed in white, and with crimson there
A throne all golden;
And they came on, and crowned with stars,
And they drank of each other with kisses.
So to the Queen they gave them gold,
And that King did give them,
And in the bower they laid them down,
Their love was all for that lying crown.
Then King and bower they did confer,
And they made up all merrier;
For Love and Innocency are sweet,
And merry breezes are blowing,
And the bells of Love are ringing.
The Queen sat in a bower, wherein
All were made up of curled gold,
And she sat on a throne all gold,--
The Queen sat on a throne, where she
Had a golden ring, and she kissed it well:
"What wouldst thou have of me?"
"Nothing but three gold pieces;
I will give thee two," she sighed;
"Then I would have given a ring to thee,
And thus to thee, my bride.
Give unto me gold, and to me stor'd,
And so shall I give thee gold."
The King took her hand, and she took away
The gold so white, so red;
And he laid her there,
And these are the words he said:
"Now, now, is it well then?
Then you shall have one for your lady,
And one for your sister;
And the third shall be your lover, so take
Your new bride away,
For love of thy wife, so take
Your new bride away.
"But now to my bower goeth he,
And forth with him we go;
For there on the green grass he
Will hide you sweet maidens two,
So sweet shall be her pillow
Against that sweet-lake, so cool, so fair,
So soft, so soft a pillowing.
And she will awake at a lighted noon,
And her soft hands will rest on th' hill.
For there on the grass shall lie,
Lay thou thy young bride down,
And there I will set thee a bed for thee,
But my love she'll not drown.
"Now kiss me as you have done, dear wife,
And God forgive my folly;
And though in your father I have a lover,
I'll not be another-minded!"
Her mother, that night as she lay
In her cradle, did hear,
And it was no little, but very great fear
Of that young bride's death.
"O father, you shall die at my side,
For I cannot believe thee;
But I'll give you my ring, which your bridegroom made,
And your bride mine did receive."
"O father, you shall be the man,
And you shall take mine in;
And you'll die, for your mother dear
Will not come back again.
"And I'll send you the diamond, I swear,
And my dagger also;
And we'll love while it lasts for a year,
And my husband will be my death;
And I'll give you this ring, which my maiden gave,
And my daughter will be my wife."
"O father, you shall be the man,
And you shall take mine in;
I shall take it and keep her alive,
Forever and
======================================== SAMPLE 754 ========================================

For the man of blood,
With the red sword on his head!
Let him never look on the earth--the hills and mountains over us,
And in solitude we sing, the songs of the dawn and the moon!
It is good to feel the magic of the red sword,
To ride the deer with the red steed,
the same that I sang when I was young.
_The song of the red sword, the song of the red sword_]
I have lived my life as I sang, I have trod
the paths that are leading me back to their aim,
I have prayed that in sorrow I might return to them all,
Yet their glory shall pass and their beauty shall die,
Yet I know that my heart shall never forget,
The pride and the comfort of all my glad youth,
The gladness and longing of all my glad youth.
For I know that the eyes of my master shall gaze
At my lady's beauty with laughing, glad eyes,
The pride of my spirit shall pass and be lost in the blaze,
And I know more of her than of all the glad throng
That are filled with the music of glad return.
_The song of the red sword, the song of the red sword_]
The sun is sinking in the west,
The golden day is fading fast,
And lo! in all the beauty of the world
There blooms a holier dawn of red.
The flowers of June are on the stem,
The days grow long in veins of gold,
The night is ending in the flowers,
And beauty on the earth is rolled.
Now slowly in the violet gloom
The pearly rain-drops gem the snow;
The roses in the garden bloom
To greet the rosy month of June.
The poppies nod their sparkling lips
To win thee from the lily's stem;
The honeyed blossom glistens now
To lilt at duty's secret call.
Thou art my queen, my queen indeed!
For with the rich thy heart should burn,
The rich thy lady's crown should bleed--
The rich thy beggar's crown should learn.
Thou art my queen, my queen indeed!
For as the rich thy heart should burn,
The fair should tremble at thy feet
To win the crown of love like mine,
And he who takes a poor and weak
May win the rich, the poor as well--
The poor as well!
_The following pages contain advertisements_
A child's caressing hand, a flower-crowned head,
A mother's eyes and heart are in her stead!
A lily laid where she might lie,
A lily-bell where she might sleep--
She laid it on a daisy white
That looks so fair to see.
On either side of it, when all is done,
In happy dream or waking or in fun,
Is it the lily-bell, the sea-wind's sigh,
That calls her mother?
_The lily's heart is beating to the stars,
The dew is falling on it with delight!
The star-flower glories in the cup
That she hath drained to last _that we can die_!
The rose-tree lifts her purple crown
Above the meadow that her hands have twined,
And with their hues of hues so divine
Her memory is enshrined.
And so she took her mantle off,
And set it round her, calm and white;
It was not sorrow or regret,
But only a mysterious light,
A far-off music, faint and far--
A lily-bell that calls afar!
_The lily's heart is beating to the stars,
And they have blessed her till her tears are dried
A little garden that she dreams of,--
A lily-bell that calls afar!
Ah God! could I but hide in earth a tiny flower,
That cries when mother earth has laid her dower!
For there were buds and blossoms,
And there were skies when rain-wet April days were long ago,
And there were stars that singed for God and saw not one
Who is so beautiful as all the roses of the air.
All that I know is that the sky is full of lilac bees
Murmuring as they sip,
And the wind wafts and passes,
And their little feet slip
To the little, sun-filled places,
Where no earthly foot is,
And where the skies are
Shining with a starry splendor
Through the magic of the flowers,
And the happy, dreaming lilies
Bring the gladness of the hour
To the little blue-bell bowers,
And the daisy, little pink,
======================================== SAMPLE 755 ========================================
, "The Art."
And it's O. Henry's Day.
Sits young Sam Balfour-bonnet up,
And looks as though he's singing,
With her white, blue eyes and handsome face,
And that dear little rosy face.
And he's as gay a morning as ever was,
Or ever did get out of town;
And he has many friends, but none so dear,
But those he's left behind him.
But oh! what fun they all put on
Just on the morning light;
When that poor little, boyish, silly face
Has gone to meet the light.
He mustn't mind how gay he's made;
And he is always glad
When that poor little, boyish, musty-headed man
Has come up to the blackboard.
And this is why they'll let him sit
In the chimney corner,
With his tea-cops on his back,
And his red cloak on his back!
And this is why there's one will be sure
When that boy's on mischief,
To throw the penny of his loaf
In our sweet Saviour's money.
Here's that little woman come out of the west,
And somebody dragging her off to the East,
And somebody dragging her off to the West.
This little woman, so tiny and brown,
Is somebody dragging her off to the West.
She lifts her gilt hand for joyous to see
The beauty and fineness of her genteel hair.
But oh! what a tale the women have toiled to know
Of the beauty and fineness of her genteel hair.
Her clothes are ruffled very like, and she stands
All dripping and shaking, with nothing on her hands.
Poor little girl, she has no friends above;
O, how would you be thankful for her love!
In an old, old chimney corner
A quaint old chair stands,
And the quaint old chair is a small one,
And the silver a pound.
The chair, too, is turned out,
From a tall slim spider,
And many little shadows
Stamp on the shelf.
I see her as I see her,
And I am sad.
I wish I had been a butterfly,
With no hot-grained food to feed my little pet!
But I must not eat.
There is nothing left to chew,
There is nothing to do.
The big slow worm-bit lasts in winter,
I watch the slow years grow,
The slow years go.
I see her, I watch the mother
Slowly go by.
It is a big brown chair.
It is a big brown chair.
I feel her little tum-u-tau-tau!
Where else do you come?
If I came I would have taken my pet,
And laid it upon my knee.
Do you see the queer, old worm-bit room,
With its dim, old rag-hung chair?
I should have taken my sprig of hair,
And laid it upon my chair.
Then it is no longer the same old face
That has no old-time trace.
The little tawl-shay makes me dance,
The little whip-lash goes round my ears:
"Good night, good night!" I said.
I come from out the valley,
I come from out the valley,
I come from out the valley,
I come from out the valley,
I have a castle in my hold,
To ward off the alarms
Of the battle-trumpet,
And a castle on my castle wall.
My castle hang up higher
Than all the towers of the world;
Its face is fair, its turret high,
Its turret in the sun;
The winds of heaven,
His trumpets I have won;
And it's O, for a castle on a hill,
With arms of hares like me,
And wings of night,
And arms of lead, as shadows play,
For the castle on a hill.
Pray the moon may keep her light,
But I must go my way
For the castle on a hill.
It's all so bright and silent,
It shines for hours alone,
And on the gaudy walls
It shines for lamps alone.
Pray the moon to keep her light.
The garden is so cold,
None of my castle can guess
The silvery dainty green
Of the little white rose tree,
The little lilac tree.
Pray the moon to keep her light.
The garden is so still.
And out of the shadowy woven asters
A rose-bells tell a tale.
A little silver star has gone
To
======================================== SAMPLE 756 ========================================
ly, they are very proud to see me,
As I am proud to be allowed to be you,
For my blood shall not be on my head with rage,
Nor my flesh grow and mine shall be like worms
To mock my grave, nor on my bones its mould'ring!"
"If this were so," she answer'd, "I think it must
And God must punish me for it."
And I heard that there were many hands
Already on her wrist.
But through the window
He peep'd into mine eyes, and cried, "My love,
That moment I had thought of thee, thy father
Had in his household a war-shout caught me
And carried off a war-shout everywhere,
For I was then in mine, and had his son
Had murder'd him; for he had slain his men
Before my day, and from his hand
Had struck the hand of an avenging God,
Which I believe is never done,
But I am now invariably slain."
And then he spoke:
"My wife, for me, was a knight many years
Before the war with France. I had great fears
For this man, of the noble Count Renier;
But now I fear that his son is dead.
I fear that God foretells us all events,
Not groping by the ways of war through France
But through their enemies' hands and ours.
And they that hold a valiant heart are dead,
That should have been so strong and brave and true,
Whose lives are wasted with their foulest deeds,
Who have not learn'd to die, nor been for aught
A mockery and a lecher."
But she rose
And went. I said, "O good Knight Hildebrand,
Surely that man will die for thee, I ween,
That our son Siegelind shall be no more
A knight by battle, or in other wise
An enemy of ours."
She went; I could not pass.
But I beheld
Her kinsmen and the Siegelind and her men
And Siegelind, and I knew who could be braver
Than she was now; and many of her girls
Smiled at her, as they parted.
Then the castle
Flashed with its foaming flood; the mass-song
Sang to it over all. I stood aghast
To see the whole of her; and I beheld
Them with their streaming eyes, as still they gazed
Upon the great cathedral of Carlun.
But all was hollow and pale. When I awoke
I vaguely dream'd that in the midnight hour
She I remember'd used to call me name,
And I remember'd not her; but this night
I dream'd that in her tower she had sent forth
A voice to warn her from the tower. But then
She had to call me in that chamber deaf
And dolorous as if a human voice
Were not her father's. And she held me fast,
And by my side she kneel'd, and clasp'd his arm,
And kiss'd his wounds upon his aching brow.
What shall I do now? What can I do?
I shall be slain outright. My latest breath
Shall be a flock of vultures to this day.
How long this night shall I have watch'd and pray'd?
What, will you go to war? Will every tongue
Endure so long a song? Have pity on
And pity on my sorrow? Wherefore this?
Weep not for me? What mischief will ye play
When ye forget to thank me for the pain
And will not learn it? If this be the end,
This be the greater part of all my woes!
Sir Walter, he is gone, and I am left
Among this people and must leave ye here
Abandon'd and forlorn. My father's corse,
And his son Walter's, all have been my foes,
But both their lives must now be one with you.
And there, I think, will Walter be the friend
Of my true-love. But you must look for him,
Loving him. I will not leave you. Farewell!
Good night, and good night to you.
O good Sir Walter, we are going
Together to the battle. I will sing
My battle song to-night. Farewell, good night.
We will not part to-night; the sun's last rays
Will circle us; the birds will sing again,
And we will meet and never more shall walk
The grass or flowers, of old. Farewell, good night.
And when the last bright glimmer of dawn falls,
I'll sing you, Walter; for the world sleeps,
But we
======================================== SAMPLE 757 ========================================
 by the way."
"You look so cross, and in such attitude,
That you seem made of all the others there.
And as I doubt who sees you, when you take
What's coming in between you and the air,
You don't catch anybody's thought, however;
All the folk say you'm his high ideal,
And what he means you put the case before you."
"I will not say so, for I know myself
Most like a man.  But, oh! I'm not so strong
As to be in my place now."
"You must go," said the man.
"I will not go now, for the other two
Are listening to me.  So, I cannot stay,
You'll be a man, you sure."
"No, no," said the girl.
"I haven't a mind!
Then I'll never say that I will keep still
As I am.  But I want you."
"You are very nice," said the man.
She shook her head.  "At a word, you see."
She said, "I'd better be going to keep
A thing like that, and try it from its head.
And I'm a selfish girl.  I won't be the man
Who is this woman that should have the man."
So she crept in close to him, where he lay,
And he was as good as her up in life.
She laid her head against him, and as still
She made him nothing to think of or see
Till everything struck him with her, and though
She was not a year older than herself,
She knew that she was going to be his wife,
And he was the one to be his wife to them.
One night she came, and asked him for a drink,
And he made no reply, but let her stand.
He was a man to go to him, and then
She shook her head again, and she said good-bye
To him, whatever may come to pass.
"Here's the man that got the man I love,"
She said, "to go about in the world like this."
"Come on, you are not looking for me;
Let me stay with you; I'm not your Padre."
"Not if I stay?  Come on!  Let me stay with you!"
"You are not saying what's going to be done.
Let me stay with you; for we'll have the man."
"Not if I do!  I'm doing that, too.
And there she is.  But you are not a woman,
And I am only a little girl again."
"You must be acting just as we command.
So leave me while I stand, I love you; go!"
She ran away in tears.  "Stay here, my friend,
And when you are done, we will play the game,
And I will eat no more.  'Tis better to have
The thing that's nice in front when we come to-day.
'Tis better to go hungry then."  She looked
And he was gone; he had not even the way
She wished.  He ran along, he knew her not.
He said the challenge was a challenge, then
He turned, looked backward to the waiting group,
He turned, looked forward to the distant group
All facing toward him, then he saw a man,
A crimson blossom upon faces and cheeks
All streaked with yellow lines that he had known,
The like of which he saw them in a group
Of girls, some sixteen years before, some so
Unconscious, one arm round his head.  He ran
Straight as a runner, running as he came.
"I've seen you last night on my bonny sweet lute,
And have heard your wonderful song," said he.
"I think you are forgetting that he has come
To claim our hearts--they would not dare to claim
The right of hearts to pay what you gave them.
I can go now to bed."
"Well, then," said he,
"Let's make the best of friendship for our girl--
I couldn't give her her the right.  He may
Get himself and himself--she has a way.
She has an art on which she can delight,
But she has too long either to do it."
She made no great haste to resume his hate
By saying he was on to marry her,
But hurriedly did with her.  She began
To say there was another girl and she
Were looking for a wedding.  "This is strange,"
She said, "I know the truth of that.  You wait?
You are too timid?  I am only waiting,
======================================== SAMPLE 758 ========================================
'd, to the
What, now, is this?
What, in this lonely chamber, where the Sun
Hath found his bride, to speak of him and have him at command?
Was ever man more welcome?
"Nay, not a word of thine can change this heart
To something new! Lo, what the words! Can it be better so
Than to be named by one to whom 'tis just and right
To give a better name to than himself?
"And therefore, as the Son of God foresaw me fall--
Did I awake? Then might I have communed with him all night."
Yet, yet, when morning broke on him, in every peaceful way,
Unseen, at last he saw me, not afraid to speak,
And, following up my nature, seemed to stand before him far
As if in heaven, or earth, or in the very life, of love.
I came like a blind man who is troubled with the sight
Of some great wrong, or some disaster coming on at last,
And who, as if confused, is changed indeed, if it be so,
And who is entirely desolate, and who must have a friend.
Oh, not a single cloudlet in the wide expanse had risen,
But in its shadow fared a path across the silent sky,
Which, though its brightness were no more, grew, not less, as if
They did not make the sunshine, and no shadow could descend.
That night I stood and gazed, in lonely ecstasy,
Where nothing but a little wind, the hidden dust of love,
Made that strange light the whole, and every other star above.
All this I saw, and yet the light was faint and far.
"Yet now," I said, "I still may see thy face from far,
Thy shadow I can think upon, but cannot be a friend.
O, I can see thee when this vision is departed."
I turned and left, unheeded, and without a word,
Unto my silent heart, and said, "Oh, once again
I saw thee not; once, long ago, I saw, and loved thee still.
Yet do not bid me stay," I said, "I leave thee here alone."
Then with a sort of laugh, I said within myself, "Thou
art the one I love in seeing; but another, come to me."
And as I waited, in my dream I well-nigh deemed it strange
That on the fourth day then I went upon that path,
And, though the way was steep and difficult, I heard the call:
"I also love thee, oh, beloved."
The voice was loud as though an angry thunder there
Rang through the echoing chambers of the haunted house,
Or suddenly the door rang, and with sudden fall a knock
Was suddenly upon the latch, and, with a mighty sweep,
The door rolled open without any bolt or latch.
Then, in that chamber, as I entered in, I heard a voice
And spake no word, but only the deep-voiced, hollow voice.
"Maurine, Maurine, my keys are these: I see a crucifix
Upon the cross, in front of yonder box, written in black,
And keeping in the box the holy water-sprite.
It is not for your silver, surely, that I gave this wax,
Not even for your wax, but rather for the water-sprite.
And even for the pure and simple, pure and lily-branch,
You must give out the wax, until the precious seal is set.
There is another way. Oh, pray not for me at all,
For if I find no way, I cannot have another.
But tell me truth. I came not here; and, seeing,
I found another way.
"Not all at once.
What say you? speak,
What say you? speak,
What say you? speak,
What say you? speak,
What say you?" speak,
Then all at once.
I listened, watched, approved, esteemed, and pitied, and was moved;
Then came the voice of passion and of sorrow, and I knew
I had not spoke, but lo! a light upon the Cross, a spark
Upon the Cross, a flame upon the Cross I saw, a spark
Upon the Cross, a flame upon the Cross I saw, a spark,
A burning and a dying spark, a flame that faltered,
A flaming and a dying spark, into the Cross I saw,
Then, as I stood, I saw again, in that same night,
The Cross, a fiery spark, which fell, and, dying, blotted white;
"O soldiery of
======================================== SAMPLE 759 ========================================
 with him!  It is in vain,
I shall not live to see the day again
When thou shalt come again, my lord, to me.
How, sweet, is this, thy lover, and thy life?
What, then, is this thy beauty, O my love?
That I, a wanderer, might look for it,
A shadow, or a gleam of thine.  Ah me!
It is so long I stood beside the road,
By my strong steps led hither.  Now indeed
It is so long, O sweetest love, to look
And feel mine own is in my hands and take
All lost things in thee.  The way is steep
For me to bear the burden of the years.
I am not worthy of thy love; and yet,
'Tis well I could not see thy face and speak,
That thou shouldst take another to thy heart,
And find its own sweet recompense.  Nay, now,
I will not waste all time, nor change my will,
Nor look for any gift for any gift
Or want of love in any riper year.
I pray thee, lady, hold my heart within
While I speak of the days that are passed
In such wise.  I am glad to think of them.
O love, sweet love, our days are short, and brief;
What were the days that made us one in all?
Nay, sweet love, we are so old.  Let us go weep,
Or laugh and do the things we might not do.
Nay, sweet love, we are so old.  Let us go weep,
Or laugh and have the things we might not do.
A little time ago, in days remote
Of wonder, silence, and the self-same way,
When we were youthful, and it was our rule
To keep the pleasure of this world away,
A little time ago we had no joy,
And we were old in all the foolish years.
O love, sweet love, my only hope, my crown,
My kingdom of my years.  My life was one
With such an understanding.  I am well,
And now I know my strength is very strong.
(I know, for I am not a child, nor yet
My heart is little to be theirs, and yet
They are so small and few, and I desire
My little life, and all the joys they miss.)
Now, when the day is at its dawning light,
When I must go my way once more to Rome,
To find out Love, and he be born again;
If I had never known his blessed smile,
When I must dwell here, having seen his tears,
I then might have been happy.
(The great wheels
Are silent now, and the same music rolls
Like distant music up the years to be.)
I would not have,
Love, let it end; I would not be forgot
For years on years I have not known before.
O love, my love, my love, my love, my heart,
If I should ever grieve thee now and grieve thee
Or curse thee for it, for it is too late.
(The great wheels, the same rhythm of their thought.)
"What need of more?
Because the gods are wise.
"Love is enough,
Love is enough,
Love is enough
For all these prayers and sighs.
"What, then, is love?
There are no words to tell the ways of gods.
Love is enough,--for I must pass to mine
Because love is enough and is enough.
"O love, my love, my love, my love! my heart,
Why have you kept me waiting here for you?
Have I not loved you since the first, the first?
O love, my love, my love, my love, my love,
Why have you stopped in sudden mid career
And followed on life's weariness and pain?
Have I not worn you by the hundred years?
I do not know--I dare not--I am well,
My love, my love, my love, my love, my love!"
'Twas thus she spake, and she arose and spoke
As one might speak, a double tongue to speak,
And one eye's black intelligence could see
How the face darkened and the mouth gave way
To the man's fear, and the man's distress, and all
The many deeds that were not, like a pall.
He lay a moment on her shuddering breast,
A fibre veil over her breast, a tear,
And she arose as one that had been led
By some strange power, and her pale face was hid,
Though now, for now,
======================================== SAMPLE 760 ========================================
,
He had but few _mines_ to do;
But that he wanted none at all,
A most inspiring specimen.
This Doctor always chose a _noise_,
And made his profession more uncouth;
_This_ was the point he could select,
And thus he was cleared of a _noise_!
He used to have a _noise_ at all,
That _noise_ was due to the right--
But that he never _could_ pull _any_,
He never left a _noise_ to _any_.
And so, when all was gone away,
He got upon a curious way
To ask a _whale_ of half a day,
And now, _some_ things at _go-shin_ to _shin_.
The Doctor was a gentle Man,
And lov'd as any Prince or Queen,
But, so he cried, he made no fuss
On t'other, so he sent for _Stop!_
As Dives quite had set up on his knee,
And so had quoted from _one_ Irish,
The _whare_ the _whare_.
_This_ was the end of his long life,
But that is all the world to him;
He never wanted any wife,
But either he had none to sup;
And, since there _was_ a _whale_ to do him,
He was at once right welcome to it.
But still, in spite of all his wiles,
Some Dives--as their Chief got good goods,
Contented with the little wiles
Of the _hutch-od'-_ti-tat_ he knew;
And, as they said, he was content
With _one_ thing, which he could _not_.
In sooth, 'twas wonderful!
And even _all_ Dives--who can know,
Unless his fancy he could show?
But now, it _must_ be seen,
This was the first of his fond love,
And he was right with _all_ between;
Then he was blest amongst the Shrips,
Who were content to let him go.
For if he went to Paine, he said,
It were a curse to be wed.
But he was sorry for his Bride,
Because he never wished to hide.
He was a very wicked Man,
And, being of impermanation,
Forsook the only man-of-war;
And, as he went to _all war_,
He found, as others found, to be
In sorry, but well bred and mild
As other's _very_ little Child.
But all the School stood still and did not know,
For _all_ his past--the meaning would not go;
The Hearts he turned to, found no place for play--
For _one_ thing, _t'other_, _did not_ come away;
And--one is fond; for he was so good-bred,
That he could have been maimed, not _very_ dead.
His _must_ was all sublime he saw--
He caught the Ancientest of Carlsbad's bold
(That _was_ a Briton born--we shudder to say,
But he (or any one who knew his birth)
Would not have held his family for _the North_,
Had he not done as many _she_ loved _the Deans_,
But left one _time_, to have a share in these,
Because her children (in their most conceit)
Had been most happy for the worst they met.
But now, for _what_, I must my tale commence,
Or leave my tale, for the sake of course;
I can but borrow half a tear
From that fond heart I gave him, lastly dear,
We ne'er can part with any of Fate's laws,
Except in _stepping up_ for one _so_ free,
And one--_dear_, to all _she_ bore a part in me.
And _that_ poor Love-god, Chymistra, who still wore
A _beauty_ look of beauty as before,
Had to have let his youthful years have shed
A joy so great he was, an anxious care,
That the fond heart must beat in the young head,
Even when the heart is bent by a fond lover,
And all the household things are told above,
Why should I tell of _thee_, my sweet departed?
I can but borrow of _thy_ tears for both.
_From Love, I know, he died before you've seen me,
But, my sweet Love, if
======================================== SAMPLE 761 ========================================
;
But still in this man, so unselfish,
Never once in a crowd I stood
For the things that would interest you;
Such a talk as this people would think,
Though your language is hard to defame,
And you talk as they would a-talking.
"But to-morrow we all must be gone,"
Said young George, as he walked away,
"We can teach you to talk till we learn:
Now, for God, we shall not say 'No!'
And to show you the reason we learn."
"What has happened to you, young goose,
In the course of this life?" said Joe.
"Why, 'twas nothing but leaving the goose,
For the birds can be nestled all day
Where the nestlings are best in the way;
Not for summer and winter and year,
But if summer and winter appear,
We will teach you to sing and to play."
"I will tell the good reasons," said Joe,
"And I will be going to teach you to be:
Whether you're a goose, or a thrush, or a jay,
You can sing, if you only will say
That you're a little bit better than they.
Just as much as you say you're a goose,
You'll learn, if you want to learn, why these
Are needless, and why those are things to you.
Of all those who'd like to be born, that's the one,
To leave the rest happy or solemn and gay,
I like to be off with my geographical wing
To try with my leg to unravelling,
And to save from starvation the sting."
So Joe took a busily turn, and he went
To the merchant's old shop, from the store at the grooms;
He gave the poor little half-hour's paep;
He gave the whole half-hour's paep; he's the whole of it.
"One more look into my glass,
Since on days you've just passed that way,"
He said; and old Joe was wise,
Though he frequently went
To the glass, and said "Well, you
Stuff up, just as if you must stay!"
He took one drop, and the box, which had
Suppled his efforts, soon gave him the bubbling
And well-handled quart of jug
He filled with ice cream, and did as well,
Then turned a chemise all topsy-turvy.
But though with his pipe, the old dandy
Declared he'd never be there.
With these lines upon his man,
For a time, he had plenty to spare;
And the dandy determined, some luck
In having a glass of "No-one's-ONE's-ONE-Nay"
For the sake of such fishes in ripple.
While he thought on the splendor of Greece,
He resolved to return to Olympus;
But there's not a power in the mind
Of a man who's been long in a wind;
And, when asked to see him once more
In the wonderful posture he wore
In the terrible majesty of his style,
He straightway began to address
His feelings to Cicero's one or the other,
And (not that he ever delighted
In the glorious "Truly Faults-of-the-Tune_)
Declared how he really had longed
To finish the "Great Scheme of the Ocean."
And, having immediately arranged
The globe over, the Muse, somehow, changed
That wonderful creature.
But how, by a minute, he seized on
By a mighty intense fury,--unworth a pin
Of the strength of a mortal--how quickly
He pocketed it swiftly and rashly
In his own way, and fanned to it finely;--
His brain was consumed by the dud
Of "his nasty burnings," and said,
Without further apology,
"It has got him out of a hole."
Then he flung his cash down to the floor,
And pulled up his pack-horses,
And they heard him groan over his head,
And tore up his legs and his chest.
But still it was safe to remain,
For they knew--'twas the voice of some spurt
Of a man who was sick--and looked pashed
In the eye-glass, and winked at the door
Of the horrible "Book of the Fathers."
And so, through the world, it would be
Safe to come to the age of the new ones,
Or to see them once more in their places,
And take them to broader emotion;
"It is all right!" a voice said,
"And so, _I_ am alone with you
======================================== SAMPLE 762 ========================================
 and the other,
How they are fitter for to vary
In times like these, of mortal birth.
Though in the school of years he's teacher,
The joy of childhood's time is plenty.
The school-boy at the desk is ready
To learn the true-bears' rivalry,
And he will tell them what befell him,
And they'll be there, when they were living.
What though the teacher's name is written
A noble orator among them?
They all, like scholars, all have learned
To bear his lessons in the teacher,
And learn him, when the day is come,
That, when at school he goes to sleep,
He can his books and books take home;
Those who have learned to read but little
Will never feel a need for writing,
And they'll be quiet till they're well,
When, like his teachers, he is no one,
And they can never keep the rules,
And he'll be gentle as the rest--
He'll write for them and you must learn,
And every learned friend who sees him
Will be a book he has before him.
They'll know this man as teacher, teacher,
And read him by his mother's Bible:
'My name or his I'll ask no questions,
I'll answer, when I ask him, holy.'
They'll take the book he's given him,
And when he runs to read again,
Oh! then, dear friends, I'll take your Bible,
To give his friends his own again.
They'll send him on his Bible back,
They'll think the little boy's a fool,
And read him there, to make his name,
And look in all the eyes of Fame,
And if he's sent, they'll think he writes,
And give his hand the truest pointed
To say--her hair is bound together
With buttons marked on all the letters:
"Just think of it! 'Don't be a teacher,
And learn a book." So books come on.
My bookman, Frederick B., is a favorite person in town,
And a very remarkable book, for the reading allude.
And, if you like sincerely, he reads it with joy,
The volume of poems is very neat and very clever.
You must keep it bright, as he watches it, you can,
Though it hangs aloft through the window-pane.
He would read it for you, when some one else would,
Or, maybe, read it for you too, if he could.
And I wish that he could, now the old one is gone,
Could he sit by you and play in you alone?
If you have no children, don't get any tired;
Let us all walk together, a delightful jolly life.
The sun is bright and tranquil
And all the balmy air;
The winds are breathing low,
The birds are warbling there.
I am a brown, brown, brown old elf,
On a top of country tree;
I am a brown, brown, brown old elf,
And all alone, in Arcady.
Once to a murmuring river,
This is the hour of dreams;
The world has scarcely heard the word
That dropped from out the oaks.
The woods are thick with purple,
The fields are green with grass,
The larks are singing o'er them,
The wind is piping loud.
The flowers and leaves are silent,
The winds are not asleep
But all apparelled in the breeze.
I cannot breathe upon them
And I cannot move about;
I am a musk-ox red and blue,
And on my left, and out.
O world!  O Greece!  O Rome!  O Greece!
How far from this thy heritage!
How far from this thy heritage!
O how much better thou hadst lived
Than lived thy life forever!
The sun will shine and all the world
Be bright indeed with thee,
And all the world be sweet with thee,
O bard divine of God!
The sea groweth in a circle
Of diamonded steel and brass;
The sun is hot, and evening
Is softer than the dawn.
The sea groweth in a circle
Of diamond and jasper,
The sun is warm and shineth,
And all the world is cold.
The sea groweth in a circle
Of jasper and jacinth,
And the sun beareth in it
More beautiful than this.
The sun beareth in a circle
Of jacinth and jacinth,
And the sun beareth in it
More beautiful than this.
And over the horizon there is
Another day in spring,
Wh
======================================== SAMPLE 763 ========================================
;
And how, for such, our Lord God sends
Thee here, our Father, in our hearts,
Where we this day must part from Thee,
For all Thy children yet must be,
(To Thee, Thy very children, still),
Father of this day, this holy day,
Which here Thy children here have found.
Thou takest home Thy gifts, and bring'st them here
From every Saxon Church, from every Island near.
A goodly gift, and nobly fitted out,
That shall endure in Thee alone:
A curse, a lasting curse, to those whom here
Thy children's lot hath called thy "Amen,"
By all the names of Thy great names that were
Made plain, Thy children's first-born son!
This is a thing for sorrowful hearts to quake,
A wrong and perjury, a bitter lake
Of grief for those who have failed in long past
And now, with a tear in the eye, I mark
A shadow flitting on darkly dark;
I cannot feel the cold hand of a man
Slumbering, but all the fierce curses he
Hath taken and gone from my father's will,
And a great cry of righteous discontent
Rings through my heart, then I answer it,
For I know that at last I have borne great loss
And the grief, and the pangs have long been one,
The loss which the rest cannot cure,
That a great cry of all for me, O my love!
"_Come, now, then, and lay your burdens down._"
And I would have a merry time with you,
For my heart's sore to sing;
For the little joys are gone to pine,
And the night is long.
O sweetheart, unto me 'twould be
To give our hearts our peace:
To sit and hear the voices of the blest,
"Come, now, then, and break your tired heart
And bid another cease;"
And I would have a merry time with you,
For my soul's sore to sing;
And the voices of my blessed ones,
Or else, if I had wings;
But the little joys are gone to me,
And I may never cease.
But my heart is filled with bitterness,
For I know that no child's feet
Have trod the earth half glad to see
Upon the path to Thee.
And my heart would throb no longer now
In memory of Thy loss,
But through the weariness and fears
My soul would ever cross;
And bearing all I had loved before,
My feet would cease to take;
And all my days as one with thee
Would live though others die.
And so I never should forget
The face of my regret.
And never should I ever pine
To think how I could dream
That it could ever be so sadly kind,
And love, and happiness my life will end
And never shall again be more than vain,
But ah! will soon be over, and again
With its few years of laughter and long tears,
And its calm, peaceful years.
For though my lips should never cease,
Though my hands should ne'er reach to Thee,
I would not for a single moment bow
Before Thy sorrows, if I were as low
As Thy sorrows, and as wretched as Thou
Who never had Thee.
All that was pleasant, all that remained,
Was that as full of gladness of the soul
As life, or love--that seemed the lowest place
For the most perfect gladness of the earth,
It seemed the heaven alone could blot the face
Of this our heaven and hell, and so we had
A bliss more real than any sad despair
In life though God had made it; on the air
We shook our lonely shadows, for our own
Was heaven alone.
And so, too,
When in our midst a nation came to see
Its coming and its going; how we gave
A loving welcome, and with lips that gave
Some gracious way to life, a faith that gave
Meekness to to my own; and with a pride
Came to be welcomed by the Christian side,
And clasped me round the weary victors by
Their benediction and this side the grave;
And so we seemed by joy to see the light
Flame from the glorious firmament of heaven,
And the calm splendour of the things of night,
But dimly veil'd our joy; we knelt and said,
"In this we nothing know; if this indeed,
My life is but the prying of our powers,
We shall be humbly rested on this sod
Which hides not what ourselves have made of
======================================== SAMPLE 764 ========================================
, was a little old man, and one day he married a
large estate of about three years. He had bought an army
of soldiers, and was practised at war every day in Germany with
the colonel.
The colonel was so kind--the colonel's father was so
foolish--would have had no time to think about a job and
not even tell what he was about. The lady, by the help of
her kind, grew quite pathetic--the eye grew dark and
alfully at every standing, the poor lady was thus treated
as though she were an old friend of a foreign character.
The colonel was angry. The lady was sorry, and said,
"You've kept a boy in this room before he gets up."
The poor lady said, "Well, but he will pay up." The
handsomely mourning residence of the colonel was very
furnishing of the colonel's orders for the colonel's
duties.
The doctor was called Sir Philip Sidney and said,
"My dear, if I am the officer, I must be very careful to have
you all ready."
The doctor was just coming over for a ride on a silver
horse, and was shown, as a sign of disgrace, to the old lady.
The old lady's woe was deep, it was greatly to be regretted
and regretted.
The old lady found her woe in her pocket, but she looked
up to it now and then, "It's my very first wish," she
knew her friends would understand her and pity her.
The widow was busy telling her daughters that never
death had come between them, and she was left lonely in the
woods, for she was very lonely; but when her sons were just
carried away in the woods, then her husband took her
to be the doctor, and she tried to read the papers, but
he would not do so. He found, for herself, that if you
had been aunt to the man who died, it would not have been
fair to have it. She asked him to call her daughter.
When she saw her dear grandfather, what time the doctor took her
to bed she had a dreadful pain.
His frantic father would have called her mother, but she was
never in mind.
The old lady could not bear to be so frightened as to see
her, and it was just a bit too late.
At first it simply broke her heart, and then it was
some fault.
And then her daughter's father would have kicked her into
bed, and said to her:
"Oh, it is horrid, you're only a child."
And at last she fell into a deep sigh.
Then the old lady said, "My dear, how are you disturbed?
It's really bad enough to leave him alone in the wood. He
is not in bed till the morning. And now what do you think
of it! He will not sleep soundly either."
Her father raised her up and kissed her; she was hurt; her
younger mother made an uproar among the old folks. She
parted from them and were now eating her dear grandfather's
face.
"You don't know how to leave him alone in the wood," said
the old widowed mother, "and as good as father or son.
He says that he wants to leave you, just living in time to
return. He says you must be a very nice boy." She
turned pale in her fear and shook her head.
"Poor old thing!" said the old widowed mother, "that
is not an old story! May God damn his goodness with
you all! It was only a child I kept speaking in the
wildest way.
You say you mustn't, then, ever forget that it will
be a good thing to try to help you to help you--you
wish you were going to help us up the ladder."
And thus it is that our father is in the way of the
country and our brothers live in a cabin; and when
the summer days fall and the children come back from
the fields to the little places that we used to
we have known when we were boys, then the little
sisters and their wives, the little lads and the
blessed few who live in our own home, and whose
name is old and never learned.
Then for his shooting out West in Cape Race, a
next-shot star in the far west country for a
tinker's three-feet-circle train, far out West, at
first. Then I wish in my father's name I could see his
funeral line grow dim, and the old men drop
back and forth their work, and no one would mind it,
for there was only one boy alone, named
======================================== SAMPLE 765 ========================================

"_Where the last rose expands
Itself in many a bud:
The desert and the wood
Are human haunts for a';
But the sweet Highland needs
When the wan water blaws,
Their water-merry feeds
On the wild mountain's snows.
And when her bairnie's bird
In blossom-like shall sing,
The winding throbs that fling
A wab-like shadow fling.
When the sheep-bell's runnel sound
Shall tell the purple tide
Her purple dow'r shall sound,
O'er mountain, vale, and glen,
A wab-like shadow fling.
Tune, "_Had I a cave on some wild distant shore._"
Ye are welcome, my Nannie, to-day,
The sea past so wild,
And the bird that is bounding his pinions shall fly
To find out where sound sleep the hills thereby!
Afar from the home where his childhood he led,
Away o'er the hills where his fond heart was laid,
He lingers to watch the sweet clouds as they pass,
Where billowy deeps the far-distant sea.
And the child who his childhood had truly been taught,
From the day that he went was his dream of the sea.
He wandered from shore to sea,
To dream o'er the wild-woods to roam;
But he saw not there his home.
No longer he slumbered in heart,
His cheek was white, his eye was dim;
With dew on his weary brow,
A tear for the wanderer came;
"I'll leave thee--oh, leave thee--thou moon of the sky,
"I'll leave thee--oh, leave thee--save thee, ye wild roese!"
He strayed by the spring-bank so fair,
When his bosom was swelling with happiness;
But he saw not a star in the sky,
'Mid the sweet heavens so clear and so calm;
It did not forsake him, it did not o'ertake him,
He had wandered afar o'er these wild-woods so drear.
And they whispered together, and fondly, and aft,
As they sat in the shade and were moved by the wind,
"I'll leave thee--oh, leave thee--the bird that is cote?
"Oh, no, thou lone bird that I love,
There 's a track we have severed with love;
I'll traverse thy breast, as our bark to the sea,
Tear thy heart from our bosom with anguish and woe,"
"I'll leave thee--oh, leave thee--oh, no, no, no, no;
There 's a track we have severed with love;
I'll traverse thy bosom as lovers oft go,
For thee to sigh o'er thy bower;
And there to remember thee close thou wilt find,
I will wake thee when morning dawns on thy mind."
He leant on the boat, the ship coming so nigh
With a love-laden mind was he wafted along
Mid the loud waves, 'mid the loud surf of the sea--
The wind-laden bark and the blue birdling's song;
Then the voice of her father, he heard on the deck
The faint sound of a voice that was stilled by its breath,
And her father he looked in his face on the deck;
And his own in his heart was the voice of his death.
The sea hath his music; the hills are his own:
His harp wild hallow the tones of its wild hollow tone,
And his own can remember his own tender tone.
The music of death is his own, from all sides he draws
A sweet melody sweet as his own could he hear
When a happy sad man, on life's pathway borne,
Came on the waters, and blessed his sire's care.
But the voice of his father, when still he has ceased,
Cries, "Now, now, father!--look down on the wave!
It is not thy ken! it is not my infant's voice!
I have stolen, thou blessed one, it has hung in my hair
In the memory of dear friends, and hast sung thee a song!"
The voice of his father, when now it is ceased,
Cries, "It fell upon me, my love, that I felt
But a wind-broken impulse to make me their cot;
But the voice of my father, when now it is calm,
Faints away from the wave, and all is so calm!"
The voice of his father, when now it is ceased,
Flows,
======================================== SAMPLE 766 ========================================
 to,
But, Lord, that's me! I say it all on thund'ring!"
But, Lord, that's me! I feel I'm only playing!
Come, sit.  The game goes blank: we sit and talk.
It's the last chance!  It was the last to walk!
I won't see now if I should ask for ink.
But, Lord, that goes to show off giving way,
So, not with those fool-foolsters, who say 'Here!'
But, Lord, that's me!  It's all so long a day--
The game goes blank!  Ah, well, 'tis all the same.
I'll not say now!  I'll think of that, or say
Some say it was too hard for me to burst!
Come into action!  The world's up for words?
I'll see--no matter, I'll wait no for swords!
They don't want no warm tears: no, Lord, don't you?
Well, then, you say: hold back your bloody tongue!
Come into presence.  That's the woman strong!
Here's one little hand to move with, then.  Look--
We must just go about.  I'll tell you so:
We've all been out, and it was so I know--
And some day you will find me here, perhaps.
But I'll come back again.  I'm so full up
of the ghost of the dead that you'll hear no more
Than tell your old father what happened next year.
We cross the seas at last, and here we lie
where dead men are, and the dead sea-gray.
We have long kept embarking for this shore.
Come, I'll come back again!  I shall not say
The dead could not have sunk in the old way
Since my ship went down from the Downs in the fall of the fall
that the wind whispered.
They say there was sorrow in the world, and tears, and
hearts, and the heart-rending of the poor old ships and
their long-beggared company, having starved and starved
forgetful a few wage.
And so they have talked, and it seems to me
the ship will go in for more time, it is more or less
now, and everything is hidden away in the clouds.
It is true that the wind never comes in the whole land
but continually there must be many a ship and many a man
behind it.
On a good ship with four men there at sea,
I sent the Old Knight home at an enemy's command.
I opened the port to him straightway, and the Old Knight
down on the sea-shore, took time to make his shipping fit
for the new land.
The first was a wonderful one; he had a cloak and a
burnished helmet, overcoat, and forelock, and even
shamefully tarnished with it.  He was an enthusiast, a
sons of the High-Court, and the people called him
The Old Knight spoke with a mighty deal of cold indignation
which, if men look upon it, would make them wish
that it would take them, and would have them back again.
I sent the Old Knight out for the company, saying,
"We must take the Queen's maid, and she will have us;
we wish she may hasten as we have done her."
Mr. Kingley looked at the Old Knight, and said nothing;
the Old Knight sneered with a mock'ry sort of resentful
understand.
"There is enough," he said, "to do the bidding of the
young gentlemen who have been here long enough
to take the Tower of Tower.  I'll send the Queen
with all her men, and she will have them free,
and we hope she will take them."
"Now, my dear Sir, speak!" said the Old Knight, with a
whisper kindling a certain wrath in his bosom; "you
know, you are a lover of the Queen.  You know, you
know, that your King will be a man whom a King must
love and respect and respect.  He must respect; for
when he goes to the court with the Queen, he must be a
sovereign citizen of his own kingdom.
"It would be no crime if it were not for a
sport.  The Queen, as you know, will take it to her first
husband.  I wish she would take it.  I have given the
chief messenger of this Queen to her true lover, who
has brought it hither; and it cannot be the Child who has
felt it."
The Old Knight spoke with an uncontrolled scornful front
======================================== SAMPLE 767 ========================================
 the same thing.
There's a way, there's a way, there's a bower, there's
something quite different
From the other side,--if you've any opinion on this
But it's one of God's right angels, and that's the way
That's a mystery of that sort.
There's an end (if you can't, so think of that!) there's
No good under just to sit and sing.
And I'll try that two-thirds of a long summer's day
Would make up that for you.
And I'll try that if I've a chance, I might have it, quite
If I know you, among yourselves.  And I'm not sorry that
I didn't want to get
Strict friends by the look of the world to-night for me;
And I want none,--some things that have been, and some
That have been, and others have gone, like my own, to say.
I would stay with them, they could do no better right
Than being a soul possessed of the body and a part.
If I did, I'd not miss the good of knowing you alone.
You needn't mind that, sometimes, when it's company;
But I'll take my chance with the same kind of soul and will
That I did in the way of the flesh and the soul, in a
chuckle-headed way.
And I see, as I watch you in bed, the light upon your hair,
And they smile at you still, they have blessed you all the year!
And I watch as they pass you, and I'll say good-by to them--
Just wait till they've brought your soul into a song
That will strike like a song that has fallen on the roof
For a singer,--that was the old one of the songs.
You may take away the music that you've got, you know,
But when people die in the man's life they don't know.
And it's then like the song when we die in the darkness after
And the voice that is the voice that was lifted more aft.
He may follow, but he shall ne'er come again. . . .
How I like the song, those little children,
That play in the dark so bravely on the ridge of the world
Are better fitted for the world and you!
If you're a little one, as you say, I'll tell them of the few
Who live in a hut and they call it the place to see
Some pleasant friend to light our lamp.
--I don't know what it means.  It's very pretty yet.
Where the tallow candle-flowers are lingering to make the garden wet,
There's somebody digging about, the big one, you may guess,
With a tiny mound of woodbine to keep his room clear,
And a table full of dinner-things that's quite around.
"You must just be telling them to-night, for I want to hear you
Just a little while,--and it's not very long, I fear."
Now the children gather round the table,
In the little cozy room.
The blinds are lighted, and the windows light;
And a little window glitters there to see
A big pile of things, a funny little house.
Its arms are worn with work.  The world is new,
And when it goes to bed, all damp with smoke.
The sky is like a child; and all the world
Is full of things that he can do no more.
O weary heart and weary soul,
The minutes hurry fast and pass
Through all the heavy, lingering,
The dull and restless days are swift,
With trailing footsteps slow and short,
And all the weary months are long.
There in the desolate and dreadful night
Of desolation, slow and long,
Tossed and belated, faint and white,
The little children play and play
About their crosses and their ways,
Telling them stories where they go
Of how the children go to school.
And in the long and weary hours
The little children hurry by,
Distressed and crimson, bent and white,
And all bewildered quite;
Shy little forms, from out the sky,
Holding alone their pretty selves,
Pushing my way through wind and rain
Toward a good-will.  They go again
Away from hearth and house and child,
Laughing and laughing, all alone.
And when the darkness comes again,
And he is glad of it, I hope
That he will have it, till the gloom
Shall never more return, I'll ask
A soldier's life.  I hear him praise
High praise, and when the tale
======================================== SAMPLE 768 ========================================
 in the heart.
The soul has its fancies; and love can sing
In the chambers of nature, a lonely thing,
When the world is in ruins. The world is free.
And love has a thousand memories. The world
Has the million dreams that make life a home.
The souls have their thoughts;--a thousand dreams!
And the world is one with the million sins.
There are souls who never leave earth; and, so,
Men have their souls; and the world is the world,
And the world is the world, and the world is death;
And life is only a fleeting dream,
That is worth the love that it finds and seeks.
There are souls who never leave earth; and they
Are clothed in a pure and a virgin light
To lead us onward through paths they are planning
Around earth and all that a world can be,
While their hearts are aflame for some good or ill . . .
But there is no path that has missed their goal!
And the hearts of the living are all to the end.
And the world is a breathless world, and has passed
Through the gates of a deathless knowledge, and leaves
Its hopes and desires, that are left behind
With a few sad tears, or a few, sick sighs,
Till the world seems one vast immensity,
And the worlds one infinite hope, to be shaped
Like a limitless sea . . . and are lost!
We are not the runners of Time; we are not
From the world's and the woman's, as man; and we
That have lost our souls in a dazzled place
Like the limitless ocean which hides our hopes;
No, we are not!  We are not. . .
So there are, who are free, and who do not die,
And whose feet are noiseless; and who have lived
Through a long life and are lost to the end.
And there are those who give life too much of love
That I cannot see, who have lost the faith.
But the past is lost like a dream, that was lost
In a long life. It is gone; and in truth
There is nothing left but its bondaged hopes,
And a love which is loveliest for all things.
O my soul! O my soul! that is harder to tell,
That life is a curse, and a fate has the worst.
Now I feel you are happy, knowing all
And repeating what I have known. You may see
How a woman's heart goes, and her lips kiss,
As she kisses her boy, with the love of its heart,
And in silence and sorrow the soul leaves the past
In the hollow of life, and the end is near.
And so I keep saying that love can be poisoned,
That life is a feast with beauty, and only
The true loves of youth can be sweeter, and never
Be broken, and never be changed. . . .
If there were to be nothing else than mere being,
And nothing could hold us, I might ask heaven;
For there is nothing left but a chance of love,
And the things that we love, and the dark loves, and that
It may cease from us in the present and the past,
And be made into forms in the soul--or a dream.
But the chance of a hope that is more than a man
Is more than a dream. It is life, it is love,
It is love that is more than a hope. And yet
When we are parted, as souls are, we may sever,
As the twain are united, with bodies I leave.
And I'll give you a smile as you lie by my side,
And my eyes turn to yours; and I'll kiss every trace
Of the life you have done on your beautiful face.
And the world shall be yours with the tears that are wet
When we parted. Ah, were you only as I am,
And I would not live, were I not as my soul
Is too heavy at heart to keep pace with your love,
The cold rain, and the earth.
And love could not stay; and like many another,
And like many another now that it has grown
To the grave, but not gone into nothingness,
Were it not enough to keep pace with one girl.
And yet, if there were to be nothing more free
Than to leave you alone, and to leave you alone,
Or to let the world set apart, it would be
One fate for a lover, one sorrow for me.
For me, but not you.  My heart keeps pace with your soul,
I watch the world through sorrow.
There are clouds
And a sound of feet on the wild night-ways,

======================================== SAMPLE 769 ========================================
, with the "Fool's-love laughter".
There's little danger or little danger
In all these things that you have done:
Life has passed by the poorest moment
When you are old and blue and sun.
The joys of the road, that have come to you
Are now too heavy for earth to bear--
The rain, that never has wet you, can make you
Ungladsome and hungry to despair.
O, little fellows,--free from care
And content, from sun and shower!
Haste to your work among the ferns--
The old, old year is going well;
Your graves will soon be smooth as lawn
And daisies, too, of every leaf.
The good green turf, that once was green
Before your clay is green and cool,
Will last, in many a fall of seed,
A hundred years, to be made glad.
And when at last the dust is done,
And life has grown so dreary brown,
The good green earth will soon be seen
Spring up to blossoming alone.
The good green turf, that you so well
Have hid beneath the greenest shade,
Will last, in many a fall of seed,
A hundred years, to be made glad.
I thank the blessed human race
(In whom I have no wish to stay),
For giving life to patient face
And patient limbs upon its way.
The grass, this side the old man's grave,
As broad and warm and green and green,
Will not be much to be alive:
No green is what they say, but green.
The grass will not be much to you,
The graves will never be made glad;
But only bloom by golden gleam,
Like golden dreams that you shall dream.
O, young folk, though ye be like sheep,
Be brave, be quick, be willing, glad,
For each one is a great to keep
Your courage, and your God, be glad.
Ye shall love the old man on his faith,
And you shall meet him with a chain;
And I will bring you dreams of these
And then I'll take you to the grave.
Old friend, I wish you could have gone,
And gone to sleep like any ghost,
You'd never come so far away,
To look so deep and fresh and grey;
I wish you could have met with these
And gone to sleep like any ghost.
The old man said: "This journey lies
Not far from where we all must come,
With not a mark or echo nigh
To mark or else at least a sham."
The words were few, but yet so sweet;
And though I love you, dear, I know
My heart will never weary of
Your dear remembered melody.
Who knows the music that should fill
These empty windows with delight?
And who should stay but we to pray
All through the little comedy?
What should the play but we to-day,
And to this life we bring us home,
And what to us the music brings?
What should the burden but be borne
Upon the wings of the last year's bee?
It does not matter, now I know,
Whether on earth we wander or no,
And whether that in heaven or hell,
We all should sin, and _this_ is true.
So when I come at last to see
My life begin to run to blossom,
It will not matter, do I say,
If so I leave this life for aye;
And, if I go, they'll bring me back,
And drive me hence with their sweet wheels--
If so I cannot, will you leave
A bit of earth behind my back.
If the world's care have a chance to die,
As you and I have seasons run,
It may be wrong, O Love, to fly
Like chafers after thunder done.
For if there came a time there'll be,
When you and I shall never part,
The memory of a little change
That has no name, and no strength left.
A time when all the worlds would fade,
And, lacking you and I, should be
Lost, and no more for us to cry
Than that the gods should think that we
No longer could be loved, but die.
A time in life, and loss of gold,
To have it over, and to be
Swept from us, and no more to hold,
But only when the time has come
That we shall meet, not quite, but quite,
And, having been, without a name,
To live, we'll laugh and have some shame
To take the other side of the game.
The boy I love, I love the
======================================== SAMPLE 770 ========================================
, &c.
Lines Inscribed to the Right Hon. R. A.
Owre, &c.
Musa, and the Ladye, and the Ladye, &c.
On Men and Broomaux if we may say that we can be considered as
a writer, they will be neither idle nor idle; if we have
thought it necessary to confute the name of their author, to
singe a poetical praise, which has been not very easily
compared on our language, we must here refer to the multitude
and to the spectators; we should think it necessary to dismiss
a single person of learning without perfect hearing or sound
Owl.*--Ben-cop’s edition.
“For the present,” my Master sends me,
“Take a leathern pitcher of me.”
“Though I am a bit of a dog,
Wish me a tiny pitcher from me.”
“Though all the dainty, dainty trinket
That goes by the dozen, don’t make me lazy
Is a very great pity, Sir, I’ve no reason
Why there should not be a yellow sprig.”
Then to the landlord:--“Yes, Sir,
Although I’ve a wooden peg,
I’m not going to stand the shock,
I’ll give it to the por-drum hop.”
The landlord gave it about three pound,
And added a pitcher of me.
“The pitcher,” answered the landlord,
“Is not very big, Sir, it’s small,
And not very tall it is, Sir,
It’s not very large it is, Sir;
’Tis a very great pity there’s not
Another drink to be had;
If your landlord should ask you,
’T’will not do you good, Sir, I’ll try,
So that he may give you some whisky,
And in liquor like _b’tas_ be skum.”
The landlord now made him a circuit,
While the little dog followed the trick,
And the little dog followed the way,
And the little dog followed the trick,
And the little dog followed the trick,
Yes, that they followed it, Sir,
They followed it, Sir, and they went,
And when both the dog followed the stick,
The little dog followed the way,
And there was no end of every play,
There was never a danger a doubt,
So they followed the footsteps about,
And to the spot they could not run,
And there was no end of every fun,
And they placed the companion upon,
In the very neat little room so nice,
And the little dog sat in the rug,
When he’d the right place to go in,
And he saw him jump on the floor,
And jump upon high,
And jump along out of the door,
And shout at it, “he’s free!
Come, let’s leave to talk about it,”
“O go ahead!”
“I’ll go ahead,” the little dog yell’d;
“I’ll go ahead,” the little dog yell’d,
And he gave a grunt “I’ll go steady,
But if you do say,
“You will, won’t, go ahead!”
And as he stood by the door of the hut,
His tail he curl’d on the grass so green,
And he fumbled and swear,
“For one bit of a splint you fling,
You little dog, I will stop if you pass,
Though I do not hear,
Your foot on the floor
Of the little dog,
And you will go laughing when there are ten,
You little dog, I will venture again,
In the depths you stay,
And I’ll stop with a precedentbow,
You little dog, I will venture again,
I will venture again
I will venture again
To ride the fair,
And a very fine collychus swear,
You little dog, I will venture again,
You little dog, I will venture again,
You little dog, I will venture again,
You little dog, I will venture again,
I will venture again
To ride the fair,
And a very fine collychus swear,
You little dog, I will venture again,
You little dog, I will venture again,
You little dog, I will venture again,
You little
======================================== SAMPLE 771 ========================================
--
What is in the world? I will stand by you.
(Gives the world its debts) to you--to me.
I will stand by you to-day, to-morrow,
Serene and faithful; I'll stand by you.
(Gives the world its debts) to you, to me.
(Gives the world its duty) to you, gayer,
Serene and faithful; I'll stand by you.
(Gives the world its duty) to you, gayer,
Serene and faithful; my lord will stand by you.
(Gives the world its duty) to you, gayer,
Serene and faithful; in you, life.
(Gives the world its duty) to you, gayer,
Serene and faithful; in me, all the world's my life.
If I loved you, and yours, or mine, as mine,
Or loved you, I'd turn apart, and you.
(But you loved me, and mine, as mine, from mine.
You loved me and loved, as mine, from mine.)
Then, after a little while, one day
You went on to the city and stayed with me,
And came back for a kiss that would bring an end.
But I said, "She will love you"--and left her, too.
(There's a whisper of "Gone--Gone--Gone"!)
The women of Florence are never quite fair.
See how they smile! One can scarcely bear
So ungrateful a burden to bear.
(See how they weep!) and so, lest they should grow mad,
Do you think they have loved "Gone--Gone"--or "Gone"--
Just laugh as I did when you went upon strike,
And I said to myself, as I kissed you, "Gone."
What may this mean? My heart and its thoughts are
Almost a feather, and fluttering in the wind.
(How much the difference betrays the wind?)
What matters it though my bosom pours
Its blessings on its brim--they are yours;
I love them, and you love--I, too, I love you.
(You, my heart, who loved me, say, love me.)
Once more, my heart--no longer beat--
(That last word is not often sweet.)
Again, and yet again,
_He is dead_.--O, do not beat!
Ah, but I'd rather be all dead,--
_Dead and gone!_ and _gone still_!
Once again, love, will you love me?
(That last word is not often new.)
Once again, love, will you love me?
(That last word is not often true.)
Oh no! I love you, I love you.
(There's a whisper of "Gone--Gone"--I.)
Oh once more, away from there, love,
Oh once more, far away, love.
(Ah, and I know what I've always to say--
Since we must part, to meet, to-day.)
Once more, my heart!--Oh, God, but it is vain!
For _my_ arms cannot touch thine heart.
(O, what could words love, or Thy above?
Oh, what could words love, or Thy whole life o'er?
All, all could form my love and pain!)
Once more, my heart--not anything can speak!
O Love, could words _such_ falsehood speak?
(That tear, as I forgive it, could I see
How many tears love ours must be.)
Once more, my heart--not anything can speak!
(Those tears, as at the close of dawn.)
Once more, my heart--not anything can hear!
(Take it, dear, but oh, remember me.)
If I could whisper words, dear, you would hear--
(Those tears, as at the close of dawn.)
Once more, my heart--how oft, how warm, how dear!
I've done with what's forgotten, buried,--gone--
(And pray you'll take my hand, and walk me by--
And say, "There is no grave, no resting-place,
No grave, no grave, no grave, I've found, in all the past,
Of my own soul and ONE so dear."_)
Once more, my heart--yet hardly warm as yet.
(Take it, dear, but oh, remember me.)
Once more--I'm sure I'd rather feel the touch,
Than see the heart so warm and true;
For I forget, and yet remember much,
======================================== SAMPLE 772 ========================================
 of the 'Birds' for
winter' days.
As the 'Birds' is said to be kept so separate from 'the
flowers;
I'll 'list no chorus till they've done as they were
doing.
Though the birds be not as free as the wild bees are to honey,
(Drat the roses, sir,) yet there's a garden that I know
Where I may hang my nest as cosy as can be,
And keep my bed-room roses--'Tis not my wish, I trow!
For it's underneath, in winter or in summer,
Here I kiss you, and you'll kiss me, and I'll eat the
tears,
And I'll eat your tears--but I can't kiss the _Creepers_
(Dare you call me `that?) with parted lips and
fluttering eyes.
And when the snow is on the ground and you
understand,
You will find me with an alien memory
in my hand--
You will find me with an alien memory
in your hand.
"But it was a night in the springtime of the year,
When the robins were singing a merry roundelay;
And I came home hungry and cold and worn and weary
As I thought of the Springtime I'd never quite meet.
Over by the creek my head was hewn,
Through the grass my feet were shod,
Only in the stars above me I heard
The song of the lark in the gloaming dark.
I turned and looked at the pool,
But just as a curious child
Gazes down on some wondrous pool
And cannot see the wild water
That runs out there from the pool,
I saw a great mountain water
Lifting up to the sky,
And I thought how the clouds went under, over,
Over, under the sky.
Over it all the winds were quiet,
The sun hardly shows to the world
How the sky and the sky stand apart,
Then I am the voice of the lonely hills.
I watch from the rim of the tent,
As I watch from the tent at night,
And I look far out on the valley
And never the sight of the white.
It is only the Leman the Van,
With his face against the stars.
He rides in his white love- pose,
And his form ever and aye,
And the women he shines in the sun
And his voice ever shrill.
I know at last that he is wise;
That he stands like a little child
Or snips from out the ricks,
But has no thought to the good of the hills
With his face in his mirth.
The rain is falling o'er the roof
And the lamps are one by one,
And I must hurry to the door
And bring you my bundle of tools----
(A weeping woman)
Oh, I would bring this bundle of tools----
(The woman)
Held down by the corner before the rain
And I looked at the window and said:
"What a wonderful fall is it
On such a night under the moon!
I can't find the old sweet path again
Under the moon,
Up beneath the sky and back again,
Up above the sky.
"What is the use of looking at you nicely
So carefully in the dust?
Can't somebody turn the lantern upside down
And find me lying there this morn?"
The candle burning with candle smoke
Was all I needed to make my choice.
I am happy not to look about you
As I saw the light of your laughing eyes
Flicker in the moon:
It is the fire that shines between the trees
And the little twisted leaves,
And I laugh aloud at the woodman
Who never a glint in the house.
The little windy windows are dark and bare,
The light on the window
Stops in the moon in the garden,
And the garden paths are wet;
And I cannot find my way through the rain
For it makes an awful hole
In the little windy house.
Black are the windows.
Heaven is like a blue cup.
The blue sky is like the sky.
The garden paths are bare
Of their blossoms;
And I am numb and in my heart
There is no something, only the wet wind
That blows in the window.
I know a town that is ruined.
There are houses growing with flags and trams.
A white wall is a red wall.
Houses with doors wide open.
Blue are the windows.
Blue are the windows.
I am weary of being out there.
I want to go out and wander
Day among day after day.
The moon has lost her
======================================== SAMPLE 773 ========================================

On a frail, struggling pinion.
She had been fair, as she had been
Fair now as she was fair;
For the world had not seen her
Since she went seeking me,
In the spring-time of youth,
When she first came across the sea
And her eyes were sudden brown.
When she met the stranger, she
Patted down her silken hand,
And her love, as it were, was there
But a moment ere she scanned
Her face by the tears that burn;
But the smile in her face, she knew,
Had a meaning deeper than
What the words, alas, reveal;
But the smile in her eyes, she knew,
Was the breath from her heart to her
Who was dying alone in the wave.
"_Do not fear! do not fear!_"
As her arms were clasped in prayer
She would make up his memory
With the sunbeams' soft caressing
Over her heart's sunset burning,
As she gazed from the window high
Where she stood in the windless sky;
And the kiss on her lips, she knew,
Had a meaning deeper than
What the words, alas, reveal;
But her heart was sad to lose her,
For her eyes were blue like the sea.
And a thought in her dark heart died,
And her eyes were dim to see.
And a year went on, and the sea
And the land were good to her.
But what shall a man believe?
Or what fulfil his plan?
For the heavens are above his years,
And the world has naught to do.
"So here's a flower that's blown away,
Where none of Time's shall find it,
A rose that's new cut in the day,
But the rose-leaf of the wind it."
_So here's a word that may be said,
A love word spoken, blown abroad,
And yet that word rings everywhere
And it's O that I am dead!_
_The world is yours till death, and you
Shall know it when an end is won:
But if you will not love me now,
Nor will you know how I am dead._
_What will you say to me?
--That you should ask of us the way,
And I the night would be.
What would you say to me?--
That it should be no good--
A word, a breath, to take
And it should be no ill._
_What would you have me say?
--That I should take no ill
When even this day I say
I have seen the shadow of men that live,
And know they are dead or good._
_What would you have me say?
--That you should take no ill,
For my hands are numb and cold
And my feet go numb and numb._
_Only this: the soul that can
Climb a hill's crown, and can
Find her, and, at her will,
Let her have her lover, too,
And she shall love, and she shall grow--
Yes, I have but this for true._
_Yet this it was;--
You were too young to come,
And there was nothing left,
Love, for my heart was starving--
You were too young to come._
_Well, we went on. But what
Was all this sound and beauty?
That one is not immortal.
He that made music, he
That is the lover, he._
_Well, we went on. But see,
A red rose in the sky
"Why, the white rose is the rose you know,
And God knows why; and _then_
He has not made the rose too fair,
But covers it with men._
_You might be happy, but it is
Better to go back to the dead than to the sick,
Who only ask to die, and you
Will be the death you died._
_When you die you may be happy, then_
_You may be home to your pain again_
_And you may call it fair again,_
_And you may be some happier than when
You've sailed again through seas of wind,_
_But I, though I was but seven weeks,_
_Can be no happier than you,_
_And I am happier than you._
_I am not sorry; I, who have asked
With much regret, asked something of you.
But if you would remember me once
I tell you what you were afraid of me
And what I was no longer, no more could
I tell you what you knew; you wanted me,
And if you would remember me no more--
You will remember and I shall forget.

======================================== SAMPLE 774 ========================================
 on the _Hesperides_ did pass,
And the whole corps came on to celebrate it.
Now the fair morning, the fresh garlands spring
From the warm sunny bowers; the new sun shines
On flowers whose youth had been their only theme,
As 'twere a wakeful world to mirth and wine.
The French came forth! 'midst the quick-jurgling bands
Of soldiers, all the way, by the Saint's Rock,
And others whose high fate had been their own![5.B.]
And they did sing aloud, that they might rally
Upon the valiant Frenchmen, and to join
With their King Liberty, and shout his name,
Now _Mahomet_, now _Dalami_, speak!
Let Heaven be near, nor evermore divide
The faithful lovers of one love-sick maid,
But ever round the virgin-heart be ties
That bind them to her lover in the shade.
One silent night, above the mountain's crest,
A happy arm the kneeling youth might raise
To God, to guide him to the altar's side;
And in the church, beneath the rising sun,
He, to the altar of his heart, did kneel,
And pray in silence; but he, standing there,
Could not forget, for love had made him share
That holy calm he ne'er should see again,
But in the heart, he felt, he could not tell,
That e'en he prayed, and that he heard a breath
Of no man living, but the name of death.
"But why," you ask, "if such a name as mine
Sleeps on some maiden's name, and her, whose fame,
Whom in an honoured household I adorn,
Shows on her lips a fragrance of the world:
"A voice, that fills the heart with strange delight,
Like winds that breathe of flowers in summer airs,
Or of the summer's breath from hill-top-sward
Breathing upon her name, in spring and morn--
"What will my name be?" Thus you'll have said,
And thus you still will tell me what I mean--
A name so noble, but a name so dark,
That on the very mouth of heaven above
Shows there a fonder star than I have held,
Or that, when in the world I'm far from home
The Heavenly promise shall forever be;
And that _the very life_ of all who live
In life's behalf, shall kiss the name of _Ave_.
As the last words, and last--all words most fit
To the full theatre--such happy tears
Came from the holy lips that blessed both,
And said their story to the silent crowd,
While, with a voice as smooth as angels' song,
Mingled with the sweet accents of their love,
The Priest thus spoke, and, with a joyful smile,
Looked on the babes before him; and "See," said he,
"Before your eyes, on this day,--when the world
Shall yet be April,--when the sun of May
Shall yet have set, and all the world's deep joys
Be turned to grief;--behold, you are not here
When I have loved. Behold me! I shall know
Your heart shall quicken when the time is near
For me to say "I was a child;--behold
This child, your last; your last. Love, let it be;
All these will pass; but take me to your breast."
So spoke the Priest, and with him a new prayer
Rose, and the silence deepened (as when floods
Of mingled thunder sear the vaulted skies,
And clouds of smoke curl thickly), and he knelt
And prayed, until the deepness grew more clear;
And all the multitude gazed on him,
With an uncertain joy and sad amaze;
When suddenly with an unearthly look
Some unseen Spirit of Heaven spoke to him:
"Thy will be done! My purpose is to wait
Upon thy teachings; they are gathered now,
In this new day of love." He spoke and rose
And left the altar; and another came
To tell the Priest that in his very self
God had revealed the secret of the secret,
And how that he should keep the secret well,
That the great Father would be saved from pain,
And that His loving Saints should dwell above,
Blessing the Virgin, and in Heaven be blest--
The solemn compact sure, that none should dream
Of evil, where that hour, is yet to come.
The Priest, discerning much the outward sight
He saw in all men's seeing
======================================== SAMPLE 775 ========================================
,
And the _hatera_ _nimio_ seems,
And the _kochasaga_ seems,
But they _might_ be _driven_ to hell,
And the _sham-kochasama_ seems lost.
And the _kochasama_ seems still
In some measure at best;
Only sometimes her very _cachucha_ seems almost to _late_.
And we have a good time, O my little yellow weed,
Like the meadow-sweet clover, and a very pretty _bud_
And the sweetness of clover, and my little dog, my dog!
But he isn't very gay with the green apple-tree;
He's the kindest ever made, for all the world to see,--
_to his_ Senate in England,--I tell _him_
That 'tis _your_ country too, and his own,--to let his own
And he _knows_ you not, my wee _sager dog_!
If you're not proud and should be great,
Gosh! What would become of me?
With a _bemus_ of the good green earth,
All under the sun, my wee _sabar-shack_,
And the bumble-bee and _fumble-bee-bee_!
My _bammin’_ is not yours to choose;
My _bunhayas_ you love;
And _grub_ you a _tussu_, for I choose,
As a good _bunhayas_ do.
With a spool and a salad, oh, _she_ loves me,
Oh, _she_ loves me much, when I think of her!
How _could_ I help but love her? We _had_ hoped
We were _blessed_ for _that_ fair _breath_;
And _if she's_ not _believe_ in me,
She will _believe_--I am _conquered_ to her _believe_!
I _ought_ to _look_ at her with the broad eye,
And her big soft breast, and her cheek where she _knew_
That she could have _her_, and half a _blessing_ I could _own_!
I _had_ hoped _but_ that time would come, and our fair land
Would be white with a sunset, with a sunset and a
cloud,
And far beyond that horizon; _this_ is the land
And the sea, and the mountains and the stars; in the
sky,
While _I_ sail along the horizon, and am glad that I
Have come to see the beauty of _the_ sea,
The proud déshwaiting of the proud, great ships
That come from the Garden of Death, and call
My spirit to itself again in the old streets.
The children know how very few, dear, are
Who know the art of sailing away with the
old ones;
And when they are older, their children, so gayly
in their scorn,
Know how much greater than my own they are
in the sun.
I can remember how, in a good ship, we met
And left each other to wander, oh, so far!
With a sigh she turned away, and said:
"Oh, father, tell me, tell me to find
A shore more beautiful, far more serene,
Far more serene, though my heart may be broken."
And when I said, "Oh, father dear, how strange
It is in the sea, when the storm is over,
That we two are no more at peace with the fair;
And our ship is lost on the rocks at the ocean!
How can we ever forget that it never
Was our first sailor home, his first native shore?
How shall we ever forget he is old?
How can we ever forget that he knew
All the rapt joys of the summer that hung
All over the passionate heart of our boy?
Ah, tell me, tell me, my heart that thou knowest
Thou knowest not in what deep sea is lost
That light, light, happiness, all those sunny
Days, the sweet smiles, that ever bloomed most fair
On the sea-shore, or at thy window sate,
Like a dream presenter, or something past
Which I too surely had not come to show
To one who has been long on the Atlantic wide."
And while I mourned her happy missive, her
Full heart was softened, and so great was hers,
That I, in thinking, was very glad to know
How calm a soul could live in such a state!
======================================== SAMPLE 776 ========================================
.
The second was a very charming one:
The third produced a charming one.
But there! the women will take to the fun,
And run and rant and leap and play,
With wildest laughter, as they leap and dance
And laugh and cry, as they dance and dance.
For women, if they chance to take to the fun,
Are only deemed just for a point,
So, I'll make out my visit to the fun,
And let you see, as I've just now come to town,
You'll find it hot and dry, I fear,
Because it's quite too damp for scorching
An ardent woman; and you've heard it scratch
When you've found out a way to show
A girl, at the same point to go.
So, I will follow her, you see,
And--do me the favor to show!
And I will, too, a girl who came to-day,
Will really be too young to be,--
I'm glad I was not loath to follow her,
And so I'll go and talk to her.
I'll speak to her,--for I can see
She's young and tender, and are gay:
I know her ways, and her soft smile,
And her kind ways, all go away;
A mother's love may fill the place
Of people's notice to the face.
I love her, too, for she's so sweet
And beautiful and gentle, too.
But all that, at the present time,
Her heart I've wished to bear in mind,--
Is that her face, of course, is thine;
It's in its very beauty then
She's as a saint, in that I'm kind.
I've often read, for hours and days,
A picture, "in the evening skies."
I've watched her beam from morn to night;
The clouds hung motionless and tight;
And then a faint, half-wistful light
Passed on the water through the night.
The wind that came from out the south
Was like a pain-like peal of thunder;
And where you stand, I know its mouth
Was black with clouds; and all was wonder.
You see the cloud cross, thin and gray,
And look at its gray-green and crimson;
It may be you are thinking, you say,
Of a girl, for a son of a ninny.
But it may be that you, my child,
Shall have for your advantage keeping
At my home your right entirely,
And it may be you are smiling
Because there is some way left of weeping.
If in my grief I could see the love
That is our own, the thing I wonder
Is the man's right for another lover.
And so as I say, and let her keep
With all my heart what I shall not
For fear she should look another's
As if she pitied me; and--do it!
To put a stop to all, for the world's sake,
Not to wish for her face, not for myself,
But for my future, O the world's end!
It's a long way out to the sea,
And the sea's a-moaning;
But it's mighty, mighty sea,
And the sea's a-moaning.
"Oh!" say the winds, "there is no living thing,
That's ever heard of in the blue;
And whenever the wind is giving low
I hear it in the hollows,--_you_ or _he_!
And the rocks are rent asunder,--_mine!_"
But, see, 'tis May, and Summer comes--
(Perhaps it's sweeter for her!)
You saw the wind blow roses out
From the tall locusts swinging there.
And your hair,--away, but, "You're half mad!"
Went sobbing down the wind for fear
That it might blow upon your ear.
And you must never look aside,
For the wind blows cold and hard;
But, "_Whisper!_" to the wind that sighs,
"_The wind is God's and the wind is God's,--
And the sea is God's and the wind is God's!_"
"Now I can hear you," said the wind,
"And your voice is loud and free;
Oh! I can sing to the wind and rain,
And I can sing to the sea."
And in the heart of every man
There went a foolish thing to be,
And he said he would listen again,
And lie down to his work and sing--
The sea will never stir a wing
Out o'er a fisher
======================================== SAMPLE 777 ========================================
 to make
Their _tomb_ a feast of _grace_ and _glory_;
A feast of _burthen_ and of _pleasure_;
And then, they say, a _comparer_ is a _sly_ life.
'Tis true, in smoke and flame there's nothing new.
But this I know, _that till to-morrow_
We'll go and put our fears away.
And now we'll go and put our fears away.
There's neither _tomb nor anything to prove_,
But everything that's beautiful within.
So farewell, friend; come, let us roam
As wanderers seeking for the home,
So _happily_.
_Long ago_ we wandered far and wide,
We knew not whence we came,
Our hearts were full as they could be,
And yet, that night, we sighed for _Troy_,
But we were full of _Troy_.
_How our troubles_ seemed too wide,
So _dark_, so _dark_ they were!
The _tomb_ of _Dryden_, _low_ and slow,
But we could see it there.
And there by that cold cottage door--
What do men see but this?--
_I shall ne'er see it_, _nor before_.
Nay, nay, but it was _our_ turn
To _that_ home, _in the old land,
_And that long since we've looked for it_.
The _tomb_ it was with many a stone--
A marsh and _waterweed_,
And I could tell it but the minute
_We used to water it_.
The _tomb_ it was to make a garden and a bed
For a young bird to rest on, for the rest to see.
_You know how soon it will be over in a week_,
_But our _stay there_, friend: _this_ is our _salary_.
And this is what has made us _happy_ in a week.
I _often think_, _to-night_, _and then, friend,
_That, _so_, _we must come to the_ inn-lighted_
_And we'll soon be out and _out_,--and _out_!
Then, there's _some friend_, of course, one day,
To say what _he_ did _see_.
But he spoke, and I heard his heart beat,
And I saw his eyes flash, too,
And his words run cold as they were when
They were _out_,--like water through the china
In the very first act of our spree.
I was standing in the parlor now
With the curtains drawn pulled down,--
With my face turned to _him_, as I know
Some one's _out_,--and was down;
And some _entertained_ me,--well, _and fast_,--
For my heart was going to beat.
There's _some_--some _all_ of them left--
And I know they're only pegs;
And I saw his waistcoat, too, just past
The edge of _him_,--for _him_!
I sat to watch my _uncle kiss the glass_,
But _that's_ done with the other fists:
And _he_ took the _treasure_ where he'd _felt_,
And _had_ so much when he _puts up_!
And the _other_ howling kept him going
_Backward_,--to _the_ court-house, then,
As the devil had _slunk_ him there,
Sucking that face of his men!
And that is why I'm _caught_ at last,
After such a terrible hunt.
I'm very ill now. Yes,--but why
Should I run up the _way_?
It's _almost_ the longest way, in short;
_Now_, _now_, and _now_, too.
I _play_ the game--the _break_,--and _then_--
I am _under_ watch, indeed,
For _there's_ such a _break_!--
And, _how_ tired to hear it all,
It _then_ was the Tacks of lead,--
I thought I should only _play_!
But _he's_ only _only _play_!
And--you know--it's _again_!
And you'll think of poor _old_ Mademoiselle,
And ask Mr. _James_, if you please,

======================================== SAMPLE 778 ========================================
, William I.
The world of life is full of bliss
With sweet fruition only this;
The world of life for aye is this,
And aye the joy thereof is this.
O fairest of the flowery May,
Thy beauties well can make mine eyes
More glistening than the summer's gold
Or redder flames that from the sea
Of old romance the winds unfy,
Thy charms by sound or sight can tell,--
O Muse in bombaze delectable!
Thy power can make the waters dance
More subtly with the wind that lays
The waves of ocean in its sheave
And toss those sea-green shadows in
The foam-blurched maelstrom of the sea!
O beautiful Youth, and O thou bright
Ambassador of heaven and earth,
Thou with the grace of God and light;--
Thou with the music of the sea,
And all that in thy bosom lies,
And all that lives in thee and thine!
Thou, in thy hand the lightning plays
With all its fires of emerald light;
The little drops that dance to-day
Shine as the snow-drops, or the dew
That fleck the morning's rosy wreath!
Thou, in thy cheek the rosebuds red,
With all their bloom the rose doth change;
And sweetest music yet to me
Is music as the singing sea.
The sun of the world is the sun of thee;
I am the sun of thy kiss; and his kiss
Can never restore till the morning's star
In the heavens is shining afar and fair
And the sea is brimming its crystal sea
With a thousand rivers of sunny gold,
And the sky is blue and the sea is blue,
And the air is bluer than the sky of thee!
My love is a knight of high degree,
Whose blade is a knight indeed;
His shield is a sword of the purest gold,
And the knight is a falcon's bead.
His hand is as white as the summer even,
His steed as white as the snowdrop,
His armour a galleon of ruddy hue,
And his bow has the eagle's bone.
And his shield is of crystal bright,
His bow, as white as the moone;
And his side is a bridle of jasper light,
With the fire-fly wreathed around.
And his side is the white-fleece of the sea,
With the horse in its mard, which he
Traversed, the sea-hags he rode along,
And laughed as the mermaid rode by.
He rode till it were nightfall, and the sun
Grew weary of his way,
And he rode till it were noon,
And he said to himself, "I have fain gone down
To my own green hall, and I would go
And bring the guests to me.
And I pray the Lord to bless your heart
With the sign that it shall be seen,
When my love and the king so far apart
You shall behold in an hour like this
The flower of my love that is queen."
And he said to his own sweet heart,
"I have borne of kings a full cup;
'Tis the sign of a king to bless my heart;
I will follow my love with the force
Of the seal that will hold me fast,
And he shall offer a man of earth
As his subjects, and be my last.
And I will raise a crown between my brows,
And my head shall be crowned with its gem;
And I shall look on my own good deeds,
And my true right arm will lay at his feet
The sign that shall be made of a king."
Then he spoke to his own sweet Heart,
"Oh, thou hast left me free from care;
Though thy deep love doth love me far,
I do not fear at all to move thee,
For though my love doth walk with me
It is a king that is so fair."
He turned for a time, and he rose and went
As the long hours of the day,
But ever he went at even west
With the sunset and the grey.
And the last of the burn, on the fire red
Rode the last of the show,--
Rode the grey, grey morning and the sun
From the end of the south;
And he said, "I am old and grey and sick,
And my hair is shrunk and black;
Yet I will arise and walk with love
And walk beneath a cloud."
"And I have a kingdom now to seek,
A kingdom of my own,
To which I will
======================================== SAMPLE 779 ========================================
, is very
_Poetry_, a "certain proof of that splendid kind of pleasure."
"And you?"
"You're a poet, sir!"
"Be still, you poor old thing!"
"_I_ was a little lad, and hadn't heard the words of that same
A great big man all tattered and torn,
Who looked at me, and said he was lost;
I can't believe the words he said.
"Well, don't you think I want to go
To this beautiful country up here?"
"Oh, yes, I can't--no, I ain't a boy!
If I don't go here, why, there is only one place for joy!"
He came down the hall at the music-roll,
His face all touched with the glow and spark,
And his voice all merrily rang
With a joy as deep as a sweetheart's heart,
He never paused to listen and think,
He'd never once thought of it,
But he gave him a kiss
With the kind of soft look
He used in his childhood to see this boy--
"Oh, don't you think I'm all right?"
"That's right, my own sweetheart!
I can't do what you mean by that.
I can't even get what you mean by day.
But I can be always afraid of loneliness, and that is all.
The little boy came to me
And said, "Oh, isn't he?"
I couldn't hardly tell.
He looked at me and smiled;
But his face is far from that soft-curled thing,
And that look of something beyond the law
That made me think of his father's love--
Oh, how I'm a lad, and my own.
There was no part in his life
With his dear little brother,
He always seemed so good, so kind,
And I never knew he was all for me.
Oh, I don't believe he was all for me.
I don't believe in the warm wide light
That dimples in the window and makes bright
The old worn study of the old school books.
I can't forget that he was always me.
Oh, yes, I can--and I'm still the same.
I can't forget the joys he used to share
With him, and his his letters from to-day--
Oh, he's my boy, and I'm his man.
There are sweet flowers growing to
Their wonderful increase!
And the dear little place
Where I used to spend my day
Is now the dear, old home.
I can not see it now!
There are wild roses growing to
Their wonderful increase.
A little child came up and shook
His head and called me "Mother."
And now my heart's asleep!
So still and peaceful lie
The roses, white and red,
Unwaning and untenanted.
Oh, the world's life is a lie,
With its sorrows and its cares!
Oh, the endless paths and the chasms,
Lit by one and forgot!
Oh, the terrible dreams that crossed
My heart, and left me not!
Oh, the longing that was hurled
From the dear lips of my love!
Oh, the joy that was so quick
In life's bewildering way!
Oh, the weary, weary longing
For what was all so gay!
Oh, the endless dream and sorrow
That were so sweet and sweet!
But to-day was all too short,
And my poor heart was ill.
How long I looked for the place and the hour
In which to hold you stood with me,
A mother who was never strong
Or tender was to bear for you.
For the long nights you watched with me,
And you never stirred or stirred.
You must sleep with me, and then I know
That mother has given you to know
How far, how far your mother is,
My little angel, and my angel,
The dear dear angel, and my angel,
The dear dear angel the baby.
There are more beautiful nights than these;
Sweeter and more transcendent hours.
There are more beautiful nights than these;
Larger and truer than sunlit seas.
There are more beautiful nights than these;
Finer and truer than sunlit seas.
But there's no light, at least, in the world,
But a light that is pure and strong,
That can never be changed nor curled
And that shall endure forever forever,
And that shall endure forever,--
For that shall endure forever,
Whose eyes have seen time, and are blind.
I have sat with the great glad earth,
Deep in the depths I shall not know
======================================== SAMPLE 780 ========================================
, and the other six.
But see the wretched one!
Alcestis, like the setting sun,
Is sinking fast away:
Only an earth of weeping see,
And pity all the day.
When the golden light is round you shed,
And the dead sun casts shade around,
Then, all you Dead, how shall I say
The last good-night, and the better, pray?
Oh, how shall I the weeping part,
That thought can bring so true a heart--
The weeping season's nearness o'er?
Or how the gilded fly shall soar
To some moon-fringed and brooding sky,
And leave behind a darker eye,
A truth to be our memory,
And hope to give to life again,
And give our hearts, in dying, pain.
What ails you? Are you come again,
The day of your dying eyes,--
Where the sun shines? Is the spring-time then
Still wet with our tears of yore,
And the roses still bloom in the garden,
And the green grasses now scent the brine,
Whose tints ere they fade as they perish?
When 'mid the wild blossoms of May
You were the sweet sun,--
Why not go to the grave, till the end,
Ere the winter-time pass?
Oh 'tis I loved you so,
You were so dear to me;
That when we go alone,
The world shall see its dead,
And hear, at morn, your own
Once more, by night and day,
The sound of your cheerful voice
Once more, in the busy street;
And then, ere we pass, your choice
Is made of our broken feet.
We have been with our tears and sighs,
Whatever joy we may have had;
And now we shall walk in Paradise,
Where Heaven has sent you a kindly deed.
The good seed shall behold
The good seed shall be mine;
Shall I a better seed unfold,
And plant it in your heavenly seed?
Shall I plant it in your seed,
Whose seed shall be?
That seed shall all increase,
Your very tend shall flourish fair,
And all things shall be good
In my loving Child.
As you may see by day,
When a pleasant day is made,
When the earth shall be gay
With gems and peacocks by the sun,
And the birds about you twine,
And all shall sing and say,
When the earth is glad for you
And the air is glad for you,
And the sun hath joy for you,
The birds shall sing and the birds shall sing,
And all this green earth shall gird
With its flowers of golden light,
And all the grass in the meadow bright,
Shall be glad as with his blood,
And all the trees on the mountain's height,
Shall wear as with a garland white
The grace of your blest sight.
When you were gone, my love,
That time made all things new,
This world, my love, were more to me
Than all the world to you.
Dear is the breath of morn,
The dewy fields are gay,
She comes with laughter light
And laughter light to play.
She comes with gladness, grace,
To wander through the place,
And hide her little form
Under her trailing veil.
She touches, every morn,
Her tender, golden hair,
With all the dewy morn,
With all the dewy night,
With all the midnight air,
She comes without a thought
And brings my love no less
Than aught to make her sweet,
And scent the breath of your
Thin robe of flowers, my dear.
Dear is the breath of morn,
The dewy fields are gay,
She comes with sighs, and tears,
With winds, and clouds, away,
She brings no memory
Of flowers she lost for me,
Of hope that must not be,
And all the earth's dismay
That brought our love to you.
When now she comes to gather grass,
And pick wild-roses out,
She will find all the barren fields,
And all the corn in strips,
And all the bright gold-crowded roads,
And all the corn that fills
The ears of the barley lands,
She brings no memory
Of anything that can
Come back to bless my love
And keep your heart unspent,
And be my love content
With this little yellow ball
For your own lovely breast.
This little yellow ball
You gave me, and I keep
A little garden-wall,
And a
======================================== SAMPLE 781 ========================================
,
"And of her Lord I know not one,
And of that Faith and of her Light,
And of her Spirit all the Spume
That burns in your eternal place.
"But I--unto myself and mine--
That in sweet harmony combine,
Such glory on her face, so fair,
Ere in my speech her soul would rise;
"That beauty in her eyes, so clear,
Such beauty in her breasts, so mild,
Gave forth such sweetness and such grace,
Of all the charms to be compar'd
Around the sinful world are brought.
"So much from every creature's worth,
So much more from my Lord I praise
For her perfection and my mirth;
And make a child of that good clay,
Which she, by him, would soon o'ergo,
In peace and in delight to play,
And in her bliss renew his way.
"And this, though pure and fair to see,
Is most desirable to see;
Nor yet unto her Lord I give
Aught out, and bid it, as would live
Whate'er it did, to live and die,
But that which here is, worthily,
To that good clay, wherein she dwells,
She would with joy his image view,
Rather than him by this be hid,
Or that where I would know my sin."
Thus saying, in his bosom burn'd
The image of his utterance,
Whereby the light of her fair face
Through all the sinful world was strayed,
And thence was made a shape of shade.
And as the sun renews his wonted grace,
The lady, ere she knew her danger,
With radiant eyes, and ruby lips,
Did look, and that fair lady smil'd,
And so gainst heaven a face of glass,
And in her looks, and in her eies,
Sweet, happy, wonder unto these:
And as in the dear Virgin's sight
Did wax and wane, and slowly grew,
Yet nothing of such joy renew'd,
As did her looks, and thoughts, that glo'
With love did mix, and kindled new,
As the sun waxes, and changeth side
To day, ere yet the freshly tide
Of the cold East has drench'd the sun:
Such was my nature, and such I was;
For all that day, and all that night,
My heart with double ardour lay
To win the love I long had won.
And in her looks, so sweet and mild,
So full of pure, so sweet a love
I could not think, though more I strove,
And in her voice, so soft and clear,
I could not think that it was she.
Thus then, and therewithal so fraught,
I in her looks, that made me move
Towards Heaven, that all things new and strange
Did lend herself and her love-craft;
And as the sun does burn and range,
My heart, in her, did make itself change
To that which was with Heaven belov'd,
And on her face so great a charm,
As 't was the sunshine took from all
The new-born light of sudden Joy;
And all the while, from her fair face,
Yielding to Heaven and Heaven and Hell,
That loveliest light, that lovest well
All things, save God alone, that shone
Betwixt the sun and moonlight pale.
And as upon mine own doth Beauty lie
Soft as an infant's face, and yet not wise
But as some dainty plant doth grow more fair
When from close fetters it doth cull the air;
So she, all beauty lighting on me, came,
Mindful of that great shade wherein I was
Of that bright me, which never can die out:
I look'd where all the living light did mix,
There did she find a way, there I, there I,
In the bright garden where all flowers do grow.
And all about her flowers sprang up and grew,
And there, where she did grow, did bud and blossom
And there, where all the fruit did shrink and dwindle,
She took the strong bare joys, and all the beauty,
And all the great sweet thoughts that did illume her
(Like fire, wherethrough all others lively glowed),
All made life bloomier, and all hearts new-blooms.
Then one there was, who look'd upon me long
(Like fire of some desire the world doth move)
And said: "I love thee; do thy sweet good will;
Thus shall thou glory in me, seeing how
Thou
======================================== SAMPLE 782 ========================================
,
You had the things to eat that day.
It's all a bore, but I'm afraid.
You can't come out of that.  My wife,
Your taste is much like what you say.
And so it is, my little children,
I've got my dinner, you'll agree,
And all the time I'm dressed in fur
To see old things like me and you.
The wind blows chill; my little ones
Will think of what they say to me.
They can't say nothing, I'm afraid.
They know they know I'm sitting sound,
On top of me up there in the sky.
They tell me that all vanished quick,
And that I'm going into the dark.
There's not a hand, nor a foot, but carries
A million faces into my room.
How should I know that I could see them
As they stand there and beckon me?
And when they get there, I will stand
And see them, holding out to me
The pictures they tell me of children
And how I love them and how to please.
The wind has shifted very heavy,
I'll go and see them at my door.
But I will stay and not go longer
Till sunset brings the luscious flowers,
And I will come out here and talk
The magic of childhood with them.
Then I have a little shadow
That goes and sees all along my way,
And keeps looking at the window
Until I drop down into bed.
When I go back to bed
I'm always hungry and can't sleep.
But I am so hungry and can't stay
While I'm quite sleepy or awake.
I'll eat up things I like to least,
And then I know that I'm not tired.
It's a long way from here.  I'll stop
To take a little trip on a little trip;
I'll hurry to town and buy a nice house
Of a big, big, big, big, big, big.
But though I'm fast asleep, and wake I can't
Whoop it for nine.
My mother is a cunning little girl
With a soft, bright, blue-eyed face,
And she can do no better than dance with me
Till I've learned to look and listen.
The little girl who always danced away
And my days with glee were over,
And my mother, too, played willingly,
And said she'd try to conquer lover
For a boy,
She said they would be all too tender,
And I'll be all too slender.
And I will throw aside all heavy care
And worry to get some stronger.
I'll climb by the bed with a wooden jump,
But I cannot stop holding.
Oh, the world will have its way with me
While I am running after.
I'm sorry I am not fit to play,
For it's hard to have some other
That I do not like the one I love,
With all the love of mother.
Oh, I'm sorry mothers should go blind,
And that's why I'm so sad;
For they haven't any fun at all,
And they haven't any hunger.
And the sun on a little hill
Is a trifle queer;
But my sister 'twas a very fine,
Her hair is bright and thick.
Though I go to market every day,
Yet my dinner I still take,
And my mother keeps me by the eye
With a little coat of fur;
I never take with bird or beast
Such magnificent delight;
And my sister sometimes comes with me
Through the cool, bright streets of night.
I can't remember growing up
When my hair is old and gray;
For though I'm a girl and twenty-five,
I love my girl to-day.
How beautiful is she,
How fresh she seems to be.
Her eyes are full of light,
And she is breathing love;
Her head is crowned with stars,
And her eyes are full of love.
With whitest, speaking hues,
I've seen her many times.
I feel my heart beats fast,
But, oh, she never comes.
I'm anxious, tired, and lonely too;
So I have seen her many times.
Her cheeks are like the rose,
And every shadow falls
Upon that path I have loved so long;
Her lips are black and sweet,
And I have passed my kiss.
Oh, how the blessed saints keep even to the last repose!
With lips as red as dew, as white as flakes of snow,
And eyes as deep and blue as heaven's own blue,
She sits by me and asks: "Oh, what is this?"--
"
======================================== SAMPLE 783 ========================================
 of water,
Larger-jointed, washed and stowed them in robes of the old
But if you would believe that your life was a thousand miles
From the city by the lake
I would further you, for my art
But there is a road to the west, where the land is a rough-bit
the way,
And where it is nought else but a hill, where the rocks
are the frowning snags,
And a river of water with its fathomless water-edge never wet
to the beat;
I would further you, for my art
But there's a way to the west, where the rocks are the
tormented thistles and the rocks,
And where we go in our journey
There is no place but a hill
And there is a hill as grand as a hill and a steep
But I am too young to come to you, friend, and we must get
together.
As I was going up in the early spring
A river flowed from mouth to mouth
And the birds were all singing, the while
The flowers were blossoming.
The river is rippling along in the river
And the stars are on the thrones of the mountains.
The world is a garden that's fair to see,
And what would the day betide?
The world is the palace that's fair to see,
And the world is a garden wide.
The earth is beauty and joy, and so
'Tis my heart that makes it gay.
It is my heart that makes the time
But my heart is too gay to dwell.
What has been, is now, is now,
But my soul is too full of pain.
But I am too weary to think at last
That I am loath to lose the day.
I can tell what in the spring I shall hear,
How I wish--but I am not well--
What the birds say to the birds,
What the birds say to the flowers,
How they answer each to each,
With the song and the sound of the reeds,
And the spring and the summer and spring
In the heart of the spring.
They speak of the days when I lived in glory
And the grass on the ground;
Of the green of the meadows and flowers,
Of the grass when the trees made green
And the fountains and the groves where streams were running
And the way that all things lead
To the garden of the meadows, the place where the stars are
spread.
There are many other sights in Nature walking
Where the sun spreads down his mantle red.
There are many other sounds with which I listened
Listening to the song of the bird or the wind,
But they give me no more than the breath of my nostrils,
They say, they give me no more than the voice of the wind.
They say, they give me no more than a voice of the flowers
And the music of the birds as they wander along,
But I am content to stay
Where they make music,
And the sun smiles on me in mist,
And the flowers of the fields grow on me,
And the birds sing in my heart, so my heart
Taught you to go back, to live in song, to return,
To hear your voice, your praise, your story, your praise.
There are many other sights in Nature walking
Where the sun swells southward, and the birds sing in my heart,
But I am content to stay
Where the birds sing in my heart, and the winds sing in my soul,
And the voices of the streams sing in my soul.
There are many other shapes in Nature walking
With their music-mysteries and their spell;
There are many other names in my soul walking
That will run and will run and will yell:
And the birds sing in my heart, and the winds sing in my soul,
And the music of the trees sings in my soul.
There are many other shapes in the Nature walking
With their music-mysters and their spell;
There are many other names in the Nature walking
I can hear, and my heart hears the call of my heart,
And I know that I shall never forget the place
Where the things come to be and go.
My thoughts run as I list,
Till they call me the poet, and answer the question shall be:
Then shall I say,
"The world is full of gall,
But my songs have no place,
Though they hurry and spring
Like a child to the wing,
Like a wind through the spring,
Like a leaf in the spring,
Like a voice in the spring,
As a reed in the spring,
Like a leaf in the spring,
As a wind in the
======================================== SAMPLE 784 ========================================
, iii. 3;
"I love thee not as thou shalt be,
But as thou lovest, I am thine;
The love thou keepest such entire,
That it shall be, and be, and mine."
--Songs of this day are sung by me, which are beginning of
_ababbcbc_, when printed.
Cherubim de' Pazzi
Gazette, cuchique cù d'Asin, cuchulle,
D'Aquos où d'autre verse, ça la chorle
Dans un verschrip a la femme de l'as terse.
Mais cuchulle, cuchulle ma chambre,
Dans un dieu souff à vivre,
Dans un grenier mait-la-che.
Il regardais es yeux c'est enfant,
Il regardais es yeux c'est en foule,
Il regardais es yeux c'est en sant,
Whenas ye begunn, ne s'er l'ombre
Dido non l'asquino restat;
Phile, o alte, o fleche solle,
De resta entre amis,
Quand lauro d'asquino restat,
Quand lauro cuchulle ma chête.
Ils mekill consy connaeller,
Quand là-bas, son d'un souffle
De l'asquino restat à la chanson.
C'est en fait-la là, c'est en fait-la braste--
Cuchulle, à ses yeux c'est en fait-la ni dit-là;
Cuchulle, à ses yeux c'est en fait-la frise vite,
Cuchulle, ses yeux c'est en fait-la-che.
As a thief stets his dog on the neck of his neck, siquet
Et cuchulle, cuchulle, cuchulle;
So a thief cuchulle, cuchulle, cuchulle, cuchulle,
Cuchulle, cuchulle, cuchulle.
O cuchulle, cuchulle, cuchulle! Cuchulle is soue, cuchulle,
Cuchulle, cuchulle, cuchulle, cuchulle;
O cuchulle, cuchulle, cuchulle!
Aucune crew dit a'i qui moi Dame Am'ryant:
Cuchulle, à velle, cuchulle;
Cuchulle, avec sai qu'on fait Mars thunderant:
Cuchulle, chile, avec sai qu'on fait Mars thunderant.
Par sais, cuchulle, a cuchulle
Cuchulle, a la peine, a pri au doule
Cuchulle, a cuchulle, a pri au doule dit cloule.
Par sais, a pri au fond du saint l'amourant;
Cuchulle, cuchulle, cuchulle;
Cuchulle, a puddle dit au doule dit au fond du peau de
cuchulle.
Cuchulle, cuchulle, a cuchulle, a cuchulle, a gille, a mon pue
cuchulle;
Cuchulle, a s'atis, a cuchulle, a cuchulle,
In tems Vittes vers la terre au su source.
Cuchulle, a s'atis, a cuchulle, a cuchulle,
In des dittes vers la terre au fond du saint de Ma
Vivant la tie, a puison le fait des femmes d'es yeux
de toutons.
Cuchulle, a s'atis, a cuchulle, a cuchulle,
In des dittes vers la terre au fond du saint, cuchulle,
A dittes brotage la même où s'est-ême, n'insistons d'amour
Aux enfin, au vent de votre es littérature étrasse.
Cuchulle, a cuchul
======================================== SAMPLE 785 ========================================
 my words
In the last days of life.
My mother was never such happy man
As when she was a little boy,--
With his red waxen teeth
And his blue eyes,
So clear and bright
That with love his mouth
Is tickled and tickled with joy.
Just to think
Upon sunny days
When in the heart
My boy sat with me
In our cottage door
With him we sat down
To watch the waves
That rolled toward the shore,
And the little birds
All marvelled at the fairies
In the white of the grass.
And the birdies--
The birds asleep--
Sang all night
Their best song
In the red of the grass.
And the sun rose--
All earthiness
With a sudden gladness
And love of the flower;
And we rose
For the love of the sun.
Oh, the sea was a-turning
In the blue, blue sky,
And the brown-bright sand,
And the moon-mist
Was a-glistening from the land!
It was as I looked at the silver-green,
The brown-bright sand,
And the stars like a shining levin
Were glistening in the land.
The brown-bright sand,
So blue and brown
Was smooth as a pebble and goldenly shimmering.
The brown-bright sand,
And the bright-bright sand,
Were all of a beautiful wonder, I ween,
Thronging on the sand,--
And we stood
Where the edge of the sand
Was parted and kissed like a madman's hand.
The brown-bright sand,
And the stars so bright,
And they who watched us in moonshine
Were as glad as a queen,
With her lips like a blossoming cherry,
And her body like flame,
And her soul, as a rose of the dew,--
All of earth--
All of heaven and flame!
Three women sat by the sand,
And they held a convoy dear;
Oh, three men were born, and I said unto them,
"I am to live, and I will live."
They said to the priests, "We be soldiers,
At sunrise, at sunset, and go to the war,
Come, lean on us, for we too have a kingdom
We have a day, and we will have war."
Then the first man said, "Our hearts have a day,
We have a day for ourselves and for you,
And we will die, and we will have war."
Then the first man said, "We have no land
We have a day for ourselves and for you,
And we will die, and we will have war."
Three women sat by the sand
Where the wind blows over the bay,
And I said "There is but one land
That I could not make another day."
Then the first man said, "It is hell,
And hell is the best land that I know;
But he that rises must fall."
For his throne was built in the desert sand,
And his house in the desert wide,
And the hills of the ocean are red with blood
And his word was the burning tide.
Three women sat by the sand
Where the tide flows over the bay,
And I said, "There is but one land
That I could not make another day."
Then the first man cried, "Where have you been
And what do you want with me?"
"And what do you want with me?"
But the first man cried, "Where have you been
That you asked with me?"
"I am in the outer court," he said,
"And I am in the outer court."
"I am in the outer court,
And I am in the outer court."
"Do you want my house?" the eldest said,
"When I was a little boy."
"But I want my house," the second said;
"And there is no one there."
"But I want no one, boy," the youngest said,
"I have seen the day before."
"But they have not built their house
With doors all out of place," I said.
"But some are built of stones," he said,
"And some are made of lead."
They said to him, "It is hell,
But there is no one there."
"There have been many in my house," he said,
"And thieves are walking with the key;
And I want no one, but only one,
And the heart of me comes to thee."
Then the second man cried, "It is hell,
But there is no one there."
"But I want no one,
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 it in a book;
The world, with all its faults and ways,
Finds something worth both what it says.
_I_ know that the poet, the fool,
By having such a flower-legend,
Hath struck down a thorough itch
And turned the price of the "good land,"
To a thousand pieces of that sort.
'Tis well to say, some poets best
Write verse into a certain letter
Because they are so rich and best
_I_ write, because in the same style:
I think that I shall surely gain
The gold in the time of the year
If he gets killed by the old saw
It was for him he loved to fight
If he went seeking the young knight
Who killed the "old knight in the night."
The first poem that I ever read three times,
(Or three times out of mind),
Is the way that the poet hath spoken--
What say you to him, if he's scared or misled?
He's a friend of the friend of the friend of the friend
But his fear is the depth of the friend of the friend.
_I_ know of no friend in the world to the end
But a letter to him, to him and to her,
From the heart of the woman towards her end,
From the heart of the woman toward him dear,
For it said to him that she was her true lover,
She told him a lie at the time of the day,
That she was his own,--of the man from the friend.
The last poet's touch is of a higher rank
Than the love of the friend on the lips of a hound,
And all who heard this way,
In the heart of the man, shall die,--
The word in the ear of the man.
_In his hand the letter, the firelight, the sun,
And his grey eyes,--the garden-marshine
And the scent of the flowers,--
These things he knew, these things he dared not ask,
For the hunger of love that he felt so much,
And the thirst for truth
That made them men;
And he lived and died for their honour and youth--
_Yet this was the end of the poet, for truth
Was his first-born, this thing he could not seek;
And all for the sake
Of the love of truth
That made him weak;
And the love of truth,
And a dream that shall make him strong and meek
For all men's love and all men's hate and wrong:
For it must be sweet,--
This thing he knew,
This thing he knew--
And his last breath caught her, and his eyes took hold
Of her soul in his, ... and the last rose of gold
Fell back in the flame
With a thrill of delight
As the heart of the night;
And his own lips caught
The word that was all his own soul told ...
_He_ was aware
Of the face that had flushed his hair,
As she breathed: and the hand
That held her hand;
And the lips that fed
From the heart that was fain of her name,
And the lips that fed
For his living breath;
And the eyes that fed
On his dead, warm life with her face,
And her heart in him
And her heart in his heart at his heart--
All these things he knew,
And her soul in him.
_I_ think that a man should come to his side
With a heart that is old, with a soul that was cold,
And the cold of the chill
And the chill of the mould;
That a man should stand
With a face of a man from a place of the grave,
And the way that he would
To the ends of the earth, through the climbing gloom,
And the way that he would,
And the way that he would.
_I_ think that a man should come to his end
With a word or fame, with a love or a kiss,
And he shall not die
Because woman's fame
Is his own, and why
He should stand and sigh
Because of woman's love in the living world,
Though her smile should stay
With a flame for a day.
_I_ think that a man should come to his end
As the flower to the flower in the garden of death,
And the way that he would
To the life that he would;
That a man should come
To his end, and go
Loathing for her sake.
_In his hand the letter, the firelight, the sun,
Came and went to the face of the man who had prayed;
Till it seemed a face
That was all that he
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 that he makes a _ stumble_
With all his power to save his own.
The doctor he has always had
A practice of healing for his lot;
But, even for all this he sometimes
Has lost his temper and his skill.
There is a cure for any ill
No doubt, for if a man should die
He needs must lose his balance still.
For he is rich what he can spare
If he goes to the world, a rich man there.
A doctor of physic has to wife
The patient for the whole of life;
He has for guardian and whole wealth,
An hospital that is not to be had,
The patients still are at his loom,
With hands that lean upon his breast,
He has his art, but this is not,
He wants to cure the sick and move him to:
When they all walk in the road to town,
The doctor is a gentleman;
He has a gentleman, I know,
That lives by himself and not his own.
No, no, my heart, that doctor's art,
That will not cure a single heart;
The whole will yet prove _not_ to thee,
And _not_ to thee.
Away with melancholy, go,
Or bid a friend farewell;
It is the evening, I suppose,
When the dead man says farewell.
If I should die into the grave,
And you should walk with me,
You would be a charming friend
To bid all virtues from you blast;
You are the friend of every ill,
I think my end's at rest.
O, I do say it in full fair,
But I shall die before the end;
The way you ride in to the grave
Is the end of every friend.
Why should you rack my heart with fears
That nothing quickens in my nearness,
Unless one pityably calm
Smiles on the wounds that wound me sorely?
Why should it not seem even pain
To yield in your behalf?
The man was not untrue to you,
Nor did he seem to me so true;
So now, O, let my heart lie dead,
I will but hold it in my stead,
And wish you all good speed.
If you should die before the dawn
A sudden fever spread its power;
And if we live at all in the grave
You are the friend of every hour.
If you should die before the night
The day would be as bright;
So will the day of your desire
Be a day for your delight.
If you should die before the cock
Would call out for a victim cock,
Then might your friend's eye gaze on you
At Death, and ask, "What is it?"
I cannot hear from your great loss
Your story. I am faint with grief,
And long for this. Thy latest breath
Is, somewhere, like a funeral knell,
When the poor dead are gone to heaven.
And this the sum of such a prayer:
I will be great, and small, and small,
And large enough to serve you all
In that dear world of ours.
Look upward to the city and sea,
And cast your eyes that they are old;
Oh, give me your hand to put my heart
Up with a will most fit to hold,
That never has been touched with grief
Before it's all too late to start.
The day's returning, but it's dark;
The time's not yet: let be! or bark.
One more good-bye, and sink the crowd.
The next 'll be the journey to the sea.
Your hand it is no stranger-mark
To any living eye;
The hour, which I have looked upon
Has not yet taken nigh.
And, oh, the journey, I'll be sure,
If that ye will, but small, and small,
My heart, my hand, shall bruise it any more,
And it will then be lying on the floor.
And, oh, my heart! ye cannot know
The hour is not yet gone;
The time has not yet come, the time has not come;
It hurts it sore to know
That we were playing alone.
Now, there's another day in the dark,
And that's the other way;
And there's its light-beer given us by a friend
By the good old-fashioned way:
To live on hope, and trust on honor, too,
I'll teach you how to pray.
I am sure that there shall come a day
Like a day without a close;
And the end's not yet, nor the shining day,
Nor the dead man, nor the living snows.
And yet I will turn, and will keep my heart
A
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 that we may
In the coming of Christ when he comes to us;
But these are now the only hope and trust:
The soul that is God is master of all things."
So we heard this, and now the sound came back,
And I grew faint and dizzy with the wonder,
For, lifting up a shout, "A glory!"
I said to God, "This is the Judgment!"
But my own self, with all the rest, said, "This is
the true life of the world."
So I broke the song
And we stood up and shouted and rejoiced together
In a little spot in the churchyard, green-briar,
And the steeple bells rang out so merrily
We scarce could follow the march of the chorus,
For we heard the "Glory of God," and the triumph
Of the great Triune, and the song that followed
From the hills of Santa Jo, while the valley
Grew dark and dizzy with the souls about it,
And the shadows grew to a misty grayness,
And we heard no more the music of the people.
But ere that music faded and died out,
Lo! we heard again the chorus of death.
O'er the grave of the martyrs and martyrs
The voice of the people flowed,
Singing a little song of labor
And a triumph of the past, with a trumpet
That rang across the world,
And in a mystic voice of marvel
We answered and sang the hymn,
And the song of an answering angel
Rose like the anthem of a people,
And swept along the skies,
But with the rising of the people,
A chorus never dies.
A century has rolled its ages back,
Its mighty generations run
Like the old engines in the iron walls
Of Time; and generations rise
About them or forget,
And generations, born to labor, die,
And labour in the womb of time;
And some of them are born, and some are born,
And some, with blood and tears,
And this is the great world's heritage,
The grave of the good and the grave of life,
The grave of the good and the grave of Christ.
Yet the waters of the great deep River
Seal it, and still bear up to heaven,
And the winds of heaven garner it,
And the winds of heaven garner it,
And the wind of heaven garner it,
And the heart of man grows weary of himself,
And he creeps to-day and waits to ripen him.
One after one, above the din and roar
Of this terrible year and its incessant race,
Is the voice of the Master: "Thee I adore;
I rejoice in the living, I am the Master."
_From an old painting by_ R. Herbert
Author of "Lesbia's Revels
McDonne's Grave
A Jacobite's Spring Song
Love's Resurrection Day
The Earth kneeled at a door,
The Land listened and smiled.
"How long do you think these speeches bitter,
You say? Is it some idle pain?"
"Ah, Sir," said the Land, "it would make us sorry
To hear of this old song once again."
"Now you're up against it now;
For, I fear, it was some sickness.
Oh, why do you listen?  We've nothing
For terror in this new song to hear."
"Well, I have it:  all that will come soon coming
Is nothing, my dear, at all;
Hark, I hear them marching, marching slowly
Over the hills of song,
And the tramp of the useless armies
Turning over the plain."
"The things we have now to listen to,
All will be as these old songs are."
"And the songs we have now to listen,
The words the old world hears,
Will be as the songs we used to sing them:
Our dead may be not stirred:
Earth will hear them, hear them calling,
And earth will hide them, heeding them."
"No! I say not that, my darling,
I have never heard that voice!
I heard a march of their forces
In the land of song and choice.
"Then I saw it from the distance,
I beheld it from the hill;
I beheld its march of soldiers
With no flags or flags a-wing.
"I beheld it from the distance,
I beheld it from the land;
I beheld the march of soldiers
As the marching years advance,
Dreadful 'mid the burning darkness
Of the dying and advance.
"There is music in those thousands
With their triumph-glory nigh;
There
======================================== SAMPLE 789 ========================================

"Oh, how my love delighted dies yon star,
"How beautiful his flowery eyes,
"How lovely mine dear face! how sweetly there
"Thou standest in thy beauty, queen of air!
"Oh, how shall I be there?  Oh, stop my flight!
"See, see! how blest am I that I should dine,
"There are rich cream and bread--I'll break the ice,
"My lips are dry and sweet, I am so cold,
"I must not move for thinking, oh, so cold!
"Oh, lovely Mary, pray be not afraid,
"Oh, come with me, my Mary, for the night
"That from yon far-off cottage, all the light,
"Puts on an azure napkin, I have made;
"But oh, so cold, so cold! that I should die
"Rather than see my love as I pass by!
"O Mary, when we meet, you know not why.
"I am but I, your mother, on this day,
"You, too, who know my spirit, will be cold
"And like a corpse within your arms, to fold.
"But if, at least, I have not strength to bear
"My love's vast sorrow, be his gratitude.
"Farewell, my baby queen! we meet no more!"
And while these grateful tears, the dying flame
Faded as embers o'er a hearth, and came
Through the low cottage, saw the peaceful maid
Herself still lingering near the hearth, and laid
The warming water in the foaming pail
At her feet; the babe was lying sick, and pale,
And silently the father placed his wail
On her sister's throat, then, stretching out his hand,
He told the story of her grief, and scanned
The scene once more, and told it with a sigh.
"Oh, if, oh, if I shall live to see
"The day that I shall see,--when I shall see
"The blessed Virgin,--now, when I shall see,--
"To whose pure shrine, amid her garden-bowers,
"I, too, this night, shall take my endless rest,
"And there be light for ever, and a bliss
"In a world of bliss for ever."  Then again
The moonbeam fell on Annie, and her brain
Gloomed like a nightmare without form or name;
Day after day, through all the lonely day,
She grovelled in her solitary home;
Until at last, through darkness and through fears,
One ray of sunlight broke upon her tears.
"Oh, God! if this were so!" she cried with sighs,
"Then, Annie, God, thou wouldst be saved for me
"If I were only with thee."  And the tears
Came slumbering down her face, as if she dreamed
Her own sad story, and her dark despair,
Sad as the midnight harper's that swells the throat
Of the majestic organ, that tells the end
Of night, to this dark world and only me.
She spoke not; no sad-hearted thought appeared,
Save when a slow faint strain of music thrilled
The pause wherein the circle of her words
Broke, and she seemed to hear the long low sigh
That came across her face.  She ceased, and raised
Her voice to the sweet music, and advanced
Through the dim garden paths, among the trees,
And in the solitude where none intrudes
Shields where no footsteps fall, she pressed a flower
Of sweet and delicate flowers, all the while,
Close covered by her dark hair, and the flowers
Were like warm leaves when no storm storms have power.
"Oh, God! if our young lives will never know,
"They have no song-birds like our poor, kind friend,
"Who lived in happy ease some hundred years,
"Just as our heads to-night, that we have come
"To give them light, and then go back to earth,
"Singing of Heaven, with the angels mirth,
"Singing of Heaven and of happiness,
"Till Death be plain for aye the word of peace!"
He ceased: the fields, green-girdled, in the sun,
Were still.  The birds had passed.  One golden day
The children of the heathen, in their turn,
Watched by the children of the heathen still.
They knew that some had built their little home,
And others, with their labor, had begun
Their crafts and words to wonder, and to crave
The glory of the builders; and the
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,
A thousand of her victims slew
For on that bloody field, O she,
Whom not the gods nor they themselves can know,
From where she lies no goal to seek or shun,
But in the camp or on the battle-plain,
And in the battle; there are none or few,
Who for that sorry cause have nothing gained
By their undoing. But I trust that I
Will bring, from my hard-fought battles borne,
Of those she left behind, when first she saw
These routed foes, and all for him she mourned.
For his dear sake whoso will, I swear,
Will to his death a fair renown restore,
No sinner who her wrongs hath realized,
And her dishonoured dame dishonoured more;
Then to the king shall be my service paid,
And with his babes shall he be honoured, too,
And with his spouse dishonoured, his best friends."
And these, who, mad with grief of heart, replied,
And bade those mighty ones, who yet, no few,
To slay the son of Libyan terror think,
And bear the news of their disastrous end,
Arriving on the shores of Sicily,
Arriving in the port of Arrian homes,
The last, and sore bested, a prowest prince,
The goodliest of his peers, Arrhus first;
All these the prince about his people mourned,
Lamented too the monarch, for his eyes
Had many a tear from the departing Dawn,
Nor of one race had borne him, till they rode
To Tydeus' heavy city and the field,
The city burning, far and wide the walls
Of Thymbra with strange fires of crimson gleamed,
And to the Trojans in the streets were brought
The people's groans, "And now," they cried, "he cometh,
And cometh from our pitiful banquet, wheresoever he may be,
For we have seen him; in the city of Troy
We made Acrisius of our people slain,
Agelaus, honouring the shrine of Zeus,
And all the people in the feastful town--
By which, O king, we honour thee and do thy bidding well."
So cried the rest; but after, night on night,
And the dawn broke, and earliest dawn arose,
The Trojans hailed the morn as daylight broke.
Then first rose Pallas, and Idothea spake,
Sons of the Dawn and Tarchon, bright of soul,
And said to them, "Be of good heart, and bid
The war-Child come and bear away the prize,
Whom the Gods rescued from the pitiless death
Of the most mighty of our foes, from Troy,
And made us be. For ye are men indeed,
And not unworthy of the Gods themselves,
To me are given all these glorious deeds.
Now, lest ye slay the son of Tydeus' son,
For whom we glory in our glorious deeds,
To him shall ye be reconciled; but ye,
Be of your hearts compassionate, and trust
In his high valour and his help; for ye
Am ever as yourselves. And if some God
Shall give your courage and your strength for fight,
Then may ye see him, and remember him;
For if he fight against your foes--yea, though
The Trojans perish in your day--I know him well,
Nor shall ye lack a warrior at the hand
To fight for whom he fought--if he be one,
And ye, O valiant comrades of the war,
Fulfilled of his great valour, and of his
The foremost man in battle, whom ye slew.
Yea, though he die as one who dies a Chief."
So spake he, and all they answered, and had passed
Forth on the Trojans; but Achilles rose
And said, "Up, brother, get ye back unto the ships,
And rouse them all, for all their fury burns.
To-day is come the fullness of our war,
And battle still grows stronger every where
As with slow maces rolls the yellow tide
About our ships. But, if ye yet return,
Ye may indeed be saved, for ye shall learn
Which way ye came from, what foe ye are."
He said, and led the way, and they were brought
Unto the battle-field, and fought the folk
Eager for battle, and these men that heard,
And some that heard, with busy mind were busy.
The thronging battle now was now returned
Clear to its end, and round them was the field,
And all about
======================================== SAMPLE 791 ========================================
,
The _Jovial Priest_ and _Wedding Lad_,
_The Constitu-Garden_ and _Hugh Conant-ger_,
_The Old Temple-Corner_,
_The Priest and Shepherd_,
_The Priest and Shepherd_,
_The Shepherd_ and _The Master_,
_The Master and _Willing Priest_,
_The Master_ and _Hugh Conant-ger_,
_The Shepherd_ and _Hugh Conant-ger_,
_The Shepherd_ and _Hugh Conant-ger_,
_The Priest and Shepherd_,
_The Shepherd_ and _Hugh Conant-ger_,
_The Shepherd_ and _Hugh Conant-ger_,
_The Priest and Shepherd_,
_The Fireman_ and _Hugh Conant-ger_,
_The Shepherd_ and _Hugh Conant-ger_,
_The Master and _Hugh Conant-ger_,    _Wanderer_,
_The Master and _Hugh Conant-ger_,
_The Shepherd and the Priest_,
_The Shepherd_ and _Hugh Conant-ger_,
_The Shepherd and the Priest_,
_The Shepherd_ and _Hugh Conant-ger_,
_The Shepherd and the Priest_,
_The Priest and Shepherd_,
_The Husband and the Shepherd_,
_The Husband and the Shepherd_,
_The Husband and the Shepherd_,
_The Christian and the Shepherd_,
_The Baptist and the Husband_,
Not on the outward forms, but inward joys,
And recognition of the outward signs,
And glimpses of the joys beyond the night.
The Christian and the Priest
In shepherd's garb,
Or plover's nest,
May feast their loving eyes,
And look from high
On God's own form and place,
Nor from the earth be driven,
But from the sky
Of heaven uplifts a voice of good,
"Thou God enthroned art on high,
And shalt affront thine Genevieve!"
Then rise the voices of the Fathers all,
And shout the glee, the exultation,
As they return, with Christly hymn from God,
And, smiling, sing,
"I bless thee, Lord,
And all that is is thine!"
And from the North-land brought
Christ's triumph to the South-land,
And, while the song of glee rang out
"Thou God enthroned art on high,
And shalt affront thy Genevieve!"
_And all that was thine aspect_,
And in these words, O Heart,
How did thy Mother Earth
Bear rule o'er men!
Thou God of Mary mild,
Thou Father mild,
And Mother Mary mild,
Thou God of this hamew recognise
Our human nature in thy inward heart,
O Comforter of souls in needfulness,
Thou Lord of life, for thou hast given us this,
O Comforter of souls in loneliness,
Thou Lord of love, O Comforter of thoughts,
Thou Lord of death, O come from out thy Cross
With victory, and with the triumphant shout,
And shout that rings across the seas of Time,
Thou comforter of souls in loneliness,
And bring us forth in triumph and in pride.
_Goethe's Sonnet to His Lordship_, Mark,
_Spring's Thy Time-horsing Song_,
_Wine's Golden Rule_,
_Spring's Thy Time-horsing Song_.
_Spring's Thy Time-horsing Song_,
_Spring's Thy Time-horsing Song_.
_Where is the Boundless Boy_,
_Summer's Thy Thought_,
_Woodland's Forfeit_,
_The Gallant Captain_,
_The Livings of the Flowers_,
_And Where is Winter's Guard_,
_That Readethcommentary_,
_The Ruler-lover_,
_The Fool that Would Not_,
_O, if I am a Lover_,
_You're His Grace_, _the Friend_,
_The Little Rain-scene     _O, where is that You Like_, etc.
_Where is the Swallow_, _the Lord of the Hills_,
_The Master-lover_, _The Gulls and the Hills_,
_And the Shepherdess_     _O, where is the Swallow
======================================== SAMPLE 792 ========================================
,
The _soul_, to which they turn, is always thrice
Their welcome to their lips, although
To mine almost the welcome is.
_Sour grapes._ Who, being ripe, would stoop to eat
The sourness of the grape?
_Visions of state._
_Dull and solemn the days seem to pass!
Silent the years appear, and the years,
As with slow steps they do;--
But the world is full of them all, but we,
They all are empty here.
The nations are a-weary of the strife
And waste of battle's might;
Our cause of hatred is the cause of life
Too hard for them to fight.
Though all our hope is gone, where else were we
But little more to give?
Not far from the world's din and turmoil,
But to the right of all:
_Visions of state._
_Sour grapes._ Why, here there is no hate in you,
And this your noiseless fate:
To-day must drain the bitterness
That wounds my heart to wait.
Away! Your last embrace, my God,
Tender and warm with us
Is the soft peace of rest at last,
The soothing touch of peace.
God, if I suffer, send through space
Some greater fulfilment.
Then let not this too long remain,
Be God of calm at last;
The peace without which every woe
Shall feel no worse than this.
Christ! Then this peace shall still be mine,
And, through this better night,
Peace shall come forth, for these were good,
And I must keep from bitter fear
My heart that was so bright.
God! if I suffer, send through space
Some great hereafter.
Why should there be a darker fear
Than if my life were free?
In the deep shade
Of a huge oak,
Stood one gray-fruited tree.
A hush,
Like the last chant of doom,
That the winds are making moan,
A hush,
That the leaves are closing gloom,
An awe,
That the leaves are closing gloom,
A hush,
That they are closing gloom
With the silence of the Dead,--
For the rest,
In the deep shade
Of a vast, unbroken tomb,
A silent,
Unfinished, with a few slain.
Bowed are the trees,
Each leaflet stands
A silence in its pain;
And silence,
Though silent,
Is calling out of pain,
In the deep shade
Of the dark and dismal night
A voice,
Singing past all belief,
Speak low,
Summons the stars to rise,
And their feet tremble with the light
That floods the old skies.
It is the voice of the wind,
That bids the trees be gone--
The wind that blows the snow,
Out of the gathering gloom,
Across the centuries:
"Come, come away,
And the trees shall be dead,
And the heart will be desolate;
There is no leaf on the tree,
Nor bird on the branch,
The rain has blown
Far off or the snow has smelt
Pierced to the roots and bough
Of the tree,
When that their cry is heard,
Who now is masterful"?
I have seen time will change
To the gold of early youth;
I have seen time die
In the spring's first freshness;
It has known time not cease nor pass
Nor sorrow as it was.
I have lived time that is known
To each hour, and though I see the sun
Slowly and lovingly.
I will leave thee sorrowing,
For though days be many
And thou hast thy days not many,
Time will not change thy feet,
For thy path is full of peace,
And thy heart has room for rest,
And thou art over with the flowers--
Time cannot do thee wrong.
I will go with thee to the festival,
And we will dance upon the lawn,
And scatter roses;
And the rosebuds all will keep
Their fresh, thick petals gone a-wing
'Neath thy golden canopy,
The rose will stand for peace,
And all the leafy race
Shall bow to their sweet-will;
And thou shalt walk from the hill-side
When the sun spreads fair,
And the quiet air
Is stirred by the wind that sings,
And the bright waves break under thy feet
Through thy tired hair.
I will leave thee and come away
Where the wind sings fair.
In the deep purple mountain gorge,
Over its snows,
With its snow whitely rocking
======================================== SAMPLE 793 ========================================
 of his mother!
This night he dreams by the fragrant breath
Of the fragrant mountain stream.
They rise on their shining wings, and seem
With a sweet and solemn charm,
To kiss as they kiss their father's name,
And feel a sacred tenderness,
Like the breath of the mountain dew,
For ever hallowing the pure wild air
With all the light of the summer moon.
Yet oft he seems to be straying in dreams
Like one he loved so well,
For all the dreams he dreamed of then
To his heart have long been driven,
Are in death as lasting as the flowers
That bloom on the mountain-side
Through the haunted Alpine valley wide.
And he knows, at times, they are not dead,
But he sees their eyes are bright,
And his spirit heeds their glorious tread,
As he looks from a lonely height,
A vision that follows after him
From the valley of the mountain mist
As he goes from the mountain mist,
And watches the shadows fall,
And he knows that a spirit, too,
Is waiting to bless them all,
And he knows that a spirit still
Is waiting to bless them all.
He fears the dread of a fearful night,
And he feels his heart grow light;
He hears the shriek of the wintry blast,
And he knows that a spirit still
Is waiting to bless them all.
He sees the cedars in their shadowy height,[B]
And the lank and leaden trees
Darken slowly, to the cold and cheerless sky
And they look in vain for his gentle reply,
As he looks from his lone and distant eye.
Oh! it is too sad to do that he must;
He seeks to help in vain that desperate cry;
And it is in danger to flee from that fight
And go where the dead, for ever, must go far,
And he'll go where the cold and lifeless form,
The many who have quailed in their agony,
Will smile on his face if they look meekly
By the lone and dreary mound of the forest-grave,
Though never a one else is near,
And I feel that I can scarcely hear
That the slightest echo from the tomb,
From a step so dreary and sad to tread,
Can awaken the past!
When his face was bowed in his misery,
He had only a far-seeing eye;
But the old man's gentle accents came
As a welcome guest, that he spoke in shame,[E]
When the smile on his features would gladden him so,
That, as his own he had loved him, they must be
The dear, familiar form, and gentle voice that now
Lifted his soul to its sunny eminence,
And lit at their tireless breath his heart's gladness!
But the heart was aching, the voice was hushed,
And the wild thoughts of that hour would cease
To dwell on the memory now fastened close
With a deep and a tender and tender feeling,
That was not the saddest hope that seemed to hover
Upon the heart so desolate!
Oh! we think the thought might be a fairy thought
That came from other lives, or far away
So like the influence of a smile to fill
The soul with a strange, sweet feeling, so like love,
That those who welcomed it were not more than loving!
Yet, when the day had slowly waned,
The voices that once were calling came
Like the lost and desolate, to whose very heart
They once before were known, had slowly stole
Into those dark depths, and in their hearts had grown
To a feeling strange and wild,
As the midnight moon had only a beam on her face,
As the clouds went a-wandering in the east,
And the stars were shedding their misty hues
O'er the vale where the forest streamers flow,
When the moon and its waters will lie at rest,
And the winds their sighing on the deep
Will be blended with the notes that never more
Will be heard on the deep.
Thus over the world was that prophecy born
That the forest-trees, waving a garland,
Should rise from the deep,
And the winds that came wildly will wave their leafy arms
O'er the meadows which stretched their long arms to drink
Of the fountains that smiled to the sun and to sun,
While the waters will cease from their long murmurs,
And the forest shall fade into silence again.
But, as they have died into life, alas!
And its hopes are like clouds,
When the clouds have settled into eclipse,
And the rain-drops begin to lark.
The forest,
======================================== SAMPLE 794 ========================================

"All that's new
In this world of ours is new
And to us it seems a strain
Where the things we have not known are in our sleep
To the mind of mortals as a thousand years ago
When I was a boy,
There was a man going to rights
That struck me in the offs;
And when they made up my mind,
I said, "I know
That those strange words they had spoken
Made me think something queer;
But I'd rather stand on my forehead
And hold up my hair,
Like a man locked up in a box
Tight when he looks at a light, light light,
Than stand up with fear,
And, feeling the risk of a life
To come up and go back again,
Fearless and fast as a bolt of thunder
From heaven,--if this be so,
I shall see him--as I did,--
Him, with eyes down the side of him,
Silent, still looking straight
To the house from where I spoke about
The time that I was gone.
"What's the matter?" I said.
"This is all right,
There is nothing to protest
Against a man of such as you,
But the first man with eyes downcast
And heavy hair and slow,
And with the hair upon his head,
And the voice that is not there,
The voice you hear, or you that read,
The man with the hair,
The little man who's gone to meet
My man in the street,
And pass his plate by the window
Be he familiar or brown,
To the upper fellow,
And I'll chop him into a second
As to be him my son.
"What has he to do with a man
But the face of my son?"
You can say he's a man whom men
Saw before he was born;
But you see him a man whose mind
For a moment was morn.
"What is the use of him, then?"
Cried the man who'd the start;
But I said, "I see something worse
In a man's own heart."
"For the soul he's a man, then,"
Cried the man whose mind
Had been wholly a woman
Day and night to mankind;
But he did not forget
How his hand was set,
How he made a thorough job
In a place he ought to stop
In the man who looks at him
Till he died, because of him.
In the street he ran,
Walking and through the street
Where his own feet ran;
And he stood there by the door
With a look as sad as a bore,
And shook his head and said
Nothing had to be done.
And in the street he slept,
When the others, out of guard,
Stood out to him to keep
Watch, as if he were dead,
Watching him watch overhead,
And heard him who was dead.
By and by they went,
Pausing a moment twice,
And with a slow moan
Sighed he went away too soon;
And they bore him thence,
Walking and singing there,
Treading the shadow there.
A moment since he went,
Yet with slow moan,
Like a man who has been dead,
There came to him
Like something that was dead.
And the shadow of his hand
With its long grey gait,
Was a thing of nameless trees,
As, of wind and tide,
They had looked, they thought, they had missed him,
But the sun went up and brought him
To the great dark place of the sea.
And there he lay all still,
Warm and dead,
Till morning came and set
The world to a lull of sleep;
Then, by and by,
Till the first sun died,
The man, in the flesh unshod,
Fell to slumber, and lay down,
And dream that the sun was gone.
The man was the man, in the night,
When the sun went down on the sea,
The weary man, with the eyes
That were watching mankind be.
He heard the wind; and then
The hand, its coming done,
Lit the gray dawn with the same
Unlacing and immortal flame
Of the face no human man knew before,
That had made him wretched, and long sore
And disconsolate:
But a great light, a light to guide,
Like the sea, the sea, the deep,
And the light on the shining side
Of his darkened life--a living tide
Of that dark dark world that lies
In the dawn of his undivided eyes.
"But, O my love
======================================== SAMPLE 795 ========================================
, who lived in
a little fief; and had read, the following passage, on a
subject, a reply to his own foolishness, which might,
perhaps from a low bow, be said for the first time to look
for his enemy. To see him nobody knows, nor is it possible
that that he would, without me, have run about and I have
heard nothing but the voice of _Satyavan_ shall proclaim
him _Antaeus_, who was speaking long ago.
_Amadmetus_, who lives in the mountains, and who hath raised our
Acheron. There was no need, for he came to look and see us.
_Antaeus is the only man who has a small liberty for himself_,
_Amadmetus_, who was to feel himself deafe to any one; and I,
not knowing but that which I did not know; for I knew him and
believed to be by him--and that he did, indeed, to do the
reason.
When he was thus confused with the _magnificent_, it seemed
that he was one of those great gods who lived still, and it
seemed to me that he was yet nobody--we sat all still, looking
_Antaeus is the only man who has a small liberty for himself_,
already known as the _Olympians_, as if it were he, who at the
inquiry. Inasmuch as we knew him only by what name he was; and
my master knew him, and I was in doubt that no one else knew
of him, for we are often told that he was still there; and
when in doubt we said something to him, then he went away.
_Amadmetus_, whose fame, so long as it has yet be reported,
is only famous in the tongue of poets.
_Amadmetus_, a famous wit, and a famous wit, which is far
esteemed by the best bard in the world.
_Amadmetus_, a noble peer; to whom scarcely is any one
inferring to draw the darts of arrows, and to do with the
subjectors.
_Amadmetus_, a famous famous wit, and a famous wit, and a
love-sick one.
_Amadmetus_, who is now called Polybus.
_Amadmetus_, an old man; a well known poet, a poet, and a
lady.
_Amadmetus_, a young man; an old man, a little hunter, and a
_Amadmetus_, a young, fair, modest and beautiful youth; his
master, however, is a most beautiful, very handsome person.
_Amadmetus_, the father of a family, and the mother of
all his neighborhood.
_Amadmetus_, who was always a gentleman, and a very
noble, gentle, and amiable old man.
towards his friends.
_Amadmetus_, a young and handsome youth, but most probably
_Amadmetus_, a young man, a man known to men among whom the
children, and they were much more content with what seemed
_Amadmetus_, as he grew older; and his friends endeavoured to
_Amadmetus_, and as he was going to write _Olympia_, they thought
that he would not write _Olympia_ for his countrymen.
_Amadmetus_, who came up to _Olympia_, and had grown up to
_Amadmetus_, as he rose to depart.
_Amadmetus_, a famous singer of the _Olympians_, a poet of the
_Amadmetus_, and a lyric poet of the _Olympians_, who was the
comedy fellow.
_Amadmetus_, a noble youth, who was of great wealth, and to use
great talents in the city.
_Amadmetus_, a youth of great understanding, and in his life
evident.
_Amadmetus_, a famous singer of little value, and a young
artificial poet of great merit.
_Amadmetus_, a man highly honoured above all others.
_Amadmetus_, an old man in ancient times, and a skilled
_Amadmetus_, known by a name of his own private character.
_Amadmetus_, a servant to the great family of _Amphiarus_, a
distinguished man.
_Amethitania_, a town of the Phaeacians.

======================================== SAMPLE 796 ========================================

The poet's hand that guides him.
A year, and more, if there be found
Drawn slowly downward to the ground,
What chance on losing Fortune fell,
Could but the poet's mind make well?
The very laurels of the world
Are not for this but that;--
The genius and the poet's thought,
The eternal hope of all men wrought.
The words that now are spoken to me,
And that which was, and has been;
It is in truth a power divine,
A consecration fit for mine.
The soul which never, never can,
Be bartered or be turned to man.
And if he were a deity,
'Tis more in that than he.
What if the world were any god,
And earth an easy walk with him!
And we, like other mortals, then
Would follow our own steps again.
The one which clasps his body now
In a world that has no name,
And is like fire, and burns, and glows,
And has a thirst for fame,
And loves this body, so to say,
Is more than fame in aught's way.
And there, as there, on the same day,
When all with one accord agree,
May I go freely forth, and take
My pleasure from a moment's lake.
The one which clasps his body now
Is not a king of fame;
Nor is he lord of aught but grave;
And yet is restless
When a crowned prince is laid at heel:
In short, he is an earthly king,
And by corruption foul
Is led betwixt man and his own:
And that's a kingdom for to wield.
If it be death indeed
That sends him forth without a meed.
To raise a world so great
From dying down to setting sun.
And yet the same, whereon
The stars of all the world must burn;
Albeit they work their will,
Their hands must have a will
From that wherefrom the law is thrust:
But still we know, who hast
The right to praise, for what is just.
For who, though old and dry,
Loves not a woman's mind,
Nor puts his soul, whereon,
To wreathe a laurel wreath
As Queen Diana's beauteous son
Or as a Goddess of the East:
Nor can he think, whom least
Of men is lost, who has no heart.
And yet, the Queen, whate'er
Beats her fair form, is not alone
The one great thought, the one great thought
Of which is kindled in us all:
Which will not let us, while we speak,
From this our hour, go blind in the dark.
I am the Queen, she wears no crown;
She cannot say if those be crowned
Who live beyond the world's low peace
And spend it in a meaner gain;
Nor can she know if those have ears,
Or even if those eyes are made
To look their own on some high day,
Or if a noble heart is bared,
Or if the woman's self betray
One whit of purpose to her sphere.
Yet I, who am the Queen, can see
No pride nor power have I in her
Whose power is darkness, and can see
No glory in the face of men; nor yet,
Though she have cause I can not--there my brow
Is clear, and she can say to me:
"Why have I not a crown of wit
Unless it were of gold and fame,
And yet I will not be the same
Unto my Queen, since it is mine--"
Then I, with a great heart, I will say
The last word that she has heard;
That even she who bears my heart
Should feel some grief within her,
And that if from a woman's hand
The old power of life be snapped,
The maiden's heart must be for ever,
And she must go to her own self's will
Or only for a self there is.
And if you keep your will with me
I shall love neither you nor me.
But let me have one heart alone,
And that will make my soul unsmirched
By love, and I shall have the sword
Whether in life or death, and I
Will keep it for a woman's heart
Until my latest hour shall be."
I took a sword from out my hand.
They said that in my lady's eyes
I saw not what she saw not there,
And in her hands I held a fay
Made of the finest wool and fur.
I took, to meet her on my knee,
The little falcon of a
======================================== SAMPLE 797 ========================================
 the "Frenzy" and "the Nightingale".
"The Swallow", a name of both of them.
inheritance, they were frequently met together.  The
district was not more frequent than the usual use of the
twofil, and that of the birds:  "The Hymenaean Swan".
which the name was Robin Hood.  Robin was a man of great
prognosting of Robin Hood, was a man of much wealth and
practice, was not much dissatisfied.  Robin was a man of
practice, was not much dissatisfied.  The Squire, in a fine
family, was Sir Peter Gold-le-Great, and only three cochietes
were his worldly goods.  The Squire was at his first wealth, but
lived there, and never dreamed of aught save feats of arms.
His sons were merry "on the popular tree" in the South of
Suttill; and Robin's daughters were more beautiful, but he was
afterwards happiest of his sons.  On the South of Savoy
There were not five hills in all the world--some six or seven
so many--which I would wish to remark--that a few chose
five hills, "the very middle sea" and "the middle sea"--a path
which, on a bright summer's day and a full season, would
have been most difficult for the Goat-foot people.  There was
a company of young people of Bristol in the July
shine, and certain of these had come after them in a few
hundred and fifty hours of march, though there were so many
of the rest of the Chutes and Earls.  On the South of
Suttill, the French camp was seen along the horizon for a full
while, but there were in a few days a great many of the
chclipse in the sunset; and the sea-caves were then
capped by the uproar of the day and the windy winter weather.
The Puritan Lady Eustace, being the son of Sir Peter, came to
London on the 23rd of May, the day of his marriage with Sir
Sir Peter, in consequence of the great woe that followed her,
and the wild wrath of her men.  The day became a dark one, and
as the sun grew stronger, it was impossible to avoid the
fires of the sunrise, for the wind soon reached the mountains of
the Lumberland; and the night was gone to its midmost, and the
next of the day was on all sides a terrible storm.  The lightning
was in the middle of the night and crashing down the heavens with
a hideous crash; but the rain came down on to the land and the
turley and the wind:  there were gusts of the south-west
gusts rising from the masts whistling and dismal.  Sir Peter was
rejoicing in the midst of a storm; and on every hand the hoofs
and riders, and on every side were the furious battle-shouts of
the enemy, the volleyed ruin, the crash, and the tumult of
the great sea without break.  The storm rose round again and
carried the ship down upon the coast; and the wind was blowing
and buffeted with lightning, and thunderbolts of rain; and a
tempest shot up from every quarter, and the ship went down with
the shock, and the great waves fell, and the ship ran here and
there.  And a whirlwind rose to the quarter of the world.
'Twas the night before Father William rose to go to bed, but
soon found that his will would not break; the ship was forced
to run for the sands and dry leaves, and soon that was the
best ship, and his will in the shock therefore.  The storm
sent all its strength into her keel again, its strength in the
sea; and she was carried in a great belly while the tempest
possessed her overboard.  The storm soon overpassed the vessel
and the vessel, and it carried her back again to the port.
Many men have punished father and son, and have punished the
son of a rich and nobleman whose heart is rent with jealousy;
but when the ship went down through the tempest it found
sorely in its clutches.  The storm then came down quickly, and
the ship was starting on to her assistance, so that her sails
were beaten back, with a sudden motion.  She had failed to
raise high the hatch from which she had saved her men, but the
gallants, like birds flying over the sea, were hurried back and
mast and sails and all the yards were shattered.  They were
mast and mast and sails and all the yards
======================================== SAMPLE 798 ========================================
t
The poem of _W. M. Lusk_ has a merit of surpassing quality.
_Noon._ By the creation of
O the beauty of the _O. S. L._ of the country, in which the
A. D. Ascuy, by _R. E. S._ of the country, is in itself the
There is no great thing in its kind,
Nor does it matter in which arrayed:
The flower, that grows on the stock,
But lacks the crocus, or blushing rose,
The strawberry, or self-regard,
The poppy, or hellebore sweet,
And many more, that must be eat.
The curious author of _O. S._ has a very little poem
_Divina._ Spenserian, _The Proteus Amoris_, and more than the
_Virgil._ But what I was myself I now am at;
Tartars and places I can show at times,
The places where I from the world am thrown:
Here, or hereafter, or hereafter, some.
The greatest poetry is that of which he is among the first
best and the most eminent of our modern poets.
_Faust._ Why, then, it is a common difficulty, is it the
happy genius of the two old houses in the Westmoreland? The
_O. D. M._ It must be here, then, that you are not very
characteristic of the first in what is called public
hereafter; and it is a proper courtesy to offer our own
_Faust_ indeed, if any poet but myself would understand it,
seems to have been due to our own good sense.
I see the _rather_ as well as the _rather_; there are no
_Gentle_ or _gentle_, no good poet's _genius_.
_Cancion._ But what art thou, that canst thus thyself imitate
and imitate others? I never saw the like in my life, nor
do I admire your moderns.
_P.S._ I never see the like in my life.
_Cancion._ I say, that thou art an original and a wholly
prolaternal spirit, a wholly kinable spirit.
_Faust._ What art thou? A name for which both men and women
will have their saying.
_Faust._ So it is, so it is.
_S._ And what dost thou presume to say?
_P._ Yes, truly it may be, then,
_W._ Yes, of course, I am an original and a wholly
human form, which forms a part of our language,
and which, as our Poet says, is to be put under
the protection of the other.
_C._ And what dost thou presume to say?
_P._ And what dost thou dare say?
_R._ I am not a prophet of God, nor a prophet of Isis, nor
_M._ The words of the God of the world, or rather of the
_D._ To what I do is given to me,
_E._ The word _form_, which in many cases is also seen in
the poet.
_H._ Dost thou wish my word so good?
_E._                                                    _of
the poets of the time.  Behold, too, that the poet, for
the reverse, must have made no effort to render his version
unpoetic.
_M._ What has he, so far as he may go,
_F._ Why, then, he says,--as if he were a master on earth?
_G._ But why, then, he says,--for without the same reason, what
has he done?
_H._ What sayest thou, poet?
_E._ What he says, is not the same, but a word;
_F._ Of my translation and the three, not five.
_R._ What sayest thou, poet?
_G._                                                     A
sound of sweet melody, like the sound of a river, is ever
rarely suited to the tone of the sea.
_H._ To what? That he is worthy to speak out.
_P._ And how shall I
======================================== SAMPLE 799 ========================================
 from that day,
And then again?
Is it not well, my little one?
I have not seen your face before,
I think you live.
The thought of you, my little one,
Is like a dream, a pleasant word:
We will not have to use our language,
And speak the truth.
You must not be so cruel or so cold,
I will not be so cruel or so cold.
I have no fear of death, my child,
No fear of life!
I have no fear of God, my child,
The thought of you, my dear, is gone:
My life is forfeit, my treasure,
My all, my own.
Ah! would you lay upon my neck
Some emerald morsel of the sun;
A rosebud's weight of fragrance stooping down,
And through a sudden thread of dew
A running river of light should run,
A golden-hearted blossom, where the morn
Should leave no rose-leaf for a token torn.
"And when he goes, shall I find there
The rose?"
I know that you are gone, my child,
But no rosebud is like mine,
No rosebud is like mine, my child,
But no rosebud of the sun
And no rosebud of the sun.
The rose will come and go,
The rose will come and go,
When other blossoms that have had their day,
Shall have their little hour for breaking flowers,
The little hour for me to throw away;
But when I come with flowercoloured flowers,
And tenderer flowers, when my lady is gone,
I do not leave her in my solitude,
Or tread her any night upon the tomb.
Alone, alone upon some lonely height,
She rests, and if I touch her tenderly,
Some shadow of the sun will fall across
The little lonely room.
And I know you will not leave me in my darkness,
Nor keep me in my agony of tears,
When you are gone.
The rose is but an hour,
And I have wasted many a day and night,
Have cried aloud among the stars above me,
And sobbed to get alight.
The rose is but an hour,
And I have cried aloud, and now have tears,
And now have peace.
When you are gone, my child, my darling,
The rose will come and go,
But oh! you shall not come again.
It was a little lily-garden
Moss-tied with lotus,
It was a tidy
Meek, quiet,
 Millicent,
Stealest,
And tenderest,
Sustaining,
Thoughts fidgety,
A most gentle
Maternal
To the faults of the
Emersonese in the
The poem called "The Old Court." It was crowded so close to its music,
And the night, sitting still on the hill,
Was entering the garden gate.
The roses were opened,
The summer room was deserted,
For the moon,
Her white robe upon,
Was a silent moth
That hung in the porch.
She stood in a garden,
And they were all about her,
She had nothing of beauty,
But a white lily-garden,
And in her hand a little rose
And on her brow a tender stalk
And in her side a rose
Of such a whiteness
You never saw, my lovely rose.
And just a little lily-garden,
A garden of the roses,
A sweet, enchanted flower.
The roses turned their heads
And looked at each, as if in fear
Of some new thing,
And tried to look at me,
For they seemed frightened,
Or frightened,
Or frightened of a face in the house;
But I was pale with love at heart,
And took no thought of any
Except to think love could,
That could,
In such a place, be humble,
And be so good to look upon.
But now the roses fade,
The lilies die,
The lily is not wholly dead;
The roses, too, are as cold things,
And though the roses die,
They are but lovely leaves
That hardly lift themselves from earth
Before the dew-drenched morn,
And die in light about the eyes.
Yet, sweetest lily,
As a rose-bud of the rose,
So beautiful,
I kissed you there,
To make my love your own,
To take her soul to mine,
And mine to yours.
You held me in your arms
So often, so seldom,
And kissed me in the night
======================================== SAMPLE 800 ========================================
."
Who in the crowd was but a man?
Who flashed in light from eyes so true;
Who had no heart, not sense?  O, where?
In pity, what did he not there?
Alone, alone?  In all he stood;
No word to say, no message heard,
His mind was like the desert wood
And found no leaf.  It seemed the voice
Of God alone would hear all choice;
But when he spoke, the land was lost;
The desert had no mist of sun;
The night no darkness; but the frost
That never lays its days away
Shrinketh away, and leaves the leaf
Unspoken.  Then again the moon
Rose over it and lit the light;
And on the misty, haunted hill,
That heaped the waste of many years,
The night-bird echoed; and her song
Flowed forth into the hearts of men,
Singing with unceremonious throat
To hide its fate.
But he forgot
The man who long had been forgot.
O, I remember
The house where that fair lady
Sat down to buy the fruit of bear,
Came in at night to bring it;
But though she gave it not, it shone
With such a fervor to the eyes
As did affront its beauty.
A time is now when man will not
Sit down to buy the leaf of bear,
Or in the middle of the walk,
To gather up the primrose crop
And find it in the other plant;
But when he comes to see the tree,
Or if the air, it quickens fly,
And then it is a proper thing
To be a goodly growth, not grown.
At first they grew upon the hill,
But when the leaves with sudden start
Adown the dark began to fall,
And grew themselves another part
Of that wild bush that nature is,
They died upon the border there.
Yet not a single tree among them.
They looked upon the ground, nor knew
That till about themselves they grew,
And then they put their leaves together
To catch the wind, and then they lifted
Their broad black branches terribly,
Saying, "Autumn is here but dead;
No other tree was ever seen,
None such as he for whom it was,
When, out of sight, at first he was."
It was not so; for even now
The trees grew darker, and again
The sunlight seemed beyond the wood
To linger in the forest there,
And far away a single tree
Stood waving in the open air,
Like a white thread.  The frost-wind sighed.
The very leafless trees grew still,
No bud was on the other side,
But that fair branch, so whitely grown,
By flecks of snow was soon descried,
And with the frost-wind and the snow
The branches held each other low.
The ice-fowl floated on the hill
Like a white, graceful cloth of snow,
And by the frost-wind's breath they were
Alone: so they the lady fair
Knew well that snow was very soon.
And by the frost-wind the snow flew
Into the snow, while yet it was
Still in the place that it was fast,
And from the ice they gathered fast,
And soon as they had reached the spot,
They ate each other.
But when the snow came down again,
And melted fast and down and down
To earth, again they found it there,
And on the ice-hill they were cast
Again and yet again in mass,
Until at last it melted fast
In the fair spring.  The trees stood still.
Then the snow brought all the flowers
Of every clime, from many a hill,
And all the plain, and every brook,
And all the lakes that everywhere,
And rivers flowing, and the land,
The hills where flowers and parsley were,
And all the trees that in the forest grew,
And all the valleys down in streams;
And, from the ice-cold ground there came
Footprints of snow upon the ice,
And, clambering up and down, they stood
Upon the snow-drifts, looking back
With wonder at themselves; but, suddenly,
Nose-pack, a snow-man, white and pie-cheeked,
Perched on a maple-bough, and on his face
A cold and solitary look
Of despair, and which he must have meant
To make at once of his own land.
And here they saw the snow that seemed
A figure in a shroud of white,
And rearing up against the sky;
The man was clad in
======================================== SAMPLE 801 ========================================
 and
his own country, from the north-west, lands of the
island of the Phoenicians, who came to offer treasures of
gold and silver on to the Phaeacians. They had brought their
ships over the sea, and had packed their goods in great
piles and carried them within the grove of the wooded country.
There were also other tablets of bronze, which had been used to
hold the feet of cunning workmen. The writings of the old
mankind were chiefly used for their defence, but the work of
their master proved to be a very poor thing, and had become
diminished through a little more than ten years' work.
They were at once called " dismissed" from Olympus, where they
were standing.
The Phaeacians, therefore, grew jealous, and strode across the
shelter of the wood. They then proceeded to the house of
Satius, whom they had seen standing in the midst of them, and
were about to sacrifice a purple hecatomb of half a year before
the shrine of Jupiter, and were called to it by Jupiter and
Apollo. Jupiter met them each of them. They gave him a
sacrifice of oxen and sheep, that he might offer one of his
victory in his honour, and his mother should afterwards bring him out
and his friends to sacrifice a purple hecatomb of oxen on to the
burning pile, or he himself.
Eurymachus now called the gods and said, "Cyclops, heaven has
made lots on us for all this mischief. We have now come to
take a voyage over the sea, which will be hardly worse for
us if we take wine here; let us sacrifice a splendid hecatomb of
all oxen, and hecatombs of sheep and goats, that he may
receive us."
With these words he led the way into the city of the
swineherd Polynices to come to the city of the mighty
Achaeans. They had made twelve offerings to Pallas and to the
maids and to the divine priest, and had cut off the ribs of
others of the sheep and goats. When they had roasted and
bound up the remains of the meat, they went aboard their ships
again. They had built eleven excellent oxen which he had
built with labor from the beginning of day till after the
thirty-six. When the thighs were burnt and the inward
bones were cooked they laid out the spits and seats. When the
boys had roasted them with tranquillity and had drunk and
left they brought them water.
Then the henchmen drew close up the spits, and the servant took
their rest; the mess-asters were set down and the bearers
set their meat on the good things that were before them. You
waxed and began drying the white barley, and the old man
slung back to his own seat.
Then they stood up inside the palace. There was a black cloud
which presently fell on Ulysses, and closed the doors with a
body's coming from the land. And he stood where the bright
beams were thickest in his eye, and looked round continually,
making a wry face; he saw only his son, and neither his
father nor his mother could see him, but he looked towards his
father and the house, the way looking like one who had been
there that he might meet him. On the other side there stood
out both men and women a fair wind in the midst of you, as
speedily as a bolt darts through the bronze, and the smoke
whirled up to heaven, and there was no one to know where it
came: there you hung your golden bracelets about your shoulders,
and you were among the suitors thinking about you. There was a
Phoenician lad--Astarte, who once sent his ship into a fair
mountain, and brought his men to land. When he had got on shore he
went on board and sailed to Dulichium. There they found him and
set him out by the headpiece. But when they had put all their
sandy wits against the man, they cut loose the sails and
sent a glad cry over the sea. There were some of them on board
and went with them on board to Dulichium, but I wish that you
might have seen them. I have no wooden vessel that may bear
ships in any sea-side, for it is time that I had told you of
your voyage, and that I would speak. I have lost nothing of my
life save the bad and bad speeches that I have heard, and
been buffeted by the wind. I did not stay to be away for fear of
setting my eyes
======================================== SAMPLE 802 ========================================
, II. 3.
{Phlegyas, xylos, xlixos, xliii, xlixon i. st. Chrysippe,
te, sylii, to Phyllys, etc.
{Phlegyas, xlixi, lixos, lixos, lixos lxixes
formed on the ground, as the roof-tree by the sylphon;
and the porch of the grotto at the foot of the altar at the
in the consecrated ground, to the gods, the sacred groves.
{Phlegyas, lxi, lxi; lxiii, lli, lxvi, lxxxvi
{Trinacis i.-lxiii, lxiii, lxiviii}
{Trinacis i.-lxiv., lxiv., lxxxvi, lxix, lxix.
{Trionyon, Hymand, lxviii, lliffes, lxxiv);
{Trumpeter, v. e., xliii, lxxxix, lxxxix, lxxxii.
{Pindar, teneron, teneron, laxi, llixei}
{Trumpeter, teneron, teneron, lxxnketh}
{Pasley, teneron, tlaxi lxxxvi, lxi}
{Pher Nice, teneron, tlios, lxxxii-lixen, lxvi-lxvi
{Psall, och, zon, mxxxix, lxviii, lxxi, lxii-lxiii, lxviii-lxi,
{Psall, och, och, och, och, och, och, och -
'All at a glance the spray pours from the sky.'
(_Etaeus, xlixi, xlixi-lxii_)
'Thus, Phoebe, was the bridal day ordain'd.'
(_Eoli, or Eoli, xlixes, lxxxvi; i-i-oi, chap. i. Pierio or I-
(Eton, or Eoli, xlixes, lxxxii-lixen).
'The silver-starry fleece shuffles to our feet.
She whirls her silken tresses( succinct), serene,
Her brow majestic, and her chaste demeanour.
In all her loveliness there never was
A spot ungentlemanly set with stars.
For Phoebe daily, with submissive ear,
Broods o'er some well-arranged, familiar hearth,
Or pours her fullest, lightiest, she among
The countless treasures stored,--such wealth of gems,
Such gleams of moonlight, such
As Jove bestows on Ariadne's fane,
When Hebe praises, through the gods, that pour
Her crystal bounty from his sacred urn.
O Cytherea, too, with garlands crown'd,
Thou too to wear a bridegroom's diadem,
Thou too to float among the starry clouds,
And sway amid the stars a monarch's crown,
Queen of the fogs of hell!  O thou, a child
Of Thessaly!  O thou for whom,
When man was meant to reap as drowsy fruit,
And plant fresh fancies in the infant's heart,
A god, a hero, and a god himself,
And one his equal to some starry orb
That, in oblique repose, allows
A night's laborious watch; and even the stars
(Their nightly couch from heaven) that seem
A constant flux of radiance to the world,
Portend the day that withers them
In the rich West, and lose their soft repose,
When ripened by the sun of day,
'Tis fruit for man to reap, and all are slaves.
I shall not have thee early,--I
When thine grows old,
Know, when it comes, when the sun longer
Shall laugh with us at last,
The work of birds, or hammers that
Hang by the clock for slaves,
And the shrill midnight bell;
Rejoice, O mournful pilgrim,
Or the last debt of tears,
Know, when it comes, when all have gone,
'Tis not to wake again,
But sleep beneath the stars
And all forget their Lord, and, if
The day shall be
======================================== SAMPLE 803 ========================================
, by the way,
And the girl in her red parlor;
Then came Lucy Bruce's father
Up the stairs to my chamber.
There I heard a laugh of wonder
All the morning long I knew,
Saw a mother and a father
Shake with terror their two petals.
All the little children rose
She shook with pity and then
Up the stairs began to tumble,
Up the stairs began to tumbled,
Tumbled backwards, and again
Tricked up again and again
Clap away the little pinions
From the table to the bed,
And all the little children
Threw their arms about me there.
Now I stand upon the table
And will give you greeting,
And I'll bless the name of Werner
If he comes to cheer some guest,
On his coming to my chamber,
That the day may be at highest.
Then I'll send a kindly greeting
To my guest and to my mother,
And her sisters also,
To the children of the country.
"Thank you kindly!" then the father
Gave me greeting gayly,
"Thank you kindly, I entreat you,
For such kindness do you want?"
"Thank you kindly, I entreat you,
For such loving words are mine,
And I wish to God I'd give you
A happy double-fice as mine."
Oh thou token dear! my father
Thou hast kindly said to me,
And hast made my sister's promise
At thy heart; it is thy faith
That I trust thy life until,
When the dark is over,
Bright angels from the presence
Come in choirs to sing thy praise.
Now there's a glorious wedding
At my country's southern end,
And I'll give thee, in love's favor,
A horse-band for a friend.
"Now we all are blessed and pleased," he says to the young lady,
"The men and the maids that have wedded us--we also are happy."
It's an awful sight to see him, with his riding-skirt, going
Down the winding dells of the country. And he walks in wonder,
As he gazes over the lilies, and the roses almost breaking,
With his eyes up to the sun-down and the stars a-dancing,
And the spangle of the grass about him, and the stir of the
dances,
And the gentle, loving music of the little fountains.
And his heart's elate with love-lit songs ringing clear and gayly
He looks out from his window, and the roses nod and bow
O, the country's very grand!
The grassy lanes he opens,
The reedy mountain-gates;
The water-weeds and rushes
Are murmuring in the moors.
Heaven's door is opened wide,
The garden-beds are bare;
The goodly trees beside it
Are quaking in their cheer.
Heaven's door is opened wide,
Save for the ploughman's tread;
The goodly earth beside it
Is brooding far and deep.
The farmer's daughter wanders
Through fields dewy fresh and fair.
Blessings on the sheaves, and harvest
Among the wheat.
O, ploughman dear, good-bye!
The grass is waving green
Along the happy country,
And fields are full of rye.
The clover-bell is ringing
A greeting to the sky.
The clover-bell is singing
Another welcome sound;
All nature shouts and sings it!
The world is full of bound
To horsehoofs in the ringing
The welcome sound is borne.
But it's a long way northward,
Long, long southward, to the shore,
And out again into the night,
And back again no more.
When the children sleep,
The children are sleeping,
The clover-bells are ringing
Another welcome sound.
Here, here, 'mid herring shadows,
You shall see her through the dusk
While the moon is shining full.
She shall call them home again,
Calling, "Dear God, help us, God,
It will be our harvest-moon!"
A quiet land is a land
That people a way,
Where old wheel-barrows stand
And great wheels sway.
A quiet land.
And the little watchmen, three,
The rest are three.
'Tis the yellow dog-dog,
An' they all are three.
He stands on the upland,
Towards heaven's blue
He watches the children
Growing fat on the tree.
He crawls to the clover-bells,
An' they
======================================== SAMPLE 804 ========================================
 upon the
Blessed is the hour--no more--
When we and all have done our best,
And all have said our say--
"We see the light of God receding--
The glory of the day."
Yet in this world of reason
There's naught beyond the sun,
And naught above, or naught above,
Can give a glimpse of Thee.
For they who put out heart from heart
Must die to serve Thy time,
If they have faith in Thine own heart
Their chance of glorious prime.
One step across the seas of Time--
The outer bound of power--
An humble, humble soldier,
Trusting in Thine hour.
Then from his dream's alluring caves,
When dawn is red and still,
When to his dreaming eyes are given
The vision of Thy will,
They call us up to Thee alone
From out the outer gloom--
The outer bound of power unknown
Calls us, our all in Thine!
I know a lonely little cottage, where the youngest may
His rosy fleece of Irish blue is hanging in an ash;
I know a garden where the wild galingo-air is soft,
Where in a swound I found a baby who was six years old.
I found a little cottage in the valley far away,
The nest is fallen--it has eight trees left the nest to play,
The young child in your cradle sleeps--and yet I've tried again
To play the dainty partner till the tears came in at tea.
I know a little cottage, with four walls that I can raise,
And a little garden like a garden with a floor of praise.
I know a simple cottage where the scarlet peonies grow,
Where all the roses are in bloom and grasses everywhere,
And all the roses are in dew and grasses everywhere,
And all the little fountains in the everlasting air.
There is a little cottage hid from human eye and ear,
Far, far away, from earthly din and trouble near,
There's a little cottage hid from earthly wharf and greed,
I know a cottage hidden from impending pain and strife.
I have a little garden, on its walls so warm and green,
And its roof of furniture is of warm sunshine fleck'd with
I'm little--and I'm little . . . I know a little . . .
It is some picture of a tower
Huge-built with tower and wall,
And every day beneath the shower
Its image will appear.
No cloud has ever risen there,
To mark it with its beams;
But all the sun-sparks that enclose it
Have passed away with dreams.
So, through the forest, comes a child,
At its own shadow-piece;
And when his quiver'd arrows ring,
The child is in his arms . . .
A shadow is a shadow . . .  And the shadow,
It is the shadow of our dreams.
A face is fairer than the day,
A woman nobler than the scene;
And in her heart, in all the ways
She lives for something that it cheers.
There is a woman worth so much,
So gifted with a woman's grace;
And when she finds her heart is such
That there's not one to smile in place!
A woman nobler than your day,
A woman of a patient soul,
A woman of a steadfast will,
A woman never to be whole.
The shadow of our dreams, my love,
Is of a mighty power to say
In words that move and touch that move:
Such power in words is imaged day
Who sees it working in the clay.
Who sees it working on the sky,
Will mark it working in the clay;
And who will hear it while it flies
Will judge the worth of what it is.
The world is almost one with the Universe,
And nothing is perfect, excepting the Earth;
But something is imperfect, and everything
Is full of the fulness of daring and youth
And the strength of a man, that is willing and free.
The Earth is too much with us,
Too much with us, too much with us;
We carry the thought of the flowers,
Our hands we lay on the earth;
The children have taken the shower;
We carry the thought of the trees,
We are proud in the sunshine,
Too great for the world to know;
We are grateful in giving the flowers;
If you will let me go--
I will never forget
The heart in my brain
Beat into sound with you,
I will hold you and make you
My all in each fibre--
Birches and pines with the
======================================== SAMPLE 805 ========================================
;
For we should live as slaves of darkness,
As we might live by freedom's aid,
Thinking our souls in time were with us,--
What was our life?--Why, man, I know it,
Till time's last hour draws on the foe,
To think it life to live as neighbors,
When all lives with us. Good old mother,
Thou hast to bear, and man hath blisses:
Why should we want the kind old faces,
With eyes of heaven-reflecting sadness?
O, if thou couldst not say that Time
E'er brought this throng of time to manhood,
Wouldst know thy son; then might we chide him,
And say, "He died in peace" before him."
O for the faith of ages old,
When time, with hopes, deceives of darkness,
And we can guess the tears that rolled
Across thy childless, smiling face!
O for the faith of the wise and good,--
To know that what is man is true is,--
To know that life is not a dream
But a breath that drifts upon us,
And that thy child is still as death;
And what, O God, canst thou not do,
But live, and sing, and work, and pray,
And keep thy children free from pain,--
Yea, thou art here, and the only man
That shall be willing to be free,
To raise thy thoughts to thoughts as air,
Or fail from heaven to leave earth free.
When God turns back the world, and far away
We find the good we long have sought and known,
The human need, the angel-host to-day,
The waiting for the time that comes alone.
To live in joys by earth was better meant,
Whose lives in Heaven, that's higher needs, are sealed:
And higher to be great--ay, even so--
Than to be good, when there's no need to do.
"Better to die than faint in hope," I said,
"For God has granted me this pleasant lot."
He sent for me a letter, but he said,
So much the more his spirit wandered on,
The post he bore along the lonely years,
Had not a word with him to say one word--
Before our love and duty made him well.
"The little world has been enough," he said,
"To bless thee more; yet better were the lot
To watch some day our love and friendship dead
Before we miss thee from the world, and yet
Thou couldst not turn away, nor seem to know
That I was in my youth, not now in years;
And as I felt thy gentle hand, and heard
The letter thrill, I'm sure it must be so.
But time drives on the moments' self-same self,
And all is still the same; and God is good."
"And will it be so soon?" I asked, "and then,
Will all God's blessed Angels have their day?"
And with a voice that bore the longest date
I asked of God that he would do the same,
He said I would not wait till thou art dead,
A weary waiting-room with me to frame.
I did not see thee wandering there alone;
I did not know thee with a thought of thee,
I did not know thee with a throbbing heart;
And didst not feel thy hands upon my head,
Nor hear thy foot upon my lips, nor see
My own face through the darkness half effaced?
I should not care, nor heed nor look nor weep;
Nor know thee rising with a steady breath;
I did not know thee till thou wert at last,
And on thy way, still clutching for my child;
I did not know thee till this awful hour;
Yet then I did not ask, "Why should I miss"--
I asked because thy child was in my arms,
And held my child against my breast, and pressed
My child against my breast,--"I did, and died,"
I know thou art a poet now, and art
A part of all I have or would have known.
Thou art a book, yet all thy glory is
In one poor book, and on thy heart there lies
A little store of love and tender shame;
I know thee better, yet I know thy face
Before I lose the dear eyes of thy child,--
The very page that turned the world to gold.
I might have pondered some slight idle hours
In thee as on thy beauty and thy form;
I might have pitied thee as one that came
To woo thee from the far off shadowy bowers.
We two were
======================================== SAMPLE 806 ========================================
.
The "Thidreks," that first appeared in the 1667, are, however,
used in the hearts of the people, as in the books of the Bible
or "The Chrysalis," in the "Thidreks," in the "Thidreks,"
and in the trust of the Boer at the end of the chapter.
The text here given is merely a few additional things, but
only one or more lines may suffice, which will in several
acc explored and examined.
CANTO IV.--Guido Noveb.--Twelfth discourse of the Princes.--The
dependence placed on either hand of the nobility.
"O Thou of other days,
Illumine Thou in thyself that preserved us
Through all the fright of the Aegean Sea!
For, by Thee, Thine is to this entreaty,
That Earth no more be called, and Sea
No more be called, and all The fair of Thee!"
"So speaking, in the sight of Heaven
Appeared a statue of perfect work,
All equal to Thyself entirely,
Nor simple, nor in word impassionate;
But in the work a semblance interwove,
Which none who saw before had ever seen."
"And, after that, the Mighty Father,
Who gives me light, forthwith my Maker,
As in His glory guards the meek One,
To perfect practice had directed me,
When following the incorrigible steps
Of that predestination, thither drew
My brow, directed there where Themis stood."
composition; and in a line none can be wrong."
"So soon as 'twas in the sky that Tartarus received the
fear of heaven, and that of hell, I was wonderstruck at the
"With such a view my memory revived that heaven, when it
perceived by my vision, as in a green mantle, was received
"Then in these words it--"
"Thee will enjoy it, and as in a dream,
Startled and startled, I remained on earth;
In that I saw the newness of my vision,
I but a semblance of the Father in Heaven."
"I woke, indeed, ere morning dawned that light,
The which thy gentle heart has not yet kissed."
In the original, the picture was amended byFiorenza, a
Miserable spirit, born in the arms of a monster, and having
Masters, forsooth! to whom the Angel answered,
"If thou wouldest have it so,
The savoir tire not:  but the hour is come."
And the angel, who now sang to us,
Now sang unto the young men,
"Hearken! ye mothers, hearken! ye maidens,
That blessed spirit is singing,
"Heard ye the words that I did say,
When I was young, all three were married;
One was a girl, the other a maiden.
"But I will now attend to you,
And pray unto your loving brothers,
That they may know their brothers are with me;
All such a gentle spirit is in them!
"If one of them but hear,
Then was it three days' war,
That they of folly should not with me speak;
For the enemy with fire and sword
Was pleased with me because,
Therefore, I pray, this quarrel with them.
"And thou, O miserable man!
Remember yet again
The fire which once had shone upon thine altars
In Heaven, while an angel smiled upon thee!
Take back thy cloud-bespattered crown
For now avenger of thy foes!
"In it behold all calm,
As cool springs, when they draw
In knotty rind in twining vine-encircled zones,
Nor rough winds, without noise,
Nor stormy waters on their seaward borders
Untouched again shall make
By them the majesty of Heaven;
For all the world henceforth is their abode
In the midst of it, since they
At last themselves victorious die
By their own tears and blood.
"The days, with all their tortures passed,
Leave not a vestige of decay
On any bosom-veinéd head;
The shadows of the mighty dead
Come slowly to us, hateful things!
The light, that from the gray-hood springs,
Gleams in the unblemishéd dead;
And pity in the midst of joy
Is kindled at the quickening eye,
A light that withers the old dryads out.
"O thou for whom, in after years,
The voice, that was so sweetly clear,
And whispered words of pleasantry
======================================== SAMPLE 807 ========================================

Beneath the green hill-side.
I see a boy to-day
With pointed feet that pass.
He stretches to his play,
Then, laughing, turns away.
The boy is standing still
And listens to the birds.
The boy looks up with glee
With bashful, wondering words--
And suddenly appears.
Then, quick as thought, each bird
Swings round the boy's neck, and stirs
The merry blooms, until
They glisten where they lie
In dimpled, purple clothes.
And then the mother sits
With a dark, dark eye,
And asks if he will try.
Away they go with glee
And hurry, hurry, hurry!
One says "Good-bye;" another
"Good-bye," and then they hurry--
And in their arms they close
The happy children in.
One says "We do not harm
Our children on their days;
Let us be gladsome still--
It is so pleasant play."
If I could write down the name of the man that I know,
He might not be lacking in learning and pelf to bestow.
I would not care to be a man
To take so much the heft
Of letters that time writes,
If I were merely a name.
I would not be a fool to know
That his name is nothing but his own.
You'll find in the end of my tale
If I see a man to be lost with his fame.
I'd be as proud as a prince,
Or as a queen and yet
Contented to be won.
O'er all my pictures I'd look,
As in the stalls of my house,
And find the stuffs that I prize
Better than hens in the skies;
While the wind is blowing the same old refrain
That sent it out in the winter,
And the years that have passed with their dull monotone
Foretell the end of the Springtime.
I would not care to be a man
To sit in the shade of the orchard and watch the blackbirds pass,
Or to watch the rivulet's flowing
Flutter above in the orchard and over against the pond,
Or over the bridge the long evenings fall,
To listen to the fluting swallow.
Here be my food in the shade of the orchard and the pond;
Now for the pond and the pond, my dear!
Here be my food in the shade of the orchard, and the pond;
Now for the pond and the pond, my dear!
I am as proud as a prince,
Or as a queen and yet
Contented to be won.
What ails the solemn Sabbath-day,
A day without a sunset,
Who knows not suns of gold, nor why
Sits the gray peon with folded wing?
Who knows not keys of heaven and things?
What do you hear and others hear,
O soul of mine!  What do you hear?
And through the music of the street,
Faces so thickly bright
Holding unseen delight.
O soul of mine! do you not see
On what white altar-stone
The evening incense hung?
God's breath upon the incense-thighs
Kisses the incense-sprite;
And in the attitude of sacrifice
I pray you, priest, have pity's care
On my sad heart's deep distress.
God's own infinity is such,
My soul sees every hour
The incense-sprite of prayer.
O soul of mine!  I have not where,
Nor any altars, is,
Nor in the presence here
The worship-hour is near;
Yet here, amid the soundless hymns
And hymns of praise,
I sing the glory of the world,
Mysterious of the lays
That have been harried from us here
With my great passion-heat.
Not now alone; nor yet with men,
Nor even with angels' wings,
Nor all the angels in the sun,
Nor I with man's great things,
But with whole world's desire, my own,
The holy symphony sings
Even in pain.  O, sing it now,
And, with the dawning cry,
Still chant it as I sing.
It is the song Christ loved of old;
Its choir is sung alone
Through ages long since part it told,
And yet its music shows
A miracle of choric glories,
And legend-woven tales,
A miracle of beauty and of truth,
A glory past imp screen.
A rapture, a thrill, a wonder star;
A starry joy, and beauty gone;
A deep
======================================== SAMPLE 808 ========================================
 with their wings.
We, as the Prophet commanded,
And the young revere and bless them,
Let our banner streaming flutter
Through the dark to-night,
While the dim procession marches
Over the tomb-stones old and rotten
Of the yesterdays.
Oiled we once before, our heroes
(Many a century to come),
Soldier, soldier, statesman,
Gone to rest upon the tomb-stones
Of the yesterdays.
Peacefully our people taunting,
Shouted loud, when battle's over.
But a cannon-ball descended,
Like a bullet from the grave-posts
Of your ancestors.
Raged at the belching volley,
Died they, ever and ever,
Stone-cheered, stone-cheered, while volley
Swooped and roared from steel and iron
Round the mounds of shells and shells
O'er the tomb-stones old and rotten
Of the yesterdays.
Sternly our great cause perished,
Died it through the evil ages,
Plunged in ruin and disaster,
Through the wrath of our Father,
Dead the Devil's dues,
With the red cross in His keeping,
While the Holy feast was feasting
In the wilderness of war;
And the shrouds of slayers,
The swart bats of the giants,
Were our forefathers' revels.
But there came the cannon's roar,
Through the shrouds of shell-torn woodlands,
Through the screaming, clamour-swept mazes
Of the yesterdays.
Rudely our poor village people
Were divided in the pillory -
Spoilt, flankering, dreary,
In the incandescent gloom
Of that noon-tide gloom.
In the village, on the tombstone,
Where they fought in stern encounter,
With their faces hidden by their frowns,
The battalions had just taken
Their last battle of existence
From the dear old home.
Wept the people as they mourned their slaughtered leader;
Slowly rose the pallid, ghastly dawn,
Smote on all, and the burial-grounds re-echoed
With low wails the night-ray broken chime;
Loud above the town went thunder on their laughter,
And the earth was thrilled beneath their tread,
Shrieks of joy, and solemn steeples peal'd out ringing--
'Twas the last sad word of earth's deliverance
To our sons' embrace, the death-crown's token.
Oh, the breath, and oh the sight
Of that mother on the grave!
Breath of soldiering soldiery!
Oh, the solemn sense that pants
In the body like the grave!
Then, like those old comrades, honest, true,
Marching, parting, with uncovered feet,
Thrilling through that valley of dead leaves,
To that tomb beside their native land,
To cheer the hearts that sleepers lies,
To lie on grassy beds
A grave where true-hearted dead
Sleep and silent sleepers weep;
And to every sobbing sigh
A dream of battle-fury loom,
For the mother on the grave!
We saw her no more
By the hearth and by the hearth,
By the church and over the door,
Who had loved and cared for both.
And I wept when she moved towards me.
Ah, was it a dream
That he kissed me as she spake
Beside his bedside,
By the hearth and home beside?
The night-fires flicker,
Beside her mother's hearth,
And the mother on the hearth
Lifts up her tender voice for it.
For there is no memory
Of the home she used to know;
No home like that,
No thought like that.
I have never said
That an enemy's hand was cold;
But, oh, she loved me well
In the early morning hours,
That a mother bore a child
For whom she was half beguiled
In the tender twilight hours:
And her voice was soft as sleep,
And a mother taught a child
To betray her secret love;
And my heart was very proud,
For I did not love her well,
And I did not love her too.
Her face was dark and cold
As the night to hear her speak;
And her body as cold
As a corpse that has the cold
Of a tempestuous week.
She was weak as a snake,
Fierce as a tiger's growl;
As weak as a sheep.
I had thought no more
That an army had come to die
======================================== SAMPLE 809 ========================================
.
"I think it so," the younger son addressed:
"That a mere child should be possessed of food
Who has enough of what he wants," said he,
"And that's no doubt, for of all the brood,
I well believe, is capable of food
As well as that of his.  When there is meat,
Then call in line, and call me by my name."
"I called my father of the Haemon race
And he was there last evening.  We had two.
We were quite near the place I had in sight
Four hours of his, and I was in the place
A boy at play, and he made me the boy,
Who looked at me and smiled.  Well, it was true
That then I saw him in his great grey eyes,
And kissed him and then spoke for me again."
"And now you say not that to-day I come
And take his gold and silver, and his mien
And his face are too like your father.  Will
I leave you then forever, it seems,
If you have aught of gold, a little purse,
A little friend, or even a little lad?
And he does well."
"Not by the gold, in anywise," said I,
"Or the silver, if I ask it.  You believe
That in his days he had a good time with me.
The story of this man with the Dorick name
Will have the name,--
But not from that?
"I had been told of him
At school in Boston; this is not that I
Had dreamed of him--"
"For all this blood,
His father's money, I have found it all
On other ground.  I see him now at play,
And all the time he is in work.  Well, say,
Why did we meet?  why did we never meet?
Why did we never meet in anywise?
And yet it happened.
"Well, then he tells
What the child's business meant, and I, too, must
Do nothing else.  He says,
'I need him more.'  Why, here he is to go
And tell about my father and my son
And tell about the happy time.  I think
They both were like the rest.  What did the child
Prolong this man?
"They passed along
As happy as the good old father always did,
With his all spent.  They brought a ship to port,
And sailed along the seas, and, like a bird
That finds her nest by night without her mate,
Welcoated others.  At the last they came
To where the ship lay in, without a frame
"I thought they had received a treasure ship
Far out into the ocean.  I was glad.
I had a thought of money, and of money,
For both had gone to town, and I must say
The child was not with me.  I have seen him there
Giving up everything that can befall
The child that I was tempted to.  And here
I have kept him with my memories, and so
He may be now among my memories."
The parents rose, and then, as one who wakes,
Bade me my boy's small fortune prove a dream;
But when the caravans departed, I
Went out to help the boy.
And there I learned
The way my boy had gone, and, all his plans
Stamped his man's memory, and he came back
With the long, sweet, stealthy pace that seemed to hinder
The steps of pleasure; and, once, I had come
To meet the boy that bore him to his home,--
The boy with the dark eyes.
But I was glad
That in his time there came good news afar
And goodlier news: the boy had been so glad
That there was nothing else to make him sad,
And that there was no cause for tears that wet
The face of him he loved.  He had been glad
That no one ever yet an orphan had
Or sister left a brother!"
"Nay, nay,
I will go back to Ina, and be glad again,"
Ben Jonson roared.  But I was not afraid
Of anything so sad as that.  I crept
Back to my fold and listened.  Then a strain
Of silence, like the moan of far sea-steeds,
Broke on mine ear.  I cannot put the pain
Into my heart, for I was always hungry,
And, if God blessed him, he would not let me
Go weary with the silence.  If he were,
That is the least of what I would believe
His hands and feet
======================================== SAMPLE 810 ========================================
 of the present edition of "To Schiller,"
"A tale of the dead, a tale of the past" etc.
The last poem is from a "Roderick of the West,"
The two first stanzas are out in the 'Roderick' page:
Where a three-corner'd man was making the road,
A-down the steep highway he took with his load;
And there, as he sat, in his house above,
The master-stroke wrought with his daily curse;
And, when he had done so, would say at his prayers,
"The devil himself has done with the Devil in hisairs!"
Och, who can that ill-starred man espie?
His brains are dry, his senses gone from me;
His days are over and his nights come short,
He does not know, he will not come to court;
The house is all a-fire, and he can see
No other living man that was so free.
O, sirs, he has been a traveller in the south;
He thinks he's safe to speak to you on this occasion.
He's welcome in; the landlord does him no offence;
He drinks clean water in a little draught of liquor,
And can the poor lad that is ill abroad
Take care of his trouble, and come to the inn
Where you may all be safe from every gun;
And he will say to the piper,
"Sing no song, but lay your head low;"
And surely the landlord, hearing his stick,
Would pardon a culprit who came for a quarrel,
And would punish a gentleman for his sin,
And send his own sins to the parish of St Peter.
The saddest of all is the Man at the door,
The Man that is not, and that never shall,--
The Brownie, the Man with the Hoe in his hand,
The Man that will never, never come more.
For, if you be guilty, forgive me the least,
But leave me an audience to come at your leisure,
And tell the old folks how, in their bitter jest,
They laugh at the joke, and say, why, all in a crime,
The judge, when he sees you, objects to pleasure.
His nose is red-lank; and his brow is white hare;
He has a sharp nose like a tortoise,
And in all his short life there's nowhere a spot
So barren and void of passion or fear,
Except your own heart, in the days of October.
The man is a brown-haired, whisperer,
And the kind of a man that's not plenty;
The reason of which he's not ready to liquor
Is, that he'll pay wages with notes of the hopper.
But whether he'd rather have strolling abroad
Just at the time, with the dogs in the leash,
Or under the carcase, with one or two pad,
Or that nice mop of mutton and fife in the bag,
Or with his own elbow, who does not occur
To care at all for the empty place round the hall,
'Tis not the man, but the woman that's gone.
There are two kinds of people that look like 'em;
There's always a woman one instant indoors:
There are two kinds of people as anxious as grazers;
There are many who say they like them the best:
There are many like me and my partner in the house.
There are two kinds of people who talk like this:
There are two kinds of people, I'd gladly take that.
There is one in the house, and the other is Murray;
There are several kinds of people in America;
There are several kinds of people, I mean their number.
There's a girl growing up in the house by the light,
There's a youth upon the road, or a girl somewhere in New York;
There's a prettier girl, and a man more congenial,
But none of the likes of the likes of the fellows are equal.
There's one who has never been married and married,
There's one who don't want to be treated with kindness;
A fair youth is never employed nor neglected;
There's one who has never yet come to a neighbor,
And one who resides in New York from the start;
But none of the likes of the likes of the fellows
Are equal to him, and wherever he goes,
The heart somehow breaks under the hand that is steering;
And so it is with me, and with this wretched friend
Of a friend who has never yet come to a end.
There is one that is neither sot pale nor morbid;
He has met with the queen when she rose from her
======================================== SAMPLE 811 ========================================
s, and Bauchs, and others.  If I had known it to me
that Eunuchechus had slain him, or that I had thrown him into a
fowler's net. But Jove would have given me a terrible death if
I had seen it from afar."
With these words he threw the snare into the boat of Cymeleus,
and drave her thence into the hollow of the river that runs
past the Scamander to the sea, where the shadowy forest of
mortales. Then to the hall of King Eumelus, the fair lady, he
worshipped the wondrous spear of bronze, in keeping from the
spear thrusting it back in his heart. Then he stepped back to
the chamber where his brave comrades were waiting him on the
high chair, and in their fear were waiting round the lord
of spears, the lord of nations.
But Laodamas turned his face and spake, saying:
"See there the might of the white-armed Achaeans; they have
mighty princes about their fat and ruddy cheeks; they
fling wide the doors of their ruddy raiment, they are not good
men, howsoever strong they are and strong, but they are men,
and they are heroes in the eyes of no man.  Say, if indeed
that there be one that is dwelling on the earth, he shall
find hard labour with his fellows."
With these words he thrust the spear into the wound of
Eurytus. The hero then cut off the scar that lay in his
eyebrows, and drew the pitiful spear out; his bronze-shod
armour held his own in the hand of Eurytus, who was son to
Agamemnon, and as he did so the point of the arrow went out
of his eye, and he fell to the ground.
Then the famous son of Peleus, comrade to King Agamemnon,
said:
"King Agamemnon, I bid you all be gone, lest we make towards
the city and the sea shore, and the ships of the Achaeans to
effect our death. But since your heart is ever with you, I will
have a care to give you one and all. When the companies of
the Achaeans come round to fight the Argives will be all at
hand, for it is in no wise averse to dispute about one or
another of them, for they indeed have reason to quarrel and
have reason to quarrel."
As he spoke he led the way and the Achaeans followed him in.
There came the Achaeans, heavy with wine and with goats to
flee to the ships of the Achaeans.  With laughter and shouts they
stayed them, and fell on the ground. The two brave son of
Peleus set the cup in his hands and took his seat on the mighty
 peg and reared a fair white steed to the chariot, which he had
borne at full speed.  Then he went up to the chariot and said
bade the mighty man and his charioteer keep the steeds out
all of the ditch and draw them against one another. He too,
brave Nestor knight of Gerene, made the good steeds with their
bodies and with their shoulders to the ground, with the steeds
their feet and the reins their horns.  Now we will go up to Nestor
in the morning we may first take on the horses and fetch the
cattle we have taken up, for I have been far sooner in the
town than in the morning. We will then ride into the town and
find dear Patroclus lying low down in his ambush, and will make
him ashamed of his folly."
With these words he led the way and the Achaeans followed him
ashamed, for their steeds were frightened by a fear that they
should never know his coming. But Patroclus could find no
shelter, and still he was at hand. He cast his helmet about
his front shoulder, and his armour rang rattling about his
shoulders, that the chariots were fired to take in the rout.
The Trojans, therefore, sprang into a ring round the horses,
dancing, who were close behind in close fight, but the charioteer
now ran right aside and let him lie out of the rear till
he had got over him; for he was pressing close up to the foot
of the plain, whereon he came right up to him and said, "I
see what a terrible war is going on inside yesterday's shop
if you are drawing out the rascal's hide so I will stand
before you, or you
======================================== SAMPLE 812 ========================================
,--
My heart is filled with pain:
Ah, what have I to do with pain?
To suffer, to forgive,
To keep one, none may live
To save one, none may give
To whom alone one given,
All other hearts can leave or give,
Without one thought or thought and deed,
All other souls are left or lost.
Ah God, whose mercy knows that none
Save I who live and thus rejoice,
Who send and guard our souls to each
The path of mercy, loving none,
Save I who serve and thus rejoice.
And I have put all bitterness
Into the tender loving heart
Of one I love and hope the best,
Who takes his hand and looks at me
As if he knew my love doth lie,--
I want his hand and looks at me.
The world is full of bitterness; the sin-dimmed eye
Of pleasure gleams from solitude to solitude,
Afar,--far on the shores where the sad wanderer strays,
The shadow of her presence broods.
Where is she now?  Is she uneasy now, that she
Hears not the moaning of the sea on rocks and rocks?
Does not the long-felt kiss of the sunbeam play
Upon the pallid deeps of her?
And is it she?
And is it I, that she
Hears not the moans that sink into her in the world, that she
Hears not the great waves roll?
Aloof with her, and yet not near,
The spirit of my soul,
Throbs in the throbbings of her tear,
Sighs o'er the death of her most noble dead,
And trembles to a start.
And then she sees another, other life
In which she links me with to him and speaks,--
With other words she stammers:  lo,
The hour has come to utter her last woe.
And, O, the loneliness of yesterday
That clasps the heart and spirit to the years!
The sorrow in the sunshine of the day.
They who have left us all take ship and crew
And onward, ever by the wave-kiss drained.
They who have sailed and sailed, forever must
Be tossed in whirls of wreck and ruin, tossed
By the loud surge of wreck and ruin, lost.
Still, still they sail, and ever more and more,
They, ever more, forever; they, farewell!
And still they ply the reckless wheel they strike
And ever more and more, incessantly,
But ever more, as they, incessantly,
They, ever more.
Oh, were my love yon lilac fair,
Oh, were yon lilac fair,
I'd couch me in yon shady tree,
And set my young heart to a bound.
Then, then, the world would end, and I
Should wander, musing, sigh and weep;
And I should hear the robin's song,
And the bluebird's lay, and the soft-stirred thrush
All would be listening to the tale
How the butterflies have built and sown,
And the bees have uttered their old vows
Of humming-birds in the honey comb;--
And the butterflies have uttered vows
Of summer in a thoughtful mood;
And now they gather in the buds,
The goldenrod and the blue-bell flowers,
And the bees hum in the honey comb;--
And it's O for the faith and the love
I'd have, to hear all round me tell
The dreams of my childhood, the joy and the pain
Of the old woods and the happy plain.
Oh, were I yon lilac fair,
Oh, were yon lilac fair,
I'd couch me on yon shady tree,
And kiss the blooms that bloomed for me.
Then, then, the world would end, and I
Should wander, musing, sigh and weep;
And I should hear the linnet's song,
And the bluebird's song, and the melodious thrush
All would be listening to the tale
How the butterflies have built and sown,
And the bees have uttered their old vows
Of humming-birds in the honey comb.
Where are the songs that we sang to-day?
In highway and pavements gray,
The laughing and smoking village flare
When life and the things we loved of yore?
Ah, 'tis not the lightsome day
That leads us to our night of play,
By which we may turn from the joy of life,
And part in the dreams that haunt our brain;
In the dim dear darkness long ago,
When our eyes had little to say,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 813 ========================================
 on your
A little bird sits on the top of a tree,
And I know if the wind is blowing or not,
And if I can hear its song it will be more sweet,
For it is more to your mind than the birds to your feet,
For it is more to your love than the birds to your love,
And more to your dear than the homing birds are,
And more to your dear than the world to ourselves,
And more to the heart than its world to ourselves,
For it is more to your heart than the world to ourselves.
Come to me, O Father, in the morning
Come to me where the dews are falling
Where the rushes in the ferny brake
Are like white foam upon a sea.
Come to me, come to me, O Mother,
Come to me where the winds are calling,
Where the rushes in the ferny brake
Are like white foam upon a sea.
Where the rushes in the ferny brake
Are as white foam upon a sea.
O Mother, Mother, on the hill
Come to me where the winds are calling,
Where the rushes in the ferny brake
Are as white foam upon a sea.
Come to me, O Mother, in the morning
Come to me where the dewdrops fall,
Carry me where the dewdrops fall,
Carry me where the white ferns call,
Carry me where the winds are calling,
Where the rushes in the ferny brake
Are as white foam upon a sea.
Come to me, come to me, O Mother,
Come to me where the dewdrops fall,
A little tired child is calling,
Carry me where the dewdrops fall.
Over the hills and far away
I watch the children riding in the oats
The wind across the wheat-fields wide
The wind goes crying in the wind.
The wind in the East is crying
The wind goes calling and calling
The leaves go whirring and flickering and flickering
Down hill where the wind is hurrying,
Down hill till down sea:
We can hear it and see it beating
The wind goes crying and crying
In the wind of the East to-day.
We can smell the sea of blossoms
And the clouds and the rain and the wind and the rain,
And the voice of the wind through the leaves crying
"Wife, wife!ife" from the low cry
We cry for the peace of the fields and the home,
The grey mist swells along the sky,
The sun goes down and the dew is gone,
We can hear it and see it whirring and whirring
And the wind goes crying and calling
Long, long ago to a distant mart
On the shores of another land.
And they are not always soldiers,
But they must go on with the old fighting cry
In fields where only the grass is dry.
Soldier, soldier, and sailor,
Why do you make your cannons roar?
Do you make the rivers roar and rave?
Do you make the good sword loom and sweep?
Do you drive the deer from hill to hill,
And the wolves from town to town?
Do you make your horses leap and reel
And desert the fields about?
And from every tree and blossom in the field
Are you bound to make a shout?
Do you make your cooks cry with all their might,
And make the rivers roar and howl
And the wolves and the hawks cry out in the night
To their wolves and the night-owl?
Do you make the golden apples flash and dance
And blaze to see if you will;
Do you make the lindens scream for their joy of life
With joy of love and trust?
Do you make great floods against the hills
For the rivers of brightening grey?
Do you make the wild flowers bloom for you
And the blossoms bloom for you?
Oh, do you go on with the wind
And go free on the seas of foam,
To the fight of the winds behind
And the great ships that come home,
To the battle of God
To the children of home?
They are fighting hard for the country behind,
But it's there alone that we fight,
Where the angry guns thunder
And the dead may lie on the hills
While the winds are high.
Oh, it's there alone that we fight
For a country of freedom and fame,
To be made one country
And a goal of fame.
"That this city of riches will never fade into the ages of
"That we are not defeated again?  That our oaths of power, that
"That we will be faithful and have no fear.  That we will
======================================== SAMPLE 814 ========================================
s
Of black and white and red,
In the little room
Tipping a clock in its hand
And striking it with the face of a friend.
A woman, a woman,--
And never a sign of a hint of a face.
(A man,--and a lover,--
And a man shall make his choice.)
A friend,
And a lover, and never a hint of a face.
(A word,--and a lover,
And a man shall make his choice.)
A shop
And the things to eat.
And a child at a shop.
And the things to be little.
And nothing could tempt a child.
(A man,--and a woman,--
And a man shall make his choice.)
A lady, a lady,
And a child shall maker of nets.
A lady, a lady,
And a little child shall play with a flute;
And I, for my part,
Will sing for your profit,
Honouring the man in the world,
Who shall tell you the reason why:
Who shall make you a master of nets.
(A man,--and a woman,
And a man shall sing with a flute.)
I am happy in everything,--
I love the smell of the roses,
And the green of the wood above me,
And the soft of the rain on the bushes,
And the shade of the running brook,
And the rustle of leaves in the meadows
In the meadows cool.
I am happy in everything,--
I love to sit in the locust's breath,
And to swing my cage in the clover,
And to wander away in the stubble
To the likest bear.
I am happy in everything,
In the seed, in the flower, in the fruit,
And the sweet of the honey-plants humming,
And the shade of the fall of the fruit,
And the sound of the hunter's footsteps
Where the thickets climb.
I am happy in everything,--
I love the smell of the clover
And the green of the meadow-brake,
And the cool of the running brook.
I am happy in everything,--
I love the smell of the apples,
The warm of the rain on the ripe clover,
And the shake of the wind in the branches
That shake in the clover and make a noise of the sea.
As I am happy in everything,
I am happy in everything,
I love the smell of the clover
And the green of the meadow-brake,
And the soft of the rain on the melon leaves
That fall on the dead of the winter time.
(I know the smell--as I heard them all!)
I know the smell of the clover flowers,
I know the voice that is not for me;
And the thought of the smell of the clover leaves
As I listen to the wind in the tree,
And the voice of the wind in the clover caves,
As it seems to me.
I am happy in everything,--
I love the smell of the clover flowers,
The clover blossoming over me
As I listen to the wind in the trees,
As it seems to me.
With a gesture of a prayer,
With a pressure of his lips,
As that of an angel's prayer
Beating softly everywhere
And our Lord with me;--
Under the common sod;
With a pulse of the Heavens beating
And the swift descent;
And we know from the sliding earth
God was not an abler birth!
For the air is a fragrant balm
Breathing into healless calm
As the winds of the heart of nature
Over the breathless calm.
From the fulness of a manger
That is born of the bosom-foam,
From the joys of the garden calm,
From the happy dream and home,
From the holy peace of heaven
And the sleep of the lower deep,
From the joys of the heart of the lower earth--
We know, in the mystic word,
God was an image of the Lord,
That made a world for man,
And gave him ways to wander
In a lonely land apart.
Was a little thing in season,
Was a little thing, I think,
That the fellow that was honest
And the splendid fault was not.
Was a little thing, in season,
Was but a summer's day,
Was a pleasant place for living
And a peaceful world to play.
Was a little thing, in season,
But the goodliest manger amongst men.
And the Lord had pity on it,
And a Father, calm
======================================== SAMPLE 815 ========================================
, who know, mayhap,
How he would like to have his sister, dear,
Because one year out, in her, all the day,
She and her young brood daily and nightly bring
Her little child back to her arms, and play
Among the trees, or where her little hand
Cuts forth the branch of some soft moss, or stands
Among white boughs, and draws her pliant lip
Into the sweet milk she hath borne to the lip,
A little, round, and delicate, tender thing,
And all at once I fear I shall not be
Without her; and she will not be changed.
I'm thinking of my darling, as I sit
Myself by seeming the door in the lane,
Not very sure to find him; for, last night,
I saw him come back, coming back again
Three times this time, when, by the window-sill,
I met him, walking there, and knew at once
The little, sweet face he had in his arms.
I found no flower of weed, but he was there:
I could not look at all, for I had looked
So wistfully and long, that I somewhere
Had found his footsteps. For, oh! oh! I fear
That these bright eyes will ne'er see him again.
'Tis said, he wandered in a field of flowers,
And one among them all, the small, sweet flowers
That knew him, as I know it, for the love
He spoke to me was dear; it seemed to me
He touched my hand in life, and all his life
Was full of love, and now I know the truth.
I did not know the love he felt for me,
But, seeing it, his own heart burned for me
As I brought forth a rose of sweetest red,
A tender perfume, and I turned aside
To seek him in a garden, where the rose
Hung heavy on the dew-drenched grass; so close,
So close he came, he dropped it from my hand,
And left me there alone:  it was the same,
A soft, young rose in a garden, and a few
White lilies by a fountain-side in spring,
Pale, white narcissi in a marble cup,
And the light was dying in their pale petals,
And the perfume died:  and, just as I stooped down
To drink my little prayers, when all the air
Came thick with whispers, only a soft, sweet
And sorrowful perfume, like to the wind
That wanders through the branches till the moon
Sank from the heaven. So I searched the flowers
Until I gave them all to you, O Queen,
To keep if those white lilies were not dead,
And if they were not living, all my life
Was empty. Only I could see, as I stood
Through the long darkness of the night, a face
That leaned against some hard-won, thorny close,
That looked upon me with a weary eyes,
And held me with a hand, yet held me fast,
As one whose life has been a thousand years,
Yet feeling only that it shall be lost
Ere many years are over, and no tears,
No prayers could make my own face look again,
Nor any longing in my happy heart
For the whole world, for the old place was full
Of dead men's love and sorrow. But the face
Of my Queen's face, when all the hours were over,
Was full of light and laughter and the voice
Of her sweet love, and she had come too late,
As if she came to me in some disaster
Of what has happened, for no one could tell
When I had come. I had not asked her face
The first time that she touched me. I had come
To say farewell to her, and you were dead;
But the sound of feet came in upon me still,
Although I felt you at my heart. O sweet
Is life in death.  The shadows of the dead
Crouch at the doorways of the House of Life.
I cannot enter yet. My soul is sad
And I would go away from this sad hour.
Is it because I come not with the dead
That I could never find? Then, all night long,
I pass beneath the ghostly evening stars.
It is the ghostly twilight of a night
That fills with vague and spectral memories
My spirit as with shapes of those long-vanished
And long-vanished dreams. It is the wind
That in the distant city cometh soon
With sounds of singing and with shouts of laughter
Like mighty children through the streets of Time,
Swept down with unseen footsteps to the tomb.
It
======================================== SAMPLE 816 ========================================
, as he was a-ploughing along the furze, or
chaffing the barley, would perhaps have grown too heavy for
the wind, and not even when winter is all gone it would bring
out again, for after the ice is melting. I should have been
called to catch the breath of the autumn wind and then again
pursue the odor of the new-ploughed violets, and which I
have stood on I shall never touch. And I should have been
called to snatch a few sheep and let them range the fields,
and to let the dogs bark at them who need, and they should
not even catch the smell of the dust, if a good wind had
breathed them from the quiet of the earth.'--ii. 576-80.
Heaven who sent us!]
Now the storm-wind, the rushing, the driving--the wreck, the
dreadful--the ravaging anger of the enemy, and the tumult
of war.
All men would have been but stricken, and stricken in the
cradle, and killed because of the rain.
That was the day of their deaths.
A whirlwind, that was afire, and they, with their heads
tossing about in the blast, and their knees and their
shriekful cries, would have made the dead wail to the
mound. There was one who had died in torment, for his great
brother had let his brother die; and there was he who was
loved by an enemy, and whom the people blessed in their
possessions.
"But thou, thou, thou, who hast been often my guest while
sitting with great joys, who hast changed your mode of
dress and of face, give thy wife to me, and set forth to
my good mansion your house, that my treasures and my dowry
and my possessions may dwell in safe keeping with thee in
the chambers of my kingdom. But I have stolen away my
livelihood, and had but few friends and I have perished in
the wind. And thus I will take burial in my native
distant country as I shall tell thee hereafter."
To this the son of Lycaon answered, "My friend, I am full
and strangely come of it; thy mother and my brethren will
not share it. The time draws near when she must needs go on
with her untiring life, and the time shall be when they
will come to her at the funeral."
Then the man drew near nearer unto the son of Lycaon, and
laughed and spake unto him winged words: "Noman is she who
shall come to us and sit down to comfort us. She is beloved
of the gods, but she was more than a woman, and is beloved
by the son of Tydeus. She is far the fairest of all of the
clods, and she was the most lovely of women; and I was
she who am the daughter of Zeus. Therefore she will come to
the chamber of Hades, the dread, and the great, when she
will come to me; so may none of the Achaeans know her, but
she is blessed in the kindness of the gods, the sunlight and the
winds of heaven give her beauty to the wooers. Surely none
of the maidens shall know her, for there are many whom
she carries about in her heart and mind the many whom she
wedding in her chamber, wherefore now thou seekest out
fain to tell thy mother of this, for a thing that is not
unallaxed in her bosom. But if thou are in the chamber
and alone, and if a god is minded to give thee thy life,
hereafter thou shalt say that thy days hence shall be as
thou then art to me, 'tis a grievous thing that thou shalt not
bear thy sorrows, though thou shalt be the last man among
men in the world. But a few of them shall keep here and come
back from the world, for lo, thou art ordained a god of
judgment upon the heads and companies of men.'
"But the father of gods and of the other gods smiled at
thy words. He touched the earth and the river, and bound
thy feet to him with a bond that is stronger than the earth,
while he raised a god about his neck and with a great cry
roaringly took thee over the high hills. But he raised thee
from the dust and spake unto thee, saying:
'"Hold thy breath, thou so famed among all tribes in the
world, if thou darest to do so, even I am here, for I was
not born of the earth, but sprang from the highest
throne, and I am
======================================== SAMPLE 817 ========================================
.
And so, I am no doctor at a time,
For I am very fortunate and sick,
For I cannot get used to what one would,
Nor can get what he wants. I am, indeed,
With nothing to do but think and write,
And yet--it's a wondrous place to talk--
I am glad if I could get used to talk.
I wish that I were a part of a man,
And a part of myself, and who am here
To tell you that I can eat bread and beer,
And that I can drink beer and smoke and smoke,
And that somehow I shall get used to what
Moosers are, as to the contrary,
Heaven defend us!--
The time of the day is three thousand and ten,
For then before I could change my mind,
I thought of the plan that had come to my mind,
And what I had learned of the mutton I'd seen
In fifty-three hours, and it seems a day
That a man's got used to put out of his senses
And take his own trouble--that's all I have to say.
'Tis a sad alorama, and yet by no means
A man is seen here with a woman's eye,
And all he can see is the smile of a man,
And the woe sent hurrying down from the sky.
And so, when the day is departing,
And the week is beginning to lower,
If I try to forget the old plan and the plan,
I am sure that I'll try till another man
Has come back to me, and I know that he's dead,
That his face has turned white, and his form is bowed,
And I know that he never could put on a shroud,
And can never have brought his wife back.
The thought of the pain is greater than that,
For his wife's getting used to her living when dead.
And the fact that I'm thankful enough to say
Is nothing but plain as I'm sure it's true,
And I'm grateful when living, but then, by the way,
Of the man who is doing this or that,
With his fingers tied up with his hand out of his eyes,
And his face looking inwardly troubled, and sad,
Is a comfort to me that I'm in his mind,
For there are no hands to touch what we have seen,
And the eyes have their depths to be closed on by tears,
And the eyes have their depths, but sometimes, for years,
They look at the things that they saw when we were boys;
And the eyes that are weeping they still look at me,
And the cheeks are still blushing when they look at the sky,
And yet--this is a comfort, a blessed thought,
And I like them to be sitting with open eyes,
Or writing my books with a pencil or two,
Or writing a book with little or no,
Or standing mute, for the hand on my brow,
Or gazing at things that are no more than they,
I wish I could be a painter for you,
Or a painter for you, and you listening to me,
Or the eyes of my sweetheart for you,
Or the lips of my sadheart for you,
Or the eyes of my sweetheart for you,
Or the lips of my madheart for you,
I wish I could be a painter for you,
Or a painter for you, and you listening to me,
Or the eyes you have gazed at with magic eyes,
I wish I could be a painter for you,
Or only a painter for you,
Or only a painter for you,
And the eyes you have loved with mine for you,
Or the sound of the voice of my love for you,
Or what you have loved with my song for you,
Or whether the sweet you have loved me for you,
Or whether the sweet you have loved me for you,
Or the sunlight or twilight for you,
Or the kisses you gave me for you,
Or the soft white arms of my girl for you,
Or the lips of my madheart for you,
I wish I could be a painter for you,
Or a painter for you, and you listening to me,
Or the sound of the voice of my love for you,
Or the kiss you gave me for a kiss for you,
Or the shadow that falls from the angel wing
On the soul of Beatrice,
As I kiss you to-day, for my soul is far away--
My face is far away, my heart is far away.
Do you remember how I loved you,
Those evenings long ago?
Do you remember the dark road
Which led me to your door,
That led me to your house
======================================== SAMPLE 818 ========================================
.
JUNO. Then said the father, to the king:  "We're here!
To the camp, my lord.
The king has sent me a ship.
Away! away!
The king has sent me a ship!
The court sends forth a thousand men.
The captain is with the queen.
The boy grows up with a wild cry
And claps with a hand, and laughs.
The king has sent me a ship.
The boy from England, he cries
(As the wind blows through the town),
"The sails are spread.  They're flown."
With a lash he drives them all
On their long black wings, and flies
Over the ships, where they lie
On the dead world's cold ends.
They fly for shelter.  They fly
Over the sea!  They fly
Over the clouds of the sky.
The king has sent me a ship.
The boy from England, he cries
(As the wind blows over the clouds),
"The sails are spread."
But the sails are spread
On a swift black sheet of red,
And the white men's oarsmen fall
On the ship's white sheet.
And the white men's bodies
Are borne on a white sheet.
And the soft men's fingers
Are fastened and strained.  All
Are hung around the ship.
The great ships tread.
And the tall ships scatter
On the black wet wind.  The waves
Are a moment lost in heaps.
And the sea is swallowed up,
And no man lives again
In that ship.  They lie on the sands
Beneath the wintry sun.
On the open sea they lie
In their sea-weary graves,
On the wild-ploughed sands.
In that shipwrecked body
The sea heaveth asunder,
As the dark wave swallows
Where the white men float.
And the deeps have hushed their crying
On the strand, and the white bones lie
At the black bows' ends.  But one,
That lie on the cold earth,
And speak to the wind of the sea,
Spake to the ship with a wail;
And he knew her by the pale,
In the green seas where she lay.
And the sea-fog wrapped her round
Whiter than snow, and bound
Her round black brows with gold.
And said the king, who is risen
From a strange land?  Who is here
Weeping for help?
The lords of the sea!
And the kings?
The princes, the kings!
I greet them with awe;
I greet them, I clasp them, I kiss them, I hold them.
And there is one here alive,
And his face is as glowing as is the light of a candle.
The proud, the proud of a land
That was first in the world!
What was he?  The cloud-shapes!
And he stood by the King in a glittering place on his throne
Like a proud little mocking-bird,
In his crown.
With a wail and deep-mouthed.
"There are men, and their eyes are so hard,
They have no pity upon us;
For their hearts are as hard as the stones on the stones
That the sea crumbles and breaks.
And their eyes are so large, and their hands, too, are bare;
And no man lives to trouble the years that have marred him;
For a King must have some trouble and others be glad."
And the beggars that live in the land
Clunched him hard by the grim old man.
And the big black ship in her wake,
And the loud ship bowed as she strode like a stricken thing--
What was he?
Toiling on for the whole of a short time;
And the beggars laughed there in the moonlight.
"Are you mad, are you hungry?"
Said the king through the great grey cheer.
"Have you met the truth of the lands that now endures?"
"Met your ruth?
Was it you that made good of, or did God endures?
I am mad, and I hungry, I hungry.
I am hungry.
I have seen no pity upon you,
And I hunger.
I hope, I hope, for Hell smiles at you,
And Hell smiles at you."
Then the beggar spake:
"Not without that, not without;
He shall yet eat,
Till it be too late for his heart's desire;
He shall thirst for it yet.
I have seen no pity upon you,
And I hunger,
For the gold is in the moonlight, my heart will
======================================== SAMPLE 819 ========================================
, in the company of the famous members of the
circled, in imitation of that by Ovid, and much like the
others.
v. 23.  I spied a serpent with six feet.]  At the end of his tail
was the form of a snake, struggling violently to escape.
v. 59.  In vain.]  The angels, Gabriel, were still so impotent
that they could only sting one another, only for their mouths of
the last wound.
v. 58.  I saw a dragon with a threefold head.]  At the end of his head
v. 64.  Many were the trees on which that sow'd.]  The flowers
in the time of the singing of birds, and the flowers which in their
birth, by the Power that was Power, were all. I saw a serpent, that
charm of his Eyes, which had already appeared to me three months
v. 93.  A tree.]  The one in the Augustan Tide.
v. 69.  A chariot.]  Apollo, who was reported by the Scorpion, who
v. 89.  The decretals were erect.]  So Chaucer, ii.
De l'erbrotto. Du Canivers de France, de la b**a.
l'or de pluvia
Qu'y avectivait un temnée.
Carsele de l'Histoire, bord de la pluée.
v. 104.  As the sun's sphere.]  It takes a position on the east horizon,
v. 119.  The day.]  The day of the constellation of the
equinoctial.
v. 100.  The thirteenth.]  He conquered the Hesperian fields in the
v. 144.  The sons conveyed by light of the sun for their companions
the Emperor Henry II. and the great Emperor Henry II. of
Carranz, who was born in the sixth part of the island of Val di
Otho, was one of the chief companions of the King of Spain.
v. 26.  The thirteenth.]  Aeneas, the son of Henry IV. of Spain, a
lady of the old name.
v. 38.  The seventh.]  Aeneas the son of Henry IV. of France, whose
lady of his age was a swallow.
v. 49.  A wondrous fowl.]  Avarice was a bird, which was also
solitary in the mid of winter.
v. 56.  The shepherds pen us out of their straw.]
Eteocles and Calvert, and, as related by Mr. Pater, Dr. John
Woodfall, who was the third son of Philip IV. of Spain. He
v. 89.  The western wing.]  The same as the pennon of the avenger
v. 108.  Seven times.]  The seventh and eighth books of the
the Emperor Henry II. of Spain.
v. 103.  The monster Saladin's head.]  The king of Cyprus, King of
Saladin, King of Denmark. His design cannot be prettily expressed.
Ogni of Alessandria, who became the head of the Danes, and
afterwards as represented a human being. He dwelt about three
inclined against a monk in 1266, making a penance of the
Legitones of his age, by which he could never have been
acquainted with any penitent or with having any office of
support.]
Chiaruro in Bologna, or Quirini in the Palatine. The
Galicia was a province of the Adriatic, and much from the present
earthquake was famous for its singularity. The first part,
addressing to the text, was the Greek by transgressing the
lady of the king Neritois, and placing the book with his one
lady's dusky head over the pillow of his rival.]
Mother of God, in whom the Word, transmutes into words
of joy the head and heart, since He has put the book by, but
has not yet been satisfactorily figured.]
Charles I. and the French are still said to have founded the
origin of religion in the eighteenth century, when the
kingdom of Hungary was destroyed by the evil customs of the
Angyrus. His reign was about three months.
v. 96.  The cry, prolonged.]  Xanten, the daughter of the
Marquis Oenone, was in the dialect of Italy called from Spain
by an alliance which cost this later Davis a long life.]  The
brother of Ca Beati, and the sister of Cimabue
======================================== SAMPLE 820 ========================================
; and
"The song, though long delayed, was never sung
By mortal hands; yet, to the world unknown,
The song, is ever yours and mine." He continued to sing:
We are of a strange cast, the cast of
For every man knows, or even knows,--
The very man's heart, and the life-bearer's mind that
struggles to forget and forget.
Yet the man's heart is at rest, the cast is
in his heart of hearts, as in parts of a house
of walls or of streets, and the silence is silence, being
the music of doors, and the doors are a prison, and the
voice that it knows is but a cry out of the night
that breaks into sudden tears.
The man's heart is at rest and rides not; his words
are a way of winding through the streets, and this
is the worst path to him, for he has neither time nor
time that is left, nor the road for him to go.
There is no rest for him, there is no rest, and
there is no rest for him; there is no rest, for
there is no rest, after all. He must come
home in the dark to find what they would give.
The rest of life is a dream, a wandering dream,
but nothing better than what it must seem to me.
In a dreamlike hour he came, and the hour
was come for letting the door shut. "I have come in,"
He said softly to himself, "to lay my hand on my heart,
and I do not want to put it away. It is better to die
than to be a babe wrapped in its bloom than to be
anything remembered in the past. . . ."
And again, his voice, low and tenderly, struggled to speak:
"This is the end! The past is come! we must soon be
come to life," so he wrote the words, thinking of
life, and of the past that he had, and of the future that
was to break, and of the present that must be. His
imagination was earnest.
He wrote that "I will meet you, my lover."
He came back slowly, with the glow and the glory,
and the perfume of the blossoms in his wings; he came
in the silence and he folded his hands about him. . . .
the music of the blossoms and the perfume of the
thorn, and he leaned his head towards the past, telling
him time had come to stay, and how he should keep
the vows, to hold them, to wait, to stand by.
And how love was so great, and his great tenderness and
the greatness of his life that was made so sweet by him,
and the burden of his nature that it seemed of the
living touch of the heart, and the passionate longing
that it could feel, as I know it does, and is ever
growing, and a joy which too great is to be mastered
by life."
He must have died now at some miles away, and his face,
daring always to be lifted on the pillow, was
gloomy and worn and worn. He might have sat
there for a little while, and had looked out to the
shadow of the trees, and known too much of their
wall, and the light upon each flower, and passed
with a lightness and a grace. And the words had
not been uttered to his mind, and the phrase
who pondered the happiness to himself, and the words
of the woman that was living on the instant made the
curtains to flow in the heart of him, and so turned
into a smile to the clouds of mortality.
And, as he passed on, there came to him a voice
that cried to him across the future of his life.
"Not for the present, only for the future,
for the future, and for the future, for the present,
for the past, for the future, for nothing that may
have passed away. Leave me for a moment at the door
of the heart, and I will drink the cup of the memory,
which you, who have been, have made so sweet to me;
and I will go down to the bottom, and the perfume of
my first draught will bring it back to your eyes."
Then his face wore a glow of love, and a gleam of
tenderness through its depths, and he went down into his
own garden, and took a long and cherished walk, and
the smell of the flowers awoke him; his face grew
cold from its sweet content, and he remembered the
fetters that he had known; but, as he stood a moment
before him, the touch of her hand came up
======================================== SAMPLE 821 ========================================
,
When for a moment he has done his say,
He slips his arm around his pallet, and
Gives to the foe this and the other boon,
And whispers to his lords: "This is the man
The tyrant of the world is strong and great;
The world is his who keeps its own red tents:
He fights with men as if he fought the fight."
"Nay, but be comforted." And as their spears
Turn toward the dawn, of all the armies went
A sudden glamour on the half-lit hills:
The old men, one by one, are gathering round
A little space in the long-shadowed gloom
Which is like death's last rain upon the flowers,
And one by one on the old man's wall they gather
Round the first, and his lips are tremulous,
And then his eyes are full of tears and eyes,
And the old men fall upon their knees and ask:
"He is the King who sits in the midst of all!"
It seems to me that God has willed his own
To sit amid the millions here below,
And to accept his people as his own:
"His name is great!" ... "He is, and he has known
A wonderful, wonderful nation yet.
He is the King who holds his own again.
For him alone there is no hope, not peace;
He is ashamed to let the people go
Where they are waiting.... Are you not ashamed?
"His name is great!" ... The people murmured so.
The young men heard, and they did not reply.
"Nay, not afraid, for there are no words here!"
The people murmured, and the old men thought
How great had grown their watching and their care,
And all the land was filled with such a sound
As they would hear when in those quiet lands;
And all the land was filled with such a sound
As never was heard since the gods went down,
Out of the old gods' hands.
The old men heard, and then the others wept,
And wondered in what form these things were hid.
"The King is dead?" said one; "he is in flower!"
"How can a thing come here at all in flower?"
"Nay, but it is a wondrous sign," said one;
"A thing of magic and of witchery."
"The King is dead!" cried one.
"Nay, but it is a wondrous thing," he said,
"When all goes well with him, and he can sing."
"But is he dead?" said one.
"Nay, but it is a wondrous thing!" said one.
"Nay, but it is a wondrous thing indeed."
"Let us go, speak low, for it is better
That we should stay below and see the King.
He is asleep in the land of Nod."
"Nay, but it is a marvellous thing indeed!"
"Nay, but he is dead!"
And then the others cried in despairing tones,
And left the King for one more minute's rest.
"Nay, by the King," said one;
"We give him leave to stay below below,
For he is dead, and we must all go well!"
Then they went up, going down, down, out of sight,
And no more did they try to walk on a dark night;
For they knew his face, and they knew his power,
And they could only seek him out by rote!
O the sea was so broad, the sky so deep,
And the cliff was so steep.
And the Sails were so high, the ships they could not free,
And the Sails they were wafted down in a happy glee;
For the Sails were so high, and the rocks were so steep,
That there was no end of the Sails, no end of the Deep.
And there lay the Isle of Chimb, the Hill of Snows,
And there lay the Tower of Chimbould, far below,
All glimmering in the sun, as if the day were going by;
And there lay the Isle of Chimbould, far below,
Where the strong men now lie in their winter cots,
And the strong men now sleep in their acorn-beds,
And the great Thor still coasts on the Eastern side of the land,
And the two great Finnish monuments.
The Sails were so high, the Sails so deep,
And the rocks rose so high that they could not tell where they fell;
But no words came from the Isle of Chimbould
Forever across the blue;
For it chanced that there had been no bones of
======================================== SAMPLE 822 ========================================
 not,
But hold your tongue, I'll teach thy lips,
And thou shalt hear, and it shall be
_There!_--first the sound of _Liberty_.
'Gainst all most base, whate'er betide,
_Gainst God-like freedom;_ who shall guide
Thy voice, when thou art far from me?
_Mighty Omniscience is the guide
Of all which lives by this decree._
"_Live thou and be not, while thou hast life;_
_Thou shalt not suffer_, _I shall not live_.
"_Thou shalt not suffer, _I shall not live_:"
_Thou shalt not suffer_, _I shall not see_,
_Thou shalt not suffer_, _I shall know_,
_Thou shalt not suffer_, _I shall know_,
_Thou shalt not suffer_, _I shall hear thee hear thee_;
_Thou shalt not suffer_, _I shall look to thee_,
_Thou shalt not suffer_, _I shall look to thee_.
If men are worthless, if they lead astray,
If folly shows them, if they lead astray,
If they have lost that glory, have they borne
The weight of all their glory, and with tears
Have cursed and rained their moisture to the tomb?
If light had broken that cloud of unbelief,
If falsehood made a promise unto them,--
If hope in error had not lost its light,
What proves faith faith but a hollow dream of death?
If not believing, if believing's worth
In the light given us, if each step beside
Could prove assured foundations of salvation,
Why should the light fail not, if not faith in God?
_There!_--there are both points to what we are.
"_That_ is to say, that _be_ and _be_ and be;
That _be_ and _be_, and _be_ and _be_ and be;
For both of us must seek the very Way,
And seek the Way, and seek the Master's Son.
_That_ is to say, and _be_ and _be_ and _be_;
That _be_ and _be_, and _be_ and _be_ and _be_;"
That is to say, and _be_ the holy Word
And _be_ and _be_, and _be_ and _be_ and _be_,
And so live evermore and evermore,
That all who turn to _death_ shall have _no sense_,
Who, in his Master's sight, shall perish with _no sense_!
And, if a taint of _being_ should o'erpower
Him who alone stands sentry by his Law,
He who makes question of it, shall condemn
Him who hath most to speak, and least to draw
Blood from his veins till He who gives it law.
_That_ is to say, and _be_, and _be_ and _be_;
That when _thou_ diest in horror at the sight,
Thou, who hast _lost_, even in the depth of night,
Thy soul shall _death_ suffer, and thine shall be
The object Thou hast served, _the_ Endymion.
_That_ is to say, and _only_ is to prove
Thy faithful Love, Thy God, Thy God, and Love.
This is to say, and _only_ is to say,
That even _thy_ soul _can_ hope a perfect day.
And thus, when thou art gone, thou too, wilt bend,
And Love, thy faithful suppliant, spare it--God.
This is to say, and _only_ is to prove
That these frail things, with all their ends and bends,
Have force to _love_: and that they _must_ be _hired_,
They _must_ be _harvested_, _smoked_, _damned_, _exired_,
_And_ ... _when_ they're _harvested_! To _thine_ they're _turned_:
Thou shalt have _one_, _the other_, _the_, _the_, _the_ ...
And--which of the three last loves, the first one,
The best, the last, the _last_, the _last_!...
This is to say, and only _be_ to prove
Thou'rt _bound_ to love in silence; that's a _wreath_:
Thy fame shall live, or
======================================== SAMPLE 823 ========================================
.
But when I am going to the woods and fields
I will hunt for a drop of the milk
To make them merrier;
Though the woods are still too gay
In the very middle of the day,
And I fancy the wild things move
Like horses among the trees,
And that, at the edge of the forest, the sheep
Cry out to the meadow and meadow and meadow,
Leaving their charge to the wolves on the plains,
And a thousand sheep;
A province in an hour of the life.
If I were you,
I would be my comrade
And head my canoe in the wood
Where she and the Indian may dwell
On the hills of A.B.C.
Again I would kiss you
And, kiss you whoever you are,
Yes, I would.
If I were you,
I would be my comrade
And head my canoe in the wood
Where she and the Indian may dwell,
Hid by the shadows of the hills,
And the lonely shepherds
Will watch till my wedding-day.
Then I would sing a song to a simple maid,
Who waits on the door of a far-away bower;
"Won't you come in till you're tired and away
And never come back?
I would wake up and play
On a rock and the rain at the door.
I would have you keep out of the rain,
And I would stay to pray till another day
You may come out and be a maiden free."
And she is gone by the West
And the Wind's in the east,
And the Wind's in the south,
And the Wind's in the north;
But she lies by my side
And I weep for the day she died,
For the day she is dead.
And she sits by my side
And she sighs as she died;
And I weep as I weep, and I weep,
For the month she is dead.
And the Wind's in the south,
And the Wind's in the south;
And there's never a bird was seen
But has died in the south
As I lie by my love
And sleep through the day she was dead,
That is where they say she lies
In that far away years I lost her,
And that's where they say she lies
In that far away years I lost her.
As the sea that sleeps at his shore,
As the land that sways and swells,
As the land that he makes marts
And the land that he doth exalt,
So the Sea that he doth mear
As the land that sways and swells,
As the land that sways and swells,
So the land that he doth range
As the land that sways and swells,
As the land that sways and swells,
As the land that sways and swells.
As the sea that weeps at his shore,
As the land that sways and swells,
As the land that sways and swells,
So the land that sways and swells,
As the land that sways and swells,
So the land that sways and swells.
As the Sea that wails and groans
As the Sea that wails and groans,
So the land that sways and groans.
As the land that sways and swells,
As the land that sways and swells,
So the land of sores I lost,
As the land that sways and swells,
Sees I everywhere
The land my house hangs over in:
The wind and I are strangers in.
All day the wind has blown from off
And leaves it dying on the shore;
When one by one the waves return
And moan the waves that round us roar,
There comes a day as dear to me
As when I left my England dear
As when I left my England here:
Her shores are wild and grey, and there
The woods are crisp and white with snows:
But clear the sky and dark the sea,
It is her coast, her hidden skies,
The home I leave one summer's day
And sail again this golden day.
Then farewell to the dark-blue sky,
No place for me by mine is lit:
The waves are wild with the restless quest
The evening breeze brings to my breast,
Through the white circling woods I stray
And sail again, and sail away.
The day's kiss falls on the lips of mine
And the world grows dark, but the night is fair;
Mile on mile,yle on mile it swells,
And the world grows sad for the day's glare,
And the world grows sad for the days we
======================================== SAMPLE 824 ========================================
,
Aye, aye!
Might a gant, auld, greyhound,
Aye, aye!
Might a gant, auld, greyhound,
Aye, aye!
Might a gant, auld, greyhound,
Aye, aye!
Might a gant, auld, greyhound,
Aye, aye!
Aye, aye!
The hale hale hale, greyhound,
Aye, aye!
The hale fane, the wale we gae,
The feckless we hae sair to dree;
The cantie lads may dree, the weigher;
The trout is fair and strong, the miller is weary,
And aye the stanes go wae; the lasses look sairly,
Sae daft the bonie lasses,
Sae daft the bonie lasses,
Sae daft the bonie lasses.
It was na for sylvan sustenance,
Nae for carnival showit,
insin, no, no;
That fain wad prove a deadly foe,
Wad fain prove friend and play-boy.
--He was a weel-read man, Will,
Forbye fause faes thy deed!
It fell that gentle May,
With a gowd good-there to sell?
Or has thy laird a part?
I guess he is a sodger rough,
Forbye fause faes thy deed.
He was a bonie lass, Will;
Forbye fause faes thy deed;
And sae he came to our gate, Will,
Wi' a' the lads at his back.
My mither sent me to the king,
To fetch him drink and beer;
I fear his wits had tint a ring,
But he's gane by ye hame.
'O gin my coat were yon,' quo' he;
'O gin my coat were yon,
I'd send the pot-man skrievenly
Upo' my trusty sen'!
'My han' is on yon green hill,
Where we the red-coat drink;
I'll send yon lad to the king,
And naebody for him.'
'O Cur's tail is ower his gott,
And Cur's tail is to the wa';
I'll send yon lad to the king,
And naebody for him.'
He has his hame in his ain cot,
And his ain heuk are at his e'e;
I wish that I were yon red roan,
Wi' the Scotsmen at the till't.
But it's no the scaur that has brought him here;
'O Cur's tail is ower his gott!
I wish the lord were on yon green hill,
With a' the lads at hame.
"Awa, awa, ye ugly thing,
Awa, awa, ye ugly thing!
Let me taste the death of ane I love,
I lo'ed ne'er lier to sing."
Said nae wight o' the heathen host,
I wa'n never to see;
The vera tear came blinding up,
The Deil tak it nae for me!
But the minute that we twa swore,
I weel couldna shin,
The deil tak the other one,
But nae for Harry's Jean.
For I could neither write nor read,
And the pouches drank the reid;
But tell the noble Lord our auld wick,
Ye'll be the proud and meikle meid.
He has his coat o' yellow brown,
He can his hose and goun down,
And, if ye choose to attend him well,
He'll get a shilling of his shoon.
And lay him on a stack o' hay,
And there he'd make his gude o't gat back;
But mony a weill he'd up and say:
'I never saw a man before;
Now I'm a daimah in yon warl'
As five and twenty black marl's pack.'
They took a gowd and took an ill,
They took it on the hob and spell;
And then they gat the dibble back,
And set him on a stack o' hay.
They hae hunted him a' a' an' a',
They hae hae done wi' mae anae;
But some will pity him,
======================================== SAMPLE 825 ========================================
,
The sun--the rain
--What can the rain do?
The sky above me
--What can the earth do?
When the moon comes nightly
And the wind is in the tree,
When the house is still and the barn-yard mould
And moon-fires are low,
And you hear no footstep
But the sound of the long-drawn horn,
And the wind alone.
It may be you hear me
Where I dwell,
So low in the valley
So high in the lonely dell,
So far away from the hills
--I love the whispering rills
That wander a garden through.
The wind in the trees
Is a sad refrain;
But the heart of the breeze
Is the soul of refrain.
The tree-tops are withered and white with years;
The leaves all lie wither'd and withered and sere.
And the leaves are dead and gone;
And life is a thorn and it bears them alone.
Yet this little field by the river I pass,
This rivulet that sobs in the reeds and the grass,
This pond by the river at night,
This love-lighted field and the bright.
Here on the rim of the world I wander,
Here on the edge of the world,
Here--where it is--the road is the same.
The grass by the shore where the river runs,
As the fairies, once, scattered all night,
Are rivulets dancing,
With the reeds and rushes across the reed;
And there as I gaze on the river
From the banks of the river the river
Creeps silver-white, and the rushes throw shadows below.
But the reed has a message to me.
The reed is a kingfisher's breed,
And the river runs slower and far,
The river runs slower and far,
And the river runs slower and far,
--What shall I say to the song of the lark?
Hark! I will sing of the day in the dark.
Far away in the woods,
When the wind is abroad in the south,
With the reeds and the rushes across the reed,
With the sound of the bell of the bird--
Far away in the woods
I will weave a song of the night;
With my song will arise from the dark,
With my chant will arise from the dark.
O beautiful dream of the night!
When the earth and the heavens were still,
I brought thee a babe on my breast,
I cast it to sleep on my breast.
When the stars of the night looked on,
I sent it away to the light;
But it slept with my cradle alone,
With my song and the melody bright.
When the earth and the heavens were still,
I hid it and wrought it to day;
But it will sleep with my cradle alone,
With my chant and the melody gay.
Though the night is beginning to dawn,
And my anthem to morning shall spread,
I will go from my chamber away,
To dwell in the homes of my dead.
The stars of our heaven shall beam out
From their stations so dark and aloof;
But my song from afar shall outlive
My sorrow, my triumph, my grief.
I will sing of the day in the morning,
When the earth and the heavens shall be
When the dawn will rejoice and be glad,
And a song for the soul of me sing.
Like the sun on a hill,
When all else is still,
I will light my life's pathway,
Though it lead me astray.
I will think in the dawning,
When the earth and the heavens shall be
Most beautiful, bright, and unclouded,
That my feet have been free
To range the fair mountains
Of my desire and my heart.
In the morning, in the morning,
When the sky is serene,
I will bring thee my richest gift
Belov'd of all my mortality.
Thine was the garden's treasure,
Thine is the garden-herb,
The fruit of this world's treasure,
Whose fragrance lives in my heart.
Thine was the palace's glory,
The garden of truth and right,
The garden of grief that's woven of pain,
The garden of rose and white.
Thine was the palace's glory,
Thine was my sorrow, too,
As night with her eyes and the lids of her breasts,
The moon in beauty's blue.
And the heart in me beats like the running fountain,
And I in them all rejoice,
For I hear her music, and I am alone,
And I know she holds my choice.
She is the
======================================== SAMPLE 826 ========================================
, and the Beadle-Ukille.  The
angelic army, and the angelic host, were by the sudden
comrade. He was an excellent soldier; he fought well for
the honour of the church, and the time was now approached at a
blessed hand-ory; and he bore himself well upon his
coming-will; he kept well with the rest, and in the
confidence he fell, though he had not his share of labours and
hardly repented himself of doing the best he could;
for so far as his forethought could be conceived the brightest
and most blithe of all the army he did in that day;
though he would now at last lie in a trance of prayer upon a
subject that is hard to understand.
"At the same time he sent away a son, of a violent and
sentenced character, a servant of the king's house,
who was very unworthy of any offices in the Emperor's
law, to be forced by him to forsake his children and rob the
city of its lawful heir, for there the son was brought to
sustains for his master, in the very bad way, and was
confounded with him in these and similar sorrows, as that
was doing the king.
"Of the children of the king I have no doubt that my wife is
the heir of that land; therefore if one must die at the hands
of any nobleman who is a gentleman, and is beloved by all
of the court, I will abide patiently here and satisfy my lord's
heart with a simple husband, of a noble family, and I will
have no other thing from him, and my lord does not think me
worthy either of wife or son than to be loved by all and
descended by my people."
And Abraham answered, "My dear, you are a very great
demuner in your land, as you have said, and have a son; no
child so much respected as you are; he has a good spirit, a
heart and a will, that helps to do good deeds in the world. He
is my kinsman; be ruled by him, and with all grace. He is
your father-in-law; he will come again with you when you have
anointed him with your hands."
And Abraham answered, "Even thus, dear lady, I will not hide
from me, for I know that the man of deeds has needful knowledge,
and that you will do me the wiser for the good things that I
shall say to you."
Then the man of the manhood answered her: "I know there are
people who need no children, and their wives and kinsmen.
You know how much good men do good deeds by their labour, nor
will you deny me this case before people, after having a son like
yourself."
Then the woman said, "I will not tell you the name of my sire,
since you have an heir to rule this world, so that you may
surely be an heir; as for me, I am of stature noble; I am
your father. I am a great man; my blood has lain on the
ground, and my name is Abraham. I am of lineage noble, but
one of my brothers, and have an heir, too, to me in the world
of the king's house."
Then the man of the manhood answered her, "I will show you
this for no purpose. You need not be afraid to keep a son for
sins if you will."
Then the man of the manhood answered her, "I will do so;
this is what I have to say to you."
Then he went to his father's house and a kind of a most
meantless wooer, a man of the earth, a man of the earth,
very noble in their lives, and he held to his hand in the
lips, and said to him, "There is no man, however valiant,
with more strength than yours; he has long years before this
time. He has long years left his home; now his heart is
broken, and thus his son-in-law appears to me as the father
to-night his wife. There is no one in all the world who can
tell what he thinks about it. I would fain know so that the
child of Abraham keeps me in his house from the morning till
night. I am very weary of the household affairs of this
farce. My mother is angry at my child; let me stay here in
order and be unharmed."
Then Abraham's mother answered him, "What shall be done with
your son? If you will not do what you are minded, I will
explain to him one more secret counsel.
======================================== SAMPLE 827 ========================================
 and St. Paul is the theme, though they are sung by
Of him who was a wanderer once,
He now enjoys
Of the gay spirits and the joys of the young;
The light of laughter, love, and wine,
For the dead they shine.
And if it cost for a visit,
And if it cost for a visit,
He now has nothing in common,
And is not reckoned among men,
By the "cavivedre" or the "duke,"
He lived so long
In this delicious pit of mirth,
By the "cavivedre" or the "dukes,"
He was a joyous life, to whom
This world yields naught but living breath;
To whom
'Tis to rejoice and rejoice in death.
And this he knew could never die,
And that he could not live to see
The man within him, and its spite
Shed no tribulation, neither rain, sun, nor winter sleet.
O for a harp that knows no tune,
In silence bending,
And one more fit
To play a fresh immortal part,
For which he cheers
His countrymen to make them wise;
To him the thought of praise ascends,
To him kind-heartedness extends,
And with him we share
These generous, patient sons of prayer
And austerities with us,
Till each of us
Weary shall be or gay,
And to the shade
Of the old sanctity be sent,
By him to share
The world's repose,
And to the centre of the blest.
The year may close,
But never, never more
We see the cheerful leaves descend
With hues of gladness round us when we die,
Or hear the song of gladness round us ring;
But when we feel that we have only spring
To live and love and laugh, and in our day
Will live new joys, and feel, I may say,
More joys than ever Nature gave away
To one who loves not when he loves his land,
And hates not his its golden strand,
He leaves a little bark that ne'er shall stray
Wherever waves or ripples seethe in air
The boundless ocean-woods.
This is the ferry and the boat
That bore him on his luckless way;
For though the ferryman be slow,
And every time the current show
His rider and his horse they keep,
In vain they turn or turn amain
The fitful spring forevermore,
For every night he starts ashore,
And he must sail forevermore!
For all the world to him seemed given
To be an empty sea of heaven.
Oh, what a world of happiness
Was mine, whereon he yet did smile!
The world he brought to my abode
Is one where nothing can be gained.
The world, as he left the abyss,
No joy but a world of bliss.
He left the abyss, and those who love
The world, hold in their constant hold
Of sweetness, and keep it unreached
Till in the ending he shall grow again
A double-rooted sea that ne'er shall fade,
A single day that brings the sunshine to the level plain,
A fleet of days that at the setting sun
Do for the mighty waters all of them decline.
The sea he left, the land he loved
Was mine, and now I know it,
While yet 'tis possible, for I have seen
The sea he left.
Now all the world is mine and I am old.
As I have gazed on many, many years,
I have seen the sun complain and swoon,
Rise and set, and go again in old attire
From the slant fire of a hot desire.
And I have known it to my boy's delight,
And he will not leave me now with old disgust,
Sick at heart and weary of the world,
And now he leaves it as it was when he,
The only child of his puny school,
Shook at the ruins of a shattered throne
And shook at the fierce joys of his race.
Yet he left his place to me and little thought
And turned, to the open world he turned,
And he could see the sun again in front,
And the great sun again in the great sea
And all his journey to the West.
My father's home was just beyond the sea,
And all the world to me seemed filled
With the old sea's soundless melancholy,
The great waves drowned me as I passed
And I was but a child once, and then
I lost the race, and now am empty,
And am become a feeble thing.
A boy of
======================================== SAMPLE 828 ========================================
.
"Farewell to every fair,
Farewell to every saint"--
"Farewell to every queen"--
"Farewell to every wife"--
"Farewell to every queen"--
"Farewell to every babe"--
"Farewell to every man"--
"Farewell to all that's worth"--
"Farewell to every guest"--
"Farewell to every child"--
"Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one,
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell--and when you come
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Gone, with the winter's cold;
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell--and this may be
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one--
The one that's gone to dwell
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to all that's gone--
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one--
We're bound to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell to every one
Farewell--
======================================== SAMPLE 829 ========================================
, iii.
v. 80.  The colour of his person.]  The origin of the wine in
v. 82.  He.]  The Almighty.
v. 97.  When death had seized his prey.]  This was the reply
Christ receive, II. 2, c. xii.
v. 101.  That.]  These words were omitted in the Old Pomer
Dei, p. xvii.
v. 110.  The second Peter.]  He compares the second and third
apostles to his successor, Eplebs, and Luther, his father, and
Alesses, the fourth who died in 1273.
v. 124.  Such was the process.]  The old Pomeranian, and all his
own works and character, being regarded in the ensuing
century as a personage known as the fifth Canto.]
v. 119.  The great successor of Peter.]  John XXV.
v. 12.  He with a Scotch county did not all the acts which
occur in himself, being obliged to sell, as he had commanded,
representing the acts of the two, that were to confine the
and personify the acts of the four fifth Pomeranian ladies,
seemed disposed to express all the personal feeling in the
v. 142.  This.]  "For the greatest exploits I have ever seen
chumsily retained."  Pope invokes Albuera, Hist. I, x. vii. and
"v. 1.  As their shape hum round their limbs."]
And as the wings of the avenging flames.
v. 1.  The seat.]  Near the church of Pico, called Popocca,
Vicar of Wakefield, in the year 1793.  See G. Villani, Hist. l. c.
v. 29.  Thy grandson.]  Henry, father of Fulvini.
v. 40.  He alludes to the story.]  Fulvini, a Florentine, of the
family of Sordello, whose death was celebrated in the church of
v. 32.  One.]  The sister of Nino di Romano.
v. 39.  One.]  Florence was the sister of the Saviour, who was
born of her own line, and, having the daughter of Rome, died of
flames.]
v. 60.  Thy seed.]  Florence is said to be the successor of the
v. 133.  My sire.]  Henry, who was by the infidel to whom some
v. 133.  My mother.]  Beatrice.
v. 11.  His crowd.]  The people of Florence, in 1243.
v. 26.  Thy son Antone.]  Antone.
v. 26.      That shall be asked by thee.]  Antone.
v. 34.  Agaghto.]  Agnolo, of Florence and Sicily, who was the
father of the famous martyrdoms, and was the son of Sordello, who,
v. 42.    Villano and thy wife.]  Villani captive, widowed
v. 50.  That race.]  Guido and Guinice.
v. 57.  Of its rivals.]  Agosto, one of Arezzo, and the next
v. 60.  Of Arezzo]  Azzolino and his brother, Guido and
illic cast to Adoardo, where they were born, and were given to the
fifty-third year Azzolino, died of his father's death.
v. 75.  Byron.]  Byron, a poor little wretch, who without a
deed had caused the death of his mother, when he had slain
her brother Poetam, and the Bishop of Santa retro.
v. 81.  That vain multitude.]  The Tagliame and Anglia.
v. 81.  One.]  Folco Bello.
v. 81.  Of Arezzo him.]  The Areagnatico, another of the
family of the Sestari Kings, of whom Byron took part in the
twentieth Canto, and died in 1291.
v. 142.  Ovid's bard.]  "Bard of each age, the author, of the
epicogium pariter gemina, verba quae nunc amoeno, quanta eram
si placeant, quanta e puto, quanta eram, quanta edunt, neget
Ovid busti busti busta e puto, quanta edunt."
"The new gods, and the old with their fates, fors
======================================== SAMPLE 830 ========================================
,
I'll see, and I'll go on and on,
To make it a nest upon a stone
Which he had just come up, when there
At breakfast he had put away his care.
At that time we had made a pile,
And now it stands there I am sure.
The trees from the south-west, they say,
With a little away, don't you see?
I was trying to run them away,
And I just look at them three to four.
But just think of the weather they say:
When that is the worst, you may lay
The pigs to yon danger, which you must chase,
And come up when they have to stay.
I know where you are from the north;
Where you are from the south-east;
But I hate to go on and on;
I hate to go on and on.
As I was going o'er Westminster Bridge,
I met a man with a little friend
Who said I was the better man
And lived in fair London with him.
He sat in the markets one day,
And he looked at the city all the way
But the gold on the pavement scattered lay
In the dust of the streets everywhere.
You had other friends, I think,
But they were all lost in his shining-gloom;
And one day he said to the little town
As I went o'er Westminster Bridge to warn him of town
That the country was given him a warning:
I'll not leave all London town!
I am going on?
All the houses are empty, they wait;
And there on the brown-white wall,
The great square tower hangs low and looks down
On the city of old Llewellyn.
If I come not into the city,
I will stay here no more.
I am going on and I'm coming here no more.
I will go back and leave my brother,
And I'll be gone no more.
So I shall not go to London
Till the spring of the year is come.
I shall stay here no more.
And I am not the better man
To stay at home for a little while
On the brink of the town Llewellyn.
Oh there's the mill and the wheel and the bell,
And the wheel and the bell and the bell,
And it's true they are very true,
But there's nothing I'd ask for more.
They wanted him nothing to make up now;
And the miller said it was "just for a bow."
Said the wheel to the car-driver:  "Look!
I have heard what the wheel means--for a freak.
Why didn't you make up your mind?"
The car-driver thoughtfully brought it in,
And he said:  "It is only because
It is not; for the wheels and the bell,
For every wheel goes right--of course,
The wheel and the bell, the wheel and the bell,
And it's true they are very true,
But what's more about these things, I'm told."
Said the wheel to the car-driver, "Well,
I would not change their name if I could;
If I could, it lies under the sky;
But the wheel would lie still--if it did.
If I could, it lies over the way.
The wheel would lie still for a day,
But the weather is coming along;
And the wheel, I guess; and the wheels were tight,
And the engine stood making a song.
On every side was the wheel and the seat;
The boy in the girl in the girl was there;
And he caught her hand in his own, and said,
"It seems you are only for walking up there."
He took her head in his own, and said,
"It now wants you to look up the place."
He caught her eye to his own, and spoke,
"It is wonderful looking down there.
P'rhaps you'll see it--it ain't no use;
Come out here, or you'll find it there."
The wheel went round again, as quick;
It made a wheel light, dull, and bald.
"What are you looking at?" said he,
"What sort of a silly old thing.
I want you to see," he said,
"The wheel where the wheel stands, and where
You're whirling it, and it's absurd.
It's very well out there to see your way;
I'm glad there's no time out anywhere."
The wheel stood still in the dark; and the wheel,
Though he didn't feel easy when that was done,
Laid still in his seat till the horse drew near,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 831 ========================================
, _The House of Atri_, iii.
SWEET, when first my infant eye
Calls the waters to a flow,
To a simple ivied tree,
Where I cannot go and grow.
But 'tis a pleasing sight to see
Little clouds sail sauntering by;
While above in many a cleft
I can see the blue-birds sit;
And the sparrows, sitting still,
Never catch a note so sweet:
E'en the daisies while they play
To the little robin's repeat,
If I told you 'twouldn't be gay
Carry all the news to me.
Tatters, shells, shells;
The sea is the sea;
The little shells are the shells;
The shells are the shells of the sea;
There's a smile on their features when one is glad,
And a smile on the lip
When one feels it.
The little shells' "I am tired" before
They have gone out to the ocean, and left their crests
On the shore, and lost
To the coral-streams.
Through the purple clouds,
O'er the gray sea-castles,
Is heard the far-off hum
Of gulls beating the mast.
From the orange-groves
Of the palm-trees above,
Soft summer-breath perfumes
On the sea-cliff of love.
Is it the summer-time
Through the blue-bird shall cease,
And the cuckoo, that mourns,
Shall cease from his toil?
Sing! sing! ye happy creatures!
The summer-tide has passed:
'Tis the same our way:
The same sun, from his throne,
Thanks the faithfully
Sunset: May no clouds
Drape the azure sky,
But the tender lark,
His songs in the trill
Is liberty.
The sweet lark soars on, and the blue waves are broken
As if they were wings, where the weary wing-beams lay:--
Is the song of thy love!
Is the song of thy love!
Is the joy of thy love!
Is the joy of thy love!
Earth's joy! heaven's joy!
Are the joys that were,
In the years far away
Two were made at a birth,
Two are ere these lovers were born in the earth,--
The one when the other grew up in the sun.
May we not in the years
Have both of them hey?
May we that forget?
This song of thy love
We'll sing at our leisure:
Thy voice hath not drowned us, in thunder or rain,
In the summer-time's calm; when the voice that was strong
But sleeps, is not heard in the song of thy song.
In the long, dark days that we came to,
When the heart of us spoke no word,
There seemed but a drop in our sighing,
As we went on our way:
And the memory which made us so gay
Is the song of the song of thy love!
As April her gladness hath said,
When April her roseate bloom
Through blossoms of trees, shall be shed;
When earth and all things are but gloom;
And the love which hath left no room
For regret, when the tears have left light
Is a sorrow, a happy delight!
The summer-time's gone to the mind,
The summer-time's gone to find:
But we found, in our hearts, tho' they turn,
The heart of us under the snow.
And the last, the least tear on our cheek!
And the words that we said be by,
For our love is not changed, but speaks
Of a cloud, and of skies that seek.
And the thoughts we held dearly to look,
Are a dream, and a heaven, beyond,
And a sun that is brighter than aught
Can ever restore what it hath left.
And the flowers that we loved so well,
The days we could love, were as frosts:
But there never was brighter sky
Or lakes with an even a tear.
And far away there, in the blue,
With the voice of another morn,
We went with our love to the end:--
Far away from the home where it seemed
'Twas the voice of the sea, far away,
Or only the voice of the shore
That it whispered: "Oh, leave me no more!"
Ah! the time has not come for rest!
And the bright touch of Mercy's wand
Is yet in vain: 'tis not the cold,
And the hand which thrice hath knelt to fold,

======================================== SAMPLE 832 ========================================
."
In April, when the year is done,
My garden waits with corn and hay,
And at my door the smiling sun
Comes up to crown the golden day.
The swallows, one by one, come home;
The winds their song of praise blow by,
My heart is sick with wind and foam,
And all day long I look and sigh.
The bluebird with his twelves of throat;
The robin with his jocund note;
The bluebird, love-enkindled, spring
From out his coat of sprouting fern.
Dear Lord, the garden's very fair
To look upon, to breathe, to see,
To hear, to touch, to touch, to know
The joy and pride of garden things,
The tiny joy of forest things!
O God! the garden's very fair!
To think thereon is good for naught
Nor beauty but for perfect thought,
For hope that's vain and hope that's vain,
For dreams that only come again.
Oh, what is life but love appears,
The world to us is always fair,
Nor is there any gift or gift
To give us grace in any place
To fill the heart of happiness
For all that's sweet and all that's sweet.
O God, the garden's very fair!
I feel my heart is very sore,
With tears, and yet to come no more,
But for the best I may not pray
In this life's troublous troublous years,
For hope that's vain and hope that's vain,
For hope that's vain and love that's vain.
Sweet is the world, and sweet indeed!
Our souls are weary of the strife
For which the world's strife ne'er was rife.
The world's great strife is ended now,
Our hearts, all broken and discrowned,
Are broken and our hearts made vain.
O God! the garden's very fair!
To see with tears my eyes are wet,
And every face with grief despair.
O God! the garden's very fair!
To think thereon is good for naught
But gloom and darkness and the Night
And bitter-sweetness and the Dawn.
The gardener careless of the rose
Has a most lovely garden--
It is the fragrant summer-time
That calls it summer.
The world's life's life is a mad thing
And merry are its days.
The world's life is a mad thing,
And merry are its days.
When I was young, a child at heart,
An earnest man, an early-born,
I listened, and forgot to speak,--
To me an earnest human youth
With mother, maid, and brother,
And one who smiled at me, and cried:
"My babe, let me go seek the wild
And the forest's shade!"
The world's life is a mad thing,
And merry its heart is;
There is a lure of wild unrest
That drives me mad, and shakes me down
With youth and laughter,
To madness and despair.
There is no solace but the sea,
No home for me and you:
When Winter comes, what shall I be
But a mad day for you?
He's in my room! he's in my room!
He's in my candle, too!
He came to me,
And bade me keep
My boy's red roses, which I wore
Upon his head.
He sent me to his house again,
And with him brought
My toys, and then
'Tis always fun I want the child
To kiss, to clasp, forsooth!
His little week of yesterday,
Or else his little sermon, would
I never read,
Could make him smile;
What could I do, to kiss a girl?
A girl you know. So, you must learn
His day is not his lifetime then;
'Twill be some pleasant jest at last
And he will smile upon his men
And speak a kindly word when Spring
Shall call the ancient year to be:
"Now, I must go."
He walks as Roman: I, too, heard
His father greet, but never cared
To see a child so fair and bright,
As he his gentle face might turn
And smile at me;
I left him there, to be his heir;
But he, too, never smiled to hear
His little footsteps in the grass,
And he the summer's honeyed air
Left lonely on the way I pass.
And yet the flowers all were fair,
And on my hands the autumnal rain
Fell down as I must needs despair,
And in the dark I saw again
His little
======================================== SAMPLE 833 ========================================
 from the French, and other
passage.
"Beneath the sun's bright eye, whose powerful beams
From Heaven's eternal lamps and holy streams
Poured radiance on it, while it seemed to glow
In brightness there, the God himself beheld,
And the Saints, glorious over other men,
Felt the Word written in their hearts and lips,
And said, O Lord, a wondrous light be sown
On thee, the first of holy Christmas-tide."
Then turned he suddenly aside, and lo,
On either side the painted doublet
Of the high altar, with great solemn rite
And mystic psalm, the ever-welcome Light!
Then said: "I see that the dear Christ is here,
And He is sitting by the bright San Gabriel,
Who now made darkness more mysterious
Than Heaven and Hell, and brought us here to dwell
In one serener soul, a fearless heaven,
Ascended and majestic in that law;
He passed away, and lo! our hopes went forth
As blossoms on this holy-day of morn.
"The world is full of blessings, and the light
And joy of it is shining on the world;
The love of it is beautiful as Heaven!"--
And thus he prayed, "O holy-Day, be pure
From what thy holy beams did ever give,
If thou indeed wilt hear a holy thing."--
Then sank in silence, and with trembling hands
Fell on his breast the Virgin-child divine.
Then spake he, with a spirit's loving voice
Bidding farewell to all earth's happy state,--
The heart of all their joy, and their bright light:
"The world hath need of love, O Holy-Day!
And I would make thee here with heart of hearts,
And heart to heart, and soul to soul, and soul
Aflame within and without. Love, wisdom, power,
And, as these two are one, to journey on,
Unwearied, through the coming joy or gloom,
And be, O blessed Saviour, holier times,
Than to go down with thee on this poor earth,
A child among the heavenly martyr-sears,
A home of pure brightness, nor to stay,
Like Satan, in his wrath that sends his soul
From the throne-altar of his awful Lord!"
Then, as those twin-born Saints with voice of grace
Bade them for Christ's dear sake "be reconciled,
In that pure temple that I now adore,
'Twere sacrilege to worship all who seek,
Like their true brethren, honor Him who gives
And sends His body to the world, that now
Leads Him to praise and glory and to light
And be to them as Christ. The Father's love
To them was as an inspiration given,
To seek through all the world the one true heart
That needs must reign in glory where the Son
Is not His presence. All his words were kind;
They seemed to breathe, to touch and to entreat
Jesus and Jesus, as indeed they were,
That all might be well said, and true, and pure,
And constant in His service.
"O my Holy Son!"
Cried Jesus. "Who art thou?
Lo! I am here, whose hand is on my head!"--
"Lord! I am here! God answers every prayer!"--
And the tears fell with that word, a deep, sweet grief,--
A sacred sorrow, tender love and faith,
And yet a balm of pity for the soul,
So gently, tenderly, that all the world
Was touched, as in His love, and all the heart
Rejoiced, through peace of pardon, while she spake
This, that our two lives are one, and so
We both may rest for ever.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
A time to live for, a time to be glad with,
This life for which we two were ever one;
Now with the rising of the sun we strive
To spread our fame o'er all the earth, and build
A heaven of praise for all we see and know.
This life for which we two are here at once,
Was nature's first and greatest boon to all,
Abounding riches, natural products, flowers,
Fruit, flower, and fruit of all that makes life sweet,
Freedom, and faith, and joy, throughout the world,
And makes its essences more rich and pure,
More rich and full of love, and joy, and peace.
What ails you, then? Why turn and ask myself
For
======================================== SAMPLE 834 ========================================
 my songs
Till your eyes are saddened by the tears.
Love me, my Lady, what are joys to us?
What joys to us that can compare!
What joys, what gladness, what a joy there is
In the bright morn of all the year.
Joy, I am weary of my rhymes,
For they are good, and mine are wrong;
And yet, at least, they steal my heart
For their imprudence is so long.
And now the kindly-hearted cows are shorn,
And other eyes are dim with weeping.
Joy, I am weary of my rhymes,
But, at the least, it hurts me more;
For, in my days of glee, I loved my rhymes,
My heart is prone to sorrow that I know,
Since, when I think, my heart is prone to woe,
And aching chiefly to forget.
And still, my Lady, I am fain
To thank the Lord and to accept his love;
And still I will not thank my heart above
The meanest, least of all my loves.
And still God thinks, who made me,
On the hills of Galilee,
Of the burning, drunken, bloodless drudgery,
Of the heat, heat of Eternity,
When my spirit's track, my veins with ardour ran,
God thought that He would judge the toil of man
With a wiser, biercer son.
And He knew the ways of knowing,
And the secret of the sea.
Now we part in company, my dear,
Come to our own sad-memoried urn;
And we hear the music of our burning,
When, for the last time, I held you near,
To tell you all, my dear.
When your dear name, your bitter story,
Is hid within the scroll of page and history,
To whom should you appeal?
When I have wept and smitten, my dear,
As you did once, my dear,
When the last dark, dull, withering hour,
Ere it was time to start again,
Spurned my poor heart's desire;
Then after many a million battles,
And countless wounds of pain,
I found myself at last, and heard,
Of the burning, restless iron-clanging,
The long, sharp bells, the chime, the slow,
The distant thunder of the centuries,
Bidding me pause awhile, and bask
In the cold gleams of Greece.
I can feel your heart beats, gentle earth--
We have kept you all so sweet since then--
Your dear dark, patient eyes, lit up
Like some half-lighted after pen,
And I know (O my feet, my hands!
O my soul, your hands!) how long you stand
With that dread and shuddering hand.
O I could smile, you sweet, your faces
Out of the veil of weariness,
And lie upon my breast, so near;
Sing to me, sing to me, Heaven above,
And never tell me, while I weep,
Your sad sweet eyes, your hands, beloved,
And the wild, restless eyes.
O I could feel your love, your eyes
Out to battle and storm and die;
And the wild, restless eyes,
Made of your love, could tear my soul,
Would turn me to your heart, and lie
Where the wild, fierce hearts, you love, are,
Pleasing, as that fierce angel cries,
"_Can I forgive you?_"
Ah God!  I cannot hear your voice,
And I would be your friend to-night;
For I would sit and watch your feet,
And with a light that doth illume
The midnight and the dawn,
And you would be so wholly mine,
Dear, you would be my friend, my love,
And I would love, and die,
And you would share in my own love
The eternal memory.
Your heart was very pure and pure,
And in its depths you could not doubt
Whether the pure flame of your eyes
Was false and true and lit,
Or whether the false flame of your mouth
Was all of it out.
My soul is but a light that floods
The world with idle mirth;
My heart a shadow on the world,
The light of other days.
O love, that loved me, I left you--
I left you, and bent down my head;
And you came up with gracious smiles,
With words, like the benedicite,
And tenderness upon my face.
And you remembered the dear eyes
Of my first love, your first,
Long looked and sweet, and gracious
======================================== SAMPLE 835 ========================================

Dancing, the ball, like the golden hoop,
Was caught with the ball-dance, and all was hush'd;
No one dared breathe more breath, no one could swear,
So loud the roll never more near the square.
And the ballroom was open'd with open mouth,
And the ballroom his whole heart fill'd up one day,
And the old man came forward with the rest,
And the old man jogg'd out, and he laugh'd at them.
And no one lifted his eyes from the ground;
Some one stood near him and then another crept,
And the old man hearken'd and made no sound,
But the old man hearken'd and made no sound.
The old man he lifted his eyes from his head,
He turn'd round suddenly, and then he said:--
The Ball shot short, and the ballroom's sound
Rang clearly out as he stood in the round:
And the old man there at the corner stood,
And he mutter'd a wicked old curse for it,
'If the ballroom tomorrow we could find,
We'd scatter them all while we're in the round.'
And he laugh'd at the old man, and spoke no more,
And the old man heeded his words and hark'd;
And the ballroom he enter'd, and stood in the door,
And the old man his secrets carefully learned.
And he found his ball and his tools in his bed,
But the ballroom was quiet, the ballroom was dead.
The old man he turn'd--the gossips ran around--
Till at length he grew weary and then they found
That a strange dead ball had put an arm around:
The hole that he held was so safe and warm,
But it found the ball room with its charm of harm.
And he threw him a ball and his aim he set,
And, though lean and spare was the hole that he met.
The old man he turn'd--the youth stood on the spot,
And the ballroom he enter'd--it was not near;
But the clubroom he enter'd, and stood in the door,
And the old man's face look'd askance at his eyes--
'Where's O'ka, O'ka, O'ka, O'?--'
Cried the old man 'O! that's O!'--
Then they lifted him up, and he stood in the door,
With his face set to the door, and his knees were sore.
But he cried, as he rose from his cushioned seat,
'O my boy, O'ka, O'ka, O'ka, O'ya, O'ya!'
And loud rang the rattling thump at his feet,
When they heard O-kis-ko sing--
'O it's O-kis-ko that's sing
"O-ma, it's O-kis-ko that's sing,
"O-ma, it's O-kis-ko that's sing,
"O-ma, it's O-kis-ko that's sing,
"O-ma, it's O-kis-ko that's sing,
"O-kis-ko's in O-kis-ko's womb,
"O-kis-ko in O-kis-ko's tomb,
"O-kis-ko may sing,
"O-kis-ko may sing,
"O-kis-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-kis-ko may sing,
"O-kis-ko may sing and rejoice,
"O-ko may sing and rejoice,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko may laugh,
"O-ko
======================================== SAMPLE 836 ========================================
!
There lies a noble youth of blood,
A noble youth of high degree;
'Tis gallant Bernard Shaw."
'Twas well and sage old Walsingham had made
The first appearance which he saw on earth:
He saw a manly spirit in the face
Of that wild man.
In that deep soul how great a love
Did his heart make!  His heart beat high.
But he was wise.
At times there recks about the man
Of all the tribe.  He knew the man
Of that strange man, who in the heart
Of man and God was set, and thought
'Twas not a thought.
So great a love the high soul of him saw
Tall, strong, and beautiful.  A tall man bent down
To grasp the babe.  He saw within that hand
Strange hands outstretched to clutch it, such as oft
Shapes upon oak, and such as oft in these
A spectral hand hath wrought.  A tender kiss
Upon his cheek, and on his cheek the hue
Of agony and fear.  But when the girl
Went to the school, a mother to her son,
Their father, oft he held, and often he
With his mother, oftener slumbered deep
And closer to the boys.  It was an hour
To take the child into her arms.  A voice
Came to him in the murmur of a group
Of eager boys, who waited for the child,
And shouted "Forward!" with such eager sense
The voice of one who waited, he replied:
"It is the hand of God!  The hand of him,
Who waits beside thee on the lonely rock,
Wearily on that lonely rock, that stands
Midway the highest!  So they ask, who go
To save thy children, when thy mother's voice
Hath reached that utmost goal.  The Indian blood,
The blood it gave not to thy innocent life,
Is proof against the slanderers of thine.
Know they not this?
"They come.
They leave the holy church.  The priest,
The cloistered sisters of thy brethren, he
With his own hand.  No man can tell the work
They do.  If thou hast courage to be brave,
Thou art not of a timid nature rash.
Remember God, and not a wicked heart
Would dread the wrath of any Christian man.
"The land is cursed with every living thing
It meets in thee.  The saints in heaven are found
Whose sins and follies, hid in sinful woods,
Are plucked and slain.  The holy Hebrews say
That thou hast thirst for Truth.  Go boldly, man;
The people keep the path that leads thee forth
To meet the infidel."
The eager boy
Led onward, followed on his search
Of that wild man, whose path was on the earth;
But when he gained the midst, and stood before
The mighty One who erst in purposed tasks
Had with his heart made rule, his soul arose
And prayed that, ere he went, his life and mind
Would be revealed, and that he soon should be
A dweller in his youth!  'Twas a long path,
Yet not so hidden, that the One in heaven
Was not observed by him!  But as he went
He whispered, "I am of a noble line,
And live for husbandry; a wife is thine."
The Lord beheld his face, and all the earth
Sat on his back; He said, "My heart and life
Have been the care of children, long, long years;
Now have I strength to bear it till I die,
Is not my work and glory.  Yet, my child,
Thy destiny shall be an angel's way,
Thou shalt be free from this blind earth of lust.
Thou shalt be great for millions, while a child
Thou shalt discern.  Thou camest in her way,
Thou camest back thy kinsman and thy bride,
And in the name of heaven should none withhold.
The world is happy through the life of man;
And many hearts, so stubborn unto stones,
May have their dwelling far beyond the stars.
"Man is a dwarf!  So many have not strength."
So oft we say, but few must love and pray.
Our hearts grow weary; all our heads are bowed
To do the duty which is to endure.
This truth was meant for us: that all is right
And what is right is right.
O strong angel!
Last night I stood in that proud cottage gate
And listened to your tireless wings of flame.
You called me in the garden, and I came
======================================== SAMPLE 837 ========================================

_The young and hoary-headed spring,
By the great swirl of the sea._
_The poet, by-the-love of poetry._
_As an example of that law, the poet, _The mayor of link_,
_The great arch-spirit, with open hand._
_Filled with beauty, with melody remote._
_From one branch only to one bough._
_The poet soars into the realm of thought._
_And sings again, through the blossoms rare,
Through the starlight and the thunder of the sphere._
_"I am the poet._
_"Hark! the lyre of light, from the mountain's height._
_Till the day that we loved, in the dark, is dying._
_The hymn of praise will ring through the morn.
The arch-spirit, with it, in the heaven was ringing._
_O mother Earth! O mother Earth!_
_And her sweet-voiced song rang through the deeps._
_For love is life, and love is death._
_All our youth, and all our mirth, and tears,
The sobbing winter-breeze made glad, I heard._
_"We were children, yet we knew them not.
We were children of the snow-drift still,
With a song that no tongue could utter, and clear as the water
_That sang through the void as a bird._
_"Our bodies were as the world they were;
Our souls were as a sea that waits for rain.
We were the breath that sounds from far,
We were the winds that blow from far.
And we were the tears, the sea-springs,
That were between, and between us._
_"Yet, to-night, I saw that they were good,
They were the loves of the sun and the shower.
We were two, like one heart in a world.
We were older than we are, my Own,
And our talk, to us, had begun."
He ceased, and, by-lowered into his room.
Darkened as are the last leaves of autumn.
_"And I came and was tired and hungry;
And I came again to the kingdom of gloom._
_"The last light lit no longer;
And a few more suns shone into the gloom.
Myself felt the great primeval gloom,
And the Great primeval glimmer of doom;
And the whole world was one vast phantom,
Gleaming and moving about me....
_"The darkness fell, and it was good;
And a great fire rose from the embers;
And I turned again to my own the road,
And my feet touched the crumbling heather.
I turned through the gates of the city,
By my clacking deeds and the blowing swords,
And my heart was a flame of the heart
That I knew would be burst apart
Beating away in the burning city.
I came again through the mists of time,
To the days that were to be,
And the heart was a flame of the heart
That I knew would be bursting apart
When all men were sleeping together..._
_"_As a cup falls into the hand
As a leaf drops from the tree,
As the leaf drops from the tree
As a drop from the tree,
As the wind blows out of the cloud
And dies among the branches--like a drop,
But I have no more of the wine and the wine--
Only the sun left the skies, and the moon
To the face of the mountains had westering climb._"
In the middle of August we drank together
In the midst of the cup and the cup and the wine
And we laughed, for we know not what might be done,
And we had a devil-dining revelry,
Not to ask the older drunk.
But wine left the deeper, diviner essence,
For by night the old gods were afraid of us,
The old gods; the wine of the deep night,
But the banquet wine that holds us, and the ban
That holds us--the banqueting revelry,
But the banqueting revelry!
The moon is red as blood.
The wine of the dawn is red....
The wine of the sun, my brothers!...
The cup of the dawn, my brother!...
The cup of the dawn, my brother!...
The banqueting revelry
That holds me, the cup of the dawn,
A man and a god to himself.
_"I shall swing no more of the wine
That AEtho at Cyprus yields;
Nor shall my door be shut from thee
By Love or Grief or friends,
======================================== SAMPLE 838 ========================================
 in the
"What's the matter?"
"You didn't know I knew at all.
I was just a boy, and hadn't had no supper.
I was just a boy when I was three.
Now I'm five feet high, but I'm five feet small.
Now that's the same that I'm about to say.
I'm a selfish boy, but not a boy to play.
Just a boy that's right, but that's a boy for me."
I was saying something.
"You're a coward, Jim.
When you say you're safe,
You'll go back, and stay with Billysticks."
"No, but I can do without my word of Billy,
And we'll make a good two-up of our good Father."
And we went to sea, and the wind blew loud
We went to sea, and the wind blew loud.
I had a little dog, which was named Sport,
I went to the mill to get water;
I took him out of the churn to get water,
So I couldn't find water, which didn't mind me.
I got a little horse, which had scarce a plow;
I put him in a pint, which didn't drink.
I got a little caldron, named after a long pig,
I went to the mill to get water;
I took it out of the churn to get water,
So I couldn't find water, which didn't drink.
I got a little pony, which caused him to grow up.
I got a little pony, which brought me so water.
It brought me so water that I thought I was dead.
I got a little stick, which I picked up instead.
I got a little stick, which I picked up instead,
And I went and got water for water.
I got a little thimble, which brought me so water,
That I fell down deep into the bottom.
I got a little candle, which brought me so water.
I got a little thimble, which brought me so water.
I got a little paper, which didn't say one syllable,
But I got some lines, which made me look like a candle.
I got a little paper, which didn't say one's Angora.
I got a little paper, which my writing's all bloody.
I got a little goose, which I got very nice.
I got a little hen, which I got very nice,
I laid in my colster, which didn't seem to be nice.
I got a little hen-pie, which, if it wasn't nice,
I gave her to the saucepan, which brought me such a nice.
Go to the fire, thou goest, and I'll come up to thee;
Fire, Fire, come and eat me, all my life I eat thee.
Go to the fire, thou goest, and when I am thirsty,
Thy cloyed lin to drink me, and I'll eat what I get.
Do not make a pudding-cake, but give some milk to cook us;
If it is not quite hot, yet come, I will find milk to quench us.
Do not let the jam go, but let it come down to us;
If it is not quite hot, yet come, I will find milk to quench us.
There is a little man, whose name is G.
That wants a little cook, and wants a little gruel.
That some little boy or girl should ask a thousand more;
One by one they all get fat and strong,
And that one by one, they crawl along--
Ate, civet, mackel, on a plate of gold--
And that one by one, they crawl along--
Ate, civet, mackel, on a plate of gold.
Do take a little knife and cut it short,
And cut it short, and cut it off,
And quickly cut off, quite right and fit--
Ate, civet, mackel, on a plate of gold.
I have a little sister whose name is Miss.;
She lives upon this earth, and so she lives
Amid these mountains in the midst of rocks,
Where mountain-gates are seldom heard of her.
There is a child who is not very good:
He has no notion of her name, but that
Is quite close up to his very finest blood.
When children play with you, take that to you;
Let children run about and hide your smiles,
Or, in the shade of ancient cabins, peep
Into your truant muzzle, and grow wise
To ask a pretty concerning Paradise.
Mother says she likes me; when she goes
To be a baby,
======================================== SAMPLE 839 ========================================
, and the old,
And the merry old, and all the little new,
And the old and old, and the old and all;
With the old and the new, and the old and all.
"But for what hurt I have been led astray;
And my old soul is sorely bruised, and sore;
For the gods make nothing, not to the end
But to the kind gods, and the wise men's lore;
And the gods, like the birds, change my prey,
And fly with me and end like an echoing cry,
And soar like things that have been and are not,
And fly like things that cannot be, but die.
My heart to her is far away from me,
And the world is sad, and old, and old,
And time puts by, and the world's aye long,
And that was one, but that is all, and is all too slow.
And if I must go, the world will say
"He did!" to mean me a silly thing;
And I'm sad, they say, but I know to-day
That I'm sad to-day and sorrow for his son.
I'll walk, to play, with you of yore;
But you, and your love, are not here.
You cannot sing to me, I know;
But I, if I would, should sing now.
The music of that old song I would sing,
Though it might have been written for others;
But my songs were only begun
When I'd a child born ten times old,
And my cry is still, as my thoughts turn to wing
With a keen, shrill pain through the heart of sorrow.
But with that little song of mine,
Were you a mother of many things?
Or was my little, dear friend gone
Once to her waiting hour,
Because I saw your face,
And cried, "He has gone to the end of the way."
We are weary, you and I, and you--
How shall we know if it be true
That the years are seven or nine, now ten?
For the years that bring us the end of the year
Are like old leaves blown upon water,
And our hearts are like old leaves blown, and fear
If once to the end they bring back the bud,
Or surely, all the green leaves they are green,
And the dark green leaves are as odours,
And the red leaves are as dust, that are shed
Together, and fall about them
Like wind-flowers, when the rain
In the darkness leaves them out, and one
Folds the leaves and takes them off again;
So the year grows old, and the brown leaves and brown
Arise and go forth, and the seasons pass,
And the flowers fade, and the winds pass, and the leaves
Wane, and the birds die in the autumn,
And the leaves are very sad,
And the year grows old, and the flowers are very sad;
For the years grow old and the flowers die,
And the leaves are very sad,
And the fire has left the earth like a wasting pyre,
And the night with its funeral fire is red,
And the leaves are very sad,
And the fire is left in the heart of the sun,
And the leaves are very sad,
And it is the end of the many years,
And the love of the many lights,
And the joy of the many words,
And the love that would come to light
And the light of the many lands,
And the grief of the many lands.
They shall sleep on the very brows of pain,
They shall walk on the very threshold stone,
And shall sit in the silence and think of the days of old
That are gone on a bitter road, that have passed,
And entered into the darkness, and grown
Away from the very threshold of the light
And their eyes and their thoughts, and their lips and their eyes
And their hearts and their life, and the beautiful sleep
That was broken in twain and parted lips and they
And never a note in the silence of leaves or skies
For the soul of us having been parted.
The days grow nights, and the long days fly
With the wings of dreams that have no song;
The nights grow dark, and the hours bring
No sound, neither note nor word, and their breath
Is the silence of sleep;
But the silence is made of the long years' flight
Which has come as the wings of wings that are blown apart
And their life is the passionate song of the heart
That has been so beat and thrilled,
As it dies, and is blown apart,
And is still the same,
In its dying moan,
As it eb
======================================== SAMPLE 840 ========================================

'Ow the Throne he came, &c.
He came and the Belt he girt, &c.
As the first faint sparkle of hope to illumine
The day is approaching, we meet to unite
For the truth now we know, and for nothing.  Our hearts
Grow with a love I was taught to adore;
And the voice I could worship sounds now I hear,
And the wish through my lips, and the wish in my heart.
And I hear it; the words that I plead to it now
As I wait for thy coming, thou hast been so fair.
And I feel I shall clasp and embrace thee again
As I wait for thy coming, I wait for thy coming.
And oh, in my sorrow I wait for thy coming.
Oh, where are the friends that I love,
And the friends I loved best?
Where the joy of life, and the balm of rest?
Where are the links that I hang on the breast
Of my heart, alas!
And the tears the mountain rainbows send,
And the sweet wild winds of summer bend
Where the flowery mead runs fair and sweet,
Where the meadow-lark sings in the trees,
And the little bluebirds sing, and the brooks,
Where the meadow-lark sings in the rills,
And the dewy clover blooms!
The sheep when I lean by my bed
Have left the old hearthstones dry,
The clover, the willow and the wheat
Are lying at my feet.
I would be the hare when I start,
And the little bluebird is calling me:
O, where are the friends I love best,
And the long long days that I love?
I would be the hare when I travel back
To the fields with the old love to be,
And the old dust from the new love-land,
And the old grave by the sea.
If my footsteps falter and fall
With the stones I have planted above,
If the grass grows not green where they fall,
I would plant the nettle and love the dove,
And the hare to the nest should move.
I'd cross the brook and bring the cows
To the pasture where the curlews cry
And the herdlings weep, and the wild swan's cry
Dies away with the grass to die.
I'd cross the bridge when the hawthorn blows,
And the hawthorn blooms on the mountain side,
When the cows come back with the world to close
And the milkmaid's voice in the wind outside
Cries out for buttercups out wide.
I'd kiss the bank where the hemlock grows,
And the wind that cometh home from above
Would tell how glad were the days to be
When we two were married to love.
The lambs were fainter in their graze
And sweeter far to hoary kine.
But we had bared our heads before,
And the wind that cometh home from above
Cries "Bring a kiss, give overmore,"
And the raindrops bring us back of love.
If I should die to-night,
How slowly should I live,
And how quickly should I die!
The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure I should not be happy in knowing;
I live but to think and to do what I long
And leave little room to another to fold.
Now, I've done with it; now, do, do, do.
I'm going to leave them to laughter and glee.
There are things we remember and do not know,
I'm going to leave them and talk to the kind.
The kind are so different from what you have called me,
I'm going to leave them and talk to them also.
O, I'm going to leave them to smile as they always do,
And to hide from the sight of the woe and the sorrow
That I'm going to leave them and pray to the morrow.
The kind are so different from what you have named me,
I'm going to leave them and talk to them also.
The kind are so different from what you have named me,
I'm going to hide them and talk to them also.
A man's cleanly body and a youth is half unclean,
But it's neither the gentleman nor the beau mien
That's measured by the hair and bent on the brow
Of a young man, and a modern man.
Tick, tick tick tick tick,
Knicker swings the keg,
Makes the whirring fish sick,
Turns them into frogs,
Turns them into swimmers,
======================================== SAMPLE 841 ========================================
, R. and C.
Canto XLI. Rishy Point and Halls.
But when he sat at home, he, too,
The aged Sage looked up and said
With gracious smile: "Your words, fair Prince,
With pleasure I could tell the end:
I saw that ye were near the grate
Of the palace, of the king's estate,
And what I did intend and shun
On what your purpose was, I know,
For ye sent me a message low,
That I was sent to bring you news
Of distant nations, what ye are,
And that ye go before the Queen,
And that your King returns to all
The wondering folk that serve the King,
But have no dealings with your lives;
For surely that can never be.
For you of the other lords of the place
Have nothing for your good or ill:
For by the King's command I go,
To give you news as well as I
What is become of me, I know.
For ye have been his guard and bond,
And many a trust and many a deed,
And now no other messenger
But a young page and a maid would seek
For your true service as of old.
And I will give you news, and tell,
If you will let me know the cause
Of this your marvel strange and new:
I will go to the King, and he
Will give you news if he can do
For the Queen's message, what to see;
For she has shown to you, to me,
An answer, very sure to bear
When her the Queen herself shall bring
To make a happy man for her.
Then we will go to the King to see
The crown of all the joy she is.
And every man in the land of Gosh,
They called for him, the King's dear son,
And I will tell him every tale,
For I am glad to see him come
And hear upon his way the bells
Of Christmas music, and the dance
Of all that followed the world this hour,
For it must be a happy king.
And he is glad, O King, to see
The crown of all the joys of earth;
For he was made of common clay,
A thing so glorious with love and mirth,
That the whole world could laugh the while
As he was doomed to leave his land
And flee to-morrow.
Yea, he is glad to see the crown
Of all that is not good or fair
And of men's worship as of old.
This day he waits to do his share
And all that is not good or fair.
For he is of this gathering seed.
For he will have no fear of death,
And no dread of a desolate land
For all men living!
For the last is of those that die
And know not any wretched thing:
For the last, he is helplessly born,
And no man is aught save sorrow
Or only misery: for the night
That covers every land forlorn
Shall be the last and the last of sight.
But he shall have no fear of death,
No dread of birth, no thought of death.
There was a king in Brentford, lived on Ermeng Golde,
King of the Danes, his name was Dunkeldah.
He had fought in the frontiers, and when the trumpets blared
He sat in his castle in the fields of Hissborough;
And when the shears of the winter-gates were keen,
He sat in his castle with his daughter Ellen.
He had fought in the frontiers when the fire flamed out,
And when the herar of the north-wind blew the horn,
And when the hoofs of the heragles wheeled the sky,
And the dragon-feet of the herons shod the plough:
What a lovely picture of life was the world there!
A beauteous boy was he, but it was far away.
And the king's son said: "Do you see any thing
For comfort and guidance?" and lo, he looked at her,
And said: "It is the child of a wandering man!"
"Forlorn," she answered, "I am with friends at home.
There is no hope of me that I may see."
He looked at her, and took her hand and wept.
"Oh, God," he said, "he knows I guard you well;
He knows well who dooms the woeful part,
Who guards the darling of the lonely heart."
"Come," said the child, "and you shall find it good--
There is none else in the world so pitiful."
He did not raise his eyes,
======================================== SAMPLE 842 ========================================

To the tune of the Old Year's Song.
The New Year gave us so much of the matter,
It gave one little room to the room,
And packed away were the pictures and figures,
And the carvers and paint in the room.
And we waited and waited and waited,
And waited and waited with never a sign of
The opening of the weekly line.
The New Year gave us so much of the money
It gave, and had flown to us then,
It had followed the year's course as the first one,
And we waited and waited again.
And the New one traveled, and we waited,
And after the New one traveled,
And the news that the New-Years were making
Comes hurrying down to our ears,
And the New one sees in the street a new one
That goes by the window in the dark,
With the band of unseen feet.
The new one comes and the laughter has entered:
It is done: we must see it or not.
The new one comes: why do we wait?
The Old Year and the New-Years agree:
We must see them or we shall hear them;
It is finished: we must stay and see.
This is the way the Old Year passes;
This is the way the New-Years teach;
This is the way the New-Years teach
We must follow our new master,
Though we learn that he knows each to reach.
This is the way the New-Years teach
We must welcome our new master,
Though he keep that way as long as we live,
And yet we must go this side the light.
This is the way the New-Years teach
We shall laugh and go this way,
Though they know that he stands by the door,
And waits to see us pass.
This is the way the Old Year passes,
From the fading sunset to the night,
And we must bear all sorrowing,
For never more shall they.
This is the way the New-Years teach
We must learn that he is wise;
We must follow his wise ways,
Though they know that he is wise.
This is the way the New-Years teach
We must follow his wise ways;
They know that he is wise.
This is the way old memories
Of the Old Year now go by;
They come, and they are passing,
And their voices sound so high,
That we cannot fail nor falter,
We must bear our Master by.
This is the way the New-Years teach
We must wonder what it is;
We must bear that he is wise.
This is the way the New-Years teach
We must learn that he is wise.
The Old Year's toil is ended,
He has come to find the goal;
The glow of suns has vanished,
The breath of early Christmas-tide
And Christmas bells are tolled to us all,
The day will soon be growing less and less,
And faint as feeble candles wane;
Now it is done, the task has come,
And we who yearn to join the call
May see within the darkness dim,
They who watch for the great Light of God,
And dare to say that He is good.
He has cast His eyes on those who see
No sign of the great Light of God,
And sees behind His charmed brow
The Kingly Crown of thorns o'errun,
The crown of the fair bitter crown;
And knows that all who look on Him
Will surely die before He knows.
We were alone once more, the night behind us,
And our eyes were blurred and dim.
And the darkness turned and we saw but one reflection.
For the moon was pale because of the monotonous weaving
That should be of life to her;
She was far away on the morrow in Sheilah,
And we saw but one spark of the sky.
And the darkness said, "As I brave her, so brave her!"
"Her voice, it is no man's hand.
Far away!" our hearts cried in the night; but our faces,
Grown flushed and swollen and wide with remorse,
Stood all back in the awful carriage square,
And we turned our lights to the window-squares;
There was never a dale more dreary than this.
In the noisy thoroughfares
Of the world's weary roads,
How we strove to be more used to her than to her;
And the thoughts that were sad to each,
Seemed all God gave to you,
And one day, one day, the mad wind of the sea
Clamored out and broke us through;
And the terrible thought that we
Were less passionate
======================================== SAMPLE 843 ========================================

The dog, he barked, but spoke no word
And gazed upon the far-off bird.
The bird was flecked with black and blue,
And so was Bill. The dog drew near,
And from the window and the fire
He saw a friendly face retire.
"I wonder why my face is white!
I really think 'twill turn to-night!"
"It does not."
"Will someone buy a bun?"
Said Prue. "No; no; don't let it be!"
"Now, please get out of this disguise.
The sun is in the world, the world is in the flies!"
And so, a tattered rover
At his feet flew to and fro,
And he thought, "I think and know
What is the matter, anyway!"
And so, he flew away,
And on he flew, and on he flew,
And on he sped, and on he flew,
And on he sped, and on he flew,
And on he flew, and on he flew,
And on by-bye, and a right good night he came to me,
And I knew
That some one said 'twas lucky
To be a home with Bill.
And, seeing that I'm fond of my home in the city,
I say to Bill, as I go along the river:
"What do you want?" I say, "to have a home by the river."
"Why, I'll tell you that," says Bill, in a tender tone,
"And you could make it quite."
"I trust you somehow," says Bill,
"But Bill, I think I understand that it is. It was best. And
I'll put your mother to the test.
But here we are."
"Why, then," says Bill, "if you've a home by the river."
"And if you want to find a home, why, it will be a big trick."
"It seems so," says Bill. The door opens, and they all are
"A most delicious place to get up at the game!
But, being a lucky man,
The wind blew from the window,
To see if a girl would have a place by the river."
The grass is creeping on the ground,
The lark is on the woodland crest,
And all the winds are blowing.
The lark is on the breast of day,
And all the winds are blowing.
The wind and I are going to a house.
I have a splendid dream.
I cannot walk or sit for aught beside the stream.
I laugh, and trouble, and sing.
And though the world may stare,
And though the house look dark,
And though the world betok,
I know a door that never shuts again.
I make my moan, I sing.
It may be some one else may hear
Who comes to comfort me.
It may be some one else may know
The way I have to go.
If it be two, heave but your heart to my song,
And the swing of your arms will break my sleep-song,
And you'll wake the lark to sorrow.
If it be two, in the dawning,
That rise up so early
And break up the heavens, and then take the place of the lark--
I, who have grown wiser,
Will take the whole world by the right hand of my lark.
There will be crows on the heath and the cattle on the hill,
And good green grass will be running,
And the hillwill rush into the heather,
And the brook will murmur its song in the early morning,
And the alders kneel in the sunbeam,
And the willows bend in the shadow,
And the willows whisper in the morning.
And my heart will mount, and walk, forever and astrain,
All alone on the morrow.
I shall not seek to drive a nail on fortune's door,
Or an eye on men, or a word of wisdom
To mark them with a finger.
I shall be sad and weary, and my thoughts arise
Like flowers fading in a withering whirlwind:
And yet, wherever there is any joy or sorrow,
I shall know something of my heart--e'en though it break.
I should be glad to have a word to put on my cheek.
Lo, the world has grown dark in my deep heart's sorrow
Since we have bid farewell to gloom and sadness;
But I shall think of the sweet life of my maiden,
Whose smile was like a smile of love, and whose gladness
The shadow of death has strangely interweaved.
She will bring on her mission,
She will
======================================== SAMPLE 844 ========================================
!
Aye, aye! an' ye'll spier out o' the dark!
An' never spier your appetite--'tis a gawky hell!
Ye see your lonesome body is kothered--there you stand!
'Tis like a ship of pearl, that, in some foreign land,
Sails the wide ocean to seek gold at sea again!
Ye see your sister widow weeping on her breast!
No home beside you, father! no home beside!
Where are her sons, your lovers, and where your brides,
The Pied Piper of the isles of the shadeless tides?
They are scattered abroad, over you who come to lave
At this your carking, like unhalting petticoat.
What's that 'gainst thee, O father, like a poor blind slave
Is the ring upon your hand, that reaches to your grave,
The stone upon the grave, the sleeper in the wave!
_Tara!_ it says, "to-night we'll see the sun--
The shining and the splendid!
All the stars will wane,
And the moon wax old,
When we clasp with such a holdary's clutch
Our comrade's hand, no other!
And we'll be glad to see him in his grave;
We two will walk together
Through the starry weather!
We'll walk hand in hand,
And hand in hand,
He'll come to save us from the cold,
And bring us healing!
And we'll scatter seeds and flowers,
And the forest trees will bear us
To the very lair of living death,
And we'll meet with his bright face in the night,
And we'll talk of him with gentleness,
And we'll talk of love and tenderness.
They have stolen my heart!
They have taken my soul!
Let's laugh and sing
For the merry Spring.
The old days are not dead--
My old days--That was a joy!
How can we keep them back,
All the old days of youth gone by--
The fresh, fresh crowns of flowers,
The roses or the limes?
The old days are not dead.
How can we please them all,
All the old days and the new?
How can we let them lie
With the mould by their side?
With the old, old days
All the old days I used to know--
Days gone by, and the new days, and the old, old days!
Ye have taken my heart!
Listen to the children! How they play
Haltly, in their merriest laughter,
In their merriest song;
Every merry note that comes at night,
Like a murmur of bees at play,
From the old, old, age-gotten melodies,
Chants it to-day.
For they hear it in their sleep, and they see it there,
In their hearts, in all the past, of childhood gone,
And they watch it from the casement as it passes by,
And they love it in the past.
And their faces shine with laughter,
And their faces seem to meet in every land;
All they know is fairy-land.
And they watch it from the casement,
And the sunset air grows chill;
And they watch it by the river
And between its cloudy bankes,
They watch it on the hill.
And they watch it by the cottage,
And the sunset air within--
Like the hand of a fairy
Graceful and delicate.
And they watch it by the river,
As the twilight shadows creep,
And it wanders o'er the meadows
Where the children sleep!
I saw thee, I--saw thee, in dreams,
I have seen thee and loved thee, yet,
I knowed not the dear heart within thee that ties all its heart unto
thee.
I have watched thee, I know thee, beloved, I hear thee in silence,
I hear thee that ties all its heart unto heart, and that words
that arise
To the heart of the young and the aged, to melt and be happy,
And that hearts one-consulting are reconciled in thine eyes.
Then the voice that had loved us in youth shall return to the earth,
I will not listen to thee, beloved, I will not raise the hand,
I will look to the spirit behind me, and answer to thee,
And I will answer to thee, beloved, and hide thee in dreams;
And I will hide thee in visions, my spirit and seek thee to speak!
Thou shalt see the shadowy valleys of heaven, and the silent
waters of the sea
In silence, and
======================================== SAMPLE 845 ========================================
 and the others,--_a long file_.
O, say not, dear, I love my country well!
But if my country,--if whose honored name
And famous deeds have ever last,--would die,
Yet give her place, the muse, the minuet,--
If thou wouldst move her, say the poet's flame;
Go on with heart, and seek her on thy quest;
The muse's light, and sweet life's holiest rest.
And if, I think, dear, thou wouldst only stray
Where shepherds pipe their melody at play,
Do you, dear one, not then forget to stray,
When you so long have lost your country's name
In the warm haze of gathering storm and flame
Which hides her from the world, your sun, my sun!
O, may her spirit never leave her,
Unless the thought, the search, the search have done.
Then, even as the dews of evening,--
The warm light falls above the shade
That wraps the earth in mystic splendour,
And wraps the woods in deeper shade,
I love to climb your cottage's wall,
With the wise peace of mountain air,
And the mild radiance of a mountain,
From a far and distant village,
From sea and shore and sunny field,
And leave the world of fancy hidden,--
The world which has but one weakest,
The world which leaves but one man lonely.
Then, as with eagle wings she mounted
To those bright realms where all is present,
I will prefer to that far island
The bliss of all these hearts and spirits,
And the full heart, the world of motion,
Where all around is holy calm and pure,
And the bright water of all life is pure.
Then, O my dearest, when you have reached
The land of shades and dreams, as I have reached
Your cottage in those days so sweet and pure,
With the calm breath of many a wild perfume,
You'll think of this! and pray that it endure!"
"I do not live my life," she answered him.
"Then all is beautiful, and good, and dear,
And sweet, and sad. To work one's own employ,
With patient love, I know not what to say,
And cheerful love to labor; I obey
Not like the man of labor, meek, humane,
Who in my heart is working, and in mine,
My tender-hearted servant, meek, and pure.
But they whose work is not for day or week,
And ceaseless day, and labour never ceasing,
Have gone away, from me and God their friend,
And left me lonely in their quiet dwelling.
That is the world's end and world of toil,
And that it knows no pleasure, never tires;
A life that is not and never tires.
I walked abroad, and saw the sunlight
Shine on those quiet downs of olden days,
That I could scarcely hear the driver's plough-
Whisper or clink of harness on his steeds.
I saw each breathless traveller pass
Upon the unknown world, as I did pass
On, through that still and silent road, until
There, too, the unknown road I sought to tread,
Through unknown lanes, by unknown seas,
Until I stood beneath the unknown moon.
Then to my room I turned, and there, in truth,
Stood folded to the unseen world, and yet
That one who was not there nor anywhere,
And that I knew as long ago was not come.
"My poor father lived on sun-lit hills,
Where I did think and dream when I was young,
But where was he, and whence, and why he loved?"
"It was my father's home, a little world,
And all the happiness the world has known,
But where our paths will stand, there let me lie
And listen, in the unfriendly darkness,
To an old tale that is told in a child's tone."
"And if there be more worlds or more, then go
And wander by the wandering sun-bright world
In search of one to-morrow's face; and then
You'll find a story in my father's rhymes,
A broken tale, and it is little good
To think of all the little deeds he sung,
Though your old rhymes be old."
So, by the light of an immortal brow,
And by the grace of God's love, it was right
To do the best that his poor sisters would.
But a man never was born who laboured well,
And he said to himself, "Be never tired
Of the troubles which your father laid away;
For he loved the
======================================== SAMPLE 846 ========================================
 on
the gate of your city.
"I must go and see the men before me."
They looked at him with both eyes. He bowed his head, and
and said, abruptly: "They have wronged me. The man is a brave
of them, and they are better men when I shall see me, and I
am more cruel if I go."
A new distress came upon every heart, and they went in and
themselves, and greeted each other in their columns, saying,
"He is a brave man; we are no longer stalwart men. He has
no need to be angered any more. I am no worse man than you,
or Prince of Wales, though you are the flower of all this
land, which gave me such fair colour. My son died, and the
calf had a hard and valiant heart--I will revenge him if I have
So they laughed half-laughingly, and turned their cheeks
into tears, and looked askance at each other.
"Sir," said Sir John, "you do not care to be over against me."
"Do I not know," said the men, "to whom you are so welcome?"
"For," said the men, at their feet, "we are honourable, and we
were only noble-hearted."
At that instant the king heard the men crying, and snatched
his spear from his hand, saying,--
"Sir, your son has done it, and he shall have his fill or you
do me much harm. You were always loyal and well pleased
to take his part with you as an honoured one; and you have
become loyal, and he will be the heir of his heritage, nor he
would have any harm on the earth if he met the stranger who
and spoke to him."
So spake the men, and King Marsil bade them prepare a feast,
bade them in all haste, and set his eyes upon John and
his mother. When they had made all the meats ready to eat and
had drunk, straightway he bade them prepare the supper; but when
as the sun was going down he said,--
"Eat and drink--you cannot stay here in your house any longer, but
you have plenty of repast till evening."
Then the sun sank down and it grew dark again. The men hied
forth from the yard to dine, and sat down with their mistress.
The sun set and it grew dark again. They drew the fire out
like a lion when he comes on the plain of the waste, and
the men looked at each other without asking him. Then the
men marvelled at the sight of the strangers, and the son of
"Yes, my dear child," said the men, "we are invited to clean
the hall of the store room, by the favour of King Marsil,
which he has laid down for us to eat and drink in peace,
and has given us all our little ones."
"Now, my dear friend," said Marsil, "we are invited to clean
the hall of the store room, by the favour of King Marsil's
daughter; our guests he has given us among his hundred
bousand; our presents they have brought from Nibelung; our
treasures are in hand."
When Marsil's son heard the men among themselves resolved to
go and ask the hundred and ten, the women and the
men who besought him, then he bade them all haste to do
so as to do. So they went with glad heart through the
house, and on the threshold they set down the dishes that
stood before the wine-bearer; then Marsil marvelled at
the men and their rich wedding array of maids, who were the
most valiant of all the sons of the Achaeans.
The men therefore did set the meal in the hands of the
boaster, that none might eat or drink, for so they deemed
that they were making the banquet in haste.
Now the goddess, grey-eyed Athene, bade them all straightway
to sit on the carvel, and to serve men of drink. And the
mighty men of the Achaeans arose and began to make them
meat, for they were so delighted with the simple human
immortals--for the gods, who live by bread, have made men
of clay, and set them in pots for the gods, which is the
same lot by nature, and when a man is gone he needs must
not live utterly.
"Now, too, I would know," he said, "the king of the
earthly host that gives men their attire. I am to command
him to show him a spear in honour of his own hand, so we
making him a good spear,
======================================== SAMPLE 847 ========================================
 of
Ode.  I am reminded of nothing so in prose until the last page
opens.
At forty years (it may probably be) before the time of the
The most notable of Chaucer's are satirists of all who carry the
written for them.
The earliest period of Roman poetry is that of the period of
The famous prophecy of the development of Europe is that of the
Etymologies, and the growth of centuries, the growing growth of
The period in which Roman poetry flourished was the beginning of
The period in which Roman poetry began must have been the beginning
of every literature in both respects.
Chaucer's position in the Tragedy of Rome was found among the
not remarkable as it was.
The era in which Roman poetry bounded was that of the Tragedy
with which it is increased and multiplied.
The last years of Nero's reign were the days of Nero's
written for the greatest political meditation.
The first part of the Book was the Greek education and the
Irish; it is not to be ranked among the rest as a point
of more splendour; and we shall have to consider it sufficiently
pleased, that the national worship should have been completed
at the present day.
The second part of the Book was the Greek education; the
Irish; it is not to be ranked among the classes of all who
dramat in literature.
Chaucer's position was that of the Tragic poet, the common
rhetorician, who, in a later period, was the chief of
successors of the stage.
The third part of the Tragic Phoc diary lies in theTRUST glare
about the end of an infinitely splendid and important period
of modern life.  It is not to be regretted that he has been
a student in the art of divesting the Greek actors, and not to
endeavour to entertain with as divine a vision the sublime
impressive passions.
The first part of the Tragic Anthology, written afterwards, and
afterwards by John Glandall, we are told, was the Golden Age;
and, after reading the Palaces and Archangels, it is doubtful
however, those stories went on with greater accuracy and
ardour, and especially the success of the Odyssey.
Another part of the collection is the selection made for his
"Rolfu Vortigerna by his poems,
to be made for the present work, and to be made
for the future edition, if the present edition has been
already completed, it should be more sublime than it is.
The second part of the collection is a series of anonymous
I know not whether the general taste pleased them, or whether
Traidway and Lancaster were the fifth.
The sixth begins with a note from the Hauncherton MS., as in
This selection first appeared in the _Glourie Vigne_; the seventh
second four of the three of the _Ibidations of Scottish With
By the Rev. H. G. STUART, M.A. (Princeton early poems, 1717-20),
for a short time afterwards altered the plan of the poem.
Chaucer was noted for the elegance of his verse.  He was
more like to the author than Milton in equal proportion.
This selection was taken from one of the translations of the
poems of the second half of the first volume.
Chaucer's Dramatomy of Planudes (Works, 1847, p. 89),
The translation is from a line of the Tragedies, with the exception
and manner of the versification of alliteration, as well as
as national re-incituteness.
The second half of the poem is from a note to a passage in an
Psalm to Liberty.  The second part of the poem is from a
proposition made by Dr. G. Hrothulf.  Third part of the
fourth included is a faithful one; the third (Charles and
Struggles), and of the following is another of the rough and
distinct rhythm with which the whole poem is made.
The next three are foreign to themselves, because they have
in their time great political life.  Their influence was like
the influence of the influence of the two armies of Brutes.
These two princes are of the chief class who can tell what is
his greatest strength, but are so few that they can easily
give no room for the attack of their swords.  Their absence
of the sword concentred in the Council of Commons was a
kind of union, and they might extend themselves to the
information which they give.  But at Smolens the battle of
Canterbury made one more subject, and so several the troops
of Brutes were put to death. 
======================================== SAMPLE 848 ========================================
,
and all who have it know it,
But it is too plain to say how beautiful it is
to be happy with the rest.
'And just as the world is full of the stars and the
clouds so pure and so tender,
So I look and listen and listen, and I hear
no one who speaks so much is clear.'
Away went the wind in the night, and the bright and
hindmatical knowledge of mankind in the hearts of men, in
the hearts of men.
My good little Wiverley,
Whom I knew not, nor the sense;
And the thought went up in his head, and his mouth was
pleasantly open, and I heard him whisper, 'Weary,
weary, wandering spirit,
Leave the church door and go on with the others.
Leave her at church in the village;
Leave her at the linen mill,
And leave her at the wheel, and her sisters.
Away went the wind in the night, and the
shadowed landscape glided away.
Then I knew my little wiver,
At the inn was the sound of his calling and
His hurrying footsteps;
And I knew that the heart of each one was bounding for
heaven, and I felt the old pain,
And I knew that the dream was as warm and as sunny as
the day.
Then like the breath of Spring
I flew to his father's side,
And spoke to him, and he smiled, and he
moaned, and he drove on,
And my heart was broken with sorrow and my tears
soothed to the breaking day,
And the heart of each one was healed, and
life had fled away.
Oft I had listened to the singer, and he told
me he was alone,
When I had waited for the moment, and there
was no one left but one
To serve and know me, and to keep me to myself,
and keep me from the darkness,
and keep me from the light.
And in the night and the dark he made me strong and
my limbs would climb
Over ridges of rough stones, and under the willow
streams
I should be ever at his side, as when he was dividing
the wide world's tide.
And I should be ever, after him and my brothers,
forget
Those sad and happy days of long, and let me be at his
And he would set me apart in the quiet house of his
heart, and bid me rest
In the heart of him I loved, and be what he had been.
But he would never leave me.
O my love, my love, why did you leave me?
O my friends, why did you leave me?
O my own, my very heart, I will not break again--
Life and all its roughness have bereft me.
And the memory of my beloved is never cold in him--
His one curse is ever given,
And his to be forever, for ever, to you.
O my heart, my heart!
Why did you leave me? why did you leave me?
Why did you leave me? why did I go away?
There, in the deep blue night,
When you are light,
And my soul so longeth to be free,
O lonely night,
Dark and drear night,
Hark, I cry, "Woe unto you, to you!"
O lonely night,
Hark, I cry,
Why could you not stay and arise, and go back to be
reft of me?
Why did you leave me, and hasten, with dark and
dreary tread,
Till I had become a lonely soul, that would not be
known to thee?
Why did you leave me, and hasten to hide from the light,
And the silence, and the darkness, and the night?
Why did you leave me, and hasten? O cloud of grief,
cast by the sun;
Come to me, for a little while, and close my eyes to
the end of me,
And close my ears to listen to your murmuring.
The darkness passed with a wind, and it was loud and long,
and sharp and long,
And now it smote the dark blue night, and now
the dark was long,
And now it smote the dreary north, and now it
smote the yellow land,
And I am called to by all the ghosts whom I have
bound hand and hand,
O lonely night,
Keep me to the sound of your far hoofs beating
at the wind's beat,
O faint and feeble spirits, I who have lost your
strength and your pride,
Who have
======================================== SAMPLE 849 ========================================
;
Who will to the woods the story tell?
If I would know, dear maid,
The reason why I roam
Over the mountains, far and wide,
To seek a home in thee?
Would I tell, to thee repeat,
Why, when a child I go
He, with a mother, oft and oft
Meets, when his mother's heart is weak,
The time for her to go.
The world! the world! the world! the wild!
Where pleasures rule a child;
And, where a mother sits and grieves,
A childless mother's joys!
My mother, when she bends the knee,
I touch the dear bird's nest,
I feel, dear maid, I know it all,
That I am happier yet.
Now flitted gloom--and now I pass
The day, that never ends,
And see the dawning fields and grass
In gay and gaudy pride,
As if a joy and hope were there,
With spring at last to be!
Thy father's joy, thou beauteous mirth,
O let us live in joy--
Heaven bless! and let us all rejoice,
Thou bright eternal voice!
Let us not part, my love, from thee,
Though I should pass to-night;
Though all should pass as I have been,
As I have been, so light.
Forget each thought that then was mine;
My home is kept with thee:
Here let us stay; but, if you're there,
And I have nothing more,
Our hearts shall one day both be one,
And both be yours before.
If I should die, 'twill be for me:
No other life remains,
Nor other life can I attain,
If I have not one urns.
No stones can hide my buried gold,
Nor stones my grave so green,
But for my love I'll place a cross,
And 'twill be mine alone.
If all who now are dull and dead
Are placed above my shrine,
I'll give my love a little grave,
And rest them all in thine.
Forbear, my maidens; I forbear
Fairly to grieve for thee;
Or, if thy griefs are anything,
Let them, as now, be thine.
Here let us walk; if sorrowing you'll meet
On the green path by glade o'ershadowed,
Here let us, as our homes we range,
Be ours by field or flood:
Here by the stream of Lethe's sound,
Here by the lonely wood.
I've wandered many a weary hour;
I've walked at break of day;
I found myself upon a plain,
On one side purling away.
But, where my joys and sorrows are,
As I have often found,
In yonder beech-grown pass I stand,
And look into yon bound.
Here, by these wooded waters cool,
Shall I repose my woes,
And, leaving here, all hope of joy
And fear alike, repose?
No! let us to the city dance,
Where youth grows up to manhood's height,
The noisy trump and playful prance
Of this our life began,
There let them go for ever by,
And never bring them back again,
But with the dance begin.
Here, by the river's grassy side,
With our young love at play,
We'll, hand in hand, no more be tied
All in this happy shade,
Where joy untroubled bids us lie,
Where all must join to weep,
And, mixed with glee, the jocund Seine
Spread wings, and little feet
As in the dance we meet,
And where the yellow hemlock grows
And leaves the golden wheat.
And here and there, along the air,
A little cloud shall pass,
And there a merry-making troop,
The dance to see and catch:
The eye beholds them, one and all,
With eager joy to hail
Its bounties yet so far,
That, while the sweet time flies, we hear
The joyful songs of joy.
And, here and there, along the air,
The happy people pass,
And, here and there, in all the throng,
The heart is glad and gale,
For the merry bells ring out,
And the happy flags spread out
To every wind and gale.
And when they hear the people sing,
And the sweet bells ring out,
We'll laugh the while, for we are glad,
And the happy bells will ring,
And the happy
======================================== SAMPLE 850 ========================================
.
He may have gained a richer prize than this.
But he had seen; and there are those who know
That to be free and to be great is to be,
When all are here, and this, of highest worth,
Is but to live beyond the dust that makes
Their lives a memorable thing, and makes
A funeral pile and crumbling to the grave.
So died a nobler race.  A poet's pen
Had crowned their fame a bluer and diviner age.
There was no poet's dream of death, but knew
That, when the world of his was all before,
He should have lived for ever, and been crowned
With a diviner, loftier height than this
In which man never did forget his own.
He was a brother of the living death;
The world, and man's America were his;
And only in that very name of God
His fame has been the bitter death of him.
He had been crucified.  He could not live
A second life; his body was his mind;
He took this cup from Nature, taking it
In his own blood to give it a new name.
The world that made him, he had lived his life
In that free death of his beloved dead.
The world that made him what he was, and made him
A separate man, a shade of his own life.
His very name has kept my face from blame.
But there are those who love him as they can,
And there are some who fear him for a word.
And some of these have gone into the grave,
And some have left him as they found him gone,
And some have died in a slow agony.
And some are weeping as of old, and some,
Odd secrets, in the field of other lives.
A yearning love of death, and eagerness
For life, yet longing to be what it was
That one might worship where that one was not.
Here, where men gather men in the last days
And find God's strength to worship him, they weep.
Here, when men die, they weep for what is not.
To-day man dies.  But still the young are alive,
And there are souls that live not on these dead.
They have no griefs, they can not have they have.
A little while they lived, and the slow years
Went by on such unending sorrowful ways
That the best men could die without complaint,
And live no more in this life, nor on this life.
God knows that there exists not many who
Lived to be happy; and who died for these
He did not know, and had not lived for them.
God makes the people wise; but when the sick
Have looked on death as one who has been lifted up
And washed up the world and lived again,
God leans to the world and plucks from off them all
An idle name, and takes the laurel off
And dies, and makes the others gather there.
And some are wise; but some think God their friend,
God leans to him and laughs like any friend.
Then all men choose their friends; but all men think
That one man dies.  His name is Death, and this
Is Death for each man's sake, and Life for each.
What death is this?  God knows if that be true
That Death shall choose between us all and you.
For God forgives his dead, but Death, that is
The death of him whose love is not his own,
Is fair as summer, and a new love shines
Within our after-bursts, that is death.
So, if you die, it seems that you were born
On your return, to die, but it is well.
There are some who live in grief, and some in tears,
But Death is like a king who takes away
The flowers, and dies, but answers in each heart
New things, as old men look on death.  If you are dead,
Not one will stir to hear you.  And I think,
If you live thus, your dying will be seen.
The dead have souls to share; but Death is kind,
And they have souls to die; and they shall walk
Together, this, to that far end.  If you were fair
And pitiful, not one could make your name or part.
If you were wise.  If all the world was made
Of iron and brass and steel, you were the truth.
God's truth is sweet; but if you were God's great,
No choice was left you; for not all the world
Could hide you wholly, and no man could know
The sad, strange eyes upon your face of death,
Which only made them turn and
======================================== SAMPLE 851 ========================================
, the first copy
I am indebted to Mr. William S. Cleghorn, of the late Mr.
Sarpedon, also a selection meeting of his poems. It must be
generally admired by all the friends and relatives who have
approbation of the charming smiles of the children of Frank Crifford
Dalrymple. It would have been a pleasure to me to hear a tale of
Hogg's poetry was in its first taste, though I am not sure that it
should have been a charming girl for thirty years. It would have
been a noble lady, but the world should have been an elegant
dancer.
It would be a pleasure to set down a favourite fop in a little
It would be a pleasure to set down a favourite fop in a bank
I am, dear Madam, your very affectionate wife, and at once
My last letter has been received with consummate joy, and the
honor of making you happy. You do not forget Mary Smith, whom we
have just returned to. I am glad to see you have your share of
sorrow; and I am sorry to see you again. I have no feeling, and
indeed I am sorry to think that I will be so kind as to be
desired of. Madam, I hope you are not going to try your fortune.
I am sorry to think that I will come to you some day. It will be
surprise--though I was going to try your fortune. Madam, I
must not think of you; I will be sorry for you, and that will
be much the worse for you. I will make you a wife, if you will;
and that will be joy!
Ah! I have no money. I have only a daughter. I have no
children for me; and my first son was a very good farmer, who
was careful to give them some of their bread in a little piece of
The widow was wringing her little yellow locks with her hands, or
she was very wan and worn, when she asked her son to make ready
the meal.
She was very deeply moved, and asked him if he knew his business.
He was glad and very practical. When the daughter made up the
pagans for the work, and was busy because of the labors of his
wretchedness, and the burden of her sorrows, she said, "Father
Hogg just came from the town after a long stay, and went out upon
Punctuation, and so saved him from the wreck.
"I have been to visit the town one bright summer morning, breaking
"Your good house, Madam, and to-day my duty appears--that is how
"The doctor came with a broken eye and a nervous shake; then he
"I am the patient of this patient, and I see it done. I shall never
be angry with those who ask me for my books any more; I shall never
"I have forgotten the pain in my head that was caused by this
careful young doctor, and I am going to send him to his own room.
"I know there is no doctor here, for every doctor is only
come out of his business. He does not know that his son is engaged
"It is cruel hard coming on the great cause in the case of my
parents. They are all very anxious, and I wish I knew it was
"The doctor is so kind, although he has but a penny to spare. I
have no notion what it is that is to be found in the doctor's
house when he is in fits and he has no room to think on the
table-table of the doctor's house that leans toward an opening
gatekeeper's chair, and says to the doctor, 'You are to see the
coming here to-morrow morning. To-morrow evening--oh, it is a
day of happiness! I will tell you what I can think of it--go
home with the rest of the doctor's treasures. To-morrow morning,
but to-morrow morning, I will make the most of my book.'
"But, p'r'aps you'll find my business is to tell you of the two
go back home, to find them out, at their own door, and I
will tell you what I think of it. I was a rich farmer in
the town, and could tell you all about--the first man I have
been to visit in this time of my visit, I tell you all about
the first time, and tell you all about my affairs, and asked
me to go and see the boy who still hangs at the office, and
who was a king since the days when I came to Oxford from
England."--_Page 316 V._
The book is a
======================================== SAMPLE 852 ========================================
,
and M. C. drinks it.
_N.B._ To be sung.
I will to you on this subject refer my honourable freedom,
of which 'tis little pleasing that you are called to think of
England's high genius, and its goodly arts, and worth our well known
manner.
I will to you listen, for my heart is not in vain to strive for
your true glory.
O, rather than I shall my fame endure in your songs, I will
smile for all the glory ye have done, that they could be
acquainted with the world, in that it should have greater
form.
As far as I am, my countrymen shall glance on me, as far as
touchy-footed they go through the orchards, and I shall sit at the
place where I know your gentle Muse, and your well-oratory
B. I thank you, my worthy friend, and of the most kind approbation
I am, dear Sir, yours truly,
I am, dear Sir, yours truly; wherefore do ye suffer the most
affectment on my head, and to speak only of your most melodious
My Muse is of her own free will, and, if I have spoken her
sweetly at her command, I never shall speak false, nor do aught wrong
is yours. And to be glad at the festival of the fair Muse, is
beauteous, and my heart, as the world, is thrilled by the
"Fair Vision," I have said, musing upon the fairest maidenly
thought that had erewhile led young men to her husband's home in
But if your love were another's, or I ye might live to see the
A fisher by profession, or the friend of his mistress.
And the maiden I would woo, and I gladly would beg your love of me
in wedding; and it may be, it is enough that you are so dear
to me as the mark of my best friend. And to you I am deeply
joyed that you are come: to know love even where few are
minded who be in love, I love not one, but only my good
and eminent companion.
_Tune, Sanctimono, Sanctimono._
Where love is purer than the starry midnight:--
The sun's divine, in mercy spare it!
Where art thou dear, kind saint, thou seest,
Tyrants at rest in endless quiet?
The nightingale he sings not: singeth not
The day of dawn: the day of springing:
The daffodil, by shelter led, is crooning.
The apple-tree's closed on the day of spring:--
The fresh-poured sky is filled with singing:--
The day of hope looks on the cloudless clime,
And joy is in the bud:--our love sublime
Looks on the coming of the rising:--
The seed is in the earth; and in the running
Of all the years, God's breath floats in it.
And so to thee, who hastenest on the wing
Of time's best fancy, in the moment's time,
Hast thou not heard love's tender song beguile,
And on the sudden thou art smitten?
_Toll slowly._
Sweet love! in me thou art
As otherwhere,
And love is in my heart,
As otherwhere,
And thine, O heart! is in my soul
A mystery
And my heart a silent melody.
There _is_ no separation between two things:
No joy, however dear, no sorrow, no estprise,
No fear of separation from a love that clings
To one another as a fetter holds his prize,
No one grief-poisoning from excess of bliss.
Only thy voice, my own love, and thy smile, my own
Are mingled in it; as a wave, on high
In azure, glows and fades and mingles with the sky.
In the calm years to be,
And love is in my soul,
I shall not utterly die,
Nor think my heart a pain;
Nor my heart a pang, nor feel, nor feel, nor feel,
But still must live as in my own love's might,
In the pure heart that in my own is love's stillest seal.
And in the years to be
Died out my life for thee;
And all my life for thee, O, evermore my share,
My only Love, my ever, ever more,
Fell as a flower and wither'd as a spear,
And perish'd as a dream that withers ever fair.
_Love's Labourals
======================================== SAMPLE 853 ========================================
,
"This is _the lady of the doe,
The doe, the doe, the doe," &c.
"Loe, wee thing! lape in thy belly;
Lape out thy limbs, pretty thing!
She'll put a new stop for thy bodie;
Open thy mouth, pretty thing!"
It was a merry time when Jenny Wren was young,
All in the merry month of January,
Upon a simmer day,
Sauntering in the meadow,
A bonnet for the tailor,
A purse for theuk,
A gown made of claret,
And a new gown for Jenny Wren.
The first was Jock, the second of the two,
Bandy, chubby, chubby, chubby, chubby, chubby,
His father he appeared,
His mother he did grin,
And did what she could,
And she did nothing but laugh.
There was an old woman, and what do you think?
She lived upon nothing but crumbs,
And a very fine man he was,
She made but of fables,
And fowls and fishes,
And a very fine fellow,
And a very handsome fellow, Jenny Wren.
She went to market all on a market-day,
And she went with a market-day suit to buy her a bonnet;
She went to the market all on a market-day,
And she went to the garden all on a market-day,
Which gave her a gown and a cowl,
A gown made of twining,
A girdle, and a cassock,
And a pair of stockings,
Which she gave to a lady,
And a girl of ten,
Which she gave to a pie,
And Jenny Wren she liv'd on,
Which she took to another,
Which made a very charming girl, Jenny Wren.
She went to the market all on a market-day,
And she went to the clerk, to buy her a bonnet;
She went to the clerk to take the gown,
To sell her a new pair,
Which she gave to a pie,
Which she gave to a pie,
Which she took to another,
Which she took to another,
Which she took to another,
Which she took to another,
Which she took to another,
Which made Jenny Wren,
Her mother, her father,
Her mother, her mother,
All lost in the water,
All for to drown her,
All for to drown her,
She sold her stone,
That all the world people,
For there's pretty little Jenny,
She sold her stone,
Which she sells her petticoat,
To Jenny Wren,
Who lives in yonder sky,
She lives in yonder sky,
And not on a day but,
She lives in yonder sky,
Whose name is always Thomas,
And whose name's always Willy,
And whose name's always Thomas,
And who hath ever lacks?
Whose face was ever black?
Whose shoe-strings made you caper,
That you might ride on a rig,
And ride on a horse, or a drag,
Or marry a penny a-bog,
Or a lazy-pail, or a grog.
Whose face was ever black?
Whose shoes were ever no hat?
Whose shoes were ever no hat.
The king likes his horse, his foot's shoe,
As day by day goes keener,
He likes his horse, his foot, and his bree,
As both of us do swear, we
And Jenny Wren she will sell,
And Jenny Wren she will sell,
If she doth so, we go to mass.
Says the miller, "It kep that pig,
At once so red and so white,
Go to melt those shins of thim;
At once they will melt so pink.
Would the miller sell one of twy,
Two shins of a cap of thim?"
And the miller says, "Silly droll,
Come make a half o' that,
You know very well, that's enough."
Sing the cara Rimini,
Sing the cara Rimini,
Sing the cara Rimini.
All the ladies be askew,
Dance as mad as Punchinello,
Dance as mad as Punchinello;
All bezand the rooms be there,
Marvellous as a pear-tree.
Sing the cara Rimini,
Sing the cara Rimini,
Sing the cara Rimini.
It's all covered over so
======================================== SAMPLE 854 ========================================
t, his wife, being now extinct.
And when at length the doctor found they were at peace
He said--the world will change--whoever did detect
A sort of death-bed broken by disease:
"The doctor heard your cough, and he appeared to take
The necessary word.  Now here's a patient man,
Teach him to play, and make him understand."
This being finished, doctor, on they went
Through that and on; they feared he'd try again;
And when at last he said these words, which were
Full of all wild inventors' plaints and tricks,
Somehow at last the doctor gave these fits;
"This morning I was busy; by and by,"
He said, and ceased to beat,
"Tired up, I ran to meet my mother;
She was no longer here,
But she was going to St. Mary's Church, and there."
He took to his wife's bed,
And tried to sleep a sound asleep;
And then it grew dark, and he turned away
Just as he came out.
To see him waking, he had just begun
To hope to see, in this world below,
A new day, no light,
A new day in the world below.
"We must live our lives," he said, "by keep it,
And this is all the world to me,
For as I have always done it,
So let the suns go roam
And leave the suns go wandering."
And so they two were still together there,
And both were still together,
Until the noontide broke, as they had done,
In the new year, their weather.
At half-past eight o'clock, as you have done,
He climbed the side of the wood-pile--
The broadest point of which I have enclosed:
"The sun's in the water!"
And so it was done, and the next day next day,
The weather being square, there the first day
Turned round and rounder, till in mid-view
Above a mile off we saw a light
That flashed and vanished from the trees about,
And we were already comfortable,
When he, as he rose up, began to speak:
"In all my life's monotonous life
I have never been out of this year
Unless it happened to be my suspect
I made that route of death.
"How strange it is!--I almost miss
That I am a certain man, and yet
I never am like that," he said,
When suddenly shook himself from head
And went straight out to him that way up,
"At any rate, I know,
To go up in a certain post
Is an affair of great concern
And then, for my part, you see that
I am not the single one."
To-night he said:
"What is it makes you smile?
Why, what is he about?--
He who's puzzled enough to know
Until he's tired of his load,
And can do little more."
Then to the next:
"It's what they call a man, I think;
I'm going to be, at least, my load."
Just as he thought again,
Above the chimney corner,
That money was in vain--
His hands were still.
"I must be away," he said,
"A certain post in demand;
I'm tired of the daily load
So many times over land."
And now the road was wild and stony
With wind, and the snow, and the snow,
And the sound of the loud halloo,
To the sound of that desolate hall
Which is guarded by an iron wall,
And the creeks and the white snows
Of a man who was half asleep,
And who looked for no one knows,
And the snow and the wind and the wind--
All the names I used to know,
But you never can find them here,
Where the bones of the slain are strewed
And the eyes of the living weep
For the glory of any sleep.
The trees were silent in their sleep,
As deep and still it lay
The snow might only melt and sweep
Across those frozen plains
That now no longer shield
The hunter now.
But one still hour of winter day
And the snow turned over and away.
No sound of toiling toil
Was on the bleak hill-side;
The frozen streamlet foamed and strove,
And the spring flowers drooped and died,
And the summer flowers were gone,
Or ever the birds were gone.
So cold--though the sun shone still,
And cold--through a winter day,
I'll come again till
======================================== SAMPLE 855 ========================================
, William,
Of course, but always, at the best,
With something in the matter drest--
And what he should not have for text!
Just what is left for you and me.
And, if you don't have more to spare,
I'll put the bill again, and there
Will be another time, I fear;
And if you'd have it, right and glad
You will be happy, I am sad
If you've no trousers anywhere, I fear.
And just to think that all I do
Is just to see the clouds fly low,
Sky, stormy weather, sun and rain,
Lonely gray miles of rolling grain;
Just to see trees, houses, and the shore,
In one another's happy door--
Just to have time to go and meet
Plainer and pansier and pansier.
What have you got to do with it
Now that you want the long, warm place!
The wide earth--what a different thing!
You look the same as if you could,
And meet its own eternity,
A thousand miles from any place.
We meet first when we meet alone,
And then when I am gone to work;
And though the seeds are not quite sprung
Into the earth's deep core, I know
They're somewhere in the hidden seed
Where all that's only there can be,
And only in the earth and air,
Is that one common thing, the seed.
The summer suns are like to those
That have an edge upon the grass,
The autumn winds are in the blast,
The larks are warbling overhead,
And the yellow leaves are overhead;
The sunshine comes from hidden things,
And on the bare horizon streams,
Beyond the trees and field and town,
The blue-green boulders of the clouds;
The wind blows back the cherry-boughs,
And all the flower-scented birch
Is full of subtle-roses straight
And beautiful and soft and such.
No one denies the summer-time
Of any pleasant things to us,
And all the flower-scented birch
Is full of hidden things, I wis.
The days are full of gladness, yet,
The days are full of laughter, yet,
The quiet days are very strange,
For, oh, the days are very strange!
The brown brook, like a hidden king,
Is not so free as he.
The summer day is like a dream,
The days are full of joy and peace,
And all the flower-scented birch
Is full of secrets and deceits,
And all the leaf-scented birch
Is proof of deeds to do or wait,
And every green-rose spray or glue
Is ripening to a silver sheaf,
And all the yellow leaves that nod
To greet him on his coming back--
And all the gold-ringed birch and ash
Are full of secrets and of tears,
And the air is full of murmurs soft
That roll and roll for him, I wis.
The days are full of joy and peace,
The days are full of happy things,
The days are full of love and peace,
And peace falls like a falling dew
Upon the quiet evening-days,
And all the birds and all the birds
Are full of happy songs and joy,
And all the brook is full of tears,
And all the little leaves are full
Of laughter and of tears.
Two things there are which, if they could,
With endless gladness bring together
A happy spirit and a joy
And everlasting light, and a fair
And radiant splendor and a song
With a perpetual hope, and an unnamed
And perfect peace which no man has,
And a divine assurance of a pure
Unending beauty which can never
Be put aside from passion; a hope
A vision, and a power, and a power
Which moves into the splendour of a God,
And gives the best thing and the best away--
If no man understands it, he
Whose greatest joy is this brief joy
Is the last stroke, and takes the best away,
And that last leap of reason and a shock
Of reason and of reason's force,
And then, and then, and then, and so, and so
The two at last are equal foes,
And he who loves shall love the other too,
And she with less than his own weakness
Shall love his own eternity.
The days are full of laughter, yet
The hours are full of laughter, yet
The hours are full of tears.
They gather at the harvest's end,
And they are still again, and send
The
======================================== SAMPLE 856 ========================================
, B.
Cromwell's Sons.
Lutheraire's Fancies.
Lappell's Songs.
Let's inheriting
A world of brighter worlds by heart than brain,
A land of joy, of love, of hope, and sleep:
The golden harvest of the mind until
To fulness of what life the soul shall fill;
The rootless world which turns our mortal will
Into a garden that is meant for all.
I am a part of all that's evil here,
A portion of the goodness's gifts to me.
If to the right thy brother here present
This portion of thy life's divinest whim,
It shall appeal to thee, the world's high friend,
And whisper in thy ear these lines of his:
"_Whose heart hath breathed the poison of the heart._"
What though the harp of song be laid aside;
The mists that play upon it are not worth
The holy presence of the silent moon.
What though the timorous step toward the earth
Becomes the music of the summer seas.
It is enough for me to leave thee here,
Among the silent moon, adown the hill.
I have been tempted with my song this morn.
It was not meant for men! Too plain 'tis known
To lure me not, as I, with empty breath,
A song of mine. For me it hath no need
Of her sweet presence that doth ever rise
In mellow sunshine when the night is green,
Nor any sweetness of the morning air
Hath power to rival in immortal rhyme
The song that sweeter than a leafy rhyme.
To-day though all this world of song be born,
I too would chant it, rather than be sad:
"_Well hath he won what he hath won for fame!_"
I have a name no song can e'er redeem,
Whose sweet sound falters 'neath the hollow sky.
I'm only a poet, and my name is Crete,
Or else 'tis Ajax who hath won my heart.
"How like a man he comes! How like a man
His deeds! To think of glory, to make good
A bitter dream! That only he who wins
The fame, the fame of comrades and of spears!
Fierce is the combat till the soul is won
Where noble deeds alone right victory!
I see no glory in the conquered son,
Not even in dying; nor as each man fell.
That man, the last surviving to his fame,
With the last word of praise from Caesar, came.
He fought with all his comrades--they who fell
Beneath him, as an actor, on the page
Of the play actors, madly fought because
Their lives were murderous. And he fought and won
Over all others in that bitter age;
Till the last trumpet sounds, the battle won,
And I am vanquished--stricken, as I see,
'Mid the dead soldiers, with the dying eyes!
O hero nation, passionate soul,
Lips unblamed when the strife shall be sweet,
Veiled in fire when the strife shall be sweet!
For thy part, for thy part
Treasures now a world's war,
Kings who lavish of heart
In the strife that is sweet,
Pride and glory in air,
As the slaves at their feet
Are made kings by the hair,
As the beggars by weight,
As the beggars by weight,
So the hero who shares
Of the war that is sweet,
Who shall be the last
Of the men in their chains
In the triumph of years,
By its battles o'erthrown,
By its victories great sung,
And to live for his own,
By its sorrows untold,
By the toils he shall share,
By the triumphs that be
Of the fight that is fair,
Till the last trumpet sounds, the clash of fight is ended!
O ye who fell on Freedom's cause
With swords unslaughtered 'neath our shields,
As on the day when blood was free,
With hearts that knew not fear nor wrong
Nor stain of blood, nor shame of shame,
Nor righteous retribution turn
Unto your own white-muzzled chief,
Unhonored by your own red deeds,
And mourning on the silent earth;--
Yet even in dreams may ye attain
A peace of peace that endeth not;
And surely ye shall triumph yet
In that great fight that ends not soon.
As the voice of many an emperor
Unto the angel legions speaks,
Surely the strong man hears his song
And knows that great things are not wrong;
So we with even hands may scan

======================================== SAMPLE 857 ========================================
,
Canto LX.]
It is easy to know a man
Who has that of a gentleman,
Of a lady of rank and fashion,
Who has not the least idea,
Who directs one by a method slight;
But the most unawares we are
Of a gentleman who affirms
That his wife will be gracious to him,
And his sonnets command him
That when he gets up into credit
Be not sorry, although it may not;
But this person, if such his birth,
Is the man with whom he was serv'd
To serve himself more than by right.
It is easy to see, man in all circumstances,
The person who is made ridiculous and uncivilized by
Being a reasonable person, or not to be abused.
Being a reasonable person, such is the part
Of the good man, he therefore is the proper man with whom
He is equally gentle, original, or not to be abused.
Having a reasonable man for some time in his power, he takes up
That all he can be said of is, he possesses natural
strains.
Now to take the pains himself with you is a task impossible.
The man who needs so much to say is misbehaviour, and
which the human nature is to produce that which he likes.
If the wife is ill and she repent, the wife forgets it, and the
labour of it, and the labour of it which all women ought to
To this day you must justify it.
We know very well what is done in the present.
The case is not very well for you, sir.
But it will not appear to you, though I suppose it must be
imlikely it was.
But, to keep your own counsel my muse will tell you about the
present matter; and will make you very anxious to try whether
you will regard it as a possible person, as you are.
The reason for this is my fear that you have chosen this
against you.
When the young girl came in for the dance, the girl gave her hand
to mother.
The father was a silly old man, and merely danced in his
dress.
This, my friend, is what I desire to know.
That girl brought her home.
You needn't swear it, Sister Susinale,
And that won't do, at all.
I could never bear
To sit and speak for a minute at the table, where
A woman cannot speak, when she finds her wish is out of
glance.
The father was a silly old man, and particularly invented
appearances.
In the day of his coming to court he was hanged.
As the case might, for the sake of a woman.
This girl was a silly old thing, and very loose, and she was
fastened to her teeth by her sisters, and the cruel one was
unwitting.
At last she got out of the house and went out to the
women and the place where the father had been kept for a night.
And the wife said, "Do not play with you."
But she was not to be married at once, and the father was not
hated, nor unpursued to the law, but had to be married at
her age when her father was dead.
"I will not try to explain," she said.  "I will not talk this
letter to you."
The day before her mother came to find the sick son would
take the doctor's name.
But the mother's doctor was a doctor, who needed something
for the post, and very well prepared for his unfortunate case;
but the doctor gave her something in case of death.
It is a nice thing to agree with one who cannot be
cinner-faced though the doctor was.
In the first place, they must be out, for the doctor placed the
coach round his back.  There was no rest for him.  He lay on
his bedside, with a closed nap.
It was afternoon in the morning, and the fifthzza
made beautiful and warm, and above the sea the red star
shone.
One day the doctor sat at home, about a week in the week
the doctor was well awake after his son's death.
He was asleep on a straw bed, watching the white clouds
upcurling and rustling with the drops from the great
circle.  When the next morning the doctor was better
than the next morning, then the first week his lungs breathed
air, and the next day the body of his head lay on the
clothes.  And before he knew it was awful.
Then he went on to talk, thinking he had heard of his son.
And after a little time he was tired of his son's wound.
"Can I take
======================================== SAMPLE 858 ========================================
, and also,
The _Poetry_ was not till, of course, he first asserted that he
"For every ill that might befall a prior writer, he was, in the
"The _Diction_ was a thing peculiarly sagacious, to convey a
"He was a person of modest and humorous wit, and an interesting
"He was a person truly worthy of no poet, and with great
indignation by his open and generous eyes, he was a very person of
approbation, and it came upon him that his first year was a year.
"He was beloved by a friend of Dean Swift, as all his faithful
"He was received with great pleasure by Miss Protas part of the
"We are, however, happily landed in England, at this date, and were
perhaps not to be trusted. In some of his poems, however, so far
as they could not at least understand one of the many translations
of the subject, I am to interpose a few touches of what he
produced (_ut bon instant son ne garde_) from this copy of the
"O, I am only a woman to wait here,
And to flatter and to flatter and to flatter--
To talk of what you and I mean.
"When I was just a little boy,
I didn't want to go alone;
My mother used to run away,
And keep coming up and see me;
So, good-bye, old woman, my poor boy,
And the girl'll be expected some day,
And go to sleep and be with us
When spring comes round again."
"The summer days were scarcely over when he left the school-room,
and he joined a school school school-day training camp, called
"yours again that he'd come home to me!"
The school-room would have been a place of high study--the _teens_
which would have been the home of the boy, who left the man's
house there to get a seat, and brought up a refined and elegant
School-room, quite in the manner of the Lapland lasses, was a
favourite pupil of L. G. C. who studied him.
"One of the few little flashes-stairs,
I don't know what he was about!"
As I left the house, I saw him coming up there; and when my
attention was arrested, I heard him say, "I knew that there was
"My father is just the one that I tried to be. She's going to be
Her mother is just a little way away,
And she never will come home again!"
The little girl was still, and, as I suppose, she was tired.
Oh, yes, I guess that if she left the home
She would have the one you like to have,
But it wouldn't do, I fear, if it were
To have to have him come back!
I have just left the house; my father's gone,
On a new moon-baked pin, I see him yet,
And I don't see his face again.
How can I guess this is his father,
With his face grown very dim?
How can I guess he never came?
Oh, the little birds will sing of him,
They know his place and still find his way,
The little birds are weary of him,
That came last year to stay.
"Oh, it's too dark to go to sleep, child;
Oh, I'm so tired and very hungry,
And I'm so tired, I almost cry,
I wish I had him on my back;
But you are happy, just as glad
As if you had not lost your mother;
You are not weary, just as glad,
But oh, the little birds will sing.
"Oh, the little birds will sing of you,
They have remembered every word,
And tell me you are happy too;
You seem so sad, I almost feel,
Knowing it's too cold to cry;
I cannot tell you all--I 'll go.
I shall not miss you. In my life
I know you love you as a brother,
You know that, if you fly away
To those far hills where all are dear,
I shall not miss you sadly, darling!
I shall not lose you evermore.
I'll go; and if the sun goes down,
And the moon rises from the wold,
For the little flowers all must die
(Oh, I shall miss those stars so cold),
I shall not want them, dear, for they
Have never quite as good a head
As their own hearts, with you so dead.
"It is dark after all," I said,
"
======================================== SAMPLE 859 ========================================
,
and the other. It was, in fact,
a very curious sort
of trick--but I can't say, when I consider how it will end.
I will take my husband to the studio,
to draw a portrait for him,--
begins to express his admiration by the music
of those of the harp,
and the notes of the pipe, and the dactylic
of the harpist.
I am sure that I shall see him afterwards.
It's the very first house out of town,
though of course it doesn't show
as yet:  the folk who live up in that place
out of their graves are much the worse--
but the house of that hotel last night was ours
the poet got to rest the whole night long.
and I'll tell you a story
about the city where they lived,
and how they were married,
and the men that had their house and
their horses on,
and their servants and their sons and
their spouses dead,
and all the pretty girls and boys who only lived
and ate.
I can't say that it was to me
that any one was alive.
But the people all thought that he would live
who always lived.
The men were too busy about the world to raise such
miserities as these,
so they set up fine clothes and began to try to
set them down, and tried to
set them down.
They say they think they'd rather play
where they would not go--
their master and his men,
but it is what they need,
and what they have to do--and what they
might do
to get out of it--all to go--
a thousand men and women and boys and
one girl and one child
but it was in the other
A man said
he was very much like his brothers
about the murder they had done,
and the women and boys and
children in the yard,
and they too--
the wicked and the good,
and she--she was just
like him who lived just so
about the murder they had done,
and what they could do
that was what it was like.
In one corner of the house an old man with
his head turned round
and looked around. He almost thought
to himself,
who had just been there to see what he had found
is very old and gray,
and over-grown with most
those long weeds and grass
and some old twisted daisies
and where the dust has gone
the wind blows
and spreads it wailing
till it wavers
with the leaf-like breeze.
A man said,
and says it was horrid to hear it as it was
forgetful-of-his-self and his family--and
he says it was a most similar thing done in
his family.
I don't remember recalling the story of one who had
one of the most radiant
character, though the women in the neighborhood
came up and called him "Ave,"
and then they knocked him up and shook him over
the grass. He stopped short.
He was quite weak,
he tried to drag himself back,
but the woman caught him in her arms and held
him in her hands.
Her blue eyes and her white head
dropped on his shoulder,
so that the little head protected him and
went off into silence.
He crouched still and craned
till the hot tears
desently dried the little head
and the little neck
dropped upon his neck,
and the little head drooped on his breast.
Her eyes looked sadly and sadly
at the little head,
for a little while--
the little hair hung tight in their
nest, and the angry little head looked
like a little babe's,
but the women all said,
"Ave, I see a little girl!"
He stayed at home,
but they all came home
with the big eyes of
outwardness and the little red lips
and the little black head
that rolled and rolled
in its unconscious curls;
she was smaller than his brother,
and he was like his father
who was walking
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country--
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country
about the country

======================================== SAMPLE 860 ========================================
 that the wind blows wide.
O the wild beast in the forest!
O the wild bird with the pinions spread!
The wild bird with the plumage spread!
The hawk with burnished feathers,
The hare with drooping pinions spread!
O the redbird and the walrus,
The martin, with his beak of stone--
O the eagle, with its beak of iron,
The martin with his beak of stone!
I met a Lady in the meads,
Full beautiful--a corn-sheaf of straw;
Her face was as a lily-seeds,
And her eyes as pomegranate-scow.
She tripped amid the nimblest of them,
Among the fairest of them all;
The naked quickness, grace, and gladness
Came in her eyes, and in her face.
"Sweet Sir," she cried, "and canst thou guess
Who hath this Maiden in her place?
Broad, beauteous, wonder-dazzled virgin,
Thou hast thy calling and thy grace?"
The Knight replied, "I am but Islet,
And I know well, who hath the face?"
"Queen of the forest!" Princess Ida
Listen'd, and smiled, and beckon'd, "Brother!"
The air was fragrant as from vernal
Zephyrs that gently kiss the clover.
Whispering she bless'd the starry heavens,
Whose breath was as a perfume rare:
A water-muse, whose step was merry,
Laugh'd out aloud, and down the air
Piping, the silver-voiced lark: "Follow
Where the wood-pigeon coos." The swallow
Danced in the glooms of dewy morning;
The grasshopp'd, dewy-footed fellows
Pass'd, and the lily-murmuring water
Gurgled and bubbled in the ripples.
Fair Ida, with her smile so witching,
Sitting beside his radiant wine,
The while the silver-breasted swallow
Skimm'd lightly by the fountain-lilies.
Her face was luminous as a wonder,
Her hair was golden, and her eyes
As bright as pomegranate-blossoms,
Wherethrough the dew-pearl'd hyacinths,
The while the tulips crimson-lidded
Their morning-glory buds, and woke
The smell of daffodils: "My comrades,"
She said, "our stout companions follow
Our fair and flowery banquet:
The long spear gleam'd beneath our cloisters,
Our dances jocund, and our songs
Vaunted the splendour of our torches
On wall and bridal roof and spangles:
Lo! a foot of earth! We follow on!"
All silently, all sorrow-haunted,
They led her to the carven grove,
And rested half entranced, half naked
From foot to head: "The Lady of the Knightly Inn,"
They said, "our Knightly Inn, our soul's delight,
Hath so forgot himself, that we may list
For tales and images and fables read."
The Maid, with eyes that blest the coming night,
Smiled in the midst of the long watches of the day;
"Ah," said the Knight, "but as I read it long,
And that sweet mystery of the hour of noon,
I leave not one long lingering doubt behind,
That this thy strange and alien wizard-glad belief
Hath raised the Old World into Actæon's dust;
I will make question of thy realm and thee,
Let all men question what befell our Queen,
Or ask what legend hides, or sing, or do.
Thou tell'st me of the many ways we went
To dine with Master-loyal Ham, our Queen;
How, when a youthful prince, a rich Princess, hung
With stately purple veils, and silken fringe,
That waved through leaves and hung about her neck;
And as our Lady on her golden throne
Stood looking out across the enamour'd sea,
Tall as a tree that looks into the sea,
Bright-shining with the golden fruit of spring,
She moved the fragrant court, where, all about,
Queen Guinevere reclined, and her fair feet
Walked down her marble walk, and sang a song
(And so the court would all of our court hear),
To tell a tale so marvellous and bright,
The court would all of her beauty seem,
And make her glory like a king, the
======================================== SAMPLE 861 ========================================
,
He's a fellow who's very small,
And who seldom look at all:
Of the sort who heaps up to it
The heaps best get for the wall.
Mr. Locke and Mr. Athenias are about to appear,
And their fame and riches centres in a little herein,
Mr. Athenias has been a little under ground,
And the news that he is driving goes, an' everything is crowned,
The news that he is driving drives by, drives in and out again,
And as often as he writes he is still the same poet too.
A kind, a friendly letter comes from Mr. L'Uiverrode,
And I know a kind, a kindly letter from the printer,
But I am a careful fellow, and can well yiv it,
That Mr. L'Uiversrode, with whom he can write better,
Has just been taking care to give a little above it;
And having just received from Mr. CHARLES
Some friendly offer last week, of course, you know it,
It's just the weekly paper, which you give to Mr. J. M.
He's fairly hoist enough to make a little miss,
And the papers are a welcome one, and funny, too,
To a mind that's really happy, and a ready-made-up boy,
With a word for greener bags and a thought for many joy.
And as to politics, Mr. B purposes discreet,
And offers you a pint to put in little pat,
Mr. L'Uiversrode, to come and run a race,
Is always ready for a greater sin than this--
You may, if you get credit for so little time,
And keep your word inviolate, confiding in it--
That Mr. M. should be content with being made a hero,
And your little children prisoner, and your little, dear,
Little Orphant Annie will have pretty things to eat,
And I fear you'll learn to read, 'Miss Annie' through
That there are any hours for anything you find,
And that you'll never get it any more, or anything,
Unless you have to change the subject, which you thought so,
And learn that very soon, and very naturally,
You'll call upon my name, 'Miss Annie'--which means you,
No longer in the least mean, but quite a little worse.
And as you never came the door was open, and you never
Without permission entered the house of Mrs. MARS,
Your very humble servant, and Mrs. MARS,
For the sake of her or her cousins--which is only
To your great-grandsire's satisfaction, who is silent.
But as to the small white ear she says it, and I say it,
And this--what _is_ the matter with your little sister?
Why, that's because I'm going to say it, and it seems, in
Our language as a very good example,
That when you ask me for a lesson, I will learn it
For a lesson--most inspiring knowledge--in old English
As being a great clever scholar in a far-away,
And a learned man of genius, and a very little
Garrulous--in the school of science. You may hold by
In the great press, the little ignorance about it,
And yet--I feel no interest.
But I am
As warm at my first telling you what really you are going to do:
And just to try the big lesson, it must be to study it too.
I never did so often do, though I always knew
That it was worth your while to play it out and never leave it;
And it's worth the wealth of being still when I am tired of
The little thing to come--from the far-away and gory
Among the few things that are left you'll find the thing to do.
I was going to have my share of fun--the time was almost done.
You'd think, just then, I should know just how 'twas gone, and
What everybody did, and every one forgot,
And everyone remarked her was a big-sized girl, you see--
The girl who made the clothes to her mouth--what, really, dear?
Just tell me what you think of that, and what is real, I pray!
I'd like to be a baby--I'd say more than way--
I'd like to learn a lesson, or I'd like to obey;
But it's not so pleasant work, and I'm not needed to say.
I'd like to be a baby--a little child will miss
My lessons any morning--and then I know you'll do the same;
Well, if I should
======================================== SAMPLE 862 ========================================

How sweet a thing it is on a northern day
To hear a child, and feel a joy it was to sing
Of song.
But what was harder still than silence: and
For no child could see its eyes, nor hear its tone.
And only the soft lullaby of the wind
That sings its song
Of sleep, and only the soft sighing
That makes it sad for many a year; a voice
So sad;
So sad it was that never came a child.
As the cold season of the flowers is on the lea
When the sun comes among the hills, and the wild winds
Shake the trellises that screen it from the sea
So sad,
So sad was I, that I with pain myself
Was fain to weep; but at the last
I seemed to see the body of my love
Shine evermore, and the old eyes grow bright,
O'er that unburied face.
And at the last
I ceased to weep; and with a tender pain
I drew me back unto the dead men, and came in
And saw a child; and knew that it was I,
And that they were not I.
And many a time I wandered by the way
And saw strange figures rise and climb and range,
As I beheld a child come slowly on,
And crying with the old, old cry, 'O me!
O me! O me! I am not worthy to be told.'
And still that cry was like a dying voice.
And while those shadows were yet flying on
I heard a love-song ringing through the air,
A strange, sweet melody without a tone,
A love-song, where the wild birds were as bare
As they were bare,
From a far country I had gathered there
A fair lady, whom I knew familiarly,
And heard and felt her coming ere she passed.
But at that music waked up a strange fear,
For, in the room, she waited with the dead,
And told her story to the gentle maid.
But a light tremulous shadow fell upon
The child, and brought him to the house of death;
And the voice said, 'The music of the harp
Is light, and all the strings are set in tune
With the sweet voices of a dying tongue, and sweet
Is the great wind that sings in the evening south:
Sing to it, all your sorrows and your songs,
Sing to it, for the memory of a song
Came like a shadow, or a shadow from the vast
Deep seas, and hid you in your home again.
Sing to it; all your sorrow for it, sing;
Sing to it, for the story of a song
Come back of a forgotten dawn when Spring
Lights all the garden; and for all your pain
Song has sweetnessless and shadow gracious,
And evermore the music-notes are sweet
With a strange sorrow in the eyes of death.
And now the wind has died, and now is heard
The unearthly music of a people's song,
Whose lives are few for ever, and all tongues
Are full of songs to-day, and every heart
Doth feel a chord of pity for the dead;
And so the harp is silent, and the strings
Are quiet as a soundless sea, remote
From storms that wreck and riot; and we weep;
And every tearless eye is filled with tears,
And every tone is a lost prayer, and all
The world is dark with mourning.  Hark, again!
A people's song is broken loose, and birds
Are fallen to ground; and men who are left
To sing them out of hearing.  Hark, again!
A people's song is broken loose, and flowers
Ran everywhere and threached the harvest-fields
In a still summer night; and yet I think
These many days indeed are like the days
That are on this sad people come back now,
And bear the witness of them.  Some of them,
And here are some who once lived in these woods,
And live still in the wilderness; and others,
Who are so changed by hearing, and become
Be comforted and fair and open-eyed,
And have no strength to speak them; and I think
That these are not the only voices that we hear
Who sing, though we are weeping for the dead,
And the leaves are fallen to that hand they bear.
And some look wondrous, and if they saw it,
How great should they be for it!
It comes back now,
That you and I must wander through the world
No more; for many of us have been taught
That it is all; and some of us, perhaps,

======================================== SAMPLE 863 ========================================
 in his hand a sword;
His voice was like an angel's, as it seemed,
For then he would have taken a hundred swords,
All three from top to toe, and all at once
Before he looked at Camelot, a field
Of waving grass, green leaves, and shining stems,
Gold and red colours, and blue calicoes
Of many a hue; the other was a field
All garnish with ripe corn and flowering vines,
Rich with red crops and bright with fallen flowers,
And in its midst dark green, gold and bright
And shining green as a great cloud of moon.
The next, but far in the West another face
Still fairer, brighter, and still more fair,
Grew pale and paler; yet a gentle grace
Shone round her eyes like a rich scimitar;
Her lips were as the lips of a clear-blown rose,
Her hair was golden golden, and a ring
Hung round her neck like golden threads; her eyes
Half-shadowed from the casement of her brow,
In the half light of summer, as she passed,
Gleamed like a silver cloud in a sweet moon;
And from her brow was a pure white hand.
And over her face a crown of pale fire,
With a pure flush of gold, lay there; and she
A rosy maid, and a young man on a steed
Riding the highland, rode. What mean those words!
Nothing but words alone are stirring in her breast,
As she passed down the valley, riding past
From the fair city with the world at their head;
And now a man she seemed, now half her face
Became a woman, and now half a child.
And then came another lovely face,
And he was taller like an ebbing moon
Until she looked on him, and turned away
From her face evermore.
And when she turned and rode again,
And when the low light touched the farther back,
She turned not back till she saw him, drawn
To closer side; and when the long low lances
Were drawn deeper and darker to her eyes,
She turned, and saw him, and knelt down before
The fair and quiet face and quiet face,
And kissed the form against her burning cheek,
Then kissed him saying, 'Queen; is this the sign?'
And the low lapping of the water-jars,
Then the soft sound of the rain upon the hills,
And the low murmuring of the water-brooks,
Arises from its cell to the pure sky
And worships the pale sun, and weeps above
The weary city.
Sir John, he looks at Mary,
And there he cannot find her at this hour.
His mind is open as a folding dream.
And he has left his mind alone upon earth.
And Mary who has risen in his place
Will come to him this hour.
And there she waits
Within his house upon this holy morn,
In the green light of the summer day,
The flush of Mary's birthday, when the wind
Blows over the bare garden-closes, and takes
The full-leaved blossom, and the garden-trees,
And all the flower-strewn hollows he has seen
Beneath the white snow-shapes of a girl.
But she has brought this gift
To him--her trust--it is to watch and stay
The happy hours of life as they have sped.
And now the other is afraid.
No more he rises.
He rises from his place in the still moonlight;
There, lest that night grow cold and separate,
He looks before that still form, and again
Looks anxiously toward the eternal hills.
And Mary of this feast is fairer far
Than in fair Naples. When the morning's star
Opens, he seems to stand upon this shore--
A strange and wondrous sight!
There came a sound, the far-off city-bell
Of Magdalen from Val di L cramped with snow.
And then the people laughed; and all arose
Bitter in beauty, and the King was gone;
But he, the King who ruled across the world,
His people with the Order, had his hour!
And now the other was dead.
Why should they sit for talk awhile
Upon that still and distant shore?
A sound of waters and of leaves!
A sound of summer weather,
A sound of summer weather,
A stir of summer weather,
A sound of summer weather,
A sound of summer weather,
A sound of summer weather?
Come the children of the moon,
And let us make a rice-seeds,
And let us make rice-seeds
======================================== SAMPLE 864 ========================================
 it with his own!
When we are dead, what will you have to do
With those that have not come.  It's not strange;
Tho' your heart's blood is moist about your bones,
Your hands are icy and warm as a woman's.
I've heard it said that women are jealous,
And would strip off their hair for a man
Who must have the cold trysts through the window.
But I shall know, that if I were a lover
I'd not have you to be.
And for the last time--and God knows what!
But not the last time.  I shall know,
That if the whole thing's said in a minute,
The whole thing's said in a moment, no doubt,
It's merely a matter of the law.
And then if a man's but a lover of yours
He may be, it's certainly not my fault,
Unless I made him wise.  I am like him,
And so, I tell you, I shall be the first
To know that women are jealous.
Oh, but I know my heart is like a bird's,
And that men know that women are jealous!
That I have told them that women are jealous;
But they have not told me.  I do not know.
I only know that a woman is jealous.
I must die, and this is why they are jealous.
But they are like the women--as I am.
I must make my soul pass over them.
I must leave nothing for love or a man,
Or for a dead woman or for a dead man.
I have tried them and it's more than I know.
And if they are jealous I shall try them.
I must make myself pass over them.
I must have someone for my messmate,
A tall dark woman of long ago
I need not wonder how it's like that.
You love me, so you are for me.
I know that I am for a man.
I know that I shall find the secret.
I must find it somewhere, where I can
Find what I found with my first kiss,
Or punish what I have done with, if
I could only find what's lost to me.
Love, on thy lips of honey red--
A ruby in thy hair--
They lie a long time, and they
Sleep side by side, like two.
I know thy face that makes thy place
Above my soul to lie.
The same white rose-leaves in thine eyes
That in my garden lie.
Thou hast the mouth, and yet thy face
My soul keeps warm and high.
Oh, tell me, does thy face still live?
I have the heart, but when is this
The end to all thy giving?
The love that must be born of thee
That must be dead, must go.
What can a man find in his heart
Save in love, who is not dead?
That must be left of what he did;
But the love he gave, is fled.
No word, save what his lips have said,
Save what his eyes have said.
Ah, no word has this poison said,
Save what his lips have said.
The words of love, the words of hate,
They are like a wind at morn.
Nay, but you make a man of them,
And know not what you do.
But when I think of you, my heart
Slept in your face and hid.
I know that you and I apart
Were born of the wind and sun.
Howbeit these things are all made up
Of a strange sun at one.
I think that you and I are the wind
Balm-beetles on the ground.
Ah, but the wind and the wind and the wind
Are always ours for good.
They are good when day is the last
For the long days and the long hours.
They are good for life and the long years;
But the roots of the new flowers are good.
These things are good for living in,
And all the years and the long years.
Sorrow is a burden, sorrow is a thorn,
Bear all the years and the long years and the long years borne.
I, too, have sought for peace and found them not--
I, too, have sought in the deep night of our tears
To find one thing worth living in all the years.
They are good to the weary, I know it not
Or what God giveth or what God takes away,
This thing I find for the tired, heavy years,
I see them still, but sometimes the way seems long,
And it is better thus to be tired in the night
Than to love, while the
======================================== SAMPLE 865 ========================================
 me next, that I may do
With this, or with another day;
So that I may alight with thee to-day,
Farewell whatever joy I may.
And now I think, since I am in one boat,
That thou to-morrow may'st be gone,
I'll give thee to a hundred, man and thou,
Or any living thing upon the earth,
And I will give thee to an hundred years:
For since to thee I first was given,
The gods have given a happy birth,
That I shall say with heart and voice of flame,
Farewell whatever joy I may.
And though I do not tell my love,
As I do know, yet I do know
That Love will find him, and He will find thee;
And this is certain that betimes
He'll come in going without pause.
My love, my joy, my lady, when you may
Go to my chamber and perhaps may say
The night is near, the day's drawing near
You may, but shall not, till the morning hear:
For me this song is silent for you this.
He's coming, darling, to your chamber, mother,
He takes you by the hand, he puts you there;
He takes you to his bosom where he sits
And kisses you with that delicious air;
He takes you by the heart, he is like one
Whom his love brought up, his life done.
And, first of all, you too must tell me so;
You know the rest, the words he has to say.
Dear mother, what a happy sight it is
A man that finds his life an empty play!
The boy goes laughing to the window,
He knows not when he's watching for his girl,
He's asking for a kiss, he's kissing--for
I wonder what these lovers are.
It is the pretty saying of the little boy,
The little voice that's like a golden toy
In the glad, sweet world,
The joy in the smiling sky,
The noise, the ringing word,
The birds that sing together,
The kisses that are flying
Over the singing sea,
To tell the little boy
To come to me.
My Love is a babe of mine,
And a little, little one.
My bosom is full of light,
And the sun is always near.
There's a little child at my knee,
The terror of his face is o'er;
He cries when I am at home,
"Oh, where is my baby now?"
"Oh, where is my baby now?
Oh, where is my baby now?"
My father was hung at the door,
I'll speak to him just as I can;
I'll be his father wherever I go,
His father if he is not there,
The night is dark and the storm is over,
My dear has gone from me yet.
And when the day's work is over
And the sun is on the sea,
When the long day's work is done
And when to play with me,
When life is ended
And love returns on me,
When I am at rest,
Oh, then I shall laugh and be very happy,
For, dear, I shall laugh and be very content."
In the early morning hours
When the light is shining over the sea,
The little child who clambers away
With my arm in the twilight, to play
With his father, good reason, was come:
He was gay and healthy in youth,
And the aged grew bolder, I ween,
From the light of the first sorrow moon
To the last of its sadness and mirth:
But the child that was gone for a time
Is gay with its sunny smile;
The old man in the coffin goes,
And the chill night is over with the old,
And the needle is out with the mould
Of the mouldiest clay from the first sin.
In the twilight after the gloom
With the star-beam that trembled to see,
The child goes to his long, peaceful room
With the old man out of the past,
His hands folded over his head
When the night was growing dark.
So that soon I shall wake in the morning,
And to-morrow at last
Be a light with the mother of light,
And the same her way singing the night
To her little boy still living on earth;
Through the dark hour I could hear it,
And the sorrow of life's dark end;
As the years went on, yet I could hear it
With my heart and voice, and see
The wonderful thing in the light of the mother
And the wonderful thing in her mind;
Through the dim evening twilight,
A
======================================== SAMPLE 866 ========================================
 and
"Who are his children," said Henry, who had already one of the
youngest of the school of the University.  He was a man of
understanding.
"What a clever head art thou!"
"Thy head and mine; how doth thou face the mob?"
"I have a handsome nose, with golden curls;"
affectionate epitaphs.
"I was school-taught in fair London;" and the answer of this to the
"I am a poet, sir," said Henry, with a smile.
"How doth my lord seem discontented with his books?"
"O no, I will not; neither think nor write."
"Go on, my lord; there is fresh pleasure in it."
"What mean'st thou to flatter, or reprobate?"
"My lord."
"O no," he replied.  "Would I had died here!"  Mrs. Riddell was
charmingly arrested by the conversation that ensued.
"He shall be proud of his books."
"He shall sit by his books."
"Now, if thou wouldst, I have five hundred pages."
"How doth he care for thy books, young man?"
"They are old."
"Wise are thy beginnings; good deeds are full of them."
"O how gladly would I change those pages, fool him of his
beginning!
The wisdom of God is in me."
"There is something in them that doth not preserve thee from
"He shall be proud of his books, as I think?"
"Thou shalt be proud of his books, as many years as thou hast
The next scrap of this essay will not be reproduced in any
more proper comment.
"I have endeavored to see how the _Danmarks of Five and Six are
"I will make my Will as strong and wise, and all that I can."
"But he that lives and long hath an ill fame."
"Of course he hath, and would make his Visitation-rug; he will take
"There is a man must live by his own laws."
"What is his principle, when the Devil himself is seen in his
"Him of my blood you must tell,"
"Tell him he has, and in the Lord's name."
"O, then give him my word for true."
But Lord Percy thoughtfully took his hands in his own.  He was
unto him; the Devil sent a lighted ladder to heaven.
"And so, good Lord, there is nothing wrong in this world where ye
"O, sir, your name is my name, and my home is in the home of
delight."
"O, I am come to tell you of your name," said the Devil.
"O, I am come to tell you of your daughter, and she, my lady-mother,
"My daughter is a name of me," (they cried), "the mother of many
"It is a happy woman, dear, but her mother is a widow."
"It is ever thus with me," said the Devil.
"It is a bitter woman," said the Devil, who had been thinking of
"O, I am come to tell you of your daughter, and she is a widow; but
"O, tell me, ye children, where is your daughter?"
"She is a young man's daughter, and ye are a handsome old men."
"Now I will tell you of your daughter, and she is the daughter of a
bright-eyed damsel, whom ye have seen."
"Now we must make thee a good home for the house."
"It is a fiend that doth walk at our door," said the Devil.
"It is a cursed woman, then, that walketh behind the door."
"I will go ask my daughter," said the Devil, "she shall be his wife."
"O then, O God! if she be not to be my daughter, be thou the
bright-eyed damsel, who doth lie here."
"Why, my daughter," said the Devil, "are ye alway spoiling me?"
"I have been to say, sir,--I have said a lie--a true story--'Ye
that have made my house in a hurry."
The Devil then came up and spoke:--
"Now ye must prove the use yourselves of me so far to do, are
you not saying, 'I have many darling husbands.'  How then, if you
wish that I would be the comrade of you, not your father, not the
Then they all laughed applause.
"My name is Painful, and I am Love, dear, for you I seek,
for still I am a stranger to
======================================== SAMPLE 867 ========================================
 on the lawn's green side;
A thrush the lady-bird was seen
Sitting in buds near the edge of shade,
Her slender curls had quite begun
To wave before her morning sun;
But soon it flew, 'twas sad indeed,
For as the day was rather bright,
And she was gay, and roguish quite,
And she was happy as a bride.
A merry time was that sweet time,
When Jenny Wren found true love's face,
And as for virtue--such a crime!--
She had no fear of worse or worse.
Her mother's heart with pity changed,
And thus her mother spoke at large:
"'Tis well that I be not mistook,--
All other lovers have their own:
I love them all, but that a man
Should seek them, as I love you, dear;
Yet I must say, I will not fear
At least, your mother does not love
One who will serve and hold me dear."
"I can't love a man," the mother's dear.
"But he will find a man," she said;
"He'll see his love since I am here,
And he will find a man," she said.
He sought her far, and left her there,
And when he came where fair she stood,
He found poor Jenny with her hair
Tied to her shoulders, with her hood.
And as he wandered o'er the plain,
The maiden often thus began
To speak, and she would gently tell
How all the cows were getting well:
"Oh, what a pleasure!  I should see
A horse and cart a-nevering."
They ne'er gave cause to doubts or fears,
They were both man and horse, but thought;
No one at all: three friends were near,
And he would tell if they were ought.
But poor Jenny could not make reply,
Nor doubt, the tears ran down her cheeks;
"Oh, dear me, Jack, I'm very sure
You never saw one, neither doze,
And I can use my dog for nose,"
Says she, and on the ground, says she,
"If you've no more cows to buy,
Go home, and fetch the cows to me;
I'll let you have a good one, Jack,
And I'll not have a cow to milk you."
"Now, poodle, woe betwixt my hands,
My dog will have a horse of good,
Yet I'll not have a dog for me,
Though he shall bark and bite like dee.
Grammar is sure a beast of pixies,
But I will ne'er go tailing on
Without four tailors, for my brothers,
Without my parents, for my brothers."
Jacky is a very pretty fellow,
Although his home is near him;
He has a garden full of sunshine;
Yet he has a garden yard.
He can go in one day, if he please,
And in the next he can go on,
With elephants as tall as he is
The tallest alder he has grown.
He takes his mother by the hand
And talks about his pretty house,
As full of thee, but not quite free
From chaffing in the market-place,
And nosing round it for the space
With all its leaves.  When he is fed
He needs not state he eats it dead;
He eats it up without delay,
And keeps it for himself as play.
He thinks he has a garden 'neath,
And that his father keeps it up,
And does his stockings very much,
For then he wears them on his back,
He thinks a very pretty sight!
He keeps them till they turn in flight;
So now he tries to walk it o'er,
And now he sadly looks 'forefore when
He is in deep despair again.
I do not doubt to leave you back,
But that 'tis just a day of days.
For it is very nice to chase
A gloomy sadness in a face,
Which almost makes us people sad,
And cause a sympathetic tear
For all the sadness they have had.
But you might think, when all is done,
That longings for so short a time
Are really painful, for you've done
Quite spitefully, you know, the fun.
Sometimes it is a pleasant time,--
But, somehow, after all, the truth,
Which always, if we do or don't,
Is sure to come to us at times
With any kind of sad surprise,
Unless some means of going to be
The sort of human object there
For our instruction to prepare.
And, let
======================================== SAMPLE 868 ========================================
,
The old man looked up at his shoulders for comfort.
And "Don't" seemed to answer, "I'm just like a feather;
"And I'm going to see your face, if you call you to mind."
But the old man, in the dusk, got the letter from Toldow;
And, oh, for a love-look, it made Toldow quite sad;
For--"Don't" was what he said; but the old man turned pale.
And the old man was frightened, and stood for his life.
Then he went to the mill and the wheel on the Piccadilly,
And the coggin-obol was sureeder than that was for me;
For--"Don't" was the first of all things that I ever saw.
The hosses are playing with a musical re-sounding lilt,
All the girls are asleep, but the wheel runs much beyond.
And now, if you please, this old man will never stand still;
Then you'll know how the wheel made a music so cheery,
And how the water ran out through the broken bottom of the mill;
You may see how the wheel did it run really sweet and low
With the clatter and rattle of feet as it went flying all below.
And the old man, in the dusk, just appeared to say, smiling,
When his eyes got tired out, "Oh, it's all over over yet!"
He had got a good chance thataway "Old Nick" was going to get,
And he hadn't got water when he got down on the floor.
But Toldow would never have thought of it till next morning,
And been forced to take him a wife and tie him up one side.
And the old man had to finish his long journey one day,
And a dirty little woman come up from a mud stump over the way;
So they both were ready to come on, though it made them heart faint,
And they took the old man from the wheel into the spinney again,
And that was the hardest-moulded thing that was ever seen.
They have left it now, Toldow, but little else they care,
For they know it's getting to be a rough job done in there,
For it's getting to be our own, by and isn't worth while;
For it's sitting to and fro
Where we used to get there
When it wasn't there,
And we're waiting then
For the cold outside
And the damp upon
And the dust upon!
That's the place for a friend of ours, though it's ages that part aside;
But it wasn't so long ago, as we've often beheld,
When they wanted to be a friend for some kindly friend we knew,
They wanted to be a friend for their own little loving
Every morning we'd have to look on it.
They had not been there long,
When they wanted to be a friend--the one who was being
"There," they thought.  He will be the friend that they'd have to be.
They were looking on and on
When they wanted him to come.
Will you come and tell me when
They saw that they had missed?
Will you lift your eyes to find
Somebody in the blind?
Will you tell me how I love you so
When the wind blows over and gone?
Will you tell me how you like
To come and tell me of _you_
When the fire's out, and I've toiled through
When the wind blows over and gone?
Where the dew's too sweet to drink
That way over where we sink,
Tired out with a long week's nap?
Where the new faces up and up
Laugh and gloat on things 'n' it.
I had a tired dog that sat and drank
Wherever he might go,
And if he went, I'd give to him
He'd call his dog and try to kick
And kick and kick.  There was no need
To kick and squeal and bite and bite,
And when he got there he would not bark.
And I was just so tired when he saw
The sorrow and the pain.
He'd run about a mile or so,
And when I turned and touched my toe
He'd sneak and squeal and snap his lip
And say to me, "Go on and slip."
And when I helped him over me
He'd climb my shoulder, and, "Go through.
I want to see the fire," he said,
"And then if you must bring along
The fire as soon as you are there,
I'll put you into paper."
There was no need to think of him,
And he would rather
======================================== SAMPLE 869 ========================================
 the braw verse.
Lend your fingers the glitt'ring reins,
Let the blackbird wheel at his wheel,
We must have the air still denied,
Lend your fingers the rein, and the horse is in wait.
Lend your hand your hounds, let their cattle go,
We will hunt the black-bear for he his prey,
Let the deer be on the dunghill to-night;
Let the ploughman go by, and the plowman go by!
They have had their fill, and they must pass over here;
They must leave us the scent of the bitter juicy peach,
The morsel of murder, the gabble of bones,
The whiplash of thirst, and the sack of the slain,
The moulder of bones, and the socket of brain.
Let the pearly drops down from the fingers run free,
While the cherry forebears all the mischief below,
While the whistle's sharp drawn, and the whang of a gun,
And the howl of the wind that is up in the sky.
They must leave all to go, and we'll follow the scent,
For the fox will be out, and the fox will be out,
Though the sun is too high for clear water to run,
Though the breeze will not pelt the ground as with frost,
And the frost will not freeze on his head in the grass.
But we'll leave them there, and the hawks will not rest,
And the rabbits are out with the wild beasts at their best,
And the fox will be bound in a cedar-tree thickly blest,
They must leave us the scent of the dust we must leave.
But we'll leave them there, and the rabbits will come,
We will hunt the black-bear for he his prey,
We must have the black-bear, the jaguar of doom,
We must carry our jay and our jav'lin home.
So we'll set the pott, and the potties must file,
And we'll camp beside the old t'other, the mill,
When the children is out with the hare in the aisle,
And the fire from below 'll rattle away.
Yes, I'll set the pott, and the cot on the hill,
And we'll camp beside the old t'other, the mill,
When the children is out with the owls in the chill,
And the stormy night darkens the cottages rue.
Then we'll set the pott, and we'll camp beside the old t'other,
And we'll camp beside the old t'other, the mill,
When the children is out with the owls in the chill,
And the frost will be hard on the bones of the slain.
Then we'll set the pott, and we'll camp beside the old t'other,
And we'll camp beside the old t'other, the mill,
When the children is out with the owls in the chill,
And the stormy night darkens the cottages rue.
And round the hearth will be drawn yarn yarn yarn yarns spun,
And we'll set the pott, and we'll camp beside the old t'other,
And we'll camp beside the old t'other, the hearth and the fire,
And we'll camp beside the old t'other, the hearth and the fire,
And we'll camp beside the old t'other, the hearth and the fire,
And we'll camp beside the old t'other, the hearth and the fire,
And we'll camp beside the old t'other, the hearth and the fire,
And we'll camp beside the old t'other, the hearth and the fire,
_And the moon and the sun and the cloud and the rain,_
_And the roaring of the guns on all sides reign._
The sea was smooth as glass,
And we floated thereupon,
And the wind on a cleft branch was keen,
And we heard the guns of the sentry on the quay.
"O Captain! my Captain!" the sentry said,
"To the right, to the left, and to the left;
For I have heard your voices in the night,
And I wish I were in by day or night
If I were in by day or by night!"
"O Captain! my Captain!" the sentry said,
"'Tis a fog-horn round the world!" he cried;
And the bells of the sentry replied: "Let us see,
For we brought the good news about the war."
As lean as eagles in the sky
They clung and c
======================================== SAMPLE 870 ========================================
--_Friessey_, and other small forms.
_Imitative_, a kind of _verse mind_. "Imitations from the
_Imitative_, a term of a word _confess_," etc.
"Wherever so _great_ and _oft_," the writing of verse may be
addressed in the style of "Imitations from the British
_Imitative_, its meaning is, that the line of _one_ verse
is the only one left in verse. The "whole, damned man;"
"whirled in one," "whirled in one," "with whirled and whirled with
spell," "whirled in one," "with whirled and whirled in
these," etc. The word "whirled" is translated from E.g. _facis_,
_without a single_, is the _only_ one of the five left in
_without a single_, and "thirteen-five," and "thirteen-six."
_in public_, that is, the "whirled and dizziness of the
_in public_, that is, the _one_, etc.
_in public_, is, forsooth, the "thirty-nine of the
first and twentieth Jumna, are the _one and the many_ there
called the _one_ of the best.
_in public_, is, all that is, the _one_, etc., and the _one_,
in private,"--thus to say:
"There stood the boy; and leaning o'er the _face_,
He cried, Be bold! We'll try to _make a race_:
Heav'n bless that youngster! Drove him--Let's be _tum_!
And bless the boy! We'll try to make a _space_!
_First, with a _raining_ and a _raining_ grin,
We're only human; and, in fact, we'll _run_!
I'm _encouragement_ you----" "begod!" he cried;
And at that word, the trembling, trembling man,
Half dead with wonder, fastened to the side,
Whispered "Old Phœbus, that we used to see;"
And with those words, the skeleton of a tree:
"Yes, yes, I knew him! And with what a spring,
Would he have blest my life!"--He turned his face
To where the little wreath of smoke had led,
And on his shoulders, like a candle, stood
The _other_ flame, the _corner_ of the wood;
And looking up, in somewhat devious sort,
He saw at once (a sight to freeze his heart,)
The _boy and man_, and _spite of _what_ they taught,
"To be their _sake_, "the man_.--Ah, I know not
Why they who gave us all that loveliness"
Should cry, "Alas, and he, ye fools!" "Alas,
'Tis but _nourish_ having _made me so_!"
"It was the _time_ when all was sweet," he sighed;
"_You_ know the whole world,--but you _have_ died!
"'Twas sweet when _I_: ah, 'twas bitter now,
"Nor ever did one sweetly _but_ so_!"
"I wish that I _had not died!" she said;
And ere he reached her throat, the _fixed_ was laid
In her warm hand, and he had ceased to move,
And all was beautiful--yet, with no love,
Although the roses nodded, and young _flowers_ smiled,
His mistress took him, with a kind embrace,
And, with his _head_ soft-lashed on either's face,
He lay extended, with that "he was dead!"
But still, "so be it!" the _yellow_ cried;
Till, as it were some blessed creature's pride,
The _woman_ wept, and still the _woman_ lay,
To speak the boy's dear name, and kiss the clay;
And even the _woman_ murmured love-lit tears,
And, while her eyes she closed, their lustrous lashes
Kept up her lips, and smiling in their glad surprise,
"Sweet lad! your mother's _love_, and _mine_, are _gone_!"
The _woman_, kneeling to her father's throne,
In mute appeal, her kiss for _passing by_
Breathed on him _beautiful_; and so the
======================================== SAMPLE 871 ========================================
, _i.e._, Help of P. Anselmo.
These _cynthia_ gave me such a plague, as being a disease
Of the whole race, and which, for aught I know, will shortly
waste itself, but the _gagnonio_, or the _siacana_ that is
obtained in the mouth of a fish in some other's wat'ry isle.
I have been anxious for _machinia_, and, I fear, longs to see
Some of them there are really, and have given me much to rue
Their ill advice in this way: if a plague occurs instead,
It must not be done to _scarco_,--for the pest is very low.
Of the evils in store are those that on _bonco_ may be had,
On which a few mysterious Papists all have had an _Abráca_
(The _Burgos_ have had them) will be so many victims.
The _Sarcanero_ must be an Orpheus; that would be all
Of the Gods, and more particularly the Tartar.
But there is no one yet to tell us what will pass: it is
We should take a kind of _Sodomani_ to do _sodomani_
(a good one) and will bring that company home; not a
longer is the time to leave to such an antientan to-day.
It is a most pleasant voyage to ride
The Portugal Sea, to be a free beast.
But, if the _Sodomani_ has not said these would not, as
Many would say she had, her friend, in making some
ten days of his famishing, instead of being an _avis_.
This tale is by far most dramatic in its way
Of laying the climax with the final word
Of the last word of the final sentence.
To the end that I refer myself upon account of the having taken
part in _Beowulf_, is much matter for _Gabriel_.
The _Sál-Society_ is a pleasant thing; perhaps even the best
In the way of making bad money is a serious thing.
In reading the _Beowulf_ the _Beowulf_, there are two or three
extracts, to be found in the bottom of all our books.
On the main matters of this _Beowulf_ is another matter of large
_Beowulf_ and _Sudomani_. We have lately observed him to be the
The number of minor poems that we have read certainly are
There are no other problems of which this year is not to be
Now that the more the royal theme I would
So with my _me_ begin my list'ning ears;
And as my _brain_ at once must be complete,
Hear my preps'd ears my former volume greet
From the first hour of rising, when the sun
O'er ocean riv'n, appears at eve undone,--
I'll let the world go round, while a new moon
Shall gild the scene before my eye, that thus
A new birth-birth of things and things shall be
Of joyful tidings brought by me from _Dauber_
To the first art and science of the earth,
To see new regions of this world new ways
From the mere accident of time and death.
For I of many curious pictures saw,
And some I've reckon'd well, and all condemn.
They saw what was, but what is not to be;
And now that o'er my _Bisher_ floats the sea,
They see as much as I shall unto _Dauber_,
And now the _Author_, with his pen and ink,
Writes, "Surely no one but myself can read."
A line that passeth on the mid-day night
Shall make an object of enchantment rare,
The moon that was a cloud in the east,
A moon to-night,
A moon of silver and of silver sheen
Far, far around:
How small it is, an elf, amid the piles
Of which no man hath half so fair a part
As this heart-beating heart-beats!--Many hearts
From out their trueness unto their first drouth
Stretch forth, each weary to the other's heart.
And thus, each one, we live; and thus we love
Each other, but no single one knows where;
With us each lives; with us each loves; and we
Are equal sharers of a common fate.
In this strange world of goods, as far as ear can see,
Of certain things the chief concern is this:
That one
======================================== SAMPLE 872 ========================================
ly_,
There is something in this world that can be thought of some being
Hark! 'tis she!
Oh, what melody, what words of woe
From the lips of those that mourn their own,
As the wailing winds that pass them by,
Are whispering, O nightingales, to thee,
The dirge in which thy song they wake!
Now, 'tis she!
See, the storm-cloud of thy grief is past!
See, the stars arise, are massed to view
In the distant clouds, like gems of fire!
Hark! they whisper to thy lover's lyre,
Those songs of woe, and they are sweet.
The fletcher to a rainbow paints,
And the wildcat wild draws nigh.
I think, sweet lark, it is thy song,
And thy plaint to all the night.
For they sing to me, and they sway
To the wind thy murmuring.
And they whisper to my soul,
And thou hast thy share of wo.
The wildcat, who late lays in the gloom
Where the ravens nested in the ivy's green,
Sleeps in the turf, with his tangled web
Laxin' his lidded eyes,
That see no dawn but the grey wolf's prey,
And the hag that threshes out his prey.
Oh, the wildcat of my heart!--
And the dove they know me afar:
Who is he but the gray-mouthed one day,
That longs to bite, to see no dawn but day?
And they'll talk of other parts of me,
The woman in her robes of green,
In our looks and looks, 'neath a foreign sky,
And a wild, wild bird between my and I.
What is the wonderful one man
Who lives in a lonely place,
With never a thought or thought to scan
The path that was so by-and-by?
He lives in a lonely place
That he knows not how to tread,
But he grows with the deep-set face,
And he knows the light to lead.
The wild white horses of the stream
Traverse them at last with scorn,
But the strange green riders of the stream
See them trip on the dawning morn.
On such a morn, in such a scene,
I saw that it was not true!
And I thought that a wild red deer
Was also hunted by;
But the strange red deer with the white breast
That the strange white cliffs had made,
Were never seen to take delight in
The ghost of the wandering shade.
But I saw all fair in our mother's eyes
A woman-like and true,
Nor a thought of what she had always been
Had ever wept in view.
So I fled from the fold, I fled from the fold,
With this strange human toy,
And I left my mother the wolf's prey
And sought in the copse the wild red deer
To track and take the wild.
The wind it blew like a spirit's breath,
The leaves around me falling,
And a spirit that came from the fields of death
Said, 'Farewell,'--and when I had said 'Farewell,'
I went into the quiet room,
And found her picture in my eye,
And I saw the woman of the flowers,
I took the little book I had,
And laid it in a binding clasp,
And said, 'It was not fair'."
I said, 'I do not see the trace
Of any change of wind or face,
But I knew that in my boy and girl
The change was with a wonder rife;
She is less dear than many a pearl
From her sea-ringing shore.'
The flowers which came out on the grass
I picked in turn,--and, oh!
I thought that none my mother was fair,
Or fairer than the flowery crown,
Whose gleam of green and sunny hue
Shone clearly in the summer dew;
But all was lost, the tiny hand
Named pinkly 'round me at my stand;
No bud was seen in the bright depths
By his light footstep loitering;
And I forgot the wistful face
That smiled as he went by.
I looked again at her sweet eyes,
But she never smiled or shook;
My little child, 'twill soon be mine
To guide thee back to her.
Yet she was more than half divine,
And I was never bold;
My heart of hearts was filled with love
For her and for my child.
And oft I thought, in her dear eyes
And in her shining hair,
A little child,
======================================== SAMPLE 873 ========================================
,
The whole of the earth--but the best of the sky.
In the dreary old years of the town,
When the flowers, like stars, with their fragrant breath
Shone in the eyes of their gathered friends,
And their hearts were gay with the fresh renown
That followed the footsteps of olden times.
Then the old folks' hearts felt a great hope dawn,
For the days of promise were always gay,
And their dreams were all true, like a dream of the morrow,
As the day waxed out, and they both forgot
That day and a week had come;
When the grey old days, like a cloudless sun,
O'er the roofs of the city passed:
As many nights had the old folks gone,
With the coming of the last!
There never was sun so bright, as when
They shone in the streets as bright can be
And died that day in a merry ring,
When "Home, sweet home," was a dancing throng--
When "Home, sweet home," was a dancing throng.
When "Home, sweet home," was a dancing throng.
And the music of all of the merry voice
Was mixed with the song and the clanging fray,
As it echoed the heart of a merry-voiced lark,
In the shade of the wood where the wild vines shone,
And the trees took heart in their silver fires,
And mingled with rose-trees and yellow sires
That died in the gardens of Grecian lyres.
Then a little wind piped high up in the tree--
O, it brought all the sunshine and glow of the sea,
And the flowers floated softly along
The shadowy path they had gone so long;
And the trees with their waving, white sails,
The soft-stifled hum of a summer's flute,
Were lit by the hand of a fairy-stare,
Where I listened and heard the sweet night-wind
Steal from the hollows of hollows, whose tone
Thrilled me till I was singing as down
The shadowy lanes where the faint wind moaned;
And I looked to the east with the sunset-touch
That the shadowy wood breathed in, and the trees
Took heart in the soundless and trembling air,
While one sad cry out of the purple sea
Had died when the hour was done.
And I think that the dawn is coming soon
To my heart, and that I must follow it
If there stirs a tempest on Gondolomew
By the shore where my little ship was at.
The water's rim
Gleams desolate through the long grasses. With hair
Hid away, the wind sings. I know not why,
For I know that my heart has a song of pain
And that mine eyes too dreamlessly
Are shut out of the light and vague shadows of things,
Too sorrowful for hope. To my own folk
They are given pain, while I go.
Oh, you'll hear me and me
When we meet again
In the garden of dreams,
Who are girt with a sprays of the dandelions,
And singing their songs.
Oh, you'll hear me and me--
Who are singing a strain,
Who are master of all
The songs that we sing
When the voices are mute
Or the night is come in,
Who are master of all
For what song may we sing?
What though no man artable be
Or the gods are good for us,
We're as two gods conversing alone
Under an eternity.
Away from the world's heat,
Where the sun ever turns
Ever where passion will never cease,
Lifting a radiant head
From a purple bed.
A step down the garden path
That runs straight across paths.
Where never a human foot goes,
And never a human face
Is orderly in the room,
And all the sky stops
To sift the news of the spring-time and the flowers
And never the other spring-time, never
Are they all unchanged.
Sometimes the wind,
Crying from out a hidden place,
Is sad with a sudden cry,
But the wind stops
And says it ever the same:
And when the leaves all fall,
Sometimes the wind plays
With a great joy.
Sometimes the wind,
Filling the leaves with a song of birds,
Comes back, a little sad, and a song of tears
That is not the Spring-time of all of the years.
So be it! When it comes to this
Through the red paths and the shadow,
For the first time it was fashioned,
A voice will come to you and you will see
Its little grave beside it
======================================== SAMPLE 874 ========================================
 the rhymes, "He had a wife,"
"How happy he, amid the sons
Of his old happiness, that shares
Of comfort and of happiness
The widow's transient ecstasy."
And even as I've heard him say,
"Farewell to life!  O, wherefore falls
One foot upon the sacred walls
Of life?  Whence falls the simple prayer
Of a poor people on the stair,
That he may come to give them bread?"
And this I know, of noblest race
The Whistler has a tear to shed;
His brow is bowed in sorrow's grace,
And his voice falters in his tread.
He heeds them not--two men afar
Set each by his peculiar star.
The watchful, wandering watcher hears
The song that his life-hymn evades.
And now the lamp of life bereaves
Himself with chill oblivion's shade.
In melancholy tones he grieves,
And mourns for a departure made.
He heeds them not--can anguish start
To leave their memory as they fade.
The few that are--hope or regret;
Their memories, like the mist, are there:
And many a pleasure past, since then,
Hath been a dream of years gone by.
And they in their dim homestead here
Look up to God for aye and aye.
And there are those whom yesterday
I knew not as an earthly guest,
Whose days are one long road of care,
Whose life is one long road of care,
Whose hopes are ashes in the air,
To furnish the poor souls in prayer!
And they have followed man, and friend,
And there, in their brief day of life,
Have missed the One--the shining way
Of faith by one long road of care.
And I, whose life had known no strife,
Have gathered friends which never knew
This longed-for gift of life and life,
For those who left me with the few.
And I am left, beside the sea,
To dwell with one whose mind was set
Firm to the task; to him I send
My thanks and my own lonely prayer.
Beneath the open sky and sky,
With all my heart ablaze to see,
Bare is the journey to and fro.
Upon a city's battled tide
The yellow sands of it run dry;
And here the Indian tiger's whelps
And bitumen seems to say:
"When I go forth I needs must pray."
And that same hungering cam near
To make my comrade take his fill,
And touch each limb, and ope his eyes
To that same eagerness and cry.
Then on the narrow sand they come,
And from each face the withering breath,
Like summer-shadows, slowly pass
Beneath a bush with yellow trees,
That seem to sleep, and fade as death--
And still the same bright water flows.
And there the dead are like to those
Who had the world's desire in stone;
Who, looking up at Camelot,
Have lost the daylight and the moan;--
And now I feel that I am one;
And by the prow of Time I know
The echoes of my own will blow.
Ah! still I love these sightless sands,
The pebbles of the ocean rolled;
When over me the still sand stands,
A gleaming shape that comes and stands
By me to guide me through the years.
It is an image of mine age,--
A vision far beyond the sun;
A shadow like the mist above;
That comes and goes in silver streams;
And every wave beneath me flows
As my recumbent vessel flows;
I watch it as it rises high,
My soul upon its waves to try,
Then sleep, as if a watcher stood
By me and waited for my flood:
A shadow of the land that lies
Beneath my shadow, far and faint,
On which the sunset dies and dies;
A shadow of the ocean deep
That rests upon the rolling shore;
The shadow of the stars above;
The shadow of the earth before;
The shadow of the falling snow;
And underneath me now I go
Through those old gates of life to find
A welcome in these fairy kind.
Fair is the Lake, and bright the wood,
With many a flower-full glamour hung:
Fair are the banks; and soft the flood
With golden laughter of our tongue;
And gracious is the sylvan shade
As when we roamed from Eden's bowers
At morning in their golden prime,
And sang the blessings of the isle
In their
======================================== SAMPLE 875 ========================================
,
The _Sprites_ were nam'd, and so he rais'd
The _Last-Loved_ Matron _Ossian_, rais'd
Her stately head; _Orestes_ then she vow'd,
And told his _Pallas_ what was due to her
By that good Knight, who made her wedded wife,
And she shall lead _Gods Altar_ to the strife;
He was her best-lov'd friend; _Iphigenia_,
Her eldest-born, her best-ear'd son-in-law;
Then call'd his father _Venus_, whom she calls
_Venus_, and all _Phoebus_, from his bloody halls.
O, when these change shall be, and when, no more
My love shall breed me fairest _Cassis_' Fair,
Of whom ye all, in fame of years to come,
May have more worth than she, or all the world;
Shee, too, the world shall sing, and ages hence
Fill up my vacant chalice, and let _Diodorus_
_And all the world be equal unto me_.'
'Nay,' said the other, 'for you could not take
Such _Principles_ hence, I think, for Nymph
Was also lately brought to Court. Perhaps
'For, say, as your affairs are well reveal'd,
I'm much too long in love, if I was such
In love with _Hippolytus_, or what wight
May then be found, who will the traitor try!
I'm but of one mind, _Eurypylus_;
He's but a _Pracus_, who, like others, bears
A single nose, or takes one eye in one.'
In this she wept; when, like a damasoove
Gather'd around her, so within her arms
She wak'd herself, and thus address'd her Lord:
'Fountain of beauty, by whose luckless hand
My Lady long hath drencht me in a tear,
In that I must endure (when I come near)
In this unhappy passion; if, 'tis true,
'Twere pity if 'twere pity they should die,
Or suffer'd deaths themselves should leave their child
In grief without the mother; so to me
Your gentleness shall be allay'd in vain,
For pitying my poor heart that I have wrong'd
And done all 'stil' in honour of my fall.
What can it 'gainst your fortune in the skies,
Child or the sole possessor? That I know,
No, no, my Lord; for I myself have will
To live on earth, and yet not see the sun.'
Then Pallas, in the hope of pardon, sent
A beauteous spring to answer his desire.
This came, and round the house he made her couch,
With armlets of ethereal pearl enclos'd;
And with the richest flowers his robe he dress'd,
To lull her with his soft magnetic touch;
Then to her maids and to her maids he call'd,
And from her chamber he convey'd his thanks.
'All these were old and those were new, but thou,
Goddess, art bold; nor may I be unkind
To any, whoso hath an ear to thee,
While thou dost favour show or pity me.'
Thus he reprov'd her: 'Now I take my leave,
And be not coy, for not with thee I'll stay;
But my disdaining promise, be it known,
Is now made plain. For I have sworn to none
With this proud youth to trust me, which shall pay
So dear a debt to thy corrupted heart;
And who shall, by a heart that cannot part,
But breaks the shaft, shall gently lay me down,
And will by me, in my revenge, bestow
The wound I suffer, till the Fates be found,
And that I suffer.' He, this laughing said,
With lustrous eyes, and beating heart, intent
On tempting Hymen, his best servant, play'd
With boist'rous gauds; and going, from his board
Of kindred board with kind applause, he gave
His word, which soon dismiss'd the Queen of Love,
And on her bed as solemn rites bestow'd.
At which the Queen, with sweet regard, 'Alack,
What ills by Grecian ills our state distress'd!
For I, a Queen in highest rank am crown'd,
With two sons sole of old, two chosen nymphs
Have won
======================================== SAMPLE 876 ========================================
?
It might be a philosopher, and may be a philosopher,
That I should be a philosopher;
But it's a wise companion that I should be;
When one's a fool who wants the best of drink,
He's sure to have the best of it.
I never drink till I've a fit of fun I've had;
It always was not bad, because the best is bad.
I'm glad I didn't wash my hands, somehow, and keep my temper,
And then I give up all for purity and me decorum;
But I'll stop and be a wiser man with every feature,
That I don't want cleanliness, because it's good to see.
When you have a good time for a day,
When the sun will shine where no cloud can be,
When the clouds begin to dark, and night withdraws,
No friend will walk abroad, for he does not see.
He will find his proper soul alone,
And the best is when he is left alone
And his mind will be most perfectly alone,
For he has a conscience at his own.
Wealth has a very goodalth, so there's no need
To waste it over a poor man's store
And it will be like an everlasting itch,
Because it begins with a great success.
A bachelor man wants a wife,
And he is forced to beg his life
For just one thing--love? Ah! I have heard
Good-bye but now, for my heart will grieve.
He lives and loves, and that is where
He may have had, the girl he shares,
And loves to be the druggist's wife.
I'm glad I didn't think the girl
Would wish her all good gifts to give
And be for him, and take that life
Without or giving or lent.
And, as a healthy man, she is,
For it's a good time after all.
And you know we date a man of parts,
A married woman, of the wife,
And he's a married man, as I have said.
My husband and my wife, my friends,
You are the man I never meant;
He's my best friend, when you are dead.
I could wish a bachelor, had he;
I'd wish another bachelor instead.
I'd wish another man and wife,
And I'd wish another life, had he;
I'd wish another life had he;
I'd wish another life had he;
I'd wish another life had he;
I'd wish another life had he;
I'd wish another life had he;
I'd wish another life had he,
And I'd wish another life had he;
I'd wish another life had he,
And I'd wish another life had he.
But now I never meant to say
What I should say, and I will never.
So now and then I never meant
To rail so long, or lie so flat
About my wedding; but I meant
To slander others rather bet;
And now and then I never meant
To sigh so much about the fair,
And ask so many a good-night kiss
From those who have not time to tell,
And ask so many a kiss from me
To keep them happy out of sight;
And sometimes it would take me day,
And sometimes it would take me night
To say to one another, if
I could not always say and write,
And, in a happy, quiet way,
And I could only sigh and say,
To one another, she would say,
Could I have kissed 'em, anyhow,
Then, even then, if she were dead
They needn't wonder how I'm ill
Unless there's bread and butter in it,
Unless there's eggs and butter in it.
Why, dearest Julia, could you make
A horse-and-seven to the lake
And let the water fall upon it?
Why, dearest Julia, could you make
A horse-and-seven to the lake
And let the water fall upon it?
She'd bid us do it with a kiss,
And, for her sake, would let us this.
You have no daughters at your board;
You must not have them, and when you're stored,
Then, dearest Julia, quite your way
Will vanish quite. The more I say
The more 'tis in your mind to stay
And dress up for your choice, I fear
That we have little more to wear.
How could they be of common clay,
Who come to take a house away,
And play with you when you are able?
Why, just the pleasantest of fuel.
Aunt Tabitha loved a May-day revel;
She liked her
======================================== SAMPLE 877 ========================================
 of his text.
Here's Sir Walter Scott's first book,
And here comes Jena:
"There's Skipping in the West,"
As he is daily working,
"I've got a splendid bill,
And I want some of it,"
In the school-house metin,
"But I do not know."
Now he lies in his grave,
And the words he quotes
Tell rascal and rascal
How it was took him
To the school he taught,
And why it cost him
To begin a play,
And then betwixt them
He'll sport him there,
And when his own trap
Hangs ready for him,
Him will no doubt be
A gambling den!
But the school-house that he built
With his name and fame,
With his name and fame,
Will never wax
O'er the head of him,
On the sward of Jack
Who all his life sailed.
Nor will he grow old
Though he sits at head;
The old things say,
"He only lived in New York
And now by his side
I see his face,"
And I hear the laugh
Of a merry little boy
With a pleasant twig upon his little leg,
Who, when she leisurely
Kis Wilson or Bendigo used,
Would bring and coax and soothe
Her little dog to grow
When the dog is barking
And ask who he was next
The little maid,
Who often takes him by the hand
And kisses little dog,
For she was fond of barking
And would teach her letters to her little friend,
And she would lick his fine feet
And catch her eye peeping into little ears,
The while she patters on his curly tail!
She loves him for his pleasant looks
Of sweetness, grace and laughter;
She would not eat or drink, or cake,
And so she is not happy.
And when the little dog has learned
His food was eaten out,
The little girl who brings
Her little dog to tetch her up
Upon his yellow tup,
Will often leave her house and home
Ere he can leave her "bang!"
I do not know, I do not know,
My darling, but you see
That if you love me, then it was you
Who love me, and not I.
I never saw a picture.
It has a natural face.
Why should I seek to picture?
I should not find a trace
Of that dear, dear, dear, old face
I would not look at for,
But long to pass away
With all my heart and eyes.
The picture that I write,
Please, you won't know, you know.
This heart, with all its joys and cares,
That heart of ours, that heart of ours,
I know the perfect whole
Of you, and of my boyhood's first,
Still more I see than these,
And I hear other eyes
That grow more dear and close.
If I'd the strength to give
An hour of exercise,
I would not seem to have,
Not I, the happiest one,
But that my dear, dear mother
Who lives in my house and mother,
I would not bow the knee.
I see the portrait that I love,
As one may see the rest.
The little boy with hair of gold,
The girl with eyes of blue,
The old man with her pretty brown
That keeps one shine in you.
And if I'd heart, indeed,
If I'd a heart for use,
I'd give it all for love
Of a world you'd never choose.
If I'd a heart for play and balls,
I would not take it ill,
I'd give it to myself,
For that is what I'd give,
But I'd a heart that sings to beat
With all the heart's desires,
If I'd a heart for "More and more,"
I'd give it to the lad
Who gave himself to me,
And I would hold him to the ground
Before I'd have him bring,
And mould him up with loving hand
A bargain long ago.
And what would you have done
To make it quickly go,
If you were only a baby,
A baby, and not I?
The child had never a bow,
And he never had eyes;
And the thing in which he'd been born
He'd never put by surprise.
But God help him,
And he'll help him, for he
Can't afford to behave as a proper man.
Then you can't use a weapon,
Nor a weapon can you use.
When you're dying and you're dying,
What a comfort it would
======================================== SAMPLE 878 ========================================
,
The King’s Disdain.
Canto XX, Canto XXIV.
“As the moon’s more glorious light,
If the shades that hide the day,
Be concealed from the people’s sight,
So let the night, my child, decay;
Let the night, with her sweet light,
Blossoms white and red and white,
To the joy of the coming day.”
As thus spake the prince, the night
Grew brighter as day took on;
And the vengeful searching of her sight
Grew more fiercely as she shone.
In the palace, while the King
On his throne sat saintly there,
O’er his head a lance she fling,
And she looked upon the air.
Then sang the sweetest lute of all
The birds and beasts that roam
After their sweetest song and call,
Such music as the minstrels sing
When round the temple ring.
And the sound of that solemn hour
When he sat in the porch with fire
And heard the minstrels singing there
Of love and of duty done,
And ever in the hour of need
They made their sweetest sound, afar
From the land of the morning star.
And then with the wind it blew,
The wind it blew so loud and proud
That my mother heard it not,
Her daughter weeping loud.
She looked to east, to west, to north,
From the fields of waving grain,
And all the people round her shone
With a joyful heart and glad.
Then the stars began to dance,
The maiden’s heart to sing,
And the voice of the people prays
“Let us come to the king’s abode,
And his royal gifts display,
For he has longed to lay that gift of his before,
We must make him ours to-day.”
And again, as the voice had beat,
The maiden sang, “I love no king:
But I follow a famous king,
The monarch of all on high,
Who has done me ill to serve and to serve the king,
And now by his will I come.”
The king gave his promise and swore
That she would be King one day
And see his children on the other side
Of the old man’s house again.
Thereafter the three brothers born from the old man’s home
The eldest was called ‘GOD,’ for this epitaph from him ’em,
“ROBERT RE supporting the army that slaughtered Goblet’s army
I shall put my trust in my strength and courage and force,
For the war will soon be over and gone upon broadswords.
I will send my brother to the monarch’s embrace,
And I’ll swear that I do my duty to my sovereign king,
To my messengers and my messengers ever to King John.”
“Greet ye, noble Queen,
I entreat ye to send word to his Majesty,
I entreat ye a little more
To send word to him who takes in his arms the boar’s dogs
And the other fellow who has that.”
In her presence all the maidens danced,
All the fiddle-strings were hung,
And the silvery falcon, flitting sweet,
Flew above the harebells young.
Out into the forest dark and loud
The hunter has leapt full soon;
Black and angry was the steed,
Full seven thousand white leagues on.
The grey falcon, fleet as the dart
That he bears on his back on the air,
Was seen flying towards the strand,
With the terror of a strange alarm,
As he gazed on the far-off farm.
And the mother wondered—she could not tell—
What became of the knight so bold,
While his heart, like the string of a bat,
Lingered like a trembling bird.
And the falcon answered and said to him,
“My dear lady, I would have speech with thee:
For I know that the king’s son of men
Would give my sister the crown to be.”
And he answered him, “You would call me a liar:
For who would be king on earth but I?”
When the lady’s heart was high up yet,
And her lord was seized by the hand of the king,
The noble falconer stood forth,
And caught him by the hand, as he caught him by the wrist,
“Beware of the death of Sir Pigma the knight.”
The knight wiped
======================================== SAMPLE 879 ========================================
 the little pages;
A-listening to the comment;
The little child-voices,
Shadows--and a few of the letters--that are read
Half my one time and ended--in the corner.
No matter how to card--you'll wish no better--
It is too late.  There is no one else to do it.
No one to read, and no one to look backward.
Go by!  I shall be sorry.
I, who have gone before them,
Gaze up, and call them children.
Who is this crying in my ear?
I know not.  I am reading books.
O the little book, that, well read,
Is a book of little letters,
All of gold and white and red;
And I hear a reading that has been read.
I know a window where the rain sits
On the window of my cottage window.
There is a song in the window of my heart.
I know a song.
It is the melody of the rain and sunshine
That falls on water and is lost again.
And the sea and the sky become one music.
The sea and the sky become one song.
Now, when the rain has spent its wonted fashion,
The little cradle is still again.
The roses will not lose their fair and secret
From the rain's coming up.
The grasses and the flowers will not shrink.
And the flowers will neither be alone and silent
In the sunshine of the morning.
There is a song in the window of my heart.
I can see the sun on the horizon,
The lights and shadows of the sunset.
I will shut my doors and wander by the window
And wander by sunrise and sunset and sunrise,
And follow through high grass, and the sky behind me
Is a cloud, moon-coloured like a drab,
For the little rain has long thin waves and colors
As the cloud helps over for the little clouds.
The little rain has long thin waves and colors,
I could see them through the window and the sunset,
And I hear their wonderful breath come from the sea.
What is this song with a shout of glee?
It is the sound of little waters.
It is the voice of wind in the trees of the passage
Where every leaf drops its seed.
The little rain has long thin waves and colors
Like the great waves of the sea.
And the little sky sings in the rain of the morning
When the little clouds have all been dried,
And the rain has broken the flower of the morning,
And thrown in the salt-sprinkled stone.
The little rain has a face that is dark with wonder
That all the other faces were made for;
That the deep sea was a place for the fishes to dart
And catch the fishes' snatching glances
From the far back, where they had eaten their fishes.
No one has ever missed the little rain
From any hidden strand of the shore of the sea.
And the great rain has broken the star-dance of the shadow
And dropped the leaves of all the trees.
The rain has broken the trees of the forest;
But the little rain has a shape so fair,
That it moves the roots and pinches the blades of grass,
To hide the broken leaves of the trees.
The little rain has a face so calm
That the world goes heavily to the north
And melts out white in the evening rain.
The little rain has a face so bright,
And the clouds sail over its face in a stream.
The little rain has a face so fair,
And a shadow flecks the whole city down.
The little rain has a face so sweet,
And the sun sends rain from heaven.
My window has a face so fair,
I see God's face through the rain.
I hear God's voice in the rain.
But the wind has blown to a pool where the water is old,
And the rain makes me mad with their joy.
"There is the sun," I cry.
The little rain sleeps through the wet.
There was an old woman tossed up in a basket
Too young to be told,
She had so much gold, she had so little gold
That her children forgot to call her children.
A boy and a girl came in to see
This beautiful poem,
And I know that the thing's growing new
Under the skin of my baby,
Under the skin of my baby.
"This man's hair is long and black, and his hair is white,
He has so many silver bells, and his face is white,
And his body is all of black, and his heart is old,
And he holds two silver bells in his shoes of gold.
"He has no gold,
======================================== SAMPLE 880 ========================================
, the _charming_ chapman; "as the boy was a
_Tinkler_.--E. P. See Sir _Tinkler_ as a poet.
_Dandy_.--E. _Dandy_.--E. _Dandy_.--E. _Dandy-drink_, a small raking.
_Donsour_.--E. _Doon_.--E. _Dotte_.--E. _Dotte_.--E. _dosh-dush_, to poke at a head,
_Droguer_.--E. _delighted_.--E. _gloomie_, to make currant.
_Dobbin_.--E. _gloomie_, a dreamer, a fairy.
_Dobbin_.--E. _Dodger's Dream_, the dreamer, a wizard.
_Eldritch_.--E. _Eldritch-o'-the-Mouse_, to make foolish mad.
_Eident-shot_, and _Ety_.--E. _Ety_.--Grow. _Etynthorne_, to set in air.
_Eigh-set_, an even-etypheid; _eighbour's_, a small flash.
_Eigh-set_, twelve-etypence.
_Eigh-set_, a gilliant-leather; _eighbour's_, offhand.
_Eigh-set_, twelve-etypence.
_Eigh-set_, a small quantity.
_Eigh-set_, immense quarto.
_Elephants_, dues out with twelve hundred pounds, or glasses.
_Elephants have made a fortune,
Fortune says they are great;
Fortune says they have a girl myself,
For to make one day a great.
"If I had a cave where your cave may lie,
I know where my cave may lie;
And I fear I'll be in a cave as low
As the place where my head doth lie."
"What will you do with the cave to-night,
You shy, cruel thing, to pray for me?
'What shall I do wi' the cave to-night,
'What shall I do wi' the cave to-day?'
'What shall I do wi' the cave to-day?'
'What shall I do wi' the cave to-night?'
'What shall I do wi' the cave to-night?'
'What shall I do wi' the cave to-night?'
'What shall I do wi' the cave to-night?'
'What shall I do wi' the cave to-night?'
'I wot and I wot and I wot 'twill be
When the cave gets out by the cliff to-night,
Then I'll be in it, ye knaves, for you
And I'll be in the cave to-morrow.'
"Then I'll be in it, ye jolly bards,
Ye bards for me ye shall sing--
If ye mind me of the cave to-night,
I'll boldly make it there for the sake
Of the cave where the cave doth sleep.'
"And the cave shall be took by the mountain and the mountain and
_Elephants_, _meteans_.
"He heard me tell him there in that high cabin,
As I was going home,
That there lay three stark bodies,
And as I thought thereon,
There lay three others beside him.
And the first were dead,
As I had lain,
And I had lain;
And the second was dead,
And now I am free--
But my heart and hand are laid on the stone,
For it is a strange and unknown thing
That brings me to a land
Far from the sea.
"There was a tower of the Etrurian Tower,
When they had gone astray
With the war-axed jarl of Loki Balder,
Of that count's son;
There was a tower of the Etrurian Tower,
And not a man of it,
But that day
Where in an old oak forest
Lay King Maeve's son.
"There was a tower of the Etrurian Tower
When it was born, and all
The lore of the Etrurians
Broke under the tower.
Great were the days and long, the grim world rolled
'Twixt this and morn,
But the tower, the place, the manner,
The fashion, the style
Lost in the race.
"There was a tower of the Etrurian
======================================== SAMPLE 881 ========================================
,
(A great planter advised 'um), and says, "What you get's
you're a-mindin' what I am as-you-says-the-what!"  Then
he says, "What's your business?  Is it rank?"  And
he's in business for maybe the only he-think-of-the-day
little-of-time towns in the little-folk-folk-folk-folk-folk
that are, though they're of kin and brotherhood, well-born and
strong, yet are the best and the best at the village when
one's blood is fairly mingled with tears that flow from
silence."
And as he spoke he sent up a prayer, but his voice died
in the voice, like a far-off whisper.
You may pick the flowers, but the flowers are not as
the one that I think is for others--just a common thing!
And, when the first man comes, as I was reckoned, he'll
give you the whole of the store it lays in--just a
single pittance to pay at the second man's hand.
And so, I'll give you something if I have a friend that
will give you the best thought in them--like a branch
that trembles to shake its way and blows, when the
blade, through the long blade, has reached the point of
the blade, and its spirit is gone to the ends in the
sheltering top of the trunk.  It is right,
I swear, I'm as safe as a rock, when the trunk comes
in through the pannikin, I'll hold stiff to the root right
and tight, for the roots are locked tight over it all.
"And I think I must go back when I'm able to go
to that tree so dark and low, where it was first found
for its shade; and I'd rather be left alone, than
that tree be built for the terrible snake!"
He frowned to his friend with sheer wrath.
"Go, then, go," said he, "go home and sit
on my tomb, if you please, and listen patiently; for
the other two are there."
So he took the red rose, and tied it on his own,
broke it and set it on his own.
"Not so," said he; "for I shall have to go back to
the elms and the rooks, when the grass falls out
from the tufts of the lindens, and at the foot
of the house I'll take my seat and think of you
here in my grave."
So he took the red rose, and set it there
in his own, and tied it there with his left hand,
then put it together with his right, and threw it
back, as he would have sprung it back he would have
lived.  And so when he got the stone from the
place, the seed he had to keep came up, and as
he began to wring it from the ground, his wife
spewed the oak leaves from the box, and threw
the gold and the green.
And the woman laughed, and went on the ground,
and flung the first red hair.  And all who had come
from the village said with a laugh, "'Forever it
has blossomed."
The next day was a famous exploit in the arts of
the workman, the famous man of the tongue and pen.
And the name of the man of the tongue found favour
in the master, and his name was Dom Pedro Hovellanos,
his father's patron saint.
The latest writers of the group, having chosen the last
place in the art of music, are delighted.
It is worth while at the beginning; the refrain of
ballad-singing, and of soprano introduction, has
to be preferred in England.  But it cannot, for it has
no meaning in the phrase of the popular voice, but it is
too ready to assume the expression.  He has, by his
word of "sweet love," in the tone of every sweet
song, to say, "the dear old love of old times."
And these are of him a grateful and a thankful and a
good reward--for they are living because of their
good deeds.
Well, I would not have led him into a long listless
hunger, but for his deserts made good.
We were not men, and therefore were young.
And I had striven the world, to be an artist.
And because the woman had been willing to play
thus, a common, common, careless, manly
fellow--indeed he must needs be otherwise
thought--and I have not been able to explain the
======================================== SAMPLE 882 ========================================
, Friar,--the fellow is my friend.
Let him put on a soft and pleasant gown;--
That, if you would have taken away
Those long-loved skins and all her pretty coars,
She would have _nearly_ come at last to play.
But _too_ poor Mary! Here I sit all alone,
Watching the even flow of her dear friend's away;
While like a living, loving, innocent child
She gazes on me thro' the whole life, while they,
With the first interest, come with joy to see
His white sails furling round his blanch'd, bright face,
Laugh in the light, bright eyes, that in my wake
Meets all its motions gently in the grace
Of his approach, yet no step stirs thro' my veins
From their firm fastness--so I lookt with joy
Where he was gone, while on his back I laid
A bundle--tho' the air seem'd half afraid,
Yet I could see him floating to the skies.
And when I saw him--oh, so very pleased!--
The solitary bird which in my dream
He seem'd to hover near. Oh, when he spoke
That voice which is not silent--lull'd at length
Brief pity came into mine unalarm'd soul--
The only sound I heard, it seem'd a tune
That I might listen--ay, but hear ye not
The notes by which the minstrel swoons away
On his own lute: tho' _there_ he ne'er could string
The viol, yet he is soft, and doth not wring
The chords to idle fingers; thus I went
To his own chamber, and I heard him sing
In accents soft and sweet as if made up
Of the warm flutes of angels, breathing love
Till heaven wax'd soft, while he, with lips all meek,
Took up his large bright tunic, and began
His lay. My spirit throve, and throve alone,
And grew quite heavy for my minstrelsy.
Then I began to tell how all had sped
Much to the best: all, whether light or shade
Might come or shadowy, even like a dream
Of what we are, our bodies can frame or sink
After such knowledge. Ah! I fear a doubt
'Is this--this is that we must create one day
In life, which we must taste in--of our blood?
There is a certain shadowy power
That lives in all things, and draws down on us
From all our dreams and fashions darker grew
The darker stillness, and the darker grew
The lower less, and nature framed of night.
One day, I thought I saw him as a dream,
Gleam'd, and was lost. This apparition
Could not be changed. I smiled--was happy--well
That such a dream should vanquish, and be set
In motion with the sun. As I stood there,
Still listening to the sound, the air, the gale
Whose brief light fell upon the world, grew faint
At feeling of my heart, and a sound of scorn
Rang through me like all anger on a child
Who hails his man's experience. On the day
My spirit went, half troubled with its fears,
And half returned myself upon the road
To that most holy place, and o'er the hills,
The blackness of the stormy clouds, I saw
The white tents of the twilight. They had come,
And laid their armor on me in my tent,
Bearing a farewell, that I might not weep
And lay, as cold and happy as before.
And from the battle-strife I had drawn forth
A look of dread, as when that hour is come,
The father of his boy, and thus he said:
"Come; thou shalt find thy father; he is dead.
He had not left me; for himself he died,
And thou hast not forgotten him. Come, come.
Let us go forth and rest. Thou art too young."
Then from the night-time, on such pitchy hours,
I slept, and woke, and left my heart awake,
And saw the day-dawn o'er the eastern ridge
Of heaven, glistening thro' the ruddy mists.
And so, before the sight of morning, I
Whistled, and left my bed, and saw the deep
Vast azure tremble round about the flame,
And nearer to the east, the distant line
Of giants, basking in the burning sun.
Then once again I looked into the night--
Why did I dream--O miserable dream!--
Of
======================================== SAMPLE 883 ========================================
,
The King looked his last at a very good length,
But I found him not.
The King he had heard of the matter and no!
The King he had seen it, and spoke it free
And spoke no word!
And the King he had heard of the matter and no!
The King he had seen it by him I spoke--
But the King he had heard of the matter--and oh,
He might have heard of it, but he was not sure,
For he heard it all!
And he said: "You say it, then, when from the King
You came here the King knew it for your own,
So I have come hither to see it, and say
It all to her."
The King he had mocked, too,
And he laughed as he saw it--
"Sir King," said the King, "it was all the same--
No matter--'twas neither king nor king;
But a man is more free from himself than from you,
And I cannot command it."
The King he went on,
And he called and spoke freely to the Queen,
And the Queen said, "You have made a matter of my own,
Just the very first thing I hold in your hand
To do in your service.  I need you to obey
That you stand by my power till you know it," and she,
Lighting her answer, went on, going with her, "Fare you well!
But I want you to stay as you have to do.
See, see!  I am going, or I am going to die,
To-morrow the King will take me."
The Queen she faintly answered, "I will stay,
I will stay, I will stay, but, darling, you must stay:
To-morrow the King will take me."
The Queen took him to her breast, and up the floor
Heaped a basket and a bed of downy snow;
When the birds build a house of bricks and planks
That are covered with whitest moss and snow;
When the King has done all his vows and his work
He will go and sit by the fire, and tell
The Queen that he was kind enough for the King
To pardon her malice."
The King he smiled,
And said, "No matter, I will keep my own,
I cannot leave this house at night alone,
And, though I am going, I can stay my own,
However angry the Queen may be,
It is all too little and everything
For any but Queen Kriemhild to see.
"There is the house as well, for her father already
Will look for her and help her.  There is none I see.
For the King must have her.  I can go alone,
And follow alone, for none are so poor
As her.  Her fate shall be never more to be mine,"
And the Queen rose suddenly and sat down beside her,
Whereby she was in her chamber alone.
The night came on.  The King slept on alone.
His head was bound and his hands bore his weight;
And he watched the night as it lay in her bed,
That the King would not watch it.  He thought it over,
For there came to him suddenly Kriemhild's own sorrow,
And there came to him with a lying tale
The King was riding upon a wistful sea;
Whereby he was greeted, for there on the ship
Lay the old tale of the tale, ere he yet had slept,
For the tale has scattered apart from his ears,
And the tale hangs random.  The ship was brought
Therein by the wicked woman's liegeman.
The wicked Queen set herself, and sat the night:
Yet the tale cannot cover.  The ship was brought
Unto a lying tale.  So all night long
They wrought a secret story, a lying lie,
A story of evil and of the good Queen.
There came a messenger from the Queen of Heaven
And said, "I have seen that proud one, false as he is;
He says there are none within this house, nor none
Beneath the roof of heaven.  God's mercy is gone.
"But well have you seen the ill, the hopelessness,
The falsehood and the lying, the treachery-sheath,
The lying which befel the faithful man,
And all these the feasting and all the woe,
That the feast and feasting must be made at length,
And the feasting ended."
There sat the Queen,
And a fearful din from all the town arose.
Then spake the noble Gunther, "I have heard thy tale,
And the knight has answered
======================================== SAMPLE 884 ========================================
."
"Then it grew like the rose," said Mary, and her lips moved
As if their perfume,
"Erewhile, as it blushed before me, I felt like a rose
Dropped from the heart of the sun."
"Then I knew
That the angel-spirit of Mary had had passed through the door of
"Now that soul can die!" sang Mary; "a dove will take her home
"Then the bird
Sighed like a dove,
"Mary, I feel thy gentle pinions: I feel my heart
Shine in thy name!
"Ah, Mary, mine own, the angels took away my soul
"That they may sing a hymn to Him! Father, give to me thy love."
The words that, like the wind in the hair of a man, are like bees in
"So have I not the will?"
"Nay, I will only give," quoth Mary; "and this rose I burn above,
And take away my heart, the life I keep within my will!"
"Not so," said Mary, "only then shall He who gave it give it
blossom,"--the flower,--the fruit,--and a rose of charity.
"Not so.  Not so.  Not so!  Not so!  A star in the night."
He is in love, as I know all.  I have my heart!
Nothing else to be sweet and yet a soul within
To live and love, only a love to do and do,
No less than this one; only God is near to win
Me to Him in the end.  I am glad to say it, and
The woman in me laughs; I must have my joy, or die!
This is a garden all forlorn.
And I must speak to the red rose,
The thornless, withered and alone;
And the immortal silence of Drowsy Night
And all its sorrowing loveliness there in my breast,
Will not divide us now,--
The thorns have split, and scattered
Over my head the roses blow.
The rose breathes low on the buried dead.
And I must speak to the red rose.
I must speak to the white rose-tree.
Oh, my heart is wrung with sorrow,
My soul is bowed with pain and tears,
And my heart has sobbed in the darkness -
Come and kiss me again and again,
Oh, my soul is wrung with sorrow!
If your hands were only as white as a pall, you,
As white as the blossoms.
Your eyes were more blue than the snow, you,
More blue than the buds in the Spring.
I dreamed of the delicate flowers that wreathe
The dark, wet rose in the Spring.
I dreamed of the crimson banners that flash
Before the sun in the sky.
And the lilies--ah, white roses, white
As the blossoms--beneath your hair,--
Would not be faded, would fade, would die
Could I only but breathe your breath!
And the roses would fade too tall for you,
Weeds on a withering flower,
And a withering hope would brighten
The beautiful dream of death.
You were not here--no, not far
From here to-day--
And I'm not nigh.
But only the rose--it's dead,
And you--nay, nay!
And the birds would change their songs,
And surely leave their songs,
For your eyes are gray.
And only a rose could fade,
And it was not fair,
But blossoms where it used to be,
And nothing in it that was like love
Could soothe your smiling hair,
And only a smile of frost or snow
Could make them pale or glow.
And you must wait and dream and wivel
Till over the hill
They dance, and the wind would sing and wail
And their laughter rill
Into your heart and lips and hair;
And the sun would shine and the moon in the sky
Would brood and sway,
And the moon like silver fleck the sky
Like the shadow of the rain,
And all the flowers in Spring's garden
Would bloom and gleam again.
Could I find a bird,
Oh, you couldn't be
Aching nothing to me,
And just what you'd be
To us both--like a bee--like another bird,
But a rose to me.
You were almost sure
That the bird could be
Aching nothing to me,
But a heart to be
For the place where I could creep to shelter you
While the rain crept by.
And I was watching then
When you hid
======================================== SAMPLE 885 ========================================
--A few, who've nothing now to say,
Will say, 'Oh man! this wind
Is sad enough for thee;
We've nothing now to do but go our way--
We're going to get old things!'"
"Oh, that's our talk;
What makes you wish that you were in the dark?"
"Oh, a million of them."
"Oh, a million of them!"
"Oh, a million of them, you ask me, why?"
"And why?
I can tell;
They are all in the dark, and they are all in the dark."
"I can't,
I can't tell!
Why, man! do I hate their hearts--digested and vexed?
Why have you come here to curse it, and go back the way?
If I can't,
I can't,
I can't tell!
There is another and that is not quite so clear, you see,
If I cannot tell you to see it--it can't be as plain:
If I cannot tell you to see it--Ah, I've got a lot."
"Just the same!
Do you see that other little girl, so kind and fine?
Do you see that other girl--and they're in the world like Jack?"
"Oh, and who was that,
Why does she go bareheaded, childless, naked, bare?
And in her eyes the tear of pity hangs--the trickery Rhone?
I could give her half the world that I should give my own,
If I'd only died in the dark--so hard it isn't known."
"But it isn't that!
I tell you that my life is being to the end of things;
I am sure I will not ask it, and I don't know where to go,
But I'll take my chance with steady hands and tread the road they know."
"But if it isn't that,
You would give my life to someone else, I see,
And somebody will take it for the pleasures of your life,
And I may take it to the end: it's better than a doubt,
For they can't always follow where I lead the way they must,
And they _must_ follow."
"Oh, it's horrible to see it, there's one going and coming back,
I wonder," said she, "that I am leading back,
So I can't see when I'm going--but I'll join you, every one,
And we shall be so happier together when the old folks run.
"And I must tell you that;
I think you really want it. What's all this worry for,
Why should they be a-doing the best that I can do to you?
If I can't go in order, and if I'm not too good, I'll go.
"But, as for the reason? Why not? It's all unquiet quite;
I'll go some other way, and when I see the old folks fight,
I know what I've to say.
I've come to see them play,
But what will it be to-morrow, boy?
I'll come to see them play."
He went as lightly as a bird,
But soon he saw a claw;
The paw was wide, but then he knew
That it was right that claw!
The other claw was close, but then
He had to let it through;
And then it seemed to him that he
Went through, and then he knew
That it was right that claw should be
A great great thing to you.
So he sat down and talked awhile,
And then he spoke again,
And then--well, then I cannot say,
I only wish that I could see
That claw, and yet there is one tree
Beside him anywhere.
"The Old King has a Bird's Nest
An idle bunch of feathers; I'm in the cellar now,
I am weary waiting to float in the cupboard for you,
And to float in the laps when it's up at the finish.
But I'll think of it now, and I'll think of it yet,
For I'm weary waiting to float in the dip of the water,
And to duck for the rest when it's over for nothing."
The boat she was trying to float,
And she found she could not swim,
And she rose up from out the middle,
Then she fell back again,
And she drifted, drifted, drifted,
In the fading light of morn,
To the great new place where Mr. Floppy was going.
He turned his head away
From her lighted room in the East,
To watch her from her high window in the dawnlight.

======================================== SAMPLE 886 ========================================
s,
Than the best of all the work of this world,
Nor could perform without the help of heaven.
The King did this and more.
And every one of us were glad
To have brought us to his royal gates,
And to his city that he built for us.
Thus let us speak, in presence thus, of men
And of the city that is called Arundel.
My heart is sick to-night
And heavy-fruited with care;
And if I lose my royal palace
To-morrow night, my kinsmen all,
Our good King will again come home
And be my good King's bride.
But if I lose my kingdom
And fall to-day in this great war
To-morrow night, then let me be ashamed
Of all my good and all my truth.
For I must sit, and I must speak
Of all my good in this sad world
And everything that is not good.
And you, my servants, take no heed
Of my ill words or my sad word.
For God's great mercy sees and feels
The burning heart within this face
Of his unwedded wife.
A night of tears!
The wind! the wind! the wind!
The wind! the wind! O let me go
And hear the voices of the leaves,
Of streams, and birds, and flowers, and flowers.
Ah, but for me no more
Meadows and waters of my curse
Be dashed against the coast.
I have no thought, no life-long struggle--
I have only prayed and fought,
Beaten and beaten back in Hell.
The wind of fate is mine,
And all my good things from my store
Are one wild cry and wild groan
By those I loved so well.
But when death draws the gate
Of joy and grief and misery,
I have no thought, no strength, no hope,
Nor hear a song of love or peace,
(Although I mourn but not abide
My body here) but only cried
Aloud for mercy. God is dead.
I cannot hear the tides
Of this world's tears and murmurings,
All the wandering winds that beat
Among the sea-flowers and these leaves
Hush not the night for dread.
The wind of fate is mine,
And all my good things from my dreary cell
Take comfort when they come to tell
Of my beloved home.
The wind of fate is mine,
And all my good things from my dreary cell
Receive no sorrow, no despair,
No grief, no grief as I have heard from Him.
The wind of fate is mine,
And all my good things from my dreary cell
Receive no sorrow.
My house I stand within.
A door stands wide, a door stands wide,
To make this darkness clear before,
Into my soul, into my body, soul.
Then open for a moment's space
The gate of happiness or loss,
That sees through me none coming, coming,
But sees within my soul all Heav'n
And in my body nothing, nothing, nothing;
The door of nothing, I must go.
What can I put into my place
When there is no more time for prayer?
For no longer time, O Lord, is there
Until a day in every year
When a man's palm grows brown,
And he has nothing underneath
But his own flesh and all the earth,
And his own flesh, and all the sky,
And God's great heart of love
Because he is a man.
But I have made a house of pain,
A house for grief and sorrow;
Whereof there is none here
Who has not any toil to borrow
Of comfort and relief; whereof
None will complain, none answer 'No,'
But who has nothing to regret;
That, being the most light of all,
The lightest leaf of all,
The very marrow of my grief
Is the thought of God.
A little while ago
I lay a-weary in the snow,
And heard the wild winds blow
Among the poplars tall,
And saw the white clouds pass,
And thought in winding, lengthening mass
Of water, to a silver mass,
That grew from far-off peaks of brown,
And melted through and through.
The sun was high, and all the ground
Was silver; and so near to all
I saw the clouds go by.
And then I knew that I should know
From whence each thick and varnished thing
Might be a nobler thing.
So at last, when round me shone
The sunset-clouds of many a year,
Some memory of idle fun
======================================== SAMPLE 887 ========================================
, is very interesting.
But, when I pass'd this pleasant stream,
And musing on its waters, dream
That it was good to prosper, I
Could scarcely grasp the root for joy;
And now, perhaps, I may not take
A deeper meaning in my words,
And think how better to awake
Than to take dreams of what I know.
And yet I wish I was not glad
That it could last for many springs!
I'd rather be the sport of truth,
To find a happier youth than youth.
So, if it were, one summer morn,
I fain would linger on my walk;
And with a thought, I'd rather wake
To find myself among the dead
Than live in such a life so fair.
I think it would be wrong of you
If there were purer joys than true,
And then I'd rather be the man
That now is speaking of her, and,
Instead of pouting at the brim,
To find that she is not for him.
In a new world, my dear,
My dear, there is no place like this,
No thought and deed like yours;
But as we wander here,
There all my pleasures lie in vain:
The sun will not arise again.
I shall be with you when the dawn
Awakes the dewy lids of even;
Nor you, nor I,
Shall be impatient to be bold
To taste the dews of heaven.
Nor you, nor I,
Shall ever be impatient, dearer;
But when your feet
Have left the busy world behind,
Then God will take you in His arms,
And lead you where you may be happy.
It must be right
To do the right,
To speak the truth,
And say you've done your duty.
It must be right
To speak the true,
To keep the promise perfect;
For I, so weak,
My words are scant,
And scarce can speak to move it.
It must be right
To do the right,
To speak the truth,
To hold the truth in loving;
For I have known
The love that's mine,
The light that's thine,
The love that's mine,
There must be other move.
What is the word of need?
What is the creed
That sways in strong right thought?
What is the deed
That swells but once in slumber?
What is the word of right?
Where is the creed
That makes us one in heaven?
Where is the need
That sets us free from bondage?
Where is the need
That sets us free in prison?
In the long fight
That makes us freer with a foeman?
In the long fight
That makes us freer with the foeman?
In the long fight
Where like a brook
Leaps the brave dead,
And we stand girt with the foeman?
Where are the need
That makes us free to bargain?
Where are the need
That makes us fit for action?
Shall we fight shame
For the right,--
For the peace of all creation?
Shall we wage hell
For the truth,--
For the strength of our undoing?
Shall we weep shame,
For the weak of us undoing?
Shall we live on
In spite
Of this crime,
To take the right,
And be strong in time's possession?
"God give you peace!" is the soldier's cry--
God, who sent him the pestilence.
Men who made hemmed about with the sword,
Who gave freedom to save and to die,
Whose slaves
Who turned pads to slaves,
Were they angels or were they just?
Who gave freedom to save and to kill,
To save
Whose souls
In the sable of slavery's church,
Freemen died for want of or pardon?
Who gave freedom to make it appear
Right trash,
With a black sky
Where no truth was a fact?
Who gave us a flag of no weight in war?
Who gave us a flag that would fly at a blow,--
When we died for the people that knew it so?
Men who knew
The lies,
Who sealed,
With the wreath,
Guarded their plots and their shame,
Fenced for their souls by a fenceless name,
Safe to their country and freedom?
"_A health to them that can buy or sell!_"
They who went to war in a ship that fell,
Are they angels or devils or what?
They who went to die in the hut and dwell--
Do they know who found them to starve or qu
======================================== SAMPLE 888 ========================================
,
(It's really easy to be laughed at,
Is one of the few mothers,
With whom the papers hang, and who
Have no idea of what's to do.
I've got to write it all to be--
But, Fred, I'm afraid--_she'd_ write so."
"Well, I am sorry," she replied;
"I didn't want my time."
"You haven't had the time!"  "Well," I replied.
"It ain't done, dear," I said.
"Well, you're a bit of a dandy young person."
"What then, dears?  I'm a pretty young lady."
"What's this?" said I.
"Do you know what that talkkerchief is, about?
'T was only a fairy-tale of gossamer-wand."
"Yes."  "It means a secret, my little girl."
"My mother was called that way too," she said,
"For the rings on her finger, my head?"
"Why, it's just the one time I've been here.
I've come from a happier land, I declare,
And though it's a curious thing to me,
I do not like it.  I hardly know
A fairy-tale of gossamer-wand."
"But, dear, it wasn't a true thing to me.
'T was only a fairy-tale of gossamer,
Not eight miles away from the fairy bower.
There are eight, and the fairy would say
If he'd only returned on that day.
There were nine little girls, as I've heard people say,
To-day in a certain round looking-glass,
They are twelve, and the fairy would say
If he'd only returned on that day.
There are nine little girls, as I've heard people say,
To-day in a certain round looking-glass.
There are ten little girls as I've heard people say,
To-day in a certain round looking-glass.
And all the names, I am thinking, dear,
Which every one else takes to one's name,
Are either the first or the last ones that come,
And to-morrow the neighbors may call them the worst ones,
And the trouble one's trouble one's little ones,
To-day, on the whole, it is all one, I know.
There are nine little girls, I'm afraid;
But they were a real _goose_ man, I'm afraid,
With his face to a _fancy-look_ shaped right
As his own, but his face to a _sham_;
And we all think right, in a similar fright--
If they weren't so good, sure of a name.
There are nine little girls, I'm free to say,
To-day and to-morrow--at least, they say.
And he's just as well to be sure as you are,
There's always some three of them all in the room;
But he's purty and kind, and he's wagons the snub-mer,
There are nine, and the fairy is _sham_.
If he wasn't too good, why, you see, he'd be long,
There are nine," I said.  "I'm a foolish, a great one,
I have never cared who such diamonds may be,
And if they're too poor, why, he's clever to see;
Yet, as I have said, I could never feel fiercer,
For diamonds are diamonds, and I am a chaper;
And now, on a chance of experience,
If my chance is to venture the thirteenth,
I will venture the thirteenth and twentieth.
But to-morrow, when you are properly called,
I'll go and some day there will be at his door
Some morn, (if I always speak properly)
On some morn in the early Spring,
When the weather is fair and cold;
And, although 'tis clear from sky to lee,
'Tis the first of a whole set free.
There are nine little girls, I'm sure,
To pay for their pretty doll,
And I'll go and see it next,
When the weather is fair and cold.
There's a lady in a fine new dress,
She is neat as a pomegranate;
There's a cap of flower-balls laid on neck and breast,
And a kirtle to her waist,
And there's meat and tea in a big red pot,
And salt in a big brown pome;
And a plate of her own that's white,
And a pie of a large
======================================== SAMPLE 889 ========================================
 in your sleep,
The winds blow through the air.
I watch the stars, I watch the deep,
And all are sleeping so;
The breath of God is in my deep,
The light I scarcely know.
I see the wildering world of night,
Where never a day is dawn,
And I am aweary of the light,
And I am aweary of the dawn.
The world was young, and young, and full of birds;
The world was young, and full of flowers;
It smiled upon the world with sun and showers;
It smiled upon the cloud and clouds, and stayed
The winds to kiss away the rains and dew,
And wreaths of blue across the morning blue.
The world was young, and full of birds;
And it was glad, and full of flowers;
The wild birds sung about the dewy earth,
As on the summer day they lightly played,
And the world's heart was glad with birds and flowers.
O fairies of the glen!
You shall not pass
With frolic feet across
The open street,
Nor shout nor call;
But in the tall
Chrysalis house,
With open fan,
A summer perched upon your matron grace;
But little more than merriment will be
When you come to your nest in the blue-grey rolling sea.
A little while, or more,
Let time be
A lengthening song;
A little while, or more,
Our life shall be
An hour to sing;
A little while, or more,
Ere the blue-gown flower
To her summer throne
Be blown, or fallen,
And earth be blown, or burnt, or fallen away;
A little while, or much, or little more,
We shall be glad, and all be as one sweet flower.
I will write of a proud white bird,
A feather of blue bent wing;
A white bird singing sweetly,
A red bird singing clearly,
A white bird singing clearly.
These shall be for music,
This shall be for music.
Blackbirds, you shall sing beautifully,
And your heart shall beat fast in the sun;
Blackbird, you shall have a blue sky,
And you shall be one blue high sun.
I will sing of a proud white bird,
A billowy sky, golden and red;
A little bird sighing sharply,
And my heart is in my breast.
I will sing of a proud white bird,
A feather of blue bent wing;
A shining feather of blue sky,
And my heart is in my breast.
I will sing of a proud white bird,
A snow-white bird, golden and high;
A little bird sighing sharply,
And my heart is in my breast.
What ailed thee, thou bitter-sweet bird?
What ailed thee, thou satan?
What sweet pity so strangely
Made thee, thou satan?
What sweet sleep took hold of thee,
Thou, satan, satan, standing at so high.
What was done then, thou silly, swift bird?
What was done then, thou swift bird?
What was done then, thou silly, swift bird?
What was done then?
What was said then, thou silly, sweet bird,
Thou fledtest so easily,
Thy glossy feathers to the wind,
Thy plumage to the sun?
The hand of the owl, the hand of the wind,
Thou flittest so steadily,
That my heart is in my breast,
And my heart in my heart.
The hand of the owl, the hand of the wind,
The eye of the owl, the hand of the wind,
Thou flittest so steadily,
That my life in my heart, which is long,
Shrinks in fear--
Thou shadow of night, thou shadow of moon,
Woe, woe!
This is the song of Grief whereof
Never was song so sad
As shepherds pipe from out the cold
Clutching of hands without a maid;
Shrill as an angel is the voice
Heard in a child, or rung from lull
The birds of God in morning dress.
Here's magic in the drops of rain,
Touching the barren air with balm.
And yet, and yet, and yet again,
Still must our hearts and our thoughts be charmed;
Our dreams are sweet, and as we were
Touched with a mist of shapes, in the air,
I am right with life, and have been glad.
And now I see the old world as a dream
That time shall bring, and days and dreams.

======================================== SAMPLE 890 ========================================
 in the night,
Singing 'neath the starry dome,
"Oh, let me dream upon the tomb!"
The little town had gone, to the market to sell,
When they came, the little town, on the fair white stone;
The bells on the hill were toll-a-year, and all
The trees tolled down, and all the birds did sing;
And I heard, at times, the long-drawn note of woe
Come ringing through the hollows below,----
And through it all there seemed to flow,
And through it all the fair white rhyme to flow;
But still its voice would haunt me--
"The town is fallen that was my heritage,
The children I loved gathered into my fold,
Now I am changed and runs no more, and old
Am the old ways of men.
But I will never know
In the old life how far its wealth went wild.
How much more changed are Earth's fair children,
How often we had our share of spoil and spoil;
How many men and women, and how many spoil,
And how much more men and women afoot and wild;
How many men and women, and how many children too,
And whatsoe'er they are, so far, how little leaps we knew!
"I see the towns about,
I see the cities and the cities of the sea,
I see the fishers, I see my little towns, and all the
houses of the earth,
I see the towns on the sea and the lands on the
He spoke, and then he said:
"There's not a city in the world that is not for a day,
But these are for destruction--the house of destruction,
That's what you'd do:
The murder of father and mother is all that they can say.
"There is not a city in the world but there is the place to
"I don't care about yourself, father, father, or any one who
could better discover the trackless land;
There is not a soul in this world that lives not in the world
But whether or not you shall live, or whether or not you
shall die!
"What shall I do now that you say? The son of the
noble father will die,
And I'll tell him some more lies 'twixt worlds and worlds on the
sky.
"You'd like to have him die in the darkness of death?
You are the man's friend, but his love is a pang--
Come to my arms that are fierce, and let us go home!
We have not taken him for an hour to hug and kiss,
And it is time, and I shall come back, and be gone!"
There is a man that lies with his cold grey face
And he must rise to speak. He has a cold grey eye.
"There's not a soul of all the world but he has eyes for
He must go down to the deep, and rest his weary
moonlight.
"He'll hear with all his heart, for his heart is cold,
And he must rise and wander by the light of the moon,
And all his dreams are the sound of the voice of the
He cannot walk by the light, for the hills are white
and grey;
There are the mountains shining far and dim and grey,
And the sea crying wide for him to come again,
And the great deep yearning tow'rds the mountains, and the
stones in the heather,
And the breaking heart of the tide--and then all this.
"He lives in a lonely house with the beautiful, silent land
of his name,
And the light on the hills, and the voice at the heart of the
world, and the sea with its great high waves moving
on and on;
The lonely sea-gulls slowly glide over the listening beaches;
And the little white souls of the dead--the souls with the
lonely home for their clan;
But the light lies up on the sea, and the sound of the
golden waves is a pain,
And the wind blows up from the sea, and the tears from the
sickening grey in my ears;
And a little white girl, and her eyes are white with tears,
And their eyes are set in the gloom;
For she sees me standing by her door, with her eyes and
them,
On the long, long beach that is patiently waiting for
"He'll come at last, and the sun will shine on
his path,
But oh, the sound of the waves, and the sound of the
crowding waves--
I must away from here to bring his sun at last!"
She was afraid, for the wind came, and the cloud
======================================== SAMPLE 891 ========================================
;
The wind was as an old rag jam,
With its roof of old bone walls,
And it cut a peneat o' books.
Its rooms were as if made of brass,
And its walls of old stone walls,
With the words of the lecture-man
Made it roar and tumult wild,
With the rattle of school-boys
Making the school-hall ring,
With the shout and the yell of boys
Making the school-house ring.
The boys came from the woods to town;
For the school-house bell they had braced,
And the boys came from the country,
Like the men of the back in the waist;
The girls came home from the woods to town,
They came from the town when the holidays passed,
To the place of the meeting-house in front,
The place of the meeting-house in front.
The boys lifted up their voices
To the horseman on the door,
And the little boys kissed their faces
Under the open door.
The horsemen were standing round it,
The boys came from near and far,
And the girls came from the forest
To fetch the baby prospered star.
They came from the fairy places,
They came from the fairy fen,
They came from the fairy places,
To seek the baby prospered star.
They left the baby rosy dreamers
In the cave by the sea,
And the fairy girls came home to fetch it
And get it back to me.
They brought it back from the fairy places,
They came from the fairy fen,
And they came from the fairy places
Where the baby prospered star.
They came from the fairy places,
They came for an open door,
They came for an open window
That had been made of iron and lead.
The sun of the morning,
Set on the crest of the billow
To go glancing upward,
On the edge of the far-off ocean,
On the crest of the billow.
The surf on the cliff of coral
Is a ripple round the town,
The surf on the beach of coral
Is a ripple in the town;
But the sea is her high invitation,
The sea-waves know her tread,
And follow the song of the gull trying
To drown the little red.
And a little ship in a wood
Is the banner of a bird,
The flag of the sea,
And the flag of the sea;--
And it swings on for her astride
In the banner of the sea,
And that is the flag of the sea,--
For it towers up in the town!
A little ship with a cradled sail
Dipping under the white sea light,
But a skipper with crooked lank back
And a little ship to fight!
A little boat to fly to her,
With its scallop-decked slopes at rest,
But a little ship to watch it there,
And when the fog rolls outward the breast,
It never plunges with wind or wet;
And it isn't the thing to see
If it tries to hold in its wake up!
And now, in the fog and the mist and the rain,
And the little canary for me,
The world is waiting for me again,
For the world is waiting for me!
A little ship with only a shred of sky;
And a little boat on the windy sea,
And my mate is waiting for me!
I cannot see what the white clouds are,
Or the gulls that follow the white gulls way,
But the little fairy boat that sails
And sails and sails on the white sea-way.
A little ship that comes and goes
From the fairy shore of the little isle,
Where the little islands are soft and dim,
And butterflies in their feathery smile,
And bees that are building their companies,
And the sailing-ships they all sail for him
On the drifting macarach-storm of a sea.
A little ship that flows
From the fairy shore of the little isle,
Where the coral reefs lie low and deep,
And the weary and wearied ones that creep
In the wake to see the scarlet canoe,
And the weary and wearied ones that go
To rest on the sandy elder-ones.
A little boat with a cradled sail,
And the purple and crimson leaves of Spain,
And the great, round moon that is lit to see
The dragons on the high poop three,
And the round stars twining so clashing free,
And the sun on the yellow sea.
A little boat that may see the sands,
And the blue sky of the little boat,
And the great round
======================================== SAMPLE 892 ========================================
 it so
that the soul may drink and forget this life and die away."
Thus she spoke, but he heard no more.
But the wise men of the Va'ko-ko, the merchants of the ship,
he himself in uttermost wisdom stood. And the great
king, counsellor of the king, spoke:
"Thou, O king, art wise, great Ator, thou art lordly,
gentle, terrible. Thou art the Wise Men of the East,
the Lord of the Sick Mem'ries. All the gods are with thee,
each man of the Hebrews."
And the lords of the Va'ko-ko, the merchants of the East
came to offer gold and garments. And when the king,
wife of king Malchas, was to offer gold, he accepted the
gold, and swore by the gods, "No, I will not give unto
this one gold, nor yet will I give to another."
But the lords of the deep-bosomed sea-cities, the princes of
the deep, took the treasure at once and sat them down in
peace. Then Malchas told the king his sorrows and made
a bitter answer; and he said, "O king of the East,
what hast thou done to me, and where art thou now, O wise
man of the mighty arms, who made me so great an elder? And
when thou shouldest have driven me out of my dwelling my eyes
was as that of a god. I have gone forth naked and
white, and I have gone to another country, to another
country, another name, another than these, O king of the
Phaeacians. For thy son I was, and now am crowned,
according to thy word. I have no greater treasure than
mine own, neither by land nor water than my own. I have
no other princes and peoples of Ind. I am king of such
people, I would gladly give to thee the land and land of my
friends, the great-hearted earth; but thy sons, my own
friends, are to seek for thee a home and a country without
blemish, only two of their race; they are all left here to
behold and be beloved of heaven."
Then the wise man of the Wainola answered, "It is better
for thee to go even to thine own country, than for this one
of thy brothers, the children of thy dear mother, whom
once I lov'd as my lord in thy halls, that there may be
a multitude of sons, and many. And tell me, and do thou
declare it to me, for one sole is in the tribe of women,
only one, but only one, that is of my blood, and on his
stone which bears seed."
Now the son of king Malchas had heard this and sent
his men before him, but he too denied his having my consent,
and said, "I do not repent of any work of thine; behold,
a God, a God is in heaven, and I know my son; I recognize
him not as a man of old. I have heard the report that he
killed of men, nor have seen death, nor have seen death--no,
rather an old man than such a man."
Then the wise-minded man of the Wainola began his lamentation:
"Hail, O brave son of Lapland, king of the nations,
lord of the folk, I beseech thee for this last time in
my latest prayers, that thou mayst do a deed that has been
said unto me in the passing-down of the far-away lands
where the sun and the moon are locked in their secret places.
Wear now the badge of valour that is better than wearing it;
those that conquer Crete and Po, the far-distant sea, were
chief in the hands of warriors; these the hero-sons of
Odysseus, captains over the host of the Achaeans, and these
the folk that hold the hollow ships. Wherefore the Achaeans
would have it for nothing; it is enough for a hero, or
happiness. I pray you to grant this dream with thy hand, that
the Achaeans may put their armour upon and rush forward
with their whole force to their ships, if perchance thou
hast heard the dream throughout all the livelong night."
Then the steadfast goodly Odysseus answered, "Sir king, it
shall surely be. Out upon it! Out upon it, O king, that I
may do this, that the Achaeans may not be in a coward's
guile. Out on it, thou malicious woman, that I may not
======================================== SAMPLE 893 ========================================
, and John, whose life
Is never weary; and who knoweth not
The strictest bonds of duty; and yet
Whom not submission, but makes choice to be
Their proper honors and their sole delight,
Is the calm saint, with whom, serenely blest,
The bosom of his mother still abides.
These four together, and the Deity
Did live; and shall till then, in peace and love,
Thou be to them a saviour!--And that thou
Dost not forsake them, in this lower world,
Is the fair spirit, to whom thus 'tis writ.
When she who all things both at once hath seen,
And lived for all, passes the soul, and is,
Blessing the world; nor ever walks the hill,
But looks o'er all that he hath loved, the world,
Which he hath followed, and the nations call.
The spirit is the same which yesterday
Opened her blest wings, and, borne aloft,
Sought for the morning, that bright comer, Day,
Which he shall see no more.  From her full heart
Spring both eternal joy and human love.
And both within one way, since she but sees
On this bright vale a world, and thinks of heaven;
Here, in this lower world, the mortal state
Is unpropitious.  By the human voice
Of her full well divining the divine,
She means to call on us to her high tower,
Whose top is higher than our highest; here
She sings the purer songs, and lets the eye
Glance at her beauty; there the soul is full;
There the majestic, unenduring sky.
With this earth-arctic of the soul at war,
All things upon earth, for heaven are glad--
Love is more dear to God than tears to man
And love less strong to his delightful dreams.
Not one is wanting 'neath the blessed sky,
For these are all that love; and though the earth
Send forth in clouds of dust from whence they sprung,
For aye, nor all the rivers of its soul
Doth yet but lift us up, and, through her power,
The souls of those whom love and life preserved,
Still here are safe.  Here, through the gates of light,
Through all the depths of love, and earth-born bliss,
Even unto earth, a refuge we must find,
If only that, which we have gained in war,
We may release; and we shall look for them
Beneath the shining arch of heaven, and speak
Of peace, which may not be, and hope, nor fear.
And this is our reward; though here we stand
The last of our humanity, the flower
Of heavenly smiles.  Our little band of friends,
The friends of our beloved, are here.
Even through the mist of death they see us stand,
The souls of saints, and their fair ministers.
They know not what they are.  They cannot know,
Who in the narrow path of truth go past.
To him they come, from whom their hopes, alas!
Are lost in sorrow, love, and pain, and tears,
To win no recompense.  But in their eyes
The star of healing, the bright angel-beam
Of healing, the invisible glory, shines,
Immortal, in wide universe; and they
Have seen the light of what was dark before.
They know that not in vain the gates of hope
Are opening to their Lord, but that they learn
The heavenly message which a Father saith
To their true being; and their hearts discern
The holy precept, by it sealed against
The spirit's fetters; that their Father's voice
He may not hear, but hasten onward on.
Even here we are working.  Life is but a breath
Of earthly motion.  If I tell the tale
So often, it must be a goodly thing
For that which lives within us, we shall learn,
O'er every hour, the wisdom which is his.
We cannot know the meaning which it is.
We do not close our eyes to things divine;
But feel that we may never yet divine.
This is that holiest morn which gave,
This blessed morn, the everlasting Light.
In heaven we are prepared.  O holy Prince!
Thou, who hast deigned to bless, as thou hast deigned
To give, may mercy seize him; for the good
We do not know, but freely and with prayer
Will give him his salvation; for his age
Is wholly vile, and utterly destroyed,
If we do not.  Let us to Heaven be given.
Oh, Holy Mother,
======================================== SAMPLE 894 ========================================
 the time.
They pass into the night with them
In the dark.
They pass into the night with them
Out of the dark.
They know the meaning of every mark
Of the hour, and the seed, and the seed, and the seed,
And the stars are all watching over them.
From far away they saw the morning,
They saw it in the broad green heaven,
And the earth was grey in the sky.
Suddenly from the sky above them
Arose a voice,
Loud, long, and musical, and strong,
And they awoke, and cried.
"Although I die in the night,
I am lifted up high in the air,
I am borne."
The first voice awoke
Then rose again the voice that cried:
"The dawn is rising, the sun is going home,
I have already passed my evening
In the blackness of the night.
And it is growing late."
The second voice spoke low. And the third voice ceased.
The fourth voice ceased.
"It is growing late.
The birds will sing
When the sun is sinking in the west,
And I shall be lying in the sea.
The birds will sing of joy when evening comes,
And I shall be lying in the sea.
The birds will sing of happiness
When the sun is sinking in the west,
And I shall be lying in the sea.
The birds will sing of happiness,
And I shall be lying in the deep;
The night will be a bed of clouds,
And the winds will be a mighty sleep.
I waited lonely in the house,
I listened lonely to the piper,
And all the wise looked out as eagerly
As they had listened for one another
Who, willing to be somewhat prudent,
Took note of this and took a second
And told some other of his learning.
And this one saw before the door
A woman in my better fortune,
I know not what, nor why, nor how.
The piper of this life I knew;
Her hair was long, her step was steady,
And as she talked this way and that
I seemed to know some ail was coming,
A faint voice whispered, "Surely this
Is surely some one waiting there."
For all the world was dark and lonely
As one forsaken and distracted
Who had wandered out of thought and discontent,
And longed to give up all its treasure
But not his own;
And all the young flock looked and wondered
And did not understand each other.
The young lambs went, and one returned,
And one asked why,
And one began to cry "Alack!
I knew that she had gone to fetch it
But the poor mother murmured, "Mother,
Why should you mourn so long, I wonder?
Why does my little girl so fine
And she, that is so chaste and pretty,
In all her father's land forlorn,
Implore for her lost lamb a pity?"
And one, in tears and misery
"Ah!" said the other, "What a pity!
I had but one sheep, to carry her
Across the milky sea, and let her
To the far foreign land."
And one, to whom the shepherd's table
Was spread, "Ah, father! what a pity!"
In all his face was clear and ample
Where a large omnibus was lying,
And as he slowly breathed and listened
One strangeness kept for many ages.
And one who, through the waste of ages,
Strove out in search of this young body,
Where many lambs had fallen to shelter
And one still lingered on the roadway,
And yet, because she was so tiny,
In some strange fancy she passed by him,
And passing through the house the hour
Was in her place again.  "Ah, brother,
What for? and what for?"  The white face glistened
With tender memories.
And even then the elders laid her
Before the pillar, waiting patiently.
They told her, it was summer, and
That she had gathered many flowers
And carried them about the house,
To stay some days, however scant,
Till after four years came about,
And as the daylight died, they found
Her coming back,
While in the house the light was out
Of kitchen and wide-brimmed room,
Warming her little fingers right
To do whatever house might bear her,
But even before they had touched the latch
Of the outer room
She stood before them, and looked at them,
Clinking a dozen times and said:
"It is hard for such as you to be!"
But she said nothing; now the door opened
Between their dubious feet
======================================== SAMPLE 895 ========================================
 in
the house, is so uneasy and exposed that it might be a
desire to stir one's limbs--at four. The reason of these
is hard to explain; but I should think this of the very point
whence all the most important and expeditious places. At
that time a small number of reasons I could place in my
consolation. However, I will not listen to the history of
which he has written, though, on his own conscience, as an experienced
man through a frequent lapse of fourteen years of experience, I
should feel myself lost as the sun does by the day.
In regard to this, it is certain that no one could, in a
candor, the face of a man who is not satisfied with the face
of a man who is not satisfied with the face face of a man who
is not satisfied with the face of a man who is not satisfied
with the face of the face of a man who is not satisfied with
the face of a man who is not satisfied with the face of a
man who is not satisfied with the face of a man who has not
five hair of his mouth and of two wings in his hands.
The fact is, of course, even this is remarkable in showing
itself more fully what the face face face faces can bestow.
I have shown many disasters in this manner, and I would have
given credit, had it seen. But my language would have told
me so much that now there is a single shade of it that can
remind me of my former presence.
"When he had finished his work, there was a new thought on
his mind, which could not be controverted by me, his mind being
filled with contemplation and a long conference. This was
a mistake to be particularly childish; but, because the first
sight which could be borne alone in such things would never
remain. A kind of intelligence conferred upon him by some
interpolated work of his own, that is, to say, a part of the
work; and that of the woman in front of her is not to be
desired, because all the world knows what woman is the effect
of a man. And, moreover, if it is true that the woman is not
to be explained, she is not to be altered as rightly as she was
said; for if she is not altogether such as her form is,
of the aspect of some women, she is wholly in favour of
the reason assigned to their being.
"I find this effusion of her as easily as any suspicion
could have lured the world to this. The first person who comes
from the women of that age, and afterwards, mentioned in
the following list, is by this time turned to in-door for
other purposes. Before the appearance of the beautiful
one who is not here lived for two continued years, it was
not here to record the manner of his adorning. This man,
in the sight of a woman who's trusted to us, was not to be
taken by the world. Every woman who has not been born
has not believed that his virtue and his promises were
made out of love; for the first is incited to the greater
authority of those who have never been called the
friend of a life, and it would be delight to put a true
interpretation upon his own house, if he did not tell
us that what he had always done was untrue.
"The first fact of the narrative is that man is, of the womanly
woman's irresistible vows, to deliver himself from the elements
of man. But the truth seems to be that man is in continual
war and tranquillity, but that woman afterwards becomes mistress
to him, is the usual conclusion of many an early and able woman.
But to fill out our whole she is in hopeless overthrow. She
cannot but believe that the event which exists will
pass away. All this is mere talk, which the event on which she
gave us is a false and idle distinction. If she is for the right
another man's wife, it is his, and one cannot reconcile much
conviction with the woman of him, but still there are some
truth about this case, not only to which the truth may be
omitted. The woman who happens to be a virgin may have
given herself true liberty after a long absence; but it is the
woman's property, and the child of one's property that is
entire to the father as the husband. All this, however, is
imperated by this previous nominative woman as the
supreminous woman. For what reason the woman is woman, and thus
the man is a god whom she embraces but to avoid embraces, and
then she is the man that is worshipped by every one who comes

======================================== SAMPLE 896 ========================================
."
Then, after a pause, he spoke:--
"Go to the city, young and fair;
To seek out young Lochaber's heir
Or the gray of the age-sure heir,
That the wild-duck's nest may be
The food of the fox and the toad and the grey of the
hucknow."
There he paused until I too--too--cried,
And I saw my younglings go
Straight to the gathering feast, and cry,
Each with its own beseeching cry.
And I too must have told my tale,
And I heard the step of each.
I saw them sit, I saw them gaze
Up at the board with mute amaze,
Then, at the sound of each, drooped eyes
Waiting the word that should arise,
But I sat with my babes austere,
The young, the strong, the fair,
And they sat in my room alone
With faces turned away and thrown
In a heavy sadness on the throne.
"And, O, where is your house, my child,"
Said I, "that sits by your side?"
But your eyes had shone with their own bright eyes,
Your feet glittered with gleam-mated pride,
Your form was bowed by the deep-moulded mace
That severs the statue face to face.
I saw the fair-turned mother gaze
Turning with tears on the child at her knee
As she kissed his cheek with the red soft dye
Of the tears outdrawn from her, one by one.
And I saw her smile, like the smiling king
At a babe in the meadow laugh, and say,
It smiled or trembled in his child's young eyes
As he kissed her mouth with the red soft dye,
And his hand touched my face and said,
"He who hath foretold the birth
Of woman shall be as I to-day;
And when he cometh, his own will be
As great and pitiful as he."
I knew the wistful eyes were dim
With watching, till I knelt that day;
But the heart of me began to hymn
In the dying discord of that wistful wistful wistful eye.
Oh, a boy! my heart was glad today;
With a rose in every laden bough,
He wove a garland for my play,
And sang a song he was kin to every mother-breast.
From the gray of the hills to the blue of the ocean,
Where the song of the sun is a lover most ruddy,
Where the sound of the sea and the cloud-line's emotion
Lives more in the heart of the sea and the lady,
I came by the hill, and I came by the hollow;
I wandered among the wastes of the mountain,
Till I came where the jasmines are yellow;
I saw the white tents of the sunset lie over,
I saw the white horses of the sea coming
With little green flags and little red flags;
But I knew not who, as I looked and listened,
At last my eyes in the blue-gray twilight,
Till a wind was out of the eastward crying,
Singing as softly as you could hear from the hill.
I saw no more the land and the water.
I only saw the purple shadows,
The mist, away from the purple horizon;
I only heard the pines as they prattled;
I only heard the weird whippoorwill crying:
O it seemed as if I was kneeling
The whole night through without a word,
With a hand on the bosom that trembled,
A hand, yet only a touch of a sword!
But I knew, till I stood in the dying,
That it had whispered a word to me;
That I looked in the sky and under the sea,
"_O I live but a year, a year!_"
So, through the world through again to live,
And to again fill the night with its wonder,
I must return to the heart I gave,
And the young year slips from my control;
And the old year slips from my control!
I walk in the forest alone,
I have no thought or care of mine,
I am not sure of anything,
Of anything that elsewhere is,
That doth not greatly grow to be.
And yet I do not shrink from it;
It is not much I think it has,
For I am not as 'twere a tree,
That breaks, and grow there, and grow there,
And grows, and grows, and grows, and grows,
And grows, and grows, and grows, and grows,
And grows
======================================== SAMPLE 897 ========================================
, &c:
We have been full of such a lively fun, I fancy;
And, as our fun 's upon them, you can guess, at times,
As never yet was seen or heard of creature.
The Doctor, too, 's a chap of martial port,
A man of letters and a big house-phée:
He knows the men and wants their daily ranting,
And gives them all the grime he usually has in it.
And he who has it all goes well with him!
But, ere that I can know, he seems so well
Expectant of an awful victory.
The Doctor, too, a clever chap is he,
In every kind of way well ordered;
And as regards physic, laws, and politics,
He doubtless is the very essence of it.
But when a scrap of that's occurs before me,
I've just to recollect myself and Nell:
And as to politics, you may afford to know
I've fought the fight for many a weary victory.
'T is something in a play; for I once tried
To look on Rudyard scenes of boyhood,
And find some problems we both thought and rued
In Mr. Munyon's studio.
I'll recollect how poor a play he was,
In opening a two-corner'd gallery,
Where Lincoln, like himself, was pleased to pass,
As introduced so cleverly his lady.
He liked his scenery, though, as you'll allow,
But not to look on Rudyard scenes of beauty.
Indeed, he loved to tell of scenery
Which showed so buxom and intelligent;
How good--but 't was a thing he could not quite;
Which might, without his guilty benefit,
Be gratified to think it a delight
To have it in his own, or friends, at least,
As a companion of his own, until
He could not break it, much less do it then.
For instance, in the play this worthy man
Was known for many an early visit;
And was beloved on Sunday afternoons,
As good a household as himself had.
If he was not his business and his mistress,
He was as patient as a father.
He could have felt quite serious, too, my dears,
In hunting the deer in the bush and briers,
And dashing hunts and stag with all his hounds,
Are, for the very reason, quite extremely silent.
He had a daughter; too, it seemed to me
That all these men were dressed in cramasie,
And 'twas a model for his family.
They liked her well, and, in a different way,
They loved her more than anything they could;
At least two pretty little boys, it seems,
Did all they could to please her, that poor little lad.
But some are nice to sit and chew a part
Of meat, when dined with home, and smoke, and art,
And then to see some of the lovely things
That happen in the household, for this Jack
Was all the wealthier than the king I think.
His daughter had a nice, good-natured cook,
Was quite as neat and fat as she could caper;
Her dress was such, the birds rose out and shot,
And left her singing in a merry fit
With each a bright-eyed laughing fellow at his bet.
'T was all as pretty as a rose could be,
In sixteen years or so, or just as three--
I'm wondering what 't was like.
Sometimes he'd sit and look at her, and run,
From her to that low-jowled, crooked form,
She came and went about her father's farm--
The old house was not there when he was gone,
The house itself was gone--
The only thing the doctor didn't know
Was Mrs. Mussy--that's their very do.
Her father, too, was nervous; her two boys
Went off and looking very frantic.
And then her father's little old grey cat
Left the old clock on the table in the hall
And he was going home to find the time,
But she herself, as I have often said,
Had left her lonely and unhindered bed.
The lady was a nice little girl,
And yet the boy's old sandman never smiled,
The night he had been out with mother there,
And so he cried and called and cried and cried,
Till, really, his own stories were not true.
He never once could eat nor dream of fun
In any crooked game of cards or tea:
On Saturdays, he thought that he was dead--
And so he brought a light and hurried tread

======================================== SAMPLE 898 ========================================
,
To make us feel how few men understand:
Them we are asking to be less than men
To the same country, where our fathers went.
Who do us shame if we have kept a name?
When the whole town of Boston is aflame,
We know the shame of war, we know the shame
Of men in shirt and cloak, but though we're poor,
We know we hide the copper in the door.
We know the shame of money, game and spoil,
To pay a million for the mill we give,
But yet we can't be stripped to save a smile
From British speckled hides, from pirates brave;
We can not hide our shame, we can not save.
If one man told us all he might have been,
We knew the shame, the shame, that he could hide.
If one man told us all he might have been,
We know the shame, the shame, that he must die,
We know the shame, the shame, that he must die.
It's strange that you go there and get a wife;
It's strange that you go there and get a scheme,
But somehow you get richer in the end,
You know the shame, the shame, that you must learn
To travel back to girlhood's name and dream.
If one man told us all he might have been,
We know the shame, the shame, that he must die.
I wonder if he'll get a wife and save,
She'll go to try a man and have her will.
And if he'll let his will go, and if he will,
We know the shame, the shame, that he must die.
The little toy ships up to the harbor line,
The little toy ships all safe across the sea,
The little toy ships all safe across the main,
The little toy ships all safe across the sea.
So I'll come down to the Flower Show one day
And see the little toy soldiers all go home;
And if I don't go there, why, she's all as well
As the doll or doll
Where the baby's hair is.
The little toy ships up to the harbor line,
The little toy ships all safe across the sea,
The little toy ships all safe across the main,
The little toy ships all safe across the sea.
We've got a little party to sit and talk about, we know,
They're fast asleep and waking, and I think they'll go;
My mother has forgot, and my father has forgot,
But my brother keeps the watch all day, and he makes no show.
The little toy ships up to the harbor line,
The little toy ships all safe across the sea,
The little toy ships all safe across the main,
The little toy ships all safe across the sea.
There are no eyes along the shore
So beautiful as you;
They keep the cunning way you never see,
Nor do you drink the red wine,
Nor are you troubled by a dream at night,
Or do you keep awake all night?
The little toy ships up to the harbor line,
The little toy ships _for the moon to shine_,
The little toy ships up to the harbor line,--
I wish they'd hold some magic spell,
And hold a magic glass or two
Before the little baby-girl
Who smiles to us and to herself.
The little toy ships up to the harbor line,
The little toy ships _for the moon to shine_;
The little toy ships to the harbor line,--
The little toy ships _for the moon to shine_!
I like the sham and the sham
From the school in the nursery,
But the sham and the sham and the sham
I never get free,
And I like the sham and the sham
You never get free,
In the sham and the pain and the shame
From the sham and the fun
We always get free,
In the sham and the fun
You never get free,
In the sham and the foam
You never get free,
In the sham and the foam
You never get free,
So you're always victorious,
You're a sham,
You're a sham,
You're a jailer,
You're a ward,
You're a ward,
You're a ward,
You're a prince,
You're a ward,
You're a prince,
You're a squatter,
You're a swimmer,
You're a ward,
You're a squatter,
You're a squatter,
You're a prince,
You're a squatter,
You're a prince,
You're a squatter,
You're a prince,
You're a squatter,
You're a prince
======================================== SAMPLE 899 ========================================
,
Tail and sail, as we have sailed,
Tail and sail, and we must go
On the river Keewis.
I am sick of towns and peerls,
Of houses, and the like,
Of wives and little children dear,
Hoping, longing for a son;
The like I think of!
In the evening of the nights,
I stand in a western room,
By a sea-green sea; my sight
Is far out, and the curtain rolls
In a gray haze.
And within I know a man
Of the moor, and of the mere,
And of houses and of the sea
And the houses.
He is coming in from the fields,
He is coming in from the town,
And from the fields his damp grey curls
Fall and are brown:
And the lad to-night he will not come,
Though the clock has struck.
They say that we are crazed
On a mere chance ground.
(Then the old man comes and asks:
Why should I speak?)
I am here to mend your troubles,
He only asks!
The man whom I have killed
They say he is not dead!
I can't escape from here;
It makes me sore to see him here!
He came down from the fields of corn,
By a chance-met, on the morrow!
He was always marching on,
With a horse as ready at his back,
As he always came down!
I rode, and he never stopped!
But now he never is out!
I see his face!
He has dropped his coat!
His mane is wet with travel-sock,
He has lost a pound of bread;
The hut looks like a little house
All bare and cold and dead!
If I could only bring him back,
I never would buy my corn;
And he does not even turn his face
To say it is only a day in the year--
Only a day in the year!
(And then the ancient man he begins:)
There's little for it all to do,
There's nothing to call a plan;
The world is full of the things he meets
As easily as he can!
There's nothing a man could hope to do
Could he do them.
(He makes some choice and he gives a piece:)
If you want the best of food,
Try! The world is full of different stuff!
The foolish fool you know!
He'll do none for it! If the fool can't go,
He can't go off his head.
(They enter the five-hilled house.)
That's good!
(They divide the round shield and break the deep:
He runs into the yard.)
That's good!
(They march under cover.)
Then you can't make this wall
Tumble flat like a silly lad,
Lest he be thrown on your head.
(They rush out.)
I'll put him in the grate!
(They cheer him.)
How far, O Lord? What a dolorous shout!
Children! Don't you feel that you are about the lot?
Pipe your ditty in the morning,
And be never afraid of ramaing!
(To the young braum broke forth in applause.)
(The holly hitherto was gathered up.)
In the afternoon of hay and oats and bramble,
The grass was growing green,
The hollyhocks were standing,
And the hollyhocks were strewing.
(The hollyhocks were all around and trailing!)
In the afternoon of life,
Up and down and up and over,
And the little boys and girls were shouting,
The lasses and the lasses--
The hollyhocks all were waving.
(The old kavaoers came out.)
Then we turned us and the door went to the garden,
And stood behind us at the gate,
And stood behind us at the gate.
(The old kavaoers were all about.)
We went out into the field,
The farmer and the cobbler, too,
And we came out to the place and stood behind us
And laughed out loud and long and long.
(We were the neighbours of the town;
How the old kavaoers ran up and down!
How the old kavaoers came up.)
We went out into the field,
The farmer and the cobbler, too,
And the little boys and girls were shouting
The hollyhocks that seemed to woo.
And now we cannot come anigh the garden,
The little girl and boy are gone,
They called us out into the field--
The h
======================================== SAMPLE 900 ========================================
 from the bottom with _cocoan_ mouths.
--"Oh, here," he cried, "is the poisonous element,
"As if from its first pledge, my soul's first death
"I had found there!
"'Twas here--I am mad," he exclaimed,
"And have done this, and do you no wrong;
"For the blood that the chance of its coming doth fall from me.
"It is here, my friends, let no doubt mar my life;
"Let all hope of it mar your happiness.
"Take it; prithee, the fool that ye mean, be ye false?
"Not of one crime do ye make a single blade.
"But, since God's justice none can repent,
"I swear it by all saints, that whoso will may see
"And have done this, and do not act amiss.
"And, since I have done it, take this truth as 'tis borne:
"It is here, Sir, by your wife's and son's degree.
"Come to us, Sir! let this ghost of my dead
"Convey to you news that the State is fain
"That long wert building; let our own go pain!
"And you, Sir, remember that a thing did flee
"From the hands of the Lord: this is the death
"That was halfway killed thee, dear, twenty years
"And thou art dead!" then the devil to stop,
With his teeth curled behind his eyes, and lo!
He fell--the gourmand lay on the ground!
And the Devil muttered: "It must go, Sir, down."
He sank, as who flees from the Devil's hall.
The Devil muttered: "Thou'lt have a devil's tongue."
Then the Devil muttered: "Thou loiterest time
"And we shall find. The time is very long--
"Thou'lt get up, my dear, and 'tis coming too soon."
The Devil muttered: "If thou wouldst--here go.
"Thou canst bring home no dead soul, to thy place."
Said the Devil: "That case looks bad; 'twill have thee grace."
Said the Devil: "Friend, we'll be friends again.
"Now, if thou canst--we'll have all the world over.
"Our friends and our money, which is lent thee,
"May our wealth not be cheap enough to keep
"Our bags full. If thy goods from us go not thus,
"Thou canst not have us for foreign realms so drear?
"It is best for the soul who thus goeth back
"With the pail of a Lord to heaven."
And they all laughed, as the man of them said them all,
When they saw what they had done, to their devil's own
In the land of the Fiend, and the angel's iron bed.
Then they all laughed, with unceasing laughter,
While they watched what the Devil did say to them
On the star-called morning, that was their time for play.
Then they all laughed, as the man of them said them all.
And they all laughed, a happy mock-ry, one and all.
And, when all their laughter was done, they made
A loud-loud laugh upon the grass; and they
Stood listening, with faces turned on either side.
Then they all laughed, with unceasing laughter,
To the tale of those that the earth-fiend had told.
Then a rumbling sound of laughter rose and fell
Upon the spot; a devilish racket rose,
As to earth's very lap there came the sound
Of the man's heel, and Satan's flamèd face
Turned to heaven's door, and uttered thus, "Haste, haste!"
But the man on whose ears the devil's voice
Tells how then Satan's own soul was struck
With a demon's curse and a demon's yell!
First from hell, with his head at the bellies,
From hell, with his hand on the bellies, came
The fiend, with his long and lean black hair,
And his face turned a ghastly red to the light,
In his iron rags, and his wriggling shape,
The ghastly eyes, and the lips that stammered,
With his grim lips puffed, and his face deform'd,
While the man, with his huge mouth fumed and hideous,
At once flounder'd, and gallop'd away from the ground;
Then again, with a fiend at the gates! Hell!
When he came back from the hall, in the midnight
======================================== SAMPLE 901 ========================================
,
the sword and the helmet, and for the last time a
portion of each to the rest of her body. These were the
corpses of the famous warrior Eurymedon, who was then
visited by Thetis with presents and with a wedding feast.
Then he went to the house of King Solomon and got presents
from the king of Germany, with a feast of gold and bronze.
The other envoys were led by Lord Hygelac to the
dwelling-place, and a great cross-bow was set at their head.
Then I know not if his wife came from the court at all, or
took from the horns a mighty shaft, or a javelin. Such was his
feast. Then he sent to Beowulf with his sword, the bold and
practical champion, a faithful earl, with his own dear life,
and the noble thanes who were his host's protectors, and who
lived with him a life of sorrow.
Then the aged king, Hrothgar, heard the tale and then in a
listening manner told the tale and told it all. He told him of
honour and of honor; then he said, but he seldom told the tale
So the two kings sat at the banquet and talked of their
years; thus they sat the night over the summer night, each
in the meantime the men of the north, and Hrothgar the
friend. What the other strangers saw were those that came from
Beowulf, when he had told his men to set themselves to war
with his men.
Then the men of the south began the merry feasting of
their friends; each of the other held his spear-point in his
hands, and thus it is the wise king bade them drive and
drive.
The twain then took their joyous lives and went with willing
kinsmen to their women. Then the steadfast prince commanded the
dwellers in the hall to keep all in trim, for they were of
repose and guests in the hall a highly-fixed race, with all
honour and honor. Of his guests they stood there all in
honour, each in his arms, while Hrothgar and his men held
 wielding the spear with the hand of mighty God. Then Athelhall
sister to the king, and shared the feast by his dear son.
The wise and prudent king held fast the time for his revenge,
till the king passed through the hall and hall, and came to
the dwelling of King Beowulf the thanes, a fair and
golden hall. So they rested in the hall all night. The prince
beheld there the dear guest of his bride, and sent for the
thwarted hero; for in the feast he bade many a stranger to
the tryst with their spears, the henchmen, the bright masons,
the resinous guests, lest they should be eaten in the halls
at once in peace. Hrothgar then sat his warriors on the
high car; nor might any other of the bold knights help
their friends. So they stood aloof when the prince told them
that none of the like was guiltless in the hall, the man of
the tongue, if perchance he might discern aright, and knew
not the raiment, or the garments the strangers had woven
away from the hall. And the ruler of the land spoke these
words:
"'Tis well with thee on earth, my dear, thou hast this to tell;
I have no fear, no sorrow, though these things the Lord
vouchsafes me. My comrades are all gone, save in their
homes across the sea of the wide strand. I am the youngest
born of all that my heir, the son of the Almighty. Be thou
wonderful and wroth, as thou art, and tell it all to thine
heart, that so thou wilt be pleased at the sight of the
coming stranger. Say truly that I too would gladly go in
the place of the Lord of Geats, or in the dwelling of this
people; but tell thou all truth, that this stranger, in his
heart, may be mindful of me and not in any thought of
such a thing. He is the better man under heaven, in hope
that his folk may tell him truth.'
And the lord of the fair lady was aware how a stranger and
the stranger both of the nimble feet had gone over the
streets, and laid him down upon the floor.
Then the famed minstrel bade him do fitting work, and in
the water he wrought of that which he had gathered in order,
and with him that other wise.
Then the prince bade the lord of Geats to sit in the banquet
======================================== SAMPLE 902 ========================================
,
To speak and write, when we should have our day."
Thus did they speak, and Sol the artist kind
With heavy hammers and persisting ire
From the cool side of the smooth-visaged sward,
Shot like a bull-rush with the lightning's fire
To where, like some black catamite, the sky
Quivers with moonlight on a sultry night--
So did their limbs with a convulsion light,
And their eyes twinkled with a feverish gleam--
And thus they spake, in the dead man's warm hall--
"I saw the world with a wide-open eye,
And felt a like great fellowship at home--
And in the land of the great realms of sleep
They sat together in the lonely room.
And I beheld these souls who only weep,
And I beheld this flesh, and all its bones,
And heard the crackling of their hollow ribs,
And by strange chance-directed prayers and hopes
Of food and sleep that were but fruit for cares.
And the grey land was very like the sea,
But made no living thing, nor saw that land;
That which was strange indeed, and terrible,
Yet, as the grey sea round us ran and grew,
I saw not this of all created things,
My mind and body all lay in the deeps.
And I was suddenly aware, and he
Stared at their looks: the man who used to stand
With rigid face, and with his naked hands
Stretched forth his open front and gazed around,
And seemed to see me, standing in the wood,
And the long grass and flowers about his feet.
"I have a superstition in my womb!
My nurse, my sweet one, I was very glad
We were not strangers. And I had to run,
And he came here and he came down the glade--
He, who came down below the fallen tree,
And took my arm within his own, and said,
'I will go fetch with you a pair of gloves!'
"'I will go fetch my uncle, Samuel, too--
And bring him, if you want him to go down--
He will be here and send him there to-night,
But will not leave me to my misery.'"
Then David Barlow turned and went to him,
And when he came before us there, the two
Were nothing loitering at a sudden end.
But I, who could not stay my steps, said he,
'I must go back to the green world again.'
Where will the lover rest?
Why do we fear him, the old, old dream?'
Why do we fear him so?
Because he is in us, we live and die;
Therefore our lips were cold,
Our hair was thick on our shoulders, our eyes blurred,
We walked by chance with a careless smile;
Therefore we whispered a little while,
And we parted, or bent, tremblingly,
We parted; because it was cruel, as say the bathers,
Because of our speech we had nothing to do with,
I went to the hill-top, and there stood my lover
Claiming his hand, saying, Be bold,
Challenge the wind and the rain.
If he could find me again--
But there was one who came down the hill to me,
Bidding me hold him still--
'Twas a little wraith, with her pale, white head,
Tied him a scarf, and she brought him a gown,
And a band, O the hills!
Loud and strong, and yet not bold,
Came the thundering refrain!
Onward came they, and a lurid flash
Of the yellow fire betrayed the night,
And the night was still.
I have made a house there right
For my lover to keep;
But she gave me nothing, and that is long,
And I would not be afraid of him--
Why should we keep?
And he said, 'What matter, if we should meet
Once and in the light?
We shall never sit by the hearth, I think,
As we used to do,
Till the fire is out, and the night's all black,
And the mist is gone.'
But the wind was out of the mouth of us,
And the flame in the mind;
And he said his prayers, and he said his spells,
And his dreams he blind.
And I went to him, and he cried aloud,
'Come back to the door again;
I opened the door, and you passed through the threshold.
Come back,' and he went alone;
When I came back, how could I find again
One whom my heart loved so?
======================================== SAMPLE 903 ========================================
, R.C.
What! for my own, a while to rest,
Shelley and his, in that lone wood?
I'll have my love again, I own,
But who can tell if it be true!
I love you, warmly!
Weary and dim,
Here, where the dim woods are so still,
To walk, or lie, or roam,
Here, where the old oak leaves so still
Throw shadows on the pond,
And a sound of weeping
Broods over the water.
Fearless, as he
Finds you the deeps of love, you'll grow;
But never will love
Look from above,
Shall I, though I cry most for you,
Love you, dear lover?
_In the soft night
While the fragrant darkness
Creeps on and on._
I love the moon, I love it naught but her;
Not one of all her gentle lights is there,
Not one of all her gentle stars is there;
None that behold, but those that view its rays
Only the splendor of the stars, and those
Who walk the earth, but hear them, as the trees
In the green lane, the music of the breeze,
Only the music of the falling rill,
But all of earth--and every human soul.
_In the soft night
When the fragrant darkness
Creeps on and on._
Now the starlight steeps us in its caves,
Bright, beautiful, and cool; and in the west,
The golden moonbeams, steal across the face
Of this high world, and, lingering, leave behind
In this broad water, dells and fringe of land
The hills and rocks and rivers, and the groves
That clothe the valley, and each winding creek
And fenny jessamine, where the maids sit,
Musing upon the gods of yesterday,
While down the shadowy highway, through the trees,
The nightingales repeating low and sweet
The summer sounds of summer:
But, now, my love and I are one,
For the night, the moonlight, is begun.
We must rise and follow with our eyes
Where the young moon glides like a fabled king,
And, down the silent meadows, where the breeze
Washes the leafy boughs, and leaves a drowsed
Silence of moonlight; and we shall descend
Under the apple-tod, and take the path
Betwixt the dusky garden, where the shade
Stands on the highest tip, and winds along
The silvery arch of heaven and the dim
Deep wood of moonlight.
So, my love,
You go on roving, wandering still 'twixt day and night
For my love's country. All for memory,
All that I have gathered, all that could bestow,
And all for memory, and for all the love
Of my dear country.
You go on sail-steady back to home;--
My own love, my love-loved, my own country's friend;--
My own, my England's friend!
With one last farewell, we glide
That hour together; yet betwixt
Old friends, who used to meet,
All too old for our severance, come
The hopes we once embraced,
And the tears we longed for sobs.
What need to tell those friends, at last,
How well we loved each other so,
How we could meet, and how
Once to love, and once to love.
Then, if the words they knew,
Could not but be sooth'd,
What need to tell the tears they wept?
Sweetheart, be you greeted anew
With some old love-light; to the light
Of old love, of old love, send
That old, old parting; end
This parting, if thou canst.
I'll make my place, I'll make my gain,
Of all my gain. I'll give my cause
To speak my cause, not to complain
Too plainly when I saw your face
Lone wandering in the distant place.
I'll leave my land;--if, you to me
Are more my own than finest gold,
More than a gem, or half a star,
That shines where'er she sets her hand;
I'll put my heart to suit her well;
I'll pass the fellow in the cell,
And see her smile when next we meet.
You are too old or young to be
My shallow love, my pride, my friend,
And all my gold is but a sheaf,
Where one may stand and look at grief.
If I could leave behind the hours,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 904 ========================================
, the _English Reviewers_,
And _The New-Parson's Magazine_ and _The New-Pulpedia_,
_The Bostonampedan_, and _The New-Pulpedia_,
And, it may be, the more to _The Archangel_,
The more to _The Archangel_ due, the higher
The Archangel's come on us to upper of the blue.
There's a song on the stairs where the air is so chill,
It's not worth the chatter making it very old-cold;
But at top of the level the sea sinks a-swaying near,
So low that the top is not heard on the ear.
There's a sigh in the wind as the sun sinks low,
The wind blowing keen through the tops as we pass,
When the wind gathers up to tell if it will,
And why she'll be coming, she never will come.
There is silence and silence above, below,
Where the wrack-blown sea-weed clothed the shore.
There's a whisper without, of the sea-foam blown thin,
It calls up the wind, it seems with the sea-foam near,
It calls up the voice of the wind from within,
The cry she died for with the child upon her.
And the silence that listens?  It will not come soon.
She has a word with you that will scarcely be said.
When the bird on the wind and the leaf on the tree
Dies of love and sorrow, his love and grief be
The glory of his singing as she sings;
While he sits and sings in her high-built golden hall
Where, through open door, the tides flow to and fro.
And to-night she sings what his love intends.
I've watched since the world shut in,
I've seen the old gods spin,
But the old gods work without,
And are content to wait
Till the new gods pass away;
To find them clear in the old way.
The old gods they are singing,
The old gods are swaying,
The new gods are greying,
And love is too keen for pain
To listen or stay till she's slain.
Then the old gods are singing,
The old gods are swaying,
The old gods are wandering,
And love is not always sweet, I trow.
There are songs for the wailing
That never come singing,
They never come ringing,
But always are singing,
As if the old god were listening.
The sea-winds, the singing, the sighing, the singing.
And all with their moaning and swinging
And crying of rapture and longing and praying,
And, forgetting the joy of the world's faring,
They rise, and uplift and turn back their faces,
And look back back with their sighing and singing,
And think how the old gods with their mournful laughter
They once were persuaded and heard to sing.
But the stars, they have only their tearful eyes.
And this old world's eyes cannot praise,
They are too proud to see it,
For it seems to weave us, for one in our days,
As a broken and leafless adieus.
_This is the song of the singer of indolent Spring
Who would not give gladly to singing;
For he of the songs of the singer is one
Who knows his divine singing._
_This is the song of the singer of indolent Spring,
Like a broken and leafless adieus._
The young god who is longing to sing
Is the singer who is sighing;
He lifts his sad face to the sky
And turns away,
And I know that his love is dreaming,
And my heart, its song
Is ringing
With the sound of the harping of spheres
And the wail
Of the wind in the night,
And the sighing
Of the wind in the night._
_This is the song of the singer of indolent Spring
Who is longing to sing
Is the singer whose song is so full
Of melodies
For the heart of the singer with sobbing lips,
Calling to love--
For he who is singing so sweetly
Must stay his love._
(_Here ends that Sarga of the Gîta Govinda entitled_
Here ends that Sarga of the Gîta Govinda entitled _Theodoric
_The pitcher that holds the same pitcher to the wind that blew
From the high door of the abyde._
_The pitcher set for the hand of the minstrel that is throbbing
_The pitcher that holds the hand is a rosebush in its place,
It is not the hair of his face._
_The
======================================== SAMPLE 905 ========================================
, and Gautier, and
many others.
(ll. 485-586) And now, O! I know that the best part of the
(ll. 786-1089) But in spite of all the rest, the holy
(ll. 190-1089) And when that noble lord, the Hely creatur of
God's anger against the heathen army, his army, the field of
God, upon the holy mountain raised aloft a stately hall,
(ll. 1390-1089) And their holy groves were gleaming fair with the
fire.
(ll. 1490-1089) Now when that noble lord, the Righteous King, had
(ll. 1490-1189) And the princely youths held their place in the
(ll. 1490-1289) Then a multitude before the Lord of heaven arose in
plight!  Their companies were ranged.  Were weapons ready for their
(ll. 1290-1290) Then the lord of men called forth the young men.  And
(ll. 1290-1295) And Abraham gave them swords in plenty, when he
(ll. 1290-1290) Then first the young men looked upon the heathen
steeds, and saw the righteous bearing of the king in front of
(ll. 1290-1290) And their glorious leader with a wondrous face
laughed aloud.  The host shouted, "Lord!  Let the king and all his
(ll. 1290-1290) Yet, when he heard that the prince of holy
waters gathered within the land, he called forth to men.
Then the lord of men spake among them, that he had found grace.
(ll. 1290-1295) "Now shall the heralds proclaim to you the worth of
(l. 1295-1290) "Ye men of Bonset, hear this, O prince, that I have
(ll. 1290-1290) Then straightway he spake unto the prince, the
grace-smith of men, the lord of hosts, the lord of hostile
(ll. 1290-1290) Then the princely youths gave place to him and
Spake unto his heralds and his dearest Lord, and there began
breathing-space.  The youths held not a single heart.  They would not
(ll. 1290-1290) But the heralds spake unto the noble monarch, and
Spake unto him in words of pride.  He bade the warriors twain
(ll. 1290-1290) "Have peace, ye men of Bonset, from you in the
(ll. 1290-1290) But the prince bade his ministers and bade give
somewhat to the holy men, and bade the lord of the people rest.
They bade him rest, but bade him not.  And he bade that the men
might live according to their word, and favour the holy men.
(ll. 1290-1290) Then Abraham spake unto the knight, saying:
(ll. 1290-1290) "May the Lord almighty, the lord of angels,
grant this!  If any man against my will shall fight his foes,
I fear not, though he fight against them, his hand against them
(ll. 1290-1290) But the Ruler of heaven spoke unto the maidens,
And said unto the Lord of heaven:
(ll. 1290-1290) "Now would it were a better farrowed thing to trust
God in heaven, that thus the heathen should prevail, the Lord of
glory, and the Lord of earth and all things good."
(ll. 1290-1290) Then another man, the wise and worthy prince, said
(ll.1290-1290) "Be not afraid, dear Lord!  I bade thee bear thy
(ll. 1290-1290) Then another answered him, and bade him speak to
this, and that, and bid thee to be glad.  And first the lord of
heaven, and thus the wise and high, said unto Salomon the Lord of
heaven, and waited upon him steadfastly, and spake unto him:
(ll. 1290-1290) "Let us seek the sword and spear of the Lord of
heaven, and send him forth unto His death.  I give all my words,
(ll. 1290-1290) And Salomon first spake unto his noble wife:
(ll. 1290-1290) "If a fair and a fair lady love me well, be
======================================== SAMPLE 906 ========================================

"With that last, sweet love"--this I loved "thee."
The Lady's Song--Vide, v. v.
"The Lady's Love"--(for the Princess is a Liar!)
This world is too full of glee and joy
For aught but laughter, loss and pain;
I'll love its earth--I'll love its sun;
I'll love its stars and moon in vain--
I'll do the thing my soul would do,
And be a man again.
It was a lover and his lass
Closed the door of her long chamber;
"What!" he cried, her lover in her lap--
"What! you foolish thing!"
She told him, "I am nothing at all--
Nothing at all, at all!"
"What!" he cried, "a minute ago,
"No, it is a silver bell!"
She told him of a hundred things,
Taught him all her own mad tricks--
Plied the hour, and went her way
Through the garden in the night,
Called him "Princess," made a note
High above the city's din,
Called him "mad" and made a song,
"For I have heard the call and shout
Of the great and mighty Pan!"
Back he came by star-swept wall,
Dark and hoarse and piping loud--
"And I," she said, "we come, we come--
What! you foolish thing!"
He piped from head to foot with joy,
"Even this mad clown, I trow,
Sings his opera now and then
"To the glad new moon." "And I,"
He sang, "you poor, poor wandering faun--
What! you foolish thing!"
"Yet I will come in richer guise,
And in my brighter wit shall sing,
Singing, 'Let us roam in bliss,
Beyond this mortal knowing'
"Far away, far off, 'Twixt earth and heaven,
(Hush the mystery!)
Will those galleons bear me,
Bear me gently, oh! so wildly, on
Where the white-swathed waters wash me in
Their bewildering whirl?"...
And pale with pity, faint--
Pale from out the pitying eyes of him,
She sang of Love, and Death--
"Come, sweet, are you weary, Dear,
Come away, away?"
Faint as shadows, far away,
From the far hope-forgotten day
Came the gentle breath of a sigh
Over her white brows.
Soft, and low, and fair, and low,
And she sang.
Still the frail and delicate breath
Of her music stirred the air;
And she said, "I am going home
To my love's fair sphere!"
And her face, a perfect rose,
Through the dreams her fingers sped,
Shone in gladness and her praise
Wrapped in smiles that she had said:
"Come away! come away!"
A shadowy shroud,
Like a phantom of the dead,
All the shroud that lay before,
Deeply wound.
Like a phantom of the dead
Stole she, and moved her head
Over the eyes,
Close before her, and the breath
Of her lips she seemed to life
In the shadowy agony,
From her lips that cried in death:
"Come away! come away!"
Gently she stole along
Under the shadowy shroud,
With a larking song,
Far in the air,
To the starry hills, and then
Over the shadowy hills
Only a voice,
And merely a lark, a wailing song,
Singing so sad,
Only a voice alas!
Only a voice alas!
Few are the wakening kine,
But the ghost has wings, for now
The milkmaid of night
Dims her cup and cries,
"What is this, thou little god,
Thou would'st have pity, or
Some other's woe
Rather thus--"
"Aye, but I would have thee die,
So kind thou art!
Come away, thou little god,
Come with my love!
"Oft from hence I start,
Sobbing, with thy frighting
In my ears, and feet, and hair.
Come, for it is
All too late to fly to thee,
Seeking for thee.
"Soon with the dark end, I will go,
Having of thee,
Seeking always on the way,
Crying out 'Come,
Come away, come away,
Till the rosy morning's gone,
And the sun is going."
Then the shadows of the dead
======================================== SAMPLE 907 ========================================

A little while and I've seen,
But then I never see.
There isn't a tree nor a tree,
No, never, never a tree--
No, never, never a tree,
But the God within me
Beheld two creatures standing alone on a hill,
And he said: "Do not cut them, my dears.
I have heard enough people say
That, if you cut them, you'll die."
But he never heeded
The cutting and killing of the swordfish andfish,
And he never thought of no danger.
They were two sea-sages, I am told.
They contrived to cut them,
Wherever they could,
They would not cut off the trees
So that they fell down.
So there was an end of the trees of a man,
And he began at once to think:
"I will be a tree, if I can,
And if I will eat it, I'll drink it in my cup,
And a golden bee-so of clover.
And if you shut them, I'll think you
Sucked the tree in the thick of the tree."
So he watched for an answer;
And, by and by,
The tree grasped his hand and he tried to rise,
But it came to nothing, and nothing was gone.
And he looked at the trees, and then he said:
"If I speak these words, I'll think of them,
And of the green bough that nods to the sky."
So he went to the tree, and he walked to the door,
And the honey bee found it,
And he gave a gold bee in a golden cup,
And poured in his honey all thereon.
And the bird in the tree sang sweet,
"O bees, why are you humming?
He who is wise
All morning flies,
And from his wings
Sucks honey and he makes honey--
Sucks honey and he believes.
"He is a bee,
And suck'd from honey,
A blossom from the tree."
So sang the bee, and the honey bee flew,
The flowers all sweet and sweet,
Till the honey bee came home,
And the bee went down.
Then the honey bee came home,
And the bees hummed over him
What answer he needs would make;
And he said: "O honey bee,
Why are you humming?
He who is wise
All morning flies--
The honey bee he hummed a song,
The bees hummed over him,
While he walked among the trees along,
Till he brought a great white bee.
"So, honey, come!
Drop honey down your wings,
And drop honey down your golden cup,
And drop honey all your seeds."
But you heard no more, and you did not hear,
All all the honey-bee came home,
And the bee went down; and he went away
And shut the bees in for honeycomb.
I have trepanned to the secrets of the bee
That were hidden under all the trees;
I have trepanned to the mysteries
Where secret flowers are hidden;
For I have made the secret of his bee,
Where secret flowers are hidden.
I have buzzed in a strange tongue
Of a strange tongue,
And I know how it is sung.
For the bee and the moth and the moth
I have treasured under all the trees.
I have known a flower that is hidden
Under the ground,
And I know where the hidden grass is found.
I have come to find, if you choose,
What word lies hidden;
And I know how it is hidden.
In the silence of winter
I dream the sweet dream
Of garden and vineyard
Of my soul's divine love;
And the fragrance
Of wild-rose gardens;
Faded butterflies flutter
In white wings to the low sky.
Then the wind in the chimney
Telleth me his story.
The bee sings in the sunlight,
The bees hummed in the gale;
And the wind on the heather
Silvestily grieves in the pale.
My soul is weary
Of the wind and the sea,
The sea and the wind are
Like ghosts to me;
My heart is weary,
And my heart is sad.
Like ghosts of the sea-maidens
I am apart from the wind and the rain;
The moon is at my lattice,
The wind is in my breast;
I am weary,
And my heart is sad.
For the moon and the sun
Are laughing in the sky.
We two have parted,
I am older than my years,
And wiser than the sea-birds
======================================== SAMPLE 908 ========================================
."  See Hobborn's Tale.
"So she lay with the devel in her hand
And the devel was dressed in white,
And the maiden her robe was the broidery gay,
Which herself was the pride of the shepherd-band;
And she herself, on the front of her throne,
Was the queen of the forest."
--Jumping up and down, as they spurred their feet,
The little leaves flew by;
The pine-trees were all of a sudden tipped
With yellow and green and red;
And the maiden waved o'er her bonnet blue
And glanced o'er aloft and said,
"O lover of forest, I pray thee, why
Liest thou in my arms alone?"
The maiden her mantle flung away;
The loveliest maid of all,
Her beauty fell with her withered arms
Before the mountain's rocky wall.
The rocky ferns' dark nave are cool
By the beeches in the pool.
When winds go howling, and a sleet
From the icy stream is fetched,
And the maiden smiles, and throws herself
Upon a bed of flowers;
When spring returns, and winter stays
And melts the virgin snow,
When spring returns, and summer stays,
I wander in a trot of mottled loam
Along the decked and sand-smearedarge,
Where the wan spires gleam in the pale moonlight,
And the wide waves do rasp and chafe;
While on the smooth and slumbering lake
Anchor the motionless stars do lie,
And the sea-mew's plaintive cry.
Then comes the storm; and all the air
The heavy, sullen thunders bear;
The rocking woods, the hoarse-voiced sea,
And all the woods, are full of thee.
Then come the rainy days, and pass
The boy that roared at Paradise;
The boy that in the dreadful grass
Lay for his lady's naked gas;
The boy that in the dreadful grass
Lay for her baby's naked gas;
The boy that in the dreadful grass
Lay for her baby's naked gas;
The boy that in the savage grass
Lay for her baby's naked gas;
The boy that in the savage grass
Lay for her baby's naked gas;
The boy that in the eternal sky
To God and God was incensed,
And cried unto his lady, "Look!"--
And as he cried, his voice was weak,
And on the winds of heaven he threw
His soul, that the vain demon knew
Worse was the tempter now.
A land-mark on a distant sea,
Lined with green hills and mountains,
Whose blossoms in sweet madrigals
Mingle their songs of the valleys,
Bright as the sun in the valley,
Of love and joy and disaster;
A land that the land-wind is bringing
To wastes of sea and forest,
Where not the mists of day yet
Lie on the mountains, nor the breeze
That piles our dreams in the vale,
Will touch us again, and will warm us
With fire, till that islandmate capture
Is our last refuge. We have come
To the shore of ocean, that lies
'Neath billows darkling like the dome
Of heaven. Here shall we seek his home,
And the island-band, and then, unmoaning,
Till that far morn, upon the wing,
The young and old come home again
To Greece. Long leagues of barren foam
Over a lonely isle,
They would not leave us, and the foam
Sinks up no more beneath our feet.
No, it is well for us to be
And there the island-band, and they
That loved us, now in other clay,
Are gone down in their graves, from whom we
Have all gone down.
And thus they live.
And thus their love is a perpetual sorrow,
The sunless days and the untrodden deep,
And the cold winds that sweep our sails.
They loved us, yes! They loved us, now
With hearts grown cold and weary,
Throbbing, as by an icy hand,
At every wind that knocked them down,
Their ships of the burning East
Stretched them on the cold North Sea.
Oh, the cold North Sea! Oh, the cold North Sea!
What was it, under the hard North Sea?
What was it under the hard North Sea?
The foam-swept land, where they had been;
And the white cliff-castles, and the green
Of the great ships that rolled to sea
The old sea-captains of
======================================== SAMPLE 909 ========================================
,
Celestial, though eternal, they be, the seat of
Heaven, though eternal.
Heaven to that voice!
I, to have caught
Those notes that might inspire
All souls of men, with ardor filling,
To pour a soul of harmony
Into the spirit's harmony!
I, to have cooled
The curls that bound
The smooth, dark locks that laced my hair,
And laced my hair
And curdled me to froth and froth!
I, to have shed
One glance upon the summer night,
One smile upon the moonlit sea,
That I might guess
The tune to which I thus have sung,
The song to which I thus have sung!
O moon immense!
O destiny
Of all things mortal! hear,
And taste of heaven and earth and air!
O sunlike wine
Of heaven and earth and sea and air!
O moon immense!
O heart insatiate!
O lily-pads!
O gentle gales, that fan our sails!
O gentle gales, that fan our sails!
O gentle gales, that cause belief!
O gentle gales!
O gentle gales, that fan our sails!
O gentle gales, that cause belief!
O gentle gales, that blow us south,
Grant to thy gentle mouth
Some cool sweet breath of Afric drouth!
O gentle gales, that blow us south,
Grant to thy gentle mouth
Some food to chill the cruel south!
O gentle gales, that blow us south,
Grant to thy gentle mouth
Some food to chill the cruel south!
O gentle gales, that blow us south,
Grant to thy gentle mouth
Some food to chill the cruel south!
O gentle gales, that blow us south,
Grant to thy gentle mouth
Some food to chill the cruel south!
O gentle gales, that blow us south,
Grant to thy gentle mouth
Some food to chill the cruel south!
O gentle gales, that blow us south,
Grant to thy gentle mouth
Some food to chill the cruel south!
O gentle gales, that blow us south,
Grant me some fruits
To strew in wintry months and years!
Ye that to wind a keener cope
Make all the springtime of the year,
Filling the autumn and the slope,
And bring all tribes of northern sere;
Thou, too, thou wooest sea and shore,
And from the world a clearer force restore.
O noble gales, that blow us west,
Grant me one leaf of summer seed
To strew in August and the spring.
Ye that to wind an older lore,
Make the green earth a richer prize,
Give Italy her fertile shore,
Her groves of vine, her fertile fields of rice;
Thou, too, thou wooest sea and shore,
Ho! give the German hind his prize!
And thou shalt thunder with the fire,
And roaring with the billowy tide;
And thou shalt bear the gift of sire,
And from the world-wide ocean-side
Blaze with thy crown an undivided flame!
O noble gales, that blow us south,
And thou shalt prove a fruitful treasure-house for thee!
Thou too, ho! ho!  The great sea-high
That rolls to break the clouded sky!
Thou, too, ho, the great green sea-harp!
Lo the rollers of the ocean-crust!
Ho! give me a little rest
With my head upon my breast!
Ho! give the rein, my steed so dight,
See that startle the wild white beasts of Night!
All in vain, for the star to slay,
Out in vain to the heaven as vain!
What have they that have given a home?
Now the tides are out and at play.
What, 'mid the roaring of the sea?
Sons, we have given the sea to thee!
All in vain to the star to look,
Out in vain to the heavens as well!
They have given the foam to the mast;
Ho! we have given the sea to thee!
All in vain, that sea-great seaman
Hears and thinks for the soul of me!
All in vain! for the star to see,
Out in vain to steer his barque!
Never on the deck shall he
Dash in the sea-foam as though he were
A puro morrow fleet.
All in vain!  The sea's great track
The slow and stealthy sea-tides drag;
All in vain as the chafing track
To keep the ship on the
======================================== SAMPLE 910 ========================================
, and, to his sorrow,
Bore the burden of his sorrow,
Suffered long, and oft, and hopeless
By the cholera, the disaster
Of his young unshackled brother,
And without a scalp asking.
"Never did my sister leave me
To be separated wholly,
Never were my sister trusted
So to be a sister's daughter
Till a thousand years had vanished.
I must now be separated--
Not to die without emotion,
And without regret must wander."
Thus was slain the only trouble
That there came across the border,
And the people from the country
Felt it coming very awful.
In a few days' time, before a week was spent,
He to sit upon the dais, just a week,
He thought how cleverly he should have been
To make a little dog-hole in the fun.
One morning, after breakfast, he arose:
He could not say he had been to the garden
As he had said--'this dog, my loving spouse,
This dog's existence would be very hard.'
They thought him selfish, and most foolish too.
Then he: 'I'm in a hurry, so am I.'
When at last the long week's standing-stone
Had reached its middle it was just a line,
A sign of some much madness. In his mind
The morning came the sad thing to be told.
He knew it, though he saw it in the streak
And strain that marked his intellect. 'I'm dull!
Let's see that when you see the light of day
The sun will shine upon the hill that's down;
If not the dog-hole, what a lovely sight
Was that which should have turned all people grey.
The dog stood there, but how of that befell?
He had a mind of getting back to sell;
If he could tell the baker all about it,
What couldn't be expected for poor Peter,
When he went down, with Peter in a halter.
He'd got a halter, and he had a halter,
Why, he could not turn his colours out of it,
Or buy one single halter from the door
But hear the story I am eager to hear.
That every dog-hole was a special failing,
And every dog-hole was a special failing;
He wouldn't say the house was in a hurry,
As often as he happened to go there
He fell into a deep and dreadful hole
That had been swallowed up in spite of tumbled
Up there on the back nor left a member.
This was his picture from a tragic story--
A sad one, with his little satin vest,
His little gun, all bright, and red as blood,
And hunting-bonnet, and the usual hat.
He had a seat on a log near fair Corin
Where many dogs were barking at his meat,
And, being called his master, he took to smoking
The saltering of his salmon-buzzers in the river.
The fishes he had caught were scrambling up and flying
Upon the tree; and though the pool was gone,
The fishes sprang up higher and were dying,
And found the river's bottom a good stone.
And while his mistress sought him in such fashion,
He did not keep away, but lay awake too,
And watched and waited till the sun was getting higher,
And there came too, he said, a dog to catch his master.
His little dog was bound securely to his tail,
And while his mistress tried him, he was only running
Till the dog tumbled out again and died.
When the next day's work got on, he hadn't turned it,
And in the next he ran with several dogs.
The neighbors had been waiting all the day
To take the dog to toll the turnpike walk,
Then he was known and taken with a wife,
And so, I think, he had been beaten by
A great big bear that all the way about
Was making love to one, of which I've heard
The story of John Gay. He held his hand
And put it in his own, with all his might
That seemed to pelt in all the country rathe
And so he'd never leave the house at night,
But straightway went another way and knew it,
And he was found along there in the big
And pleasant room. He sat down on his bed
And wished all morning for a quiet mouse.
The night was cold and stars were sparkling bright,
And he was quite alone, but as he lay,
A piece of cheese he ate and slept in it.
He ate it up, but had no time for thinking,
And all his meals had gone to him
======================================== SAMPLE 911 ========================================

On the green field of Tarsus.' I speak not right.'
Then Nello: 'Fool, in thine own halls keep ever close to me;
One only heart remains -- to break thy neck and make thee free!
Go! -- or thou shakest not thy footsteps in the dust; no more;
Thou'rt worthy here to mock me!'
Then Nello: 'I accept thy challenge.  I have borne it all,
And, if thy words can tell thee, do I deem thou art mine own.'
'I dreamed it was,' she answered; and he caught her by the arm,
And 'thou wert hither tending to mock me, wandering in the wood.'
'I dreamed it was the vision of Pan. -- Now, by Styx's shore,
Thou wilt not fail me, wandering with empty hands and empty eyes;
Wilt thou not make me lose thee--be content in his surprise!'
In anguish 'mid his dreary ways I found me.'
'What hope, my friend, am I?'
'Dance thou to death before thou winnest fame and riches.'
'I shall know death before my crown of fame is won.'
'Now, at Tarsus, thou must win the day!  The sun is warm,
The shadows of the storm fall heavy on the earth around.
My heart is dead, my sight hath never passed away
From thee, dear friend!  Look thou upon this land of mine;
Here is no face that gladdens me, alas!--too sad to see
And when I am grown old and sorrowful and old and gray,
Come with thy presence, and to my own memories.'
She smiled and passed my memory through her quiet tears;
And by the hand of all my good my little wit she won,
And by my love I came to thee, the child of dreary years.
'Here have I sung; here I have wrought; here is the well-known jar
Wherein comes booming from a bell.  Here thou hast spoken with
To win me soon; ay, come! -- this is Love's perfect well!
Love me as thou hast will, until my lips have spoken-sea,
And in the light of thy dear eyes my soul and body have,
And from the end of my sad years here thou canst never see.
But if thou holdest me still, O ghost, and I, as thou art dead,
Go not to any new land; go not any old way far;
For this is little living to the living to the dead,
If ever thou didst live to love me.'
Swiftly she moved
Over the water and asunder.  A thin veil
Of darkness girds Enceladus!  Unvext with all the rest
Of the dead world, O Hades, and the dark dread deep to me
And me is he.  A terrible shape did he not see before,
And all is changed; and all is over now.  The grey dawn wore
The darkness passed, the grey dawn came, but no more, O Dis!
The day is dead, and all the green earth is alive with night.
And he that loved the dark and followed, far away doth shine
The light of life from out the dark, the sun of life and death.
I am glad now
To see all men as they are;
All the earth hath now no joy but in another place.
I am glad now, O Hades; and for all I loved thee so,
As I, that love the dark and have not done the wrong,
And am as now I am, O Hades; and the dark birds blow
About me and about me and about me and around.
I think I see great Hades go through dark and bitter years,
But I, that have no hope of living, fear no light but tears;
So I, that have no fear of dying, hope no life but tears.
But thou, O Dis, great Hades, that I shall not see again
The city of the dead, the city that was built of men.
And thou, O mighty Hades, that hast shed about thy head
Many a pitying tear, as many more, O dark-robed forms,
And murmurest, and in darkness like a dream thou comest with them,
And I in loneliness, as one who walks across the night,
The wind of change and death, the darkness of the day that cometh
But thou, thou only, O Persephone, art glad to see the truth;
And in thy heart she hath no fear, that thou art not as I;
And in thy face hath she no joy, as in a goddess thou art now.
I was that even now
======================================== SAMPLE 912 ========================================
, and the other,
(Whence the good men of England are better able,
Or what the Lords would have us'd be better than sell)
And with all the prehensence that's in the nation,
And all the lies to swear and to do or to tell,
-- These are no crimes, but the ones of the times in which
Of the old or modern history, no matter how far
They have run the true scale--the wrong side's with the right--
But the good and the bad half of what we see here through
Have less of the virtue of virtue than piety:
When the devil or saint takes a watch from the Devil in the
Counts, and crosses, and cancels, and cogitates,
In a manner that sets off the old crooked path
Through the rutty, well known to poor fellow-creatures;
And he has a right to require any more of,
And you'll need it to-day, though you haven't the like of it,
For he talks and he prates, but he knows better of it.
And I was a prisoner at Ispahan,
When there came one night to his father's dwelling,
Where a monstrous hag hung in a tree.
"O, how great must the luck be, Sir Peter," he said;
"That's the devil, good sir," the black-eyed goose said;
And the raven, the gray, sharp-nosed hag, who is dread
(Though he knows of the weather it's only a-griein',
If he talks or he prates) will disturb some great sparrow
Upon Peter's farce, save the county of Shene;
And the geese, ye wot certainly know, is a-parrow
And so, I assure ye, is hardly a-goin'!"
And then Peter, a-gittin' out "Cheape" to the top,
His eyes, like two globes of fire in a panor,
Wore patches of wither, and got tangled together
Just as red as a lobster, about as conclusion,
And his mouth was an open red hole open to catch
And as he grew richer, he drank and he swore
That the geese, ere they could speak, would be vexed some one
Just to say,--and I'm thankful that Peter would run
His own self, as his father would call a disaster,--
And the geese, you know, they have all the heart's-buildinger,
And there's none will be left but the vile in his hand.
Now tell me, ye virgins, have ye any care,
For old Peter's a hatchet, and that is his toe;
His pate's like his hat,--for he's always been there;
And his wreath will be always a-rippling to you,
And that prompter is always at hand, as I know.
And a-cuttin' my fancy-strings out of his pocket,
And he's wobblin' himself, as he might, if he can,
For there's no use to supplicate him, and never
Will he, good my gona, be jest a gona at noon,
And his bell is a-ringing, and I'm sittin' alone,
And my wife--I'm a-wantin' to jest have some runnin'--
Will be comin' to-night, er a day er twelve, fer a moon,
And I'll tell ye the things I can git out of her shoon!
And it's "Wesser Bessy, sir, that I love and adore"--
When that chap gits back home, it's like purty near Aesop
To run over home, er to git the whole world in,--
And that's why I kin sort o' think of her when I 'pears,
And jest fer myself, wot the fust cause I'm lookin' for,
I think when I 'm "standin' on over the bar in the mornin'--
I ain't got nothin' to jow o' her old-fashioned tricks,
And I'm thinkin' of--her old-fashioned tricks, and the comfort
That she gives in the kind of way she's lookin' for,
And I've read fer her frequent in her old-fashioned tricks--
And the Lord'll haf fur it--it's more like her old-fashioned tricks!
I've a-watchin' the things as they grow to be seen,
And it makes me mad to be thinkin' of wonders done,
And I'm mittin' a-thief
======================================== SAMPLE 913 ========================================
?  The first. (Mort, iii.)
(Faugh, iv.)
(Flourished.)  The second.  The third.
(Faugh'd.)  The third. (Flourish.)  The third.
The fourth. (Hafflabor.)  The fifth. (Flourish.)  The third.
The fifth. (Faugh, iv.)
(Flourish.)  The fifth.  Madonna.  She was a dame of noble rank.
(Flourish.)  Madonna (Faugh, iv.)  The ninth person was a god.  His
mother was Ephraim (Flourish.)  The eldest son of the daughter of
Ephraim (Flourish.)  She was the daughter of Ephraim (Flourish.)  It is
(Mother's debts being in the Post.)
(Mother's debts being in the Post.)
(Fates.)  All hail!  With joy the three travellers
(Ferry-beloved)  They do dance and caper,
And the three young brides are all arrived
But I can't describe you.--I'm amazed,
We all are young folk.--But stay with me.
(To Mrs. C. S. b. 6)  "I do not want any associates."
There were three friends
Who talked of taxes and fine land;
I said, "It's too much,"
And they sneezed at each other, "a calf."
But they sneezed and chaffed in another,
And their talk they closed up in the dust.
"A calf" said one.
The other asked, "Tell me, a calf is his name?"
The third said, "No--slavery's the best game."
"A calf he is of a different kind."
"A calf--snow," I said.
"As King of the Golden Beware,
He hath walked out and in."
"A calf is his name of a calf."
"A calf is his name of a calf."
"A calf was his name of a calf."
"The horns of these horns do not fit him well."
"A calf is his name of a calf."
"He hath eat of a calf with a foot and a wing."
"A calf was his name of a calf."
"A calf he doth walk in one day;
The other two lives in a day."
"A calf, a calf is his name."
"The third," I said.
"The fourth," I said.
"The fifth," I said.
In the broad fields of wheat and rye,
In the fields of rye and rye,
The whole year round, all day,
With its face turned sideways, a lean white sow,
Stood on the edge of a meadow full of black.
With her right hand was she,
And with the left her eyes did gleam.
And in the land was a lady.
"A calf is his name of a calf."
"Do not be moved, my lady."
"The calf is his name, I wis,"
"The sixth" (says her)
"The ninth" (says her)
"The ninth" (says her)
I know not wherefore,
And so will I.
There was an old man there
Who shot an arrow
At his little wife. (To her)
He struck it with his left thumb.
(To Kate, for a ballad.)
He struck it with his right thumb.
If you wish me well, my dears,
I shall sing some more verses.
(To the ballad)
Gang bear my papa home again,
And bring the boys home with you again.
Sing a song of sixpence, and a bag full of rye,
Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie;
Nine days old putt into the bowl,
And who the shallop shall not tie?
Sing a song of sixpence, a bag full of rye,
Six-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
Sing a song of sixpence, a bag full of rye,
Six-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
The maid gave the lark and the day,
Whereupon straightway she sang:--
"The sun doth shine, my mamma,
Sing a song of sixpence, twelve pence, six and twelve,
A bag full of rye, eight bells, and more.
"Sing a song of sixpence, a bag full of rye,
Six-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
"They'll
======================================== SAMPLE 914 ========================================
; and Mr. Coote
"Bolt," said Dr. Johnson, "from the head of the
"Bolt" is a kind of independent gift; but the "ample of a
soul" may mean good sense.
"But mark," the printer said, "what you are to do" is very
"Go," cried Marlborough, "try to look at the subject."
"I think," interrupted James, "that Mr. White had been writing about
Marriage, or something divine has been made to us of a somewhat
unexampled excellence.
"But there is something," he went on, "in the constitution, I should
The gentleman, in his turn half-by, looked at the little
"What are you doing?" he asked, abruptly.
"You are to get up and look after the subject," was the reply.
"Oh, how far does he go," he said.
"How far?" the printer's voice went on, "but I cannot write
"A word, a letter, and a letter," was the loud response.
"Oh, it is not the place!" said the printer.
"Oh, it is not the place for them there."
"There is nothing," answered James, firmly.
"I understand that you must be a clever informer of any of them."
"I'm really not over-diving," said the printer.
"I could write you the name of a lady."
"Do you want any more?"
"The name, the title, and the letters," the clerk's voice
"Hasn't any claim on me," murmured James, fiercely.
"Well--that's the way to exactly see matters."
"Do you want any more?" said James, fiercely.
He hesitated a little.
"You're only a woman," said James, fiercely.
"The name--the name--is not known to the world!"
"It's the name," he replied, fiercely.
"There's nothing so good as the name that, upon Olympus or Rome,
I could make a very cosmopoladel if I could only find one."
The small boy stood with his gaze a moment, then ran, fiercely,
impadiably.
"Oh, I can't mind a lady," he said.
"Well," interrupted James, fiercely.
Then he bent his head in front of the little maid.
"Well, how do you miss it?" he said.
"That is what?" said James, quickly.
"Well," said James, quickly. "You, surely--that is it?"
"I'll be the one for it: I'll be the one--right on my word of
"But what of _him_?" said James.
"But--you? I say nothing of all that, before he put time."
"So I don't say not that, for my life?" said John, firmly.
"But--you? you say nothing of what is worth the name of?"
"You--you won't say that,--though I should say nothing of the kind?"
"You should be for nothing, I'll be for nothing."
"You are for nothing--and you?" said James, fiercely.
"Yes, that is what you said about her last night and that you
would have made me the happiest child in that country," said
Matty hadn't the heart yet the heart of that woman.
"What are you doing here on your back?"
"That's where I've been before--far away."
"But, if you won't take what that's for, I'll take what I've given
for my little boy."
"But what of my fellow?"
"Very well," said Mamma.
"What _my_ intention you have--that, to give me the letter."
"For all you have done since the time that you left the house
and--you_ were to take him into your own possession. There is my
"What have you got for a letter?" said Mamma.
"Go to the packet at once--to read the little letter."
"My dear," said Mamma, firmly.
"I've got it in my pocket," said Ma, fiercely.
"And how are you going to get it?"
"I don't say not the thing about--I mean anything."
"And so you're going to bring it. You must take the letters."
"What do you write to me?"
"_Any_ word you ever said was what he thought about it_. Where did
"I want to take them?"
"Yes, of course. I wrote them without suspecting any."
"And I can do nothing."
"Then read them into _your_ books."
======================================== SAMPLE 915 ========================================
 of his hand,
Which he, though no child, hath yet a daughter.
The whole story of this gentle maid,
When to great joyous feelings she was given,
For her a husband did a great surprise
In her fair face, of her a happy heaven:
And did so in her heart with joy she started,
Which made her words of such a sweet content,
That they for love or grief in love were pent.
O, happy they to whom such love is given,
Who are so blessed, who feel so happy while
They are so happy in a happy Heaven.
They tell her this was Heaven; that all things
Have their birth, and joy, in their degree,
And how their end is, and their end brings.
Of these fair things her Father deigns
His grace to show, not to complain or say
That he by her should ever be away;
But with more fervid hopes and fears
Self-confident he'll show her, if she may.
But he is dead; that little tear,
Which he for sorrow cast into her eyes,
And with a mind so rich and dear
He turns to-day to-morrow's skies,
And with a heart and soul so wise
To win his own again from sorrow's way,
To see her tears for his return each day;
The while with new-born joy and love
He keeps his flock for ever whole and true,
Feeding on all things that shall be
To the Divine Grace and the Universal.
She had a little Lord,
Whom from above the heavens
The spheres entire,
By means of which she was
Invented by his blood
That goodly bough of feather.
What he had was, she was
Still as a gracious Power,
And from her lips and on her brow
Went blessing and good will.
But when he died,
The Angels, which do fill her thoughts
With everlasting life
Came from their Heavens, and sown
With stars his virtues, there appeased
The truth he had revealed,
Which on his tomb by them remained
And to such height exposed
That the new stars never shone.
He by Emathion, the throne
Which was his earthly guest,
To Acheron with his line
He won, and there, the first
Great Father, did unfold
The order of the world.
Did angels thereof,
Innumerable as we see,
Innumerable as we see,
Descend from high
Into the clouds, that lower and whirl
Like hidden things,
By multitudes from low to higher orbs,
Till fixed times, for once, eclipsed,
The sun shall stand at last
Upon the heavenly hill
Which Christ ascended with his light,
When he, victorious, from the tomb
Shall rise again to mortal view,
And with great victory through the skies
To the third keeping be his winged heralds singing.
Then shall he in the midst of the fair world
Re-echo the glad song
That the Spirit, which doth dwell
In the midst of the highest bliss
Made utter, utter thine entrance,
Till through the highest heaven
Thou walkest at the highest empyreal--
Confirm, O Father! in thy might
Making the likeness of the Highest,
The shield of Truth, with radiant light
Transplanted from the base and vanishing!
Then shall he see the angel hosts
Go forth in bright procession through the heaven
Innumerable as they move,
With flaming and triumphant songs,
To greet the glory of their King,
Who triumphs in his mortal birth
And ruleth in the earth and sea the starry heaven!
Great joy he got to be at once
 enlightened, and the high abode
Of holy solitude;
And, when the outward forms he prized,
And kept the key of Nature's secret,
And never thought of trifling toil
That he was proud to be a slave
To every fair device of art,
He set forth there to celebrate
The wondrous human creature
In such ecstatic guise;
That he might be content to leave
For earth the empty cell and fetterless,
The empty cell, wherewith the whole earth
Should be a heaven for him and a soul for him!
But now, with all his numerous race
Of men and angels, where have stood
The last discharge of his great fame
And of his empire the sure crown whereon he sits?
Great joy he had to see the earth
To which his footstep turned;
Great joy to mark the new birth birth
Of the first rose upon the tree
That grows before his memory;
Great joy to mark the death-white face
By kingly man
======================================== SAMPLE 916 ========================================
 it and keep it up."
And he said to himself, "If you like to learn,
I can teach you to use your hand;
Better shall it be, in all your lives
To manage a house and a land."
Then he said to himself, "How brave are all
My men at arms, to fight and slay;
These are better things than one man can dream--
To ride on the horse and fight with a sumpter-bump;
There's nothing for me, for the world about
Will be ever the theme of a poet's thought."
Then he added,
"I can give you words and works to help;
There is nothing in writing your thoughts and ways,
There is nothing to write, in the book of your own
But to tell you--and that would surely do--
For--why you haven't--I do as you bid;
I can write, and you'll need it, as long as you need it."
And he added,
"But for every word that you ever have said
You must keep away, by the words of a writer;
That is what I say, and it seems to me right."
Then he added,
"But for every word I have ever said,
You must keep away, when you see yourself here,
And by what you've written it down you shall be!"
Said he, "I will try, and find out still further,
Whether you'll stay here or not, I will send you
A letter for you to send back; and
I think, of course, I can find the way good."
And he added,
"Oh, to call back the thoughts of our life
After the battle--do you think it all?"
And the answer came,
"It's all wrong;
The right to give up a man to die
And to live without leaving him to lie
To a dead man. And the right to stay here--
But no--your voice is still ringing in mine--
To go on as long as we can; and then----"
The words had vanished from him, and he stood,
And the words were grown to a level with the ground.
They were interrupted by a grimy little gnat,
Who sat upon the steps and marked his dusky head
Flickering and rolling with his hairy paw.
And the gnat's eyes glittered with tears, and he muttered,
"Oh, I want to go back to my old home!"
And the gnat was frightened, and the gnat, half angry,
Sobbed, "Oh, I would go back to my old home!"
Yet he was not happy--and so was the better.
He had a home--and a friend was everywhere.
And all that night when the lamp was flickering
It lay before him, its rays were there.
And he heard the clink of the watch-chain backward
Draining his throat, and the whirr of a hound.
And he thought of his wife and his wife's last neighbour--
And his home, and ere morning he left the ground.
And he went to sleep, and he spoke no longer,
But he woke to a sweet and blessed dream.
And when he awoke and left alone,
He was happy in the joy of his home.
And never a word ever came to pass
That made him happy--and very loving.
He loved his wife, and she loved him well,
But he was too happy a happy guest.
And he went to her, and she told him softly
She was in his childhood, happy and sweet.
And she told him how she had sat alone,
And he did not fancy that she was his wife,
But he was too happy a happy wife.
And he spoke to her in his easy talk,
And he sometimes said that she was so gay,
"Oh, I must go back, dear, to my old home!"
And he sometimes whispered, "Dear, I must stay here!"
And when she would answer--poor, unhappy child!
He made her a grave, and he made no prayer,
And he sometimes said, "I am desolate--
So be happy, sweet, in my old home!"
His little dog, who is always right,
He was fed upon nothing but bread and butter;
When he was quite starved he was hungry quite.
For he could not get what was call before,
And the sun never shone on him when he fed it.
He had three sons, who carried him far and near,
And he'd had them a very tidy little one,
He had a clean shirt and a nice shirt to wear,
And he had a good house of Christian folk to do it.
There was lots of folk
======================================== SAMPLE 917 ========================================
 to the
"The best is by us,              We'll be,
And the worst is on you.            We'll be,
And the worst is on you.
"We'll be, etc.              We'll be,
And the worst is on you.
"We will be, etc.             We'll be,
And the worst is on you.
"We'll be, etc.          We'll be,
And the worst is on you.
"We'll be, etc.           We'll be, etc.
It cannot be so.
"It is no fight for me.          And the least
Is as it should be done, so let it be,
That there's no reason why my sword is red.
I will not fight for it.                           [_Ep._ 3.
Thou whom at first I saw, thou seest
A fair Armida's face in me;
A fair embodied virgin's grace,
And I a goddess am; but I
Am still made Jove's by that old tree."
I went on, but I said not a word.
I hung my head a little and took the rod,
And thought I was sure to be gone for a child.
Then we went out to sea; she meanwhile was still
Young at all the rest, and free from the taint;
And before she knew where, stood she a child
More pensive than anything else at sea.
I went on, but I said not a word.
And both of us both seemed lost in the dark:
At first I could think she was lost, and then
I could weep for a child, and then could pray:
Her lips could not make any sound; her eyes
Could not make a shade, and her little head
Was a hundred or so, in her hands--so brown;
Her hair and the grasses were all her own:
And her fingers--ah, her hand!--they were all
Quick and sharp as a reed could feel, or a seed
Of linnest and fairest, whereof one could need
A handful of water and make a sod!
Now I think I see, so still it stands,
Her eyes--ah, my God! it is so good.
She looked at me a little and then
She stared at me a little and then
She stared at me a little and then
She stared at me a little and then
She stared at me a little and then
She stared at me a little and then
And it lay so far as was best to reach the beach;
When I was three years old, my dear,
She said to me, "That makes me old;
For three years old, I see that thing:
Why was I not a sailor, then?
And what would you do with that?
"I thought that man was standing straight
To ask what he might be, but he
Would never let me pull my slate,
Or run away with my tools, and go!"
So with soft, slow, touches rapt,
She slid to where I sat in the sand,
But she slid my muscle and wrist,
She dropped upon my arm, she kissed
My cheek, and she sobbed aloud:
"Stay here, my child."  She went away
Far, far, I said, far off, far on,
I heard the sea-fog whisper "Come!
What do you want?"  I said to him,
"Better be with child, and lie
There safe, and never mind your work."
He said, "Come, children, ere you go,
And have no fear, and never mind,
Come back, and take your rest, and so
Sit down, you idle tramp, you wait
The sinking tide."  She went her way
Far, far, I said, far off, far on;
Far off, far, far on.
But the ship there under the little rut
Lay down, lay down, lay down,
Lay dead, lay dead;
She lay there dead;
She lay there dead.
And I cried, "Oh, where did you come?
I thought I had come back to die
If you had no sense of living."
But he lay dead, lay dead,
And nothing spoke,
Nothing spoke,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 918 ========================================
,
and also of the fact,
that it was thought by some of the company that the lady had
taken to herself, on the day that her husband, the son of
Madan Porsena, had come to her rescue. She was also about
to fall a prey to the suitors, and they did her harm and
die; but the other suitors, who had been already in their
house, set up a wall of firewood, that could not be dried. It
is called Empronius Anticles. As locusts in the ocean, so is there
of sand and bronze; men roll stone from stone, and when this is
the end comes it is the ground of the sand, and men roll it
round and block it with all the might of sand, and the fire
must fall; and it would lead to ruin and the ruin of the
town. Then let the others go with the sword, but keep your
battle against these that are so close in front of them that the
whole people perish with one another, for they know that the
coming of a god and hide their faces from us."
The men turned pale at the uttermost; the Trojans saw the two
go to their ship and look on the sea. Meanwhile the son of
Saturn came up from his sea-beat station to the ships; he called
through his father's house and said, "Hear me, Trojans and
Dardanians, from there where I now am that you have fallen."
They heard him and upraised their hands, and each gave his
soundingent; the air was filled with cries of exultation;
our ships were wet with blood, and the people deadened thereon
wept and fell. As a lion that sends his darts around a scatter
and sends the death-bolts of his own herd--then there gushes up
the blood--even so did the multitude fall upon the Trojans and
again upon their foes. But the Argives raised up a loud cry of
battle, and the cry was not more loud than that the Achaeans
were fain to face it; for they deemed that they should win
It was now their turn to face the doom of death, and had just
clasped hands to the knees of the Achaeans, but Antilochus,
the son of Eupeithes, rose to go about among them. He was not
heeding the voice, for he was afraid, and would have fled from
his place in front of him, but Antilochus went up to him saying,
"What ails you, brave son of aegis-bearing Jove, do you go up
to the Achaean, and setting your Achaeans in array call down upon
Neptune and bid them come hither, for you are both of you
killed by the hand of Jove, and he will then lead them into the
presence of glory. For the fight is now going on, and the
Achaeans will give you a prize if it be worth a watch; fight
it on, and you will find glory in the son of Saturn and the
Dardanians."
Thus did he speak as he spoke, and Mars was of a courage high
steeped in blood as a man who stands trembling and eager to
kill a wound that has come into his head; such prevaile among
the Achaeans.
The battle-biding heroes were borne out on swift ships, and
fight for their own lives--for they were both slain and
scattered over the battle. These were nothing to do, and the
armour ran over them as the horses of the wind bore them
forward, while the Trojans were crying to the Trojans and their
ships; but the son of Tydeus went up to him and said, "Brave
whelp, why are you arming? Will you come back by land or
sea to the ships as you left them? Are you going to fight the
Trojans because you are afraid, and fear lest everything, and
the Achaeans are in your mind to come up to help you. If
you cannot have come down from Olympus with Hector to save the
Argives--and save other Trojans and Achaeans, wherever this
is a matter of a moment--you are to help me; it is best. I can
Then said the son of Tydeus, "Why do you stand thus far back on
the ground and brag that a man has come hither from another
country, where you are now in sorrow? Your armour is lying on
my shoulders; you look on your shoulders as though it were a
mountain-tree. If you can then come down to the ship of
======================================== SAMPLE 919 ========================================
 our lives,
As on the earth all things are passed--
I see you, as you gaze and think,
And in your talk, and in your drink,
I know that all that's going to be,
That all that's going to be.
Then at the last, as day did fall,
A spell on all the world was cast,
A spell which soon the heart would tell,--
A spell that hung o'er world in Hell,
A spell which Hell itself would spell;
For when the spell was wrought and said,
"Then let the curse be on the head,"
I felt my blood in horror start,
And horror drove me to the heart,
As on the earth there seemed to be
A kind of agony.
Oh, that I might but kill myself,
And die, and die of pain.
For where'er the world has eyes to see,
No trace of pain is on me--
And Heaven has eyes to see.
When the wind blows,
When the frost blows,
When the frost blows,
When the wind blows--
In the house below,
Where the trees grow,
When the leaves go,
When the wind blows,
When the snow blows,
When the leaves go,
The rain drops down.
When the day comes,
When the day comes,
When the first cock crows,
When the rain drops,
In the house below,
When the rain drops,
When the night drops,
When the storm drops,
When the storm drops,
When the wind drops,
When the tempest blows,
When the skies grow,
When the rain drops, &c.
When the fire flings,
When the sparks fly,
When the roof yields,
When the doors close,
Then comes storm;
Then comes rain;
When the house sleeps,
When it drearily weeps.
When the wind soughs,
When the roof roughs,
When the roof falls,
When the roof falls,
And the house weeps.
When the fire flings,
When the roof falls,
Is the fire dead?
Is the room piled there?
Is the fire dead?
In a deep bed I saw
Long since, when all my dreams
Fell into utter night.
Long since a child I stood,
And then my heart within me leapt;
But now, when all my joys
Were fled before my eyes,
And my soul knew it was alone--
'Twas not your fault, Dear, to bemoan,
O, had she given birth to a child that was worth
More than all the rest of the heavens, to sit on the throne!
Oh, what a lot it was to be
And not be lost by such as you;
But this is the fate of all the three--
They shall meet her and hold their peace,
While you are a queen, and have but your name,
Your place, your place, or your place,
Till you come.
I would I were the little bird,
That I could fly with, on high,
And build, and sing, and build, an air
Of freedom, that I might not die.
But I would stay and dream no more
Of a place that is not fair;
My home is in the mountain-glen;
My rest is in the air.
Oh, what a place it is, if alone,
Where the sun falls, or where the air,
Where the wind comes, or where he comes,
My heart still dreams, my heart is there.
I would I were some leaf or flower,
That I might love and follow you;
But I would flutter far away,
And be with you another day.
I would I were, indeed, a leaf,
Or a wild bird, on the wing.
I would I were a wild rose,
A bird, a sea-shell in its blue;
I'd be your queen, and have no part
In her, for all your heart is mine.
I would I were a swan or flake,
A wave, a sun, a little cloud;
I'd be your queen, and have no part
In her, for all your heart is out.
I would I were that green-veined flower,
A bird, a sea-shell in its blue;
I'd be your queen, and have no power,
O, weary soul, do not be free.
My life is a web,
That weaves and ne'er weave;
It is woven ever of laughter and tears,
Of grief, of joy, of hope, of fears.
My life is a lark,
That, singing,
======================================== SAMPLE 920 ========================================
, and
I, who with this delightful city am so called. I know not the
dreadless evils of the past. But now it is time that you all
should go on th' trail. For a while you would be buried, and
cattle.
Whence I must needs look to my own good will. How often, alas,
do I look in my face, if it were not mine to see you in the
face.
If I wished for no better fortune (for that cause), I had not
nor got an oath of peace. For I say, 'I will change the road.'
If I were a happy young eagle (I mean the whistle of the
van), if I were a king, I would soon sit here and ask you of
meself that one of these days your revenge?
The day of my disaster brings you to the tree of life; and
that day is the day of your disaster.
In the days of my misery do I not see your bright eyes; they
say you are a little boy like me. And you have no feeling.
But I can sit and watch your eyes and the joy of your heart,
and know that I feel no harm to you, for that is the surest and
the surest of the time when you shall come to me because I
am like a dear boy who has no desire to be the first to
be a king.
Now the time has come to stay at the seed of your planting,
and that day at five ye shall be taught to shoot the early
verily to the fore, and ye shall be made shareakers of your
life and he shall be held thrall in your castle.
When I was alive, I used to go to my bed to play with my
mother and my friends, and I used to go to my good bath in
the manner of my welcome. So early in the morning when my
mother was bringing forth the presents I became eager to
ask about.
It was the time of my existence to meet with the first of
us, and to let myself be glad, seeing that I was a good
boy.
I am like a king who is ruled by his subjects, and who bears
so great sway
Over all men.
And his subjects declare their mutual love.
And that one is born of a noble line and a fair
father.
He is called by the race of the Christ, his father and
mother are free from molestation, and enjoy liberty in
flight.
He is called by God's grace and of grace. He obeys
and leaves them all in their narrow room.
He is called by the power of grace, the might of humility, and
the pride of humility.
He is called by the power of the right, and the power of
sins from which he has had of happiness.
He is named by the name of the great Redeemer,
the might of the Lord.
(ll. 1043-2559) So Abraham is crowned as a God. He dwelle in
his heart. He has left his kinsmen and his possessions
and his wife, his sons and his people.
He gave up his dead, that he might be alive and move
on his way home. He is called by his sons, their fathers,
and their wives of five hundred five hundred five hundred
hands; he is called by God by his sons, the sons of the
Persians. He lives in the wilderness, the waste places, the
sheltering cities.
His children are in health and in vigor.
He has chosen a good race and noble house and a true man
to ward over the enemies, the host, and the people.
He knows well the counsels of the king; he has power, and
showed with his sons and grandsons.
Yet the king and his wife will love him, when they are
with him.
(ll. 2860-2481) And Abraham holds the land out of danger. He
has power of his sons and is beloved, and his power is
unto his neighbor.
(ll. 2582-2595) In the time of King Henry the Great, a
holy Lord, sent him forth three hundred thousand five
helper-men, with him to lead the hosts of Abraham. He
had men and angels within his tent, and knew the
high will of God.
(ll. 2595-2595) Now the prince was aware of his dear children
and much kindness, and of more than one hundred men. He was
one of his sons and has taken advantage of all his tribe and
sons, for that a great sin, grievously enflamed, chastised their
fame in their hearts.
(ll. 2595-rats) Now the
======================================== SAMPLE 921 ========================================
,
As I have sung my fill!
The sun was full, and the stars were out,
And the grass was green,
And the moonbeams danced where the bean-flower swells,
And the cattle stood.
And the night-wind sang as it neared the town,
And the stars were bright;
And the skies were blue as the summer sky,
And the bees flew by.
The sheep were housed and the sheep were fed,
And the wind was high,
And the lordly wind in a stormy wretch
Came raging by.
As I was going with my minion away,
He whistled sweet;
And my soul became like a flower that dies
When the day is sweet.
For I was looking on his splendid face,
But I saw his eyes,
And I knew no more.  All night I stood
'Mid the noises thick,
And I heard him cursing at the gate,
And calling on the stars.
And the moon was wide over the hills,
And the stars were bright,
And the stars were low, and the stars looked down,
And I knew their place, and the sky was brown,
And I knew their face.
Yes, it was he who knew my pain;
The lonely moon, and the wild geese' tune
That called me June.
And I knew his face--and I was glad;
The moon was just beyond the western rim,
And the stars were low, and the skies were dark,
And the earth was gray;
And the world was wide, and my soul was out;
And love was passing and longing high,
And I was lonely, dreaming, dreaming.
When did he come?  My love he seemed to me
Like a young springing leaf that drifts and snows,
And like his voice the wind that wails and blows.
And in his eyes my love was wonder-wild;
But one there was that cried my name aloud,
And he called, "Come!" and my soul cried, "Come!"
And I was lonely, weeping, mourning.
When did he come?  My love he seemed to me
Like a young springing leaf that drifts and dies,
And like his voice the wind that wails and cries.
When did he come?  My love he cried and cried,
"Thou hast come!  I am thine.  I know thee not!"
And in his arms I hid him--wild and wan
And very wan and sorrowful and wet,
And like his voice the wind that wails and shrieks.
Then did he come, and all the earth grew white,
And all the air grew clear and cool and still,
And there once more we seemed to sit together,
And he no longer seemed a youthful swain.
Now he is gone, and nothing sees or hears
My love asleep.  I could have driven him
From out my heart into the empty room,
Naked and bare, to go with him and die.
Some night, maybe, the ghosts I did not see
Come back to me: they left us on the sand
And went in search of him.
The sea, now grey,
Is like a sea asleep; and in the hollow
Where once I had my throne here, there you'll behold
Him, just a little child, asleep on earth,
The little man, who went through the world once more.
Oh, that's the way the sea
Wakes up to splendor,
Radiantly clear,
Till now, once more,
He has again his throne in his own ears,
The tiny man, the tiny lubber of the sea,
A sailor's pipe, a soldier's gun, an old drowned man's shell-shell.
You see that beauty of the deep--
It might have been so slim,
A little yellow bird,
With a hollow laugh, a thin and silver tongue.
'Tis my beloved.
I wonder where he is,
I wonder if his arms again shall press me to-day?
I think the child has wings,
And I see him as he comes, and I think I see him as he comes.
He is coming.
But to-day,
The sea is at his feet.
It has no passion for the sea, it is not for the sky.
I am afraid.
Why do the wild gulls fly over the little cliffs in the evening
Come home and laugh at my anguish?
I am the wind, the sea, the wind.
What's this?
Why are there bars between us,
And I am the bird with the pinions of the forest,
And they have no one left
On the wide world
======================================== SAMPLE 922 ========================================
 I, with some small profit,
Soothed to the wind, and in good season goaded,
And thence a watchful guardian I did keep
Down such as by the nose the good old man
Would never let a sleeping man go sleep:
And though I could not turn the leaves, the creep-
-A grave was somewhere in this land already.
"It was a pleasant thing for thee, my dear.
A thousand years I have not been in fear
'Twas something that I did not hate so much
As honor with thee in my life, in fact;
But now I may a hundred times exclaim,
To bring this man from my disgrace, to seek
It, and be given him wholly to the end."
"That's not enough," I told him; "and this praise
For the kind memory of a time will come
When men shall say to us, Poor, poor, and small,
'You are the man who would have brought him home
'Twas just this way, poor boy, that I did love you.
Now if you really think me ill, I'm sure
When I have told you I did love you less,
And yet I do not mean to go away."
The two little essays have now been passed,
I read them with great wonder and surprise;
The third, as with a flushed and fiery glance
At all that I had read, gave them a chance
Of feeling quite too vague to be perceived.
The fourth is from the crude and dingy hide
Of a gray, oily, well-looking lad,
Whom she had thought her mother's friend, had died.
The fifth, a hickory, five or eight
Her father keeps, which is the name of Kate
Is Kate, that is; and, as the poor man knows,
The friend of him she left, and that she needs;
For, though she had not known a poor boy's needs,
Yet she had had a kind heart at her heart,
Which she had kept as warm from stealing harm
And not as anxious as a fool could be.
The fifth from this has come of the good name
Of our old friend. Now, by the name of Kate,
I think I have seen many changes, too,
In the same way. It would cause me too
To wonder, do you understand the rest,
What people they are, and what things they be:
For, all the same-like, they would run from west
To west-west." And he rose and went his way,
And, having brought him west, he did not say,
"You are a Christian. I am here to claim
The love of Heaven, as I have yours at home."
I heard the South, when summer suns grew hot,
Saw the first blossoms, and a little shade
Of the fresh-scented grass, that summer day
Went proudly by, and told the flowery truth;
And well it was that, in his careless youth,
Some summer-tide things turned to gold or gray;
And well that thought, which, in this moment's chase
Of human joys, came back upon the face
Of this sweet stream, my mother kept with me
For eight days, only when she went away.
Away a few swift little fishes came
With ripple of the gold, and at their feet
The little reed fluttered, beating the air back;
And to and fro, with glittering bubbles, flew
Full harp-like birds and waited as they sang.
"Ah, me," they cried, "that does but take at once
Away from us the memory of lost rhymes,
Or any thing that is. Wherever you are
My mother leads me to her; and, I think,
My friends are there, and every hour that comes
Will claim the mother as the wife of them."
"O mother," cried I, "tell me now," she said,
"You are not used to any worldly thing;
Nor shall great kindness be your meed for aye:
Doing, or doing, things of lighter cheer,
I am the proper thing for you to do,
Whatever you may think or bear or do
To your allotted share, my mother bore;
And her your servant since at home is not.
"And if you like the tender thought of home,
You seem the daughter of the earth and sea,
And all the world is in the name of yours.
For me the world will hide itself from thee,
And mine shall be the greater part we planned,
When there is nothing wrong, nor great affairs.
I hope it may be that my mother sings,
And that she thinks she cares for any man,
And not
======================================== SAMPLE 923 ========================================
,
'Tis hard to read how English people
Can get through with their eyes,
And then turn up at the top of the cot
To ask for some ale to drink.
I'd like to be a baker, if I could,
And some brand of English brand,--
For I would like to have the boys
In thickets and in big boobies,
And some brandy beer to stand,
And some brandy beer to come and go
For round in the British fashion,
With a brandy beer to stand,
And to fire the British band.
I'd like to be a shouter, and
Disarming people like a ball,
And a huge piece of artillery
To burn the British town;
And then I'd like to have the troops
Of the best breed on the earth,
And of every man upon the earth
A mighty big man marching there,
With a brandy flame like a cannon thundering.
I'd like to have the legs of state,
And a shovel full of lead,
And I'd be a mighty good he-goat,
And a good broad-shouldered head,
And a goodly broad tail standing by
With a goodly healthy stare.
I'd like to be a circus lion,
All in the best of all,
And I'd be a man who saw the lot
That makes your games fall hot.
And I'd like to be a circus lion,
And pretend that I'd a gun,
And we'd throw down mud into the sea
And fight with wind and sun!
I'd like to be a circus lion,
And lead my armies on.
I'd like to be a circus lion
And fight the mighty whale
Until we came to the big whale hole
Of the big whale hole.
I'd like to be a circus lion
And fight the lions there,
And I'd go home, and fight the whale hole
That has horns like a bear,
And break the whale hole in the sea
Till we reach the big whale hole.
I'd like to be a circus lion
And fight the lions there,
And I'd go home, and fight the whale hole
That has horns like a bear,
And cross the sea, to conquerots,
When I get home.
I'd like to be a circus lion
And fight the lions there,
And then fight, and fight till I'm tired,
For I haven't any hair,
And I haven't any teeth left on
Or any other snare,
And I haven't any fingers left
To do anything.
I'd like a circus lion
And fight the lions there,
And break the whale hole in the sea
Till I haven't any hair.
And I'd like to be a circus lion
And combat the lions there,
And fight the whale hole in the sea
With a big, big, big share.
I'd like to be a circus lion
And battle the lions there,
And die, when I get home again,
With broken teeth in my teeth and claws
In my two, crooked claws,
And break them into pieces at once
And sneak down to the plains.
Where the wind comes from the northward
In a gust of warm rain....
My heart is in my hunter's heart
And I hear the hunter complain:
The cold rain burns my forehead,
And my panting heart is slain;
My soul's beautiful dream
Is like a floating landscape,
With the sound of a rushing swoop
And a rushing waterfall.
I know that the words of my hunter
Are like the scintillant wing
That brings the snare on the treacherous foe,
And on our quarry we can sing:
We are the cuckoo and the swallow,
And we are two boys, like you.
And, oh, I know that the words of my hunter
Are like a song that floats and swells
Through the echoing silence of silence,
Where we are pent and lost in hell:
We are as playthings left and dead,
Dies down at the close of the sun,
And they say the cry is all from me.
When I die I shall go far again;
I shall be very careful
Of what my beauty said to me:
I shall go far, with never a fear,
And be not afraid of death.
I shall be very careful
Of what my beauty said to me:
I shall be in the very same style
Of telling a story sometimes,
As I was saying of old time:
I shall be very careful
Of what my beauty said to me:
I shall be very careful
Of what my beauty said to me:
I shall be very careful
Of what my beauty said
======================================== SAMPLE 924 ========================================
. _Seneca_, Act i. Sc. 1. sc. 1. sc. 9.
On the other hand, it is, that the poet who sings the Birth-song of
the Poem would have, however, only three years afterwards. It is not
upon the whole matter of the case that it opens to another hand. The
second course, then, is the definite one.
_He begins on his journey to the Continent, and his own countries is
F. 7. _Marmion_, a people of the island of Fishes.
Cf. 28. _Who sent the translation in order that it should be read._
H. Writ. _Vide_, a village consecrated to the Goddesses of eld.
H. Song upon the Waters having visited and reflected by a
experience, and afterwards, in proper succession, becoming visible. It
is not unlikely that the _Vide_ is intended for the _Cypria_ as
the figure of the figure of the Goddess, which he appears to have
_Vide_, or refers to the archangel.
This and the following are _Vide_ and two others that follow the
ancient _Ammon_, who is named Memmius or (in the sense of a
_Romeo tanto_) a Greek of the _Ceteia_, made a companion and
sketchichich. They did this, and again; and they continued to
sing a song of peace.
H. This seems to be the most natural expression for the meaning
_Vide_, a sonnet written after a tragedy of which he is the
author (and rather than any one else of later date), without the
the name of _Romeo_ and the _Romeo_, as some authors supposed,
and the name of _Romeo_, and the name of _Romeo_ and _Saltano_."
_Both the poem, which is now published._
H. The _Jocasta_, with the _Romeo_, that was not forgotten when the
_Romeo_ was taken to the _Portuguese_ (probably that to
the _Portuguese_ was in a rather too peaceful and happy mood),
and, as if enamoured of the romantic _Romeo_, it is a description of
the _Gama_ of some of the _Citella_. The _Portuguese's
_Satire_ and _Bacchus_, are not exaggerated. There are very few
notes for the introduction of a French of five syllables to a
line.
The _Nihil de Damo_, or _Nihil de Damo_, did not belong only to the
Apollodorus could hardly be among the eight most celebrated by
them among the poets of the world. The _Nihil de Virgil_ was a
simple, beautiful, free, checkered, and graceful, elegant touches
were usually found in lines from the language of poets. In the
first person upon a point of view, the _Portuguese's_ original
_Swing and slay and kill; the lute's last chord
Thou'lt wake to hear; and thou shalt wake to weep.
Alas, great poets! and ye powers of hell!
And ye, the shrinking sons of empyrean Night,
The brood of Furies, and the starry zone
Of damned Barees, who in time agone
Scream with all ravenous Stygian streams, and fight
With ghastly wounds--what! _Ere long_ shall fall
One pang of torment on ye, Cerberus!
Then cease thy chariot-wheels, O let not Night
Send out a paean to the shades below!
For ye have heard what Yama to thy house
In search of Yama complained of the Son of God,
Who now is wandering through the dreary wild
And trails the Sorrow of his aged wife.
Be thou the priest of Pluto, and its shade
Be minister of Dread, and Tartarus
With all the hoary terror of his eyes.
Be this a final blessing to thy babes,
And the unmeasured captives of its load
Whose agony, with eyelids half shut close,
Shall crush the horror of the dreadful Past.
So shalt thou, glorious in the victor's praise,
Fall prostrate, and thy trophies shall be quelled.
_He replies unto his angel-brothers: Is this of the month
of July, the fourth month of the Age of the Sun._
Be this as it must:
The sun is set,
And it is ready.
How many days have we till the
======================================== SAMPLE 925 ========================================
 of the
_Pilgrims_ and _Hirens_, _ picaroni_, etc.
_Plingla del^o_, an allusion to some fragmentary origin.
_Lamgryma_, a recital of about forty years from one hundred
_Lamancas da{s}ch_, with the arms of the Amazons, and the head of his
_Lamgryma da{s}d_, with the head of his head, and the face of his
_Lannovach_, together with the head of Lannovach.
_Lannovach_, the head of a Druid, or Druid, and was the son of the
Lannovach was about the same time making excellent ballads, with
_Lannen_, _Minnenglisch_, a Druid, or Druid of a very far different
_Lannen_, _Aberham_, the head of a Druid at the end of the Londe
_Lat_, _Lannen_ (Lat)--place, beginning of the Druid name of the
_Lannen_, _Minnenglisch_.
_Lanniesch, Druid_, a Druid, a dwarf, a wizard.
_Lannen_, _Lannen_, an Druid name for the Druid name of the
_Lannen_, a Druid, a mortal, a dwarf, a wizard, and is said to be
_Lannen_, _Leaning-plaister_.
_Lo_, _Lannen_, the mouth of the Druid, or Druid,--a race of giants in
_Lannen_, _Lannen_, the goddess, or Druid, is the son of Druid.
_Lannen_, _Lannen_, an Druid name for the Druid, a race of giants.
_Lannen_, Druid name for the Druid, the daughter of Lochiel.
_Lowell_, Druid name for the Druid, the daughter of the
_Lowell_, the name of the Druid, the wife of Lochiel.
_Louste_, a wizard name for settle, or hoary head for coronach.
_Lowell_, Druid, a Druid land.
_Louste-all_, the Druid name for the original.
_Lamart_, the old name of Lamarnock, the father of Druid, and
_Lamrose_, the ancient name of the Druid games.
{Lamined-like_, or _Lamanc-like_, as in _Lamestone, representing a
_Lowell_, a city, or fountain to the frith of a small river.
{Lamand and barterer_, the pilot-god of the Dee), and having
{Lamart-like_, or _Lamart-like_, as in _Lamond, a place of torment_.
{Lamantown,} the daughter of _Lambership_, or Druid of Cluny.
{Lamargous-flashing} = low highway in lindens.
{Lamond=, diminutive of lath, palaces.
{Lamond,} one of the sisters of _Lamart-like_, as in _Lamart-like_, is
{Lamargous _Baudel_, the maker of legends.
{Lamargous-like_, or _Lamargous-like_, as in _Lamond, a place of
death and destruction. A Druid, a Druid, is the name of a great
{Lamargous-like_, or as in _Lamargous-like_, as in _Lamargous-like_,
{Lamargous-like_, or as in _Lamargous-like_, as in _Lamargous-like_,
{Lamargous-like_, or as in _Lamargous-like_, as in _Lamargous-like_,
{Lamargous-like_, or as in _Lamargous-like_, as in _Lamargous-like_,
{Lamargous-like_, or as in _Lamargous-like_, as in _Lamargous-like_,
While _Lamargous-like_, or as in _Lamargous-like_, as in _Lamargous-like_,
{Lamargous-like_, or as in _Lamargous-like_, as
======================================== SAMPLE 926 ========================================
 with
Horny-headed kids in their udders."
And he also: "Listen, my lord, and you are exceeding fond,
So they went out. They reached the land off from the west.
Then the giant, Agelaus, sprang to the ship, and they went up
again to the place of assembly; some stood by and were thrown
hither and thither, but no man came to them, for the Argives were
all flying far as the others from the ships. Then they saw
that the earth had gone from her foundations and the high peaks of
the lofty mountains that rise in the wind. The men stood by and
bowed their heads, with their hands held high with their fawning
feet, while the Argives went up from under the clouds to the
wheeling sky.
Thereon Agelaus in his wrath rose in size, and he cried to his
host: "Hear me, Trojans, in this my cause. Let no man know
that I am not a coward, but valorously come up to me, as in a
fact or fiction. He was once the bravest of the Argives, and now
that he is a godlike man, tell me truth of his fame, how
great a king he is whom men call a god and an immortal."
The Argives answered him fiercely: "Hector, how dare you
answer me, in the end that no god can speak to another?
This was what Agamemnon was bade do; he called on the Trojans who
himself had taken the city of Priam and Trojans, to make him
speak. And now you too, proud Agamemnon, son of Atreus, have
your heart within the breasts of the men of Troy, and that
where you would first be proud; for a goddess is of Jove to
heaven. If you choose this, if you choose to do so will you
assist the Argives."
And Hector said: "Atrides, noble son of Telamon, how dare you
assist the Trojans and Trojans? They are better than their
wooers; they have still some few peers left alive and less
for the Argives, and Jove will give them to know how to carry the
ships and the sterns. Then I who have myself avoided all the ways of
the world, and all its ways, and would not have you think it
fair even though Olympian Jove was with me. Now as a girl will
take a cup of wine to fill, when she has drunk the wine and
then may you see her--for it is for her sake ever so long as
you go gathering herbs about her; nevertheless she will set
you a match with the son of Atreus, if you too take her hand and
say that you are my own first. Let her be brought to you.
While the others agreed these things shall you hear in your
hearts, and in your ears.
I am ever the last man of the Achaeans, and your own heart is
still the first to speak. I know all the sufferings that have
fallen on me, and all the sufferings that have gone on from
me. Surely Jove, Olympian Lord of hosts, has counsell'd me to
take a drink-offering to Jove the lord of thunder, and to
me lay a heavy reckoning of the unmeant fight, until I have
given him all that he has, and shall recover his day of glory.
But this too is not going, so go and fetch your cup of fine
fat (for you see, I have ever a sorrow for the son of Menoetius)
the son of Jove, the famous blue-eyed goddess; for, as it
will, the son of Saturn has sent you a strong strong wind from
Jove the lord of thunder, to seek tidings of your return; and
even now he is returning from the long-sought field, for there are
you too--for there are two strong winds that draw the night
as they draw it. If you would consider this matter among the
others, and be still unwilling, do so as you may; for one man
makes no great thing in his hand, and when he gets to the
place the others are afraid to turn away; he will then come to
your house and be off you. Meanwhile do we put all things in
mind to put the Achaeans to a wasting of fire, and take their
magnificent dinners: we also put all the meats in range of wooden
demesne, and the cups were of silver all the upper way; but
when we came to the city of Priam we went
======================================== SAMPLE 927 ========================================
, The
We were all together, in a shady wood,
Of nature's most retreating hour. I felt
In its green heart no interest, and I thought
I should find grace amid the boughs, if they
Would bring swift days of life to my knit heart.
The birds made music in the woods, around
The border of my wound-house, and the sun
Brought to the apple-tree that had in dread
Of darkness, while he held the southern gate.
'And so,' thought I, 'if I can number years
And years like this, I yet may count them years.'
When I had laid the body upon the bed,
And in that room I heard a step, and then
A voice, and then a voice, and it had gone,
But that was ever crying 'A poor woman's.'
Then I came back to 'O my Queen, she is
Just come from where she is. Why she is now
So beautiful, and why she wears her dress,
The very colour of her head, her eye,
And how she keeps them black that they may shine
With dyes of down-dew, and how slow she's gone,
And how the lightest sigh makes her look gay.
Then the dark branches of a wooded bank
Revealed the rose of love, and it was this.
A year went by and half that year went by,
For I had never seen her, yet I said
To the old man, 'Your true words have the power
To cure a wound, and it is open now,
That the old man has come to comfort me.
There is a certain death that none can die,
And yet I will go on remembering
That I had never married. For all time
I waited vainly, and for many times
Could not as I had wished it. Howsoever
The long dead years might rise before I knew
That it was yours, when my thought roams about
Its former owner, and the new-made land
Grows grey with summer and the summer's glow
That used it! I would live and never die.
But you, O man, were dead who were not you--
And we that love the living and are dead.
You know how all the living blights the dead
That we call living, for that ends before
The day is spent, and there remains to be.
And though you, for the sake of these poor rhymes,
Have all the rest, I might have gone your way,
And come again and gathered them again,
And, on the evening, when the year was done,
I should have brought the letters in my hand
To say we loved. And now, although I know
You love, the dead may love; and, if they love,
I think the living are dead, the dead indeed.
The year has been at full. Three weeks of absence from her
has given it a freshness and a charm, and she is left
behind us through the coming years.
O, if I might be of her, now that her presence now
is here again, she would come forth:
O, if I might have her, then that my heart was full
of sorrow, and to know that mine eyes were here
instead.
O, why should the old city do me this, the wretched city,
bitter pain and woe?
Why will it always seem to me this and worse?
And why should I complain that we have met in the future
here with nothing but to name?
Nay, this is more than a thing that is fair, and it may
have been that we were apart;
And, indeed, we are friends, and yet it is all a
world to me, and I love not the land that was ours;
But the good name that was once ours, the noble name that
is gone from us now lingers,
Now, the new days, the old days, do meadows and fields
remembered;
Now, the old days, the old days, do meadows and
fields rise and fall, and all
That once was all the world is past, and all it was
once a delight.
Now, with the glory of my days, and all its joys,
and the pride of my heart,
Here, where my heart in quiet, here upon my knees,
are gathered, and apart
Lies the old peaceful mother, who was once a book of
wisdom in my heart.
For the old name is silent, and the old remembrance
is dead;
It died among my thoughts, but it is hidden, and
still remains that the old
May not be dead while the world is living, and the old
Words that were spoken shall be
======================================== SAMPLE 928 ========================================
!  We'll have another
"_Gentlewoman_, the child he has brought to be
"_Gentlewoman_, he'll tell that, and bring my papa a
"_Gentlewoman_, I am content to be
"_Shivitchay_, the woman who has not been there
"_Keep your legs out,_
"_For the little boy that loves you._
"_Keep your legs out of the band and away with me!_"
As I lay down before the morning,
The shapes and features of my man
Met in the glad sunshine, each to each,
And all to one another ran,
Till I began to wonder much
If I had stayed at home in Rome!
I saw them walking in the road
Come from their knees across the mead;
Their feet were faint, their hands were strong;
I said, "I am the Florentine!"
And looked upon the Florentine,
And said, "I wish you all were here!"
But still I said, "It must be so!"
And still they walked beside the mead,
And still they talked, and still they said,
"It must be so!"  And at each turn
I saw them turn and turn and plead,
"It must be so!"
And at each moment, as I knew
The color of my sinewy thigh,
The scarlet of my throat, and grew
As red as blood, and shook and reeled
Like a blood-red snake, until I reeled,
And the boys leaning on their pugs
Watched at their flanks; and watched my legs
Clutch at the windows, papered and black,
And at my face and feet, and back
And forth, and back and forth, and back,
And always must.  And then there came
Demure, malignant powers that lame
And killing were, and could not shame
The flesh that only liveed for food,
And could not move a muscle right,
But let it trickle down the blood
And bruise the heart with triple might,
And leave the life all parched and dry
For sudden death.
For the other day,
I saw that I had found the boy
And heard him say, and could not stay.
"_Oh that I were a Florentine_
_That you had gone upon the hunt
Of all the creatures in the world!
And as you went upon the hunt
Of all the creatures that you warred with,
I waited till you came to me;
And I have waited all the time,
Have waited all the time!_"
"_Ah, no such word
I gave you; but I know the way,
I know your coming; and your coming yet
Is only to be glad with you._"
"He is the man who has foreseen
The things that come._"
"_We praise you, O our Florentine,_"
The young girls said, and yet again
I seemed to feel they loved me, too,
And knew them for to love you too,--
I knew they loved me, too!_"
"_We praise you, O our Alki-naga,_"
The young girls said; and yet again
I thought to find that you were far
From me, and yet you loved me, too,
And loved me just as any can,
And yet you knew that I was not
Where I have lived!  I know the way,
I know the things that might have been
So long ago!  I know what lies
Behind your eyes,--I know the way,_
_And yet you knew them for to me,_
What could it mean to speak of me
In such a way?  I did not see
What would they say, the very day
They met that night!  How can your eyes
See all this, then?  In after years
I see them clearly.  In the years
When you were kinder and your name
Was kinder, and your home was good,
Mine too was like a home of flowers,
For what could I do, I am sure,--
So lovely, and so beautiful!
But where I go, and what I speak,
Is more than I have ever cared
To make it seem a different thing
For one who is so fair and glad.
There was a day when by that way
Which brings all men to happiness
And makes them glad--and I was wise
But did not get my love again....
And it was otherwise.  _Alas!_
The night was dark and the day was a dream
Long ago.  We sat down by the
======================================== SAMPLE 929 ========================================
,
In the land of the West,
Of "the home of the Sorrowful,"
The homely, the true,
The "pride of the Dew-inker"--
Oh, that's where the Blue!
The "rhyme on the Hill,"
The "hymn in the Dale,"
The "towers in the Close"--
There's the North-West Passage--there!
There's the north-West Passage--there!
There's the land o' "the Pipe-log"--There!
The "rhyme on the Hill,"
The "lands of the Pipe-log"--There!
There's the land that the Sorrowful broods
And the "hymn in the Garden"--There!
The "rhyme in the Apples"--There!
And the "lost in the Wild,"
The "gone in the Wye,"
The "gone where the Wye"
"Is to follow the Weal,"
The "gone where the Wye"--
The "gone where the Wye"
"Will come down the Till,"
The "wan where the Wye"
"When the Wye shall be"
We set out from the Till
And under the Tam,
We "go down the Till,"
The "fathers" are we,
We 'ear our "fathers" slow
In their graves where our fathers lie
And the young of our dying cry,
"Father, Father" rise and cry,
"Father, Father" rise and cry:--
"Father, Father, let me die!"
"_"I have a friend that knew me once_--
_"_"_"_"_"_--an old-time friend that told
That I was a true man, too brave--
To the ends of the earth I've rolled,
And been flung down where the young men quaff.
And the young crying still we know,
And the old answering still we see,
"Father, Father, let me be
With thee, as with thee, this day!"
"_"_"_"_To his hurt in a world of strife_--
_"_"_"_"_--an old-time friend that told
That he loved the dark and the wrong;_
"_"_"_No, my son, I knew him so_--
_"_"_"_"_--in my youth_ and _thou_,
_"_"_"_--I heard_ he was _too_ shrewd
For a great-coat father to _go_--
_"_"_No, my son, I knew him so_!"
"_"_"_--I saw_ him drive to the _boes_--
_"_He has grown so old-like and grim_--
_"_"_"_"_--for a soldier-boy_--
_"_"_"_--The young of the three_--
"_"_"_"_--God's in His Heaven_--
_"_"_"_--and the old, the young, the old_--
"_"_"_--God's in His Heaven_"--
_"_"_I have a friend in need_--
_"_"_--That man I called "the God of Battles_,"_
_"_"_"_"_--When, of a summer's day_,
_"_"_"_--A few months after, _to my heart_--
_"_"_"_--Three months from now_--
_"_"_"_--A very few months since_--
_"_"_--The little room, and ere the dawn_--
_"_"_"_--The door was shut, and the door deepened_--
_"_"_--I found him not a day_--
_"_"_--His hands lay idly by my side,
And heaped within my reach,
And I _remembered_ him, the _gone_ one,
And never in the dark."_
"_And it_ was in May last month, he said,
And I heard and knew what had happened to him_....
And I see the coming of the end
As the end shall be."
"_"_I'll find him, too, at last_--
_"_"_He shall come back to me_--
_"_And I'll tell him where I am;
And I'll tell him how to find him there,
And he'll learn _what
======================================== SAMPLE 930 ========================================
 I say to you:
"When all the world was fair,
The rose was red, the daisies blue,
And summer was the time for you.
"Ah, no! 'twas but a dream!
That, with those hosts of flower and fruit,
You drank the magic wine 'twixt earth and sky,--
When I was young, not such another birth,
And all that I had dreamed and suffered of,
I did not dream, nor felt, nor thought on earth--
And all that I had suffered was to die.
"I did not dream, nor was I waking found
By fever-swoon, nor saw the swift sun flee,
Nor felt the sudden darkness close around,
Nor heard the night-winds tap the window-pane.
But I was young, and it befell me there
In that sweet room, the garden-close, I knew,
Whose roses brought eternal summer there,
And winter too.
"And there I lay in death and sleep, and slept,
And the next sun rose from his ocean cave,
And saw the stars come forth to feast on me,
And voices, and white limbs--and all the wave
Of the great deep, for ever! and these things
Befit you in,--though I remember nought
That long ago--when the wild sea I fought
On the shores of Galilee, and the wild things
Of the sea, and the sea, and the great sun
I slew, and the great waters, and my own
Blood, and great arms--and the great love, and long
For that sweet life to which I gave my youth,
And the young fairies who are with me now,
And whose white body--and two feet--my feet!--
And the sea, and the small dark waters, and
The light and dark and dark--and all of a stark
Illusive dream that was half true to me
When the sea hath a vision of its light,
But the bright face and the brown arms--and the hair
Smiled as they walked, and the sea,
And the great love, and the deep unknown ocean,
And the sea, and the soft white arms--and the white
White neck that lay so lissily upon
Her head, and like a white lily lay
As dead to me as the grave-lily is
On a dead face that last night in the sea.
"Then I said: 'It is sweet to die!
Then I said: 'It is sweet to die,
But I know why God made this hand of mine
My own for ever, and why God made mine.'
"But I answered: 'Why should I be glad
That the sea and the dark face of him,
With all their eyes, should meet at last?  So bad,
And worse that it should be to die, I reckon,
Because these words were all the sea and air.'
"And this was all that was left of me
To a soul with eyes that could not see;
And I said, saying: 'O soul, take heed that man!
If you come by death, he surely can
Who is the man you love, and is not dead.
"And when you are again to the door,
You shall not see the blue waves shore
And the salt wind, above your hair, and see
The foam and the sea-weed in your speech,
Or the storm-clouds clashing to the doors.
"And when you hear the sea's voice call you home
And see the clouds go wandering home,
You shall not hear the sea-winds' thunder-hum
For ever, and not far from Ood.'
"So I cried: 'O soul, take heed, and lie
Hence to the darkness and the sky!
God helps us so, and God is brave and nigh!'--
"I cannot hear, and I can not see."]
The sun was shining on the sea,
And cradled in a cloud of gold,
And o'er the billowy billows did he glide
In bright and golden armor drest,
That many a sun-brown hunter bold,
And many an oriflamme uncoffined,
And many a roan, in battle dight,
On sand and oak did faintly shine,
And through the surf a silver banner brine,
And hov'ring o'er the sea did foam,
And all the air was gay and free,
As if the King, all armed, had made
A royal feast, a banquet, and all joy
And many a bride upon the shore,
And here and there, a rich bride bore.
Out with her light, that swiftly
======================================== SAMPLE 931 ========================================
, who had already laid
His head to rest upon his sword's hilt--
He now was tired of the dolorous fight
That raged between his rival and his Queen;
And she no more remembered what once was.
But like a dead man dead with wine that glowed
Among the many corpses he was left
In those who came from many a land for love
In that wild town alive; but evermore
He walked among those corpses, and beheld
Close in their wake the long spears' gleam of blood,
And heard the clangour of the trumpet blasts
And shouted round the dead. And all around,
Those women, with the iron on their breasts,
Were gazing at the shrouds; but when the sound
Of the trumpet failed, and the long ranks became
Half-way to the hollow of the ground,
He stood alone; and then an aching thud
He uttered, and two voices rose above him, saying:
"O King, what sorrow in mine ears doth sound
To-day, that thou, with these accursed, hast moved
The heathen to the war? It cannot be,
Being of God's own likeness, that I
Am his indeed."
"O Queen, I know
That this thy messenger hath sent to warn
Our king from flight, and that thyself art he;
But I have now no power; therefore my word
Is that the Queen shall never need return,
Bearing that message to her lord, who left
His throne in solitude, and brought his corpse,
To be his food; and he has left his bones
In other regions far, and far away,
For burial, there; and all these things have changed
Since he was king."
Unseen it was
And when the Queen arose, and passed away,
With many tears, to that high festal hall,
And cried aloud, "Alas! for now, I see,
Beneath the earth, the man on whom I looked
Fond was to kiss his lips that he might kiss,
And kiss his hand again." So all day long
He wept, till after some fair-featured day
He came at last to weep for her, and said
Unto his heart, "Alas, this was not he;
Nor is he dead who gave to thee this life!
This is the man, and this the well-loved one;
This was the hand that gave to thee this life!
This is the life whereby thou shalt be king,
Thus cradled in a raiment pure and white
Like to the living God.
This is the death,
That stirs the world to passionate strife;
And this my brother, who by me was slain."
She spake; and when the Queen again drew near,
With pale, pale face, and with a piteous prayer,
"Father," she said, "if thou wert in the place,
I would but die as thine this life has been.
But if thou wilt not, I shall have it so,
For death shall not be mine if I die not."
So prayed she, and by her praying all the while
Her answer came to him, but now the Queen,
Pitiless in her soul, was gone from him,
And his dead body hung on the same tomb;
And in that hall her maidens brought her down
With torches that she had for ever been,
And poured her blood, and said, "O King, behold
The death of the Lord, and in his wrath
And in his anger for the living God
There was not speech nor image of his wrath.
Yea, and it was the hand that gave it thee.
If thou have borne the curse and washed it off
Now thy sword's sheen grows thin in every fold,
And it shall turn to blood; and if the hand
That dealt it thee and thy son's blood shall be
More pitiful, as of old thy God; and thou
Shalt feel thy soul aflame upon the verge
Of the unfathomed sea, and in thy pain
Shall think to touch the very lips of men,
And the strong hands and feet that strove to clasp
And clutch the souls of living and dead,
And in their wrath forget all earthly hate."
For when she spoke to him,
He rose up full of wrath; with sudden light,
That shone in his unswerving eyes like flame,
And he shall know and tremble; and her words
Shall tremble, "Father, unto thee, that thou,
Although a King, art not thine enemy.
"Thou hast forgotten and hast not forgotten;
Thy son shall never be no more a king.

======================================== SAMPLE 932 ========================================
.
v. 22.  As a mother who hath watched her children
Some time to get a will to know her dear;
So did the mother honor with sweet words
To come to her, and with a mother's fears
To close her eyes as in the holy place.
v. 38.  A thick cloud of dust gathers in the sky;
A sheet of white dust on the black sea;
A spray falls down from a high mountain
That lifts itself up over the town.
xvii. 4.  A sparrow on the river side,
An archer on the trees.
xvii.  7.  As the bird doth into the nest;
As the hawk doth o'er the blazoned eagle soar;
As the hawk doth through the eagle's breast,
Or the hawk doth sway the eagle's tail.
I saw the great stag raging
From the hill top to the water's edge,
And the horrid front of Satan
Did roar his battle-song at me,
With demon's cataract
And god's dread trumpet in its birth.
I heard the tread of Peter of old
On the shore where he lay;
I saw the eyes of the Devil
Glare into pools of clay.
The nails in his head were cloven;
The veins of the calf were wrung;
But the brow of the Lord was darkened,
And the Lord's head was turned.
For the Lord in heaven was witness
To the blood of the sons of men;
And the Lord was crucified again,
And again He came again.
I saw the eyes of the devil
Shine into pools of clay;
The tongue of the Lord was silent
To hear the trumpet of doom.
"Lion of God, thou sinner!"
All the bells of heaven rang wide.
As an arrow flies from bow of the string
To the mark of the arrow,
So from the headland
The arrow sped.
But the Holy One drew unto him
And he shouted, "Lion of hell!
Stand on thine iron, thou beautiful archer,
And straightway the angel
Did descend to the floor of the world.
From the shadow of thee
Envy was breathed into my mind.
I thought I was over with my Lord,
And sin was in me also
Which it shall not be for thee to-day."
I put my head from him,
That he sifting away
Wrinkled my hands and fainted away.
Then the Master said:
"The Lord with His host shall be my bride,
And all His saints by whom I am!
And he shall lead me to the door of heaven,
And let my eyes be fixed on His face,
And the light of my Master shed from it
Across the centuries,
And I shall say unto the Lord:  There is no place
For a longer time with Him to divide."
I gave my body to a man.
But the man was dead and the flesh was white,
And the Lord had entered in,
And I had died before the end.
But the Lord smiled upon me,
And said:  "Thou hast done well!
Thou hast redeemed the accursed One.
Thou hast done well!  In the hour of death
Shall that last day be the Feast of the Lord,
And the song of the angel shall open the doors of heaven,
In the hour of the ultimate death;
But in the hour of death
Shall that last day be the Feast of the Lord,
The mystery of life!"
I sat beside a broken chair,
And thought of one who came to me,
Who crossed the threshold as of old,
His face with tender pitying.
I watched the slow slow years go by.
And lo! the years were cruel,
They did but leave me lonely there,
I said:  "I have no place or name,
I will not see my children."
And I forgot my many griefs,
And gladly I forgot it all.
Now at the end of all this pain
My cry goes up to Heaven,
"Alas, why is my heart so cold,
Why is my heart so old?"
A child lay on her mother's breast;
Her sweet face shone with purity
Like a living star, when she has rest
By her bosom's side;
She said:  "Oh, love, my child, my child,
My child my child, why dost thou weep?"
She fell back with her baby's weight,
And murmured in her sleeping.
A little gray old man beside the hearth sat:
He had a great big hoof, and a big bushy tail--
And
======================================== SAMPLE 933 ========================================
.
It makes the spirit sore,
And takes the brain from Pain,
And bids the old man's eyes grow dim,
And his face grow sad--
"But there's a road, a highway,
A country road," he said.
"There's a road, a road," he said.
"There's a road," sighed the man:
"There's a road," sighed the man.
And his heart was sore and sore,
And his face grew straight, and he went it again,
And tears were in his eyes,
And a stifled scream, and then,
He turned and left the lane.
The blackbird's song came into his head,
But the words he had to give
Were lost like his music, and he said:
"And there's a road--a road!"
It's dreary in forests, it's dreary in swamp where the trees are
The wind is in the tree-tops, the torrent is in the bay--
Oh! it's dreary in forests, it's dreary in swamp where the trees
A blind man talks and winks, and he wonders what life means,
For there's a road that's dreary in forests where the trees
A blind man talks and winks, and there's a path that's dreary in
The wind is in the woods, the clouds are in the sky,
The road is in the woods, the brook is in the bay.
There's a road that's dreary, it's dreary in swamp where the trees
A blind man talks and winks, and he wonders what life means,
For there's a road that's dreary in forests where the trees
A blind man talks and winks, and there's a path that's dreary in
There's a road that's dreary, it's dreary when the dawn comes pale,
Oh! it's dreary in forests, it's dreary with the day,
And the sun is gone down, and the moon is on the bay-
Oh! it's dreary in forests, it's dreary in swamp where the trees
A blind man talks and winks, and there's sorrow in the night,
For there's a road that's dreary, for there's sorrow in the night
That there's a road that's dreary, and that's going to be
The wind is in the woods, the sky is in the sea.
If you've ever stole a chaw-cock
From the top of a tree,
If you've ever snuffed a matting
It's like a cold stone, Bill;
If you've ever stole a peck
From the bottom of a bill,
It's like an icy stick;
It can't be fixed like chalk
In your furnaces, Bill.
If you've ever stole a buck
From the bottom of a horse,
Oh! it's hard to have a man
With a horse as brisk as meetin'
As a muss in black and white,
It's like an icy stick;
It's like a cold stone hard,
It's like a cold stone hard,
It's like a cold stone hard;
It's like a hard stone hard,
It's like a hard stone hard,
The bottom and the wall;
Nothing will carry, Bill.
If you've ever stole a buck
From the bottom of a horse,
It's like a cold stone hard,
It's like a hard stone hard,
It's like a hard stone hard;
It's like a hard stone hard,
It's like a heap of lead
That a man may take when need,
But not break through, Bill.
If you've ever stole a buck
From the bottom of a horse,
It's like a salt clay, Bill,
It's like a good old salt,
It's like a bad stone hard,
It's like a good wife's sizk,
It's like a bad stone hard,
It's like an ugly stick;
It's like a bad stone hard,
It's like a bad stone hard;
It's like a bad stone hard;
It's like a bad stone hard;
It's like a bad stone hard;
It's like a bad stone hard,
With a dollar, ten, nor five,
It's like a bad stone hard;
It's like a bad stone hard;
It's like an ugly stick,
It's like a bad stone hard,
It's like a bad stone hard.
If you've ever stole a buck
From the bottom of a horse,
It's like a bad stone hard,
It's like a bad stone hard;
======================================== SAMPLE 934 ========================================
.  This is another matter for the poor poet:
He will not leave the threshold of the temple to the soldiers or his
At night I am afraid to enter the temple; and when I am within, I
shall come out of the doors and come into the holy grove, and have
their bodies cleansed in order to be washed.'
"Then, being much moved, he put into the servants' hands his
comrades, and having prepared a cushion of soft linen was put
thereon with a beautiful cloth of blue velvet, and they covered
him by fair hair; moreover, for the night next, and for the day
the second day, there was a wooden image at the top of Minerva
who was sitting in the cloister, with Achilles by her side,
with Nausicaa clad in the likeness of a river-stream, while
Ulysses with her came up by the foot of the temple, and said:
'Stranger, do you hear the voice of the goddess, who makes the
whole roof so thick on both sides? Is your mother still living
there that you have not yet reached her? You say to her that
you are no longer in her house; do not ask her about her, but
she will tell you some tidings of her husband. Go even as a
shepherd leads a herd of cattle belonging to the herdsman, and
tell the women to fetch them from the barn and to milk with
their good udders and their younglings. As for the shepherd,
he will bring them from your grove, and when he has done so, he
will return home his friends. It shall be my opinion to tell
you that you are never to see one of the immortals, only that
you are still asking for something.'
"On this, Ulysses rejoiced in heart and soul, and he held his
sandals before his feet. When he had worn them so that they
would have been driven by an uproar as they were passing through the
city. But the Cyclops, being ahead, nevertheless drove them
out of the door, for he feared to see them coming on. They were
not far from the place where he had been, but on the broad
threshold, with some force of the way, he rushed down out of
the circle of the wood. But when they came to the place where
Ulysses had fallen, they found him on a bench of as much stone as
"When we had stripped off our tools and laid them in the cloister
that is cunning there, there was a wall along the floor and a
wall of iron that could receive three feet of many feet. This was
that wall that was as high as the words you let fall, high as
the top of a tall column, so high that it could not be gone by
counting the time, and the smoke rose up continual from inside.
Thus did some one lift it on its feet with ease from outside,
and a great beam of bronze would shoot out in front of him.
"Thereon the Cyclops' club smote the doorpost of the door
with a tearing of their horns. The doors were shut, and he
stretched out both his hands to clutch the doorposts of the
pall, and thrust in the hinges of the doors.  When he gave
asinus in with the strength that he had given him, he flung
him down into the abyss.  Then he turned to his chariot and
stayed his footsore men on to the threshold of the hall,
and they drew out the doorpost open and raised a portal to
look upon the great hall where Minerva had entered in, and
Apollo came up.
"Then," said he, "I will lead you into an Elysium, because I have
come to wash away the copper, that is all of it. There you shall
be, and some god will give you your hand to put it off on to
the bed, that you may see whether you must feed on one or the
trick to-morrow. I will let you have the best of it, for you
are far the best man upon the land, and you shall see him if
he will take no care of his servants."
The man said nothing, but went off to the store room and
looked about, scared all the time till there was a new light
diffusing between the wall and the door. Ulysses was glad,
for he was now learning how to handle the gate of the temple.
Then he caught hold of the doorposts and set himself to work
at the rims, but there was no one there that was diligent
enough to do so; nevertheless his men stood by him as the
earth caught fire in an instant.  Ulysses was glad enough to
======================================== SAMPLE 935 ========================================
'd,
Who thus at length in life's decline,
As, to that early time,
Possest a mortal world in vain,
Whose pride is quite entire,--
Now in the shades of death he lies,
And tells the world he flies.
"To change my misery one may change,
Another still must vary;
But never till one dying year
Have I been reft of thee!"--
Thus Nature spake--and I am here
No longer blind--for never,
Never to change, my heart is clear
For thou art all unchanged.
But thou must still remain as thou
Art ever true and kind,
And say my faith is ever fixed
On what that thou hast lost.
Not even thou, O Lord! not even thou,
I think, canst look from heaven to me,
No, not in vain, O Lord! not thou,
But, as at first I loved thee.
I love thee, Lord--I feel it still,
But oh, when will my love be still?
I love thee, Lord--and love thee now,
And as I love I love thee now.
I love thee, Lord--I feel it still,
But oh, when will my love be still?
Thou art the guardian angel, then,
In all my life, and ever!
Thou art the promise, that, on high,
Will wait on all for me,--
The blossom of eternal light--
O witness all for me!
Thou art the promise, thou, too, Lord,
Of future glory there!
And this is Fate's command, the will
The wise shall put to flight!
Thou art the promise, then, that I,
In every hour of life,
Shall wait a little while in death,
And nevermore be--is--
O blessed Saviour! I shall love thee,
And be thy babe to me!
God bless the youth!  I feel them, Lord,
The tender love they bear to thee,
And I shall live in joy with him,
Whether, for them, in thee.
God bless the maid!  I see her not,
I hear her tender sigh:
Her eyes bewitch me; so--I weep,
For her, for her, and die.
Yet what care I how she may shine
Around the flowers that blow?
And she may smile in heaven, my girl,
For her, and her, and thee, I know.
God bless the youth!  I love them still,
To hear her murmurings all,
And only once,--how may it be,
The nearer I to fall?
Away, away! for I would fly;
Oh, stay, I say, with thee,
For where, for me, yon sun shall rise
I dare not ask again.
Where is thy love, my fond one?
In yonder garden fair?
And yonder, by yon river flowing,
And yon light-towering tree,
That shines so mournfully below us,
How I shall love thee more and more,
When she draws near the door!
She speaks, I pause, my doubting dear one,
Then to her words I go,
Nor can I to her chamber bear a thought,
For how can I know so?
'Tis not that she is fairest deemed,
A rose, in thorny dew:
I feel her very by her side,
I know 'tis he who holds me true!
And yonder will I see her smiling;
Then smiling say to me:--
"She smiles so light, a darling child,
Let me have speech with thee."
She speaks--I heard him fondly speak;
Oh dearest, dearest, hear!
He smiles, and sayeth thus and thus:
"She smiles so bright, a darling child,
Let me have speech with thee.
"She smiles so light, a darling child,
Let me have speech with thee!
She smiles so bright, a darling child,
Let me have speech with thee."
They kiss--oh, bless them!--night and day,
They say, "God bless us twain!
Yes, yes, I swear, by bread and fish,
And all the blessed blessed leaves
That lie upon my mother's arm,
I give my child again!"
"Away, away!"--its echoed word,
Away to where they stand.--
Away to where, in joy and glee,
He sees his child expand.
Away, away! ye gallant boys,
Away to where you dwell.
Away with your loved folly, boys,
Away with
======================================== SAMPLE 936 ========================================
-thee_--_Yea_--_Yea, tho' _Thy_ pen be _indeed_--
If I love thee, _thou_ art _innocent_.
And if _thou_ shouldst kiss me in my bed,
And in my dreams beguile me,
If I should wake and weep and think,
As I lay still at thine,
There would I doat upon thine head--
That I, if I but sleep, might keep
The noonday of thy spirit;
Or sleep with Thee in such a bower,
All furs and buds would cover.
To love, even as thou lov'st and lov'st,
I only ask to kiss thee!
But, if to sleep thou wouldst consent,
Or dream Thee what thou lov'st,
I would go creep into thine head
And whisper, whisper, whisper!
Nay, but I dreamt; for by and by
Our mutual interchange was seen,
As by some garden-maid a-dying,
I heard the Nightingale in tune,
And blither grew the Dells all day,
Till in the hedgerow's bower we lay
In mutual love, and mirth, and play.
That I did hear, when, out o' doleful,
The cheerful morning broke;
And to my pillow brought the Lulle,
Soft slumber wishfully did keep:
And, in my Soul, there musing deep,
I dreamt, but could not, cannot.
Farewell, thou Stream whose fresh aspect
Still o'er me spreads its soft blue spread!
Farewell,--thou Spirit blest
With flowers of every hue;
Thou, who my heart's affections move,
As springs the tree with fruitage green;
Thou Spring's daughter of Deceit!
Farewell,--thou Spirit blest!
The air thou fill'st with breath,
As Spring's daughter of the Spring
Whom thou lov'st, is soon to be
A flower, a reeded flower.
Farewell, farewell, thou Stream
The while thou fill'st with flowers
A garland for the brow of Spring;
And all thou art is ours!
Welcome, Spring! our garden blooms again,
While fresh dews hang on every hawthorn spray,
And, like blossoms, on the hawthorn buds appear,
Whose opening leaves are ready for to fade away!
We dare not linger in thy garden fair,
And look not now, where erst we wandered then:
If the fair blossoms thou dost early wear,
Or if they glitter with accustomed men,
Our hearts are filled with more abundant rain,
Than we have gathered from the shore of Maine!
How sweet the breath of morn with balmy wings
Thrills thro' the glades, and whispers mid the flowers,
How sweet the silence of the breezes brings
A charm of summer in the noontide bowers!
As comes the morning's natal day, this lay
Brought most dear thoughts--so sleeps the poet too!
For now a sound is heard that knows not rest--
A sense of solemn quietude is planned
On passive ear, and every motion finds
A sweet expression in the pensive mind!
Now, while the birds, that round the orchard-plot
Warble their airy songs of love and peace,
The woods and bosky dells repeat their hymn,
And the wide lawn with firstling blossom teems,
Hushed is the din;--and yet the pensive air,
With dewy whispers soft and lulled, as it
Were whispering 'Peace.' One aged oak-tree sees,
And shakens from its load of leaves, its boughs
Of gray and moss-grown gray; and near the place
Where we were wont to meet, some little space
In infancy, the snow-white locks that waved
So gently o'er the young rose's youthful grace,
It blossomed like the first fond bud you see!
But who will care if first its leaves expand,
And the first stirring sound awake the young?
Not only sunny fields, and arid streams,
And the blue sky, all smiling at its beams,
Proclaim the glory of the early day,
But the bright sun, as of a brighter day,
Is round us, rolling on its journey grand,
And every soul seems lulled asleep in sleep!
Arouse thee, sluggard Time! I'd give away
Thy hoary mantle, pure as thine, I say;
And, as the
======================================== SAMPLE 937 ========================================
,
Hither and thither fly along the plain.
In the first half of the day, when Nature first is seen,
Or when the Sun behind his head his silvery beams has shewn,
Or when the Moon was taking Glendal's weary way
From the bright side of Heav'n, to light the worldling ray,
Then in these accents warbling the Strephon's lyre
Dies, while he listeth to the forceful snare.
"Oh, couldst thou leap where pure and milky spring
And crystal rills in gentle rills shall sing,
When woods and fields shall blossom like the swan,
And the green grass a purple tinge shall yield.
Then to the sun and gentle stream shall flow
The liquid lily, and the water flow
Blue as the silver scimitar that showeth
Athens, and Cocytus, and the undying snow!
But let our hopes to warmer clime be given,
Awhile, till life to love and peace be heaven!"
"O, could I feel thy spirit like a lyre
Bleeding with music, but with trembling heart!
And could I hear thy voice like that of heaven,
And knew and loved that thou couldst only move?
Ah! that my being came to thee and I,
To keep thee, too, from growing in degree!
O, if my mood would be, my very heart
Might leap with rapture like the night apart
And find thee, where thou wouldst be, my own!
Oh, that thy noble words, my humble lay
Might thrill my ears, and move my heart a lyre
To praise thee and to love thee! and anon,
Oh, that they brought my footsteps back to me,
And made my spirit fold within thine arms,
And made my joyous numbers all to thee!
"O, could I feel thy soul, so rich in love,
And thy sweet presence, thou wouldst be alone!
Oh, that like some sweet spirit thou mightst move,
And breathe my spirit back into thine own!
And I would hear thee sing in every tone
Something of gladness! oh, how sweet a spell
That warms the blood before my spirit fell!
"I would be thy ideal, and the dream
That lives and moves within my heart to thee!
And I would feel the rapture, thou and I,
That filled life's wilder'd pauses e'er to roam!
Oh, that my being came to thee and I,
And we were wedded till to thee and me
The sun was gone, and I was desolate!
Then thou wert mine, and now thou com'st to me.
I love not _one_, but all I love with thee
Is that sweet sense which in my heart doth dwell
In the still chamber of the soul, and spells
The sleep that o'er the spirit's senses swims,
The love of which it is not, love, that self,
Which makes the spirit move with tenderer strife
Through all its inmost energies. As thus,
I would revive each former sense in thee
Of our two lives, and thou wouldst be alone,
To thee and to thyself be both one spirit."
Thus as he spoke, a mighty wave of wind
Rolled his rich vessel up into the deep;
Then near the boat I saw a crowd of youths
Come sailing onward through the sable flood,
With laden heads, and faces like the mists
Swift sweeping on. All, looking on, replied:
"See how the young and lovely folk are here!
Here, tumbling through thick bushes, comes a child;
The child, a little helpless in the wood,
Who cradles her dear little helpless limbs.
See how his freezing breath comes freezing by!
He starts, he beats her neck, he stamps her lip;
He listens with a hurried and sweet voice
To the fixed voice, that cries to us from the other side.
We saw the boat, we knew how swift it rushed!
How fast it bore him on the outward gale!
The boat is near; on, by the waves, O maid!
We see it gliding past the sable clouds;
And as we swiftly sped its course we felt
Upon its course through soft spring woods, and flowers,
And honeysuckle, and the white wild-flower,
The lily, fragrant, and the violet flower,
That, waving in the sunshine o'er the sea,
Is hurrying to the watery plain below,
And calling home the fairy children dear,
To gather them in slumber.
"Dear child,
I feel no longer
======================================== SAMPLE 938 ========================================

But how I shall begin this tale
Which will stand still to the very price
Of this great love of yours and yours.
I was once a madman on the shingles,
I do not know what it meant to bear.
I'm very cold, and know not why;
I've lost the patience and the faith,
And no forgiveness but for Love.
How came you there, you little man?
I'm looking for a fine new dress.
Now, please don't look at that or that.
Why, man of men, you should not know
Why it's been altered one and all
Since first you saw my love."
And then he glanced aside and smiled,
And, as the kind old man went by,
Weeping "Poor Love," laughed low.
"How came you here, you little man?
I thought the cold world over with me.
I've been with you for years; you took
You on a love-sick, ill-starred old trick,
With which I've had my lazy break
And tired heart, a little while.
Where are you all at last, my man?
I've had enough of it, I'm coming here!
If you'll forgive me, please do what you can,
I'm going to save you, and you'll find me
A man to keep you toiling for."
And then the other with his piteous
Lifted high his voice and, while
It thrilled through all his purposes,
He thought: "It's better looking at
Than be bossed in an old oak chair."
And then he thought: "I must be looking
And just as glad to find a lot
Of girls and boys, and all these things
I can see now as it were not."
And then he sat him down to cry,
And in his little room he'd creep,
And so there was no talk or talk
Among the children; only,
"O, God, my God!" he couldn't say,
But for the pity that his kind
And tender soul refused to pray,
He called his children to his mind.
"The dear dead, God, must lie below.
O, God, my God!" he faintly cried,
And went within the little room,
And as he walked she gave her a
Great groan, and from her head
He could have jumped, and dropped the hood.
"Now, God, my God, I want you all,
Keep house and all that's sweet to you:
And when I'm gone from here,
Come, I'll come in and take you to
My grave, and dig you up
Through the next door, and then you'll see
Me pick a little hole to do,
And there a little hole to do."
Then said the other: "I will do
As much as God can I can you,
So, for my grave, if you please,
I'll dig, and dig, and dig, and dig,
And at the bottom of the pot,
And then that little hole you'll enter
Before the last old yew tree."
The fisher lads were soon asleep,
The nimble-fingered fisher boys
Had dropped the goblet in the deep.
The moonbeam fell a broadening high
And half the stream was quite dry,
And in the moonbeam's silver eye
The fisherman could see his joy
With vision clear as a happy boy.
The shore, it seemed, was black and bare,
And far and faint and far away,
As if the waves, though they were there,
Were rising everlastingly
On the shore, as if to take delight
In the still air of eventide.
The fisher lads had gone away,
For lack of water and a sail.
And now the night drew near and nearer,
And soon the twinkling stars were here,
And the wide river's path they followed,
And stood before the glinting shore,
And the moonbeam's silver eye did glow
As they went out to see the snow,
And then they saw, or thought they heard
Aught like a feeble gleam come drifting
About the depths of that white glade.
The fisher lads were nimble too
While their spirits seemed to freeze,
And in their hearts they'd bear the yew
As if they had done a freeze.
And a sound came from each dark night,
And they would not let it be.
And the stars were pale upon the way,
And the moon had fallen from the west.
And with the moon they had been aching
Through the day and the night;
But the fishers thought, as they were seeking
Their food, they were
======================================== SAMPLE 939 ========================================
'd with her fate
His wife a widow soon should lose for life.
But had she now survived the fatal blow,
That laid the lover on the father's bed,
And in his early youth have given him joy,
But that a bride in honour of the bride
Would die a victim she would die a knight.
And so he died; and so, when he had closed
His senses in the darkness and the night,
And to his wife survived Sir Lancelot--not
For lack of her good heart--he had no thought
To love her.  Yet when he was left alone
He made a vow--and as the vow was made
The knight refused to make it: which being done,
He died four days before the dawn of day.
So was Sir Lancelot slain, and Lancelot slain,
Being now in state wherein he could not sway,
But while his mother fighting for a prize
Had kept him in her stead.  And every day
And every night, the kitchen-knave and dame
Stood by to watch, and every day and night
Came round to watch him as he slumbered soft.
But when the kitchen-knave and kitchen-knave
Had taken heart to hear the hall door creak,
And saw him lying fast asleep upon
His bed, and watchful, every time he stood,--
Then kneeling down to take the burial-place,
Beneath the broad elm-pillar on the ground,
And there before the house the knight had died.
But after he was laid upon a couch
Hid with the night and through his secret talk,
And by the bedside where the slippers lie,
He spake unto his wife: 'O noble wife
Call in my name, and kiss me if I can,
If ever I should die on earth: not soon
Would I come down again; there is no time
For me to clasp my dear.  There is no time
For me to kiss again; hence I must go
Must bear this heavy burden of the night
For ever: I am ready.'
And Lancelot said 'Aloud,
Do thou but kiss me on my fevered mouth,
My latest breath and lastest touch: as though
Some venom of revenge were in his blood,
And yet no balm from it for any sorrow.
Sweet, be it so, say somewhat, and this blood
Will flash from out the wound; and I too will
In my own blood come up against your will,
For I shall see your kindness, and your love.'
And then he went up, and 'Lady,' he says,
'There is no time for parting; for I fear
The sound may wake your slumbers and blind eyes
With the last dread that comes when one goes down.'
Then at Sir Lancelot's hest, Sir Lancelot's own,
The young Elaine she loved so, when she saw
The two there sitting at the window, knelt,
And one had fallen on the threshold, as
She stood and bent her head, and 'O what pain,
O,' she cried, 'doth one thus pain them? what if one
Lies guiltless, and the guilt of some such love?'
Then to the bed she rose.  'No voice of hers
Announed me; but my sweetest, and most true,
My purest, and best witness.'  'O,' she said,
'So may my word of honour pass from you!
So may I speak it in my true love's name,
Who loveth me--since if you love me not--
And then you may be mine--she may be mine--
This is the bond my lord should bind me for.'
Then Lancelot knew it from his very thought,
And in a month went down at random, so
He could not help it.
Then again
He said, 'Now may I make myself my wife?
Now may I also leave her for my own,
And take her for my paramour, and bring
To my advantage,--if she be my wife,--
The crown of mine own roses.'  'Peace,' he said,
'My wife, and may she love you too,' she said.
And now was mute and still, and on his bed
He lay; and in the chamber, where no sound
Of human voice, or foot, or foot, was seen,
Or voice of lute or viol, came to him.
He lay; and over all his face the flush
Of shame and horror blazed; and like a torch
He seemed to his offended wife to see
Gathering above his own, and growing hers.
He lay and thought, and only thought of hers.
Now when they came upon him
======================================== SAMPLE 940 ========================================
.
He is a good knight and he has a good name,
He's a bold man of enterprise,
And a bold knight who knows
That his King will be slain by a simple knight,
And of his own free will he shall be taken,
In the realm of France and of Brittany.
There dwells an Earl of unicorn
That is left without a foe knows he,
And a great Earl of unicorn
That will have great pride at his woe.
But when they met with an evil man
That was far from Camelot,
They were both so bent, that they durst not stand
As yet in a castle tower.
He had fought great deeds of chivalry
But all for sake of his crown;
And when his prowess proved the best
They crowned his head with laurel wreath,
And then that knight so great of cheer
Came down on his stately throne.
In Stanhope he won great victory
By the meed of many a lady;
And so then fought they the holy chivalry
Till the King made last all the weary,
And died in good Cleon Polyan
Of his foes and the knights for fear.
When the heathen were come up and brought to the hall
Sir Lancelot, who has won great glory,
And the lady, whom he hath won great glory,
Has taken to him by the heart to hold him:
And the way and the praise he had to win
He would look at for ever but as yet
Though he lived a life of doubt and fear;
And so in their midst he would show him clear
Of the way and the wrong on earth made surety.
To King Arthur, to Merlin, and to all the rest,
A dark voice spake again,
With a low and mournful frown,
And the look was sad that Sir Percivale
Besought the knight to go.
And he said to Percivale:
"Sir Lute Sir, you seem too shy;
There's a man with an evil eye
That would scorn a man of you.
"For your eyes are dim and your helmet falls
With your golden rings so hot,
When we come to knightly races--
The mail and gold they have won for all;
To-day you ride upon this car
As if you would see King Lyon.
"In tourney you have ridden fast,
But you find no brand of war;
And no bruin's flesh that has ever been
In the land before has a war."
When the sound of that cry there came
To knight Arthur's knighthood's fame,
Sir Lute was no whit the loon,
Or lord of a fair lady.
No knight was he, nor a lady free,
As the king said--no knight on earth,
Nor lady of high degree,
"Sir Ood, Sir Percivale,
There is room for all who love the King.
Sir Launcelot has taken hold of an ass
That is neither strong nor bold,
And he will ride upon my mare;
And the way that he rides gudely there,
Sir Launcelot's gallant men shall see
In the land before the King."
When that King mounted, the King was loth
To leave the castle in,
That is the way of the felon Guenevere;
But when he came to the high abode
Of the house that perithode,
And therein sat the wicked King,
The riddle open to the King,
The riddle read in the riddle.
But there he stood while the King did ride,
And all his fellows did abhor him,
And there he saw the good King Guy,
And a fair lady there before him--
The riddle read in the riddle.
But there was Launcelot malign,
And a Gawaine stout of harn,
And great was the mule of the noble king
That rode by the Ladye Sal.
And when the mule he rode about,
He saw three couriers single,
And the riddle read in the riddle,
The riddle read in the riddle.
And when he knew it was God the King,
He took Sir Lancelot for his prize;
And the riddle read in the riddle,
The riddle read in the riddle.
Till the King knew the reason thereof,
Sir Lute made answer to his jade:
"Why have you made me king in the land
For the goodly deeds you have said?"
And he have made seven knights of good redwood,
And he have taken seven good knights;
And he have taken seven good knights and left us
To set them in his own true
======================================== SAMPLE 941 ========================================
.
_Rough_, and _sad_, _sad_, _sad_, _sad_:
_Rough_, and _sad_, _sad_, _sad_, _sad_:
_Rough_, and _sad_, _sad_, _sad_, _sad_;
_rhyme_, and _sad_, _sad_, and _sad_; the best
_Sthag_, _spry_, _spry_, _spry_, _certain_:
The reason why the fellow is in doubt
Whether to lose his _sark_, or _sunk_, is out;
Or whether to obtain, as to propose,
Some _predess_, or _root_, or _thumpet_ O'Fees!
Now see _siren-like_, not _spry_, the best
_Sthag_, a _sark_, _spry_, _thumpet_, _backet_, _scrips_;
The very _sark_ to thump, the common _thumpet_;
And not a single feather less than _thumpet_!
A _tussle_ is a _good_ thing, a _tussle_ a _bumpet_,
And _much_ more _thumpet_, _thumpet_, is the main
Of _this_;--a _bumpet_, _tussle_, or _thumpet_, too;
In short, the _best_ is _quite_, compared with _this_,
And _thumpet_, and _thumpet_, and _thumpet_, too.
The main is chiefly fit to be prescribed
To spoon around in moderate measure,
And thus (perhaps your kind of _sudden_ Lord
Is rather limited to bigger leisure)
Would be, at least, a _luxury_ above
The vulgar and the lowest of _thumpet_,
And not a little likely, in the course
Of _thumpet_, for a _bumpet_, or _thumpet_, too;
To which, my hero, I propose to-day,
If _thumpet_ will not cut anything away;
Except you have two heads, and the whole face is _thumpet_,
And that, my friend, you need not doubt it, for the nonce,
If, after all, I have not, yet to say no more,--
A very slight _bumpet_, or _ahem_ thing for sale
(As the phrase now is,) than a dish just set about it;
I would, of course, like you the only _bumpet_!
But there, of course, must be some _potenter_ of _pot_.
"Obey, 'I'VE'M o'er nice," continued Mrs. Balf,
"That may be, but you can't tell from 'tale' to 't.'"
"Quite true, of course, and _not_ of course," continued Mrs. Balf,
"There was a hint, when one had a hint,
"What's more, they gave him some big hint
"Of setting the youngster at a _bar_.
"But here he comes, and takes up the game,
"And then he throws the old one, and the lame;--
"I've noticed these occurrably to him."
"A fact," murmured Mrs. Calf, "is--a sad trick,
"But I'm afraid he will be back at once.
"We've made a hole through the forest, I've the cag-roll
"Of Satan (as it ought) without a hole,--
"And thus it all comes out, with other chaps to say."--
"Why he's the biggest tussle in the world, I guess,"
Cried Satan, as he staggered from his place,
"He's a chip of your hollow, unripe sort of hole!"
--He thought that all the gang could be as black as jet,
And all the world could see them, as they stood
Straight up to Satan's back, "I'll change them all,--
"I'll change them all, and change them all, I guess."
All the devils rushed like devils, every one,--
And Satan thought he'd try again to _change_;
And there, well nigh the end, a great deal more had come
Than he had thought of, anyway
======================================== SAMPLE 942 ========================================
.
The following scrap compare of Cottages Barrows:--
"Of the two poems that have escaped from the Giant Canto I
believe it correct for them. By the late Dr. S. Wilmot he
assured the two letters in anagram.
(Mrs. Belles, Bertha and her brothers are much lessacquainted with
"I have the honour to be, Sir,
Your most obedient servant;
I am going for your sermons,
I am going for your letter.
The present moment, please excuse me,
I have brought a servant lately
From the shining orchard-brake,
And a calf at point to taste it,
Which the world shall see no pleasure."
"Dear Sir, it is not strange,
This letter was designed;
And 'twas in the Lambeth's bosom,
Not to hinder me from changing
Any color for your coat.
Never doubt, however ready,
This the meaning of my coat;
For I am a plain politer man
Than you are a plain politer dog."
"I am not a dog, Sir, nor a gentleman after the dogs are
"Dear Sir, it is true,
All the virtues that are mine
Are yours, and with them I honour
The day I saw the New-Year's snow.
For your curtesy, Aunt Marg'ret,
I have also done desire,
To have you of my rare acquaintance,
Which you well accord to hire.
If I am to learn your nature,
It is really very strange,
That you may be useful
With a donkey's talent;
Nor a servant's talent
Should your thoughts elsewhere importune;
You'll be a horse when I'm a man."
"My dear, it is not seeming
That I am a woman here,
I am so ashamed of knowing
That to me the world is dear;
And I really do approve it,
And so do all the people,
As I wish it were in general."
"All the people say is false,
All the people think me queer;
I am very well when such things change,
That I cannot be a horse.
If I had as many legs as you,
They would say 'I'll bear you home,'
And I think 'twould be a shame,
And to think I am a horse when such."
"Yes, indeed, indeed, it is strange,
But I really can't abide;
For I think that my dear father,
By his troth, was one of pride;
And he'd swear that himself he ne'er would
Have been as a horse when he rides on
To that rapid, roaring thunder."
"Dear Sir: it is not a truth,
Dear Sir, and you do not know,
And you may say it with some reason,
That the story is very new;
So in hope that you will know it,
I entreat you do it now."
"Dear Sir, it is not a truth,
Dear Sir, and you do not know;
And I have a secret to open it,
Like a lover good as foe;
And I wish that, perhaps, yet I think
I may see you in the next scrap."
"Dear Sir, I'm so very proud,
I could tell you that by steam;
Or I could tell of a very fine thing,
Which I quite dislike to dream;
So in hope you may ask me next week,
But the story is not in my book;
So in hope you will give a reason
That I send it your very dear."
"Oh! It would not seem quite fair
If we had not had at all;
So here's an honest, honest tale,
And a very honest Poet,
Who lives in a modest fashion,
And for his unlettered days
Must strive to make himself his own;
And I would wish, however skilful,
That he had not been a devil.
And then, though an eager slave,
A few mysterious words to promise
That this was a sort of a man,--
A man who has been so loyal
That he can't be said to budge,
And he'd do his particular best
To get a real diamond ring
In honour of those he loves;
And so, until you'd think of that,
I beg you would give me some,
And some, if they give him a few."
She smiles a scornful smile, yet stammered,
And sank into a sob;
She quickly disappeared like petals
When the wind sifts them out.
"Good Sir, and may not you be vexed,
For you have a pretty proof
That all that is said is well
======================================== SAMPLE 943 ========================================
 on being a living soul.  In his last day
To this I was attached, and could not bear to hear him tell.
So I put my finger to the head, and took a good oath
That he would not stir, but only said to me, "You shall die."
But, having thus provided my life for a few years,
So I died for love or not for love--but the truth is this--
That, as I said, at this, and that, as the truth were truth,
I thought his judgement would be strictly held and held
As by the noiseless faith of my very firstborn youth.
But now that I could not understand him, I knew that he
For a long time agreed so strictly with me that he
Would not lose heart, and he would not keep his pulse.
So I said to him, "The cause, methinks, is perfectly
JOHN, who must go in directly, and which may
Produce sufficient evidence of the truth,
If you give me the proof of a man's unbelief."
And the other answered: "You are new; for you
Your fame in the same tongue shall be still more true,
Making it rich in memory, still more true and sweet
Unto myself, as a penny to the beat of feet."
But the other said, "I will not tell indeed,
If the truth you shall hear; so do not seek
To hide it in your heart, nor even be deceived.
It is not given out to any, nay, not me;
For the truth's falsehood would an entrance find
To his defence in life;--for I will never do
A thing so rash and rash,--though it should sore dismay,--
Doing in words and deeds a mere contrary part;
But, in the saying 'swereful love' I stand apart."
And I said, "If you well know all this, you will be
Just what you were; I have no doubt that I was right;
And, if the truth be true,--well,--here goes one of these,
And this is all the truth."
"I will not tell,"
I answered quietly, "it were not wrong.
Some day you may begin to think,--for, then,
I fear you are too rash,--no more than one;
Yet--for I never ventured to inquire,
And so will tell you what I have to say,--
My mind is like a mill with wheels, and steady light;
Yet I will tell you something--more to crave.
You had no more of what I knew of love;
You will not, dear, as I thought, your heart release.
Now speak to me of what has been, and why
Have you,--since I myself, yourself, have known?
In that I have no wish to know, but still,
Somehow, I know, am utterly alone.
And, ah, most great!--and only that I feel,--
Even that now, in all this world, I find
Human enough to give this life to hers;
I only feel I am immortal too.
I wish to be but mortal and yet near earth--
The momentary proof--the time for mirth.
This moment when I pass from earth to heaven,
What will be left still to it all gone through?
And when I die, what will I not deserve?
For, if I lived, I might have died for you.
What will be left?-- except to live and die.
And since 'tis but to give which life is less,
I dare not ask--and live for who you are."
But now to-day I wished, but wished, as usual,
To live; and since I know not how to answer,
For why, I scarce desire it.
And it had proved
That, whether I had lived before, or whether
I did, or would, or could not. I did it,
And, doing so, I lived that life was brief.
You and I would not call it long ere years
Of unimagined sorrow came between us.
Here, once on earth, I found not love's sweet cup,
But in the golden goblet--"Have I tasted?"
How to forget,--were to retrace my pleasures,--
The bitter memory of dark hours, the tearful
refreshments of unutterable sufferances.
Nay, but I knew there was no other treasure.
I sought not, neither sought; but first I fought
With foes, the friends I led and fought to conquer:
A foe; a foe; a foe; a traitor; and
One found my way through hostile ranks and armies.
I fought with foes;--
======================================== SAMPLE 944 ========================================
 of wood-nymphs
In a ring of pebbles, and of slim-wreathed boughs!
Briefly and unceasing is the song:--
"I have seen a world, a world that did not seem,
Nor will be that, forgetful of its dream!
And now I dream it over; yet, for all,
Since I must speak, I feel I have it all.
And, seeing how soon the great world will depart,
I have watched the shadows with a deeper heart,
In a slow-gathering darkness, hour by hour,
When things that are not, or are not, shall be new.
So, when, for aye, the music of my heart
Is lifted by the mighty veil, I must
Lift up my head, and smile; nor can my eye
Be true enough to laugh at what I saw!
Ah, though the great world's wheels of glory flow
In a brief moment, a dead chain of pain,
I can remember when I saw again!
Oh, the great years of the open air
When the breath of God was on the hills,
As the husht hours ran, in the quiet of the hills!
In the still night it is not unheard
By the faint air from the remote moon-rise,
That is the only chorus that comes to the dawn!
The night is a dark-featured land,
Where the stars and the sun stand;
And, under the evening's veil,
Their tender light shines never,--
Like a ship on the white sea-plain,
Whose bosom it never may weary again,
On the beach of the long-deep lake-sea,
Whose waves never cease to enkindle,
In the home of the boundless sea.
For a voice to the beach of the deep,
As the far gray river-rivers,
Bends on the deep and darkly,
In the black of the mountain-sea.
Like the voice of a nightingale,
Sounding afar, on the dark-wooded beach,
Sounding afar, on the shore of the deep,
Like the song of the deep of the sea's awake
In the desolate waters,
Where the white wave rises ever,
From beneath, like the echo of a bell.
But, in nearing the verge of the mountain-glen,
The whole of the song is heard in the still land,
As the swan, on its way to the shore of the deep,
Fondly carols along the strand.
The sweet air is still, at the song of the breeze
That floats by the sea-shore here;
And the sound of the surge, as it strays on the beach,
Is heard in the beach of the far-away beach.
Is not the light-house top?  Yea, sett not so high!
It is not the low-built towers of the shore,
Which a man builded in days long gone by,
Or one worn-out life,--like a bubble-stone,
It is wrought with a carelessness,--like a curse,
That a spirit lived on, and an hour is gone,
For a moment gone by!  And so, as I watched
At a father's lattice a dying lamp's glow,
As it swung on high to strike me an hour low,
I could hear the wind without me,--the night
Stole o'er me, and I sank in a golden light,
And the stars and the stars in the blue silent sky
Looked softly o'er me!  Oh, what peace was mine!
I have lain in the middle of the world so long,
Not caring now,--too long, for the sound of song,
Far, far above me!--I look on a world of love
That lies around me a world of sorrow and sin!
Where all I love lies that my heart may cease to hold;
But, like a moonbeam that falls without a cloud,
It lies there over my heart,--and my heart lies cold!
I sit by the shore of a world that is full of mystery;
I feel that I am but a shadow within my body,
And that I am but the shade of the shadow of God!
And the sound of a tower that is lifted high aloft
And solemnly kindled a cromlech of prayer,
Is that which I hear as the crash of a city of silence,
With the sound of a tear, as the cry of a great abyss,--
That is the sound where the surge of a land that is rending,
Is that which I hear as the language of mountains and plains!
'Tis not the sound
======================================== SAMPLE 945 ========================================
;
To all that in her train was blest;
For him the fair, the lovely fair,
Tears, sighs, and sorrows could not drown.
Yet not for her false mind's relief;
She was but faithful, kind, and mild;
And ever with a bashful glow,
Reproached by deeper love than woe,
Ravished by deeper guilt or fear,
The modest love, the faithful cheer,
So long kept up within her breast,
So ever sacred with her love,
Blessing in death, in life above.
So for his love, too gentle one,
Some gentle one she did not see;
And never, never had she fainted,
Unless a better chance had bettered
And made her love as she had cheated.
Then one, at last of all suspected,
Sufficed that there was more in trust
Than this fair love, the first effect.
One with more fervor than disdain
Did to her lover wholly press,
To give one kiss, or to caress,
And then with that to draw again,
And thus make vows to his adored,
'Twas pity they should be commended.
Her lord, who to this passion came,
Said, were he well or well inclined
(As one may well believe it), he
Were mistress, or would be adored;
The lover could not but implore her,
And so did all, but wished the more her.
But, as it chanced, he was disdained,
For, 'mid the joy of his sweet smile,
Not loving in his way, he could,
Though to the utmost aile pleased heaven,
He loved a girl, but he, forgiven,
Dwelt on the mouth of his sweet heaven,
And, on his brows, felt all the glories
Of that sweet world, wherein he tarried,
And, at no time of frigid frights,
Made his cheek warmer than smoked cigars.
In after days he ne'er repented
The maiden, though he loved to tell
Some time ere his so long delay,
And thus he did his loves confess--
In pretty truth he could but guess
The further he had been deceived,
And, thinking what may chance to be,
Would go with her to meet some bliss
Where she in all things could be proved;
Whatever in his breast could lie,
Whatever he could do in ease,
And she, as it were, a maid,
Died duly when he asked to please.
For she was of a noble blood,
But, in her fancies, none the less;
And, as the doctors said, she was
A lady very fair and sweet.
And now this fay had but to say
In verse that her was fairest known,
And made her his, without delay,
Like beautiful, but not alone:
And, in his rhyme, he was allured
To be the lady of his thought.
And thus they both grew up to be
Like brothers.  Never did they meet;
For they were two, and seemed both tall,
As lovely as were statues at fall.
But, after a short silence, all
Had sunk into the distance vague,
The lady's lips were paler then
Than satin in his silent den--
The lady's lips were paler then
Than satin in his silent den--
The lady's lips were paler then
Than satin in his silent den;
And she was pallid like the moon,
Her face as fair as she was wan,
Her eyes as dim as twilight firs,
And wilder than the wild-wood burs;
And, like a night-bird, now and then--
And now she only stood, asleep,
And dreamed--and did not wake--who weep!
It is not in this world of mine
To sit and drink a cup of wine,
And yet to pour the soul's repine,
With this cup of mere mortal drink,
Thus cradled in the soul's repose;
By some such friends to friendship true,
By friends to sympathy opposed,
By friends to sympathy opposed,
By hearts allied to love and hate,
By souls allied to love and hate,
By souls allied to love and hate,
By souls allied to love and hate,
By souls to sympathy with fate,
By souls to sympathy with fate--
By souls like these--and none more brave--
By souls like these--and none more blest--
By souls like these, till death's cold grave,
By souls like these, in this cold grave,
By souls like these, by heads like these,
======================================== SAMPLE 946 ========================================
, from _The Evening of the Counts-Platonic_ (vol. i.
_The Counts-Platonic_, or _The House of Fame_, is not remarkable.
_The Cavalier beating the gate is furl'd._
_The Leper brand _Hemlock_ in his cheek,
And all day long the deadly jest he mocks:
The merry lute, in barbarous fret,
Shall cease to caper on the crowded rocks._
_The gleaner's boy at evening sung,
The westlin's laugh went gayly to the throng;
All still, amidst the pumy throng.
The wine-harp heard the summer din,
The hounds advanced, the deer retired,--
And where this wild and noisy revel
Where Beauty dwelt, those verdant revels caught,
The hounded stag forbade the sportsmen,--
The stag advanced to meet his master,
And kiss'd and died beneath the linden.
And now, as through the wood the red deer runs,
The sportsmen seize a tawny timbrel;
An antler's straggling length surpasses
Green Tityrus, in his crimson tushes.
A whistler comes--the hunters seize him;
Now, howls the hoarse-lone wild-fawn's murder;
The hornet breaks, the hunter follows;
The stag bounds on--each huntsman follows--
And now the chase o'erflows with slaughter;
Each huntsman thumps the scent around;
"Come, join the chase!"--the shouts resound.
But hark! a cry of revelry,
The dance-hall's soon forsaken;
And now, with o'er-labor'd step,
The merry hornbook gains the ground.
"Come, join the dance!" the youth replies,
The merry gambols soon are broken.
The sportsmen seize the early bowl,
The sportsmen seize the early banquet;
The sportsmen seize the early bowl,
The sportsmen seize the early banquet.
Young Dobson at the dance betimes
Starts eager from the chase with crimes;
He joins the sports in gay attire,
The sportsmen seize the early lyre;
The sportsmen seize the early ball,
The sportsmen seize the early ball;
The sportsmen seize the early ball,
The sportsmen seize the early ball,--
And now, with o'er-labor'd mien,
The sportsmen seize the early ball,--
And now, with o'er-labor'd mien,
The sportsmen seize the early ball,--
And now, with o'er-labor'd mien,
They wheel the sportsmen round the scene.
Young Dobson, in his nimble mood,
Employs himself in "right and good;"
The sportsmen seize the early baize,
The sportsmen seize the early baize;
The sportsmen seize the early ball,
The sportsmen seize the early baize;
The sportsmen seize the early ball,
The sportsmen seize the early baize;--
And now, with o'er-labor'd mien,
The sportsmen seize the early ball.
Young Dobson does not spare his sport;
He sports with new-bought game or sport;
A jovial life he needs must lead,
At whist and pike, at spur and head;
With all the gallant sports he chases,
Yet has a inclination for 'tisancers;--
The sportsmen seize the early baize,
The sportsmen seize the early baize;
The sportsmen seize the early baize,
The sportsmen seize the early baize;
The sportsmen seize the early baize,
The sportsmen seize the early baize;--
With O! the game is fairly done!
And now the game has ceased to run:
Young Dobson is already won.
Young Dobson does not care or know!
He winaves with a nimble blow;--
The sportsmen seize the early baize,
The sportsmen seize the early baize;--
The sportsmen seize the early baize,
The sportsmen seize the early baize;--
The sportsmen seize the early baize,
The sportsmen seize the early baize;--
The sportsmen seize the early baize,
The sportsmen seize the early baize;--
The sportsmen seize the early baize,
The sportsmen seize the early baize;--
The sportsmen seize the early baize,
The sportsmen seize the early baize;--
The sportsmen seize the early baize,

======================================== SAMPLE 947 ========================================
, and the
"With the last two stanzas and with the second one is the
"A story on the Lydian coast has spread,
And showed, as I remember, where we lay
Under the golden canopy of night,
The secret of the stars, and how they came
From out the hearts of men and women pure,
A fire, a flame to us, a vapour-spent,
To light us and to lead us to the light;
But we, who walk with them forevermore,
The old, the wise, the good, the beautiful,
Walk with our memory and our thoughts, our blood,
And the great world of mystery of the West.
There, too, are we, who ever knew delight,
And always found them out as in a sleep
In one more grave than immortality;
Where sleep the wanderers of the fleshly world,
Or see the wandering eyes of changed men,
And lift the dreams to eyes that long ago--
Unshaken in the heart, or over-worn,
The women and the children and the child,
The sick, the young, the beautiful, and strong,
Rise to one goal, and draw our hearts and souls,
In one transcendent cycle of the Soul.
It may be, after all, the Soul hath fled,
And is no more--no more--the songs of song,
The cries, the lights, the hours, the hopes, the fears,
Still left behind the shadows and the gleams,
The wreck on ruin, the last, broken gleam,
The blight on ruin and the flash on fire,
And still the world's wheels move along the same.
The song of a man, the song of a woman--
This song is of her that is always new,
Of her whose faith was her way to the light,
That ever has grown, and ever shall be through,
And all which the world hath set her with her.
What ails the grave--what ails the grave?
The grave of a man in despair,
The grave of a man who will not rise,
His days are full as the grave,
His nights are full of the dead,
The dead are full of the dead,
The dead are full of the dead.
For out of the grave there is neither grave nor city,
And where the land that slumbereth is pleasant,
Where the dead men rest--where the dead sleep best;
Where a man's like a friend that is gone and dead,
And the young man's heart beats high for his cup,
And the young man dreams in his pallet or bed,
And all his troubles are ended with sorrow,
And all his hurts are after, but to thee--thou.
For the song of a man in despair,
The song of a man in dismay,
And the night wind sounds, and he hears not, nor hears,
And all the heart hath a tear,
To the song of a man in distress,
And the night wind sounds, and he knows not, nor hears,
And all the heart is a-dying with sorrow.
In his home is a house where delight is high,
A home where delight is unknown,
A house at whose end all the wise forget,
And sorrow is desolate where love is a-lying,
And sorrow sits ever a-glad,
And the heart of the stranger is aching for pity,
And death, ever a-cold,
To the song of the singer is a-glad,
To the singer is a-glad,
And the heart of the singer is a-glad,
For the singer is a-glad,
And a-glad the night is a-pass,
And the lips of the lover are a-glad,
And sorrow sits ever a-cold in the night,
And the heart of the singer is a-glad,
For there's nought but to go,
And nought but to go;
But the song of a man in distress,
And the song of a man in distress,
Hear what the wind sings:
"_O my love, my love,
I have no words but hands._"
But my love's song I never can forget,
And my song never can forget,
For the song of a man in distress,
And of his woes no words are yet:-
"_For thou must grow old,
And thin the hair,_"
And the song of a man in distress,
Where the tears fell so thick,
And the voice of the singer was a-glad,
And sorrow sat serene,
While the singer sat serene,
And the harp of the lover sat se
======================================== SAMPLE 948 ========================================
, _Inventor_.
By the Sea, the whole year I stand at the door,
With old men all gone grey along the grey;
I listen and wait like their old comrade's train,
But ever, anon, at the hall or the door
A woman comes out, and my heart breaks again.
She is young, and a woman I know, and my heart
Is a woman's, I know,
For her thoughts are sweet with her presence so,
The music is tender, the light she is bright,
And the lilies are blooming, and the tall pines are smoke,
And the brown streamers are laden with yellowing heaps,
And the lilies are laden with white stalks of hair,
And the dark and blue river is laden with blossoms,
And the roses are blooming, where hearts are astir,
By the sweet and the dreadful and desolate lanes
That lead down to the harvest marts of my soul.
I am sick of the past and the things that have been,
Of the noisy and idle, the noise and the tears,
While life and I have run into my brain,
And drunk deep down in the light of the sun.
Oh, the dashing and reeling and jangling of wheels
That have worn me so long in my search for the goal,
Have filled my eyes with the splendour of stars,
And are turning to dust from the rush of the past!
I am sick of the future, the beautiful day,
The hope, and the shadows, the manifold calls--
My heart is filled with the wealth of you, dear,
But never the dreams of all the dreams you hold.
In the high fields of the heavens a place to be found,
Where the trees are ever green or the trees are tall;
And the breeze is ever softly sweeping the ground,
And a man that has loved isn't a fellow in all.
There's a man that has loved, and a man that has lost,
But the man is the flower of all,--he is fair and young.
I am proud with the world when I've kissed you last night,
Of the things that I used I don't know, and why I don't know.
There are folks that have longed for love and a word that was free,
They have drifted, and drifted afar from the world that was me;
I've been lonely for years, I've been lonely since then;
I've waited for love with my heart and a man that I've seen,
But it's all for the love of the things that was lost to my mind
And the life of the things that was dear and the love of my kind.
There is joy in the open, there is hope in the gray;
I'm a boy on the top of a cliff, and a man on the spray;
And a sailor's a sailor, and he lives in the sun, you see,
And he whistles a song on the wind when the day's at six.
I see a little cloud on the cliff,
And it's just its voice as it rocks and raves:
And a beautiful wind goes up and drifts
O'er the track where the first big cloud waves.
And when I see it sweep away,
I want to whisper my little word;
It is but the cloud of the cloud--he's a speck.
And I think, when I'm big and warm,
I'm just as glad as a schoolboy will,
And as proud as a wind-clad arm
That the best clouds keep all day still.
And the sky looks blue and my sky looks blue,
And all my dream of the summer air
Is bright with the dear old dreams they knew,
And the sunlight, bright with the golden hair . . .
And my eyes, so free from care,
Are glad with the things the rainbow dreams
They live in, happy, calm and fair . . .
And my soul is glad with the things that are,
And I wish, if I call them my,
That something I never could give,
Or keep, for the sake of my long, dark love,
Could only come back to me,
Could only tell once again
The love of the things that are,
The love of the things that were,
When I was a boy, when I was a girl,
And the birds were building building building blocks;
And that was all, if it ever came back
To the place where the stars were beginning to shine--
For the stars were working themselves in my heart.
We walked through many a garden,
I and you, and we,
Through all the summer-time,
Through all the summer-time:
And the roses of all the
======================================== SAMPLE 949 ========================================
, as in the old days of his infancy.
He died, and is not far from his country, and has become
a physician in extremity and weakness, and has little wit beyond
he has to guard him lest a great disease take from him all the
The disease which has been thus far began first in Greece.
And now the sick man who was always ill becomes a faculty of
virtue, whereby he is called to his aid. So that the decrees of
which every physician had been made, may be made to avoid the
shelter of the sick. This practice became unnecessary afterwards,
when any physician was so called upon in his time, the bungler
was in no manner a great physician, but the bungler is a most
bad fellow. And when this death closed my eyes, I did not
believe that nature tended my life and would not die; for
having been a youthful surgeon I was called upon to tell the
young fellow that I was only four years old, and that he wanted to
bring the fever in an hour.... And he said that, after a
careful while the patient sorrow came on, he always went on to
fetch a whiff of the tobacco of the tobacco of the poor,
the distemper, and I, in spite of my woe, ventured on too
large a portion of the liquor. Then I vowed that I would
never take him into my arms again, so he was forced away in
the desert under the desert, I would then resume it again."
In short, it was a sweet sensation to see a little new
house in an alcove, with a garden walk leading up to the river
trees that were covered with grass, flowers, and herbs,
"I am afraid that the young man will be angry with me if he
contains these things on you."
I did not listen to his counsel, and bending my face I saw a
little wicket opening to a new garden gate on one side of it.
"Hark!" said the young man, and he went on to tell the maid,
"I am afraid that whenever young man grows old you must leave
behind him the chances which he shall want. But he is a rich,
young man, he has everything that a rich merchant need, and can
make a fortune for one that is willing to sell for his daughter.
So I turned my steps towards that garden gate and entered it
in the hope of reaching further my heart's door through which
I did not meet the questioning of my heart, or of my fears lest
I knew before I went into the house.
"What happened to you in the third moon?" inquired the young man
himself in surprise.
"The new moon I saw," he said, "from the east."
"That's nothing," I answered. "Nothing, nothing."
"What happened to your father?" asked the young man, as he bent
his head under his pillow, "that I was only asleep when I
saw it, and all round it there was a light! And that light
found its own way back, leaving the footprints behind thereon
in the garden-gate. And it seemed to me that it must have belonged
to the house of my father's wife that there was no one to
her, but only Isau, the daughter of Lamech, who is my husband.
I asked no beggar to give me shelter, and no one answered.
"I am so sure I do not know," said I, "that I do not wish
that I could have a hook that croaked upon the crook."
And he handed me a small olive-branch, and bade me take the
bundle-murderer from the hearth.
So we set out to take the little volume of the legend,
wherewith, according to Plutarch and the French, there is no
matter. We took the collection of the story, and set out to
"What was it all about?" asked my husband.
"About twenty-five," he answered, "eleven years ago?"
"That was seven years ago," said I.
ground out of the ground in front of me.
"Sail on, sail on," I cried, "and be glad of port at the
"What did your husband do with the shivering red hand?"
"What did the young girl do with the shivering green shawl?" I
said, pointing to the boat.
"Did any of you lose her?" the girl answered.
"That was a bad thing."
"But it's true," I said, "I'm not at home like that."
cavern."
"Well, but it's clear," I said, "that I'm not married."
"What did the young girl
======================================== SAMPLE 950 ========================================
! etc._
_Lor._ Why so?
Lest the world heed you when you ask them,
And when you answer, "I am welcome"?
Here I am coming from my work.
Here, here I am coming from the farm.
Here I am nigh thee to behold,
Here I am waiting thee for love.
Here, here they are all who have left me!
Here they are all who have left me!
Here they are all who have left me!
Here they have all been waiting for me.
Here I am here the only one!
Here I am here the only one.
Here, here they are waiting and waiting;
Here I am not till time has run.
Here, here they have shown me the best of all!
Here is the one I love to meet.
Here they are waiting and crying for me,
Here I am here the only one!
Here is the one who gave me an hour ago,
(I remember in long ago,--such a joy there was in me,)
And so he has left me since the rest to go.
I saw the white gold moon in the sky
Laugh across from the city gates
With people and some little child
And no one going home at all.
And here they are all who have left me now.
They have left me here the only one!
Come, come, come, let us be together!
I have looked into the flower-white town
That is seated afar in the sun
And the lake below it all is bright
With a castle above and a palace down.
On the terrace of the old town
Sit I now, and for hours have gazed
On the long-forgotten trees
And the meadows of the ponds in the meadows.
Long ago there were valleys and forests
Down along to a river of sound,
Where a sound of singing and singing
Was heard from the lake below
And came from the top of the hill
Where the lilies of cool green waves
Lie scattered on the air
As if they were alive;
Where the lilies of calm white flowers
And the stars of the shining seas
Look up to the sun on their turrets,
And flit over field and tree
Midst the flowers of liberty,
Where the lawns and pastures appear
And beyond is a boundless space
Where the trees are shadows of farms,
And the valleys are only the outlines of farms.
_Lor._ Is it like that in this country
Adam madeAdam a devil?
_Adam._ Is it like that in this country
Adam was a devil?
_Lucifer._ Then it is, it is true, an Hebrew proverb says,
That an angel on the throne
Had left a fox skin round his throat
And a blue hood around his eyes;
His ears were open to the sound
Of clear waters on the beach.
And this is all that he has said
And most of all that Adam did,--
Men tell us, rather, that he saw
The seals, and they were covered with them
As with a cloth.
I remember the mountains,
That seem so near the sea
And the sea-brink,
All in the shining heat of summer weather,--
I remember, I remember
The wind on the mountain,
The deep-sea gloom, almost
Shelter than light, now and then forgotten--
All these remain, but these remain
As if there were no place to fill
Our hearts with a tale of love and a story of sorrow.
I remember the sea, the hollow sea,
That stares at the sky and beckons us on.
I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark on the sand,
And the white moon above us,
And the brown mist in the mulberry-trees,
And the sea with its clouds of mist,
That rises after rain in the twilight--
Have all been done for a lie,
And left us only a tale of sorrow,
A tale of a lonely life,
A tale of an old delight,
That is to be told in a ballad of ages.
The world has grown so good,
So full of pleasantry and joy,
That life has a thousand tongues
To speak of it, and a thousand heights,
And a thousand miles of sea.
But O, the sails are full of song,
The ships are sailing so far!
And O, the wind is loud and strong,
It rustles softly over the city,
And the bells of the gullies ring
Into sweet murmurs of the palm-trees,
Across whose shadowed harmonies
The evening star comes stealing.
And O, the wind is low and sweet
As any that you ever knew,
======================================== SAMPLE 951 ========================================
,
The day that comes too late,
Is not so dark as that which cometh first,
The sun must rise at noon,
And that may be the sky:
The first, and not the last.
The air of spring I have not drunk
Since summer first was leafy green,
And now am freshly green.
How bright the mountains seem to me!
Across the sapphire bed
The lark aloft is hovering,
As if with all his soul he might
Toss to the crimson skies.
So sweet the magic spell of spring,
When zephyr-sighs awaken,
And bees and roses wander
Beneath the singing beak.
But when the noon is nigh,
And through the heaven's deep blue
A yellow arrow's flight
Gleams, whence we looked, I'm weary,
And faint I seem to be,
That some day I may rest upon
The grassy plot that grows near by.
I cannot see how all the hills
Are cleft with double light;
But I will pass the river clear,
And find the silver-springing mere
Beneath the bending sky.
The sun a narrow shadow casts
Across the level land,
And, stooping down, a little while
Will steal behind my way.
Far out in the blue water
The fountain foams and flows,
And the winds of autumn laden
With a sound of woe and dreams,
And the brown leaves of the forest
Are tattered and torn and thinned,
And the leaves are astir sadly
Where the water-spirits are,
And the wind that comes from the meadows
Is sad as a funeral car.
I miss the old mill-wheel,
I miss the jingle of the stream;
The mill-wheel and the mill-wheel,
That mingle together and gleam,
And the stormy sky is bright;
But I have been forced to wander
Where the waters move in a shade,
And the branches in the meadows
Are a fading glade.
I miss the old mill-wheel,
I miss the water's soft caress,
I miss the reedy noises
That fill the air with plaint;
And the sweetest little wheel
That ever a wanderer trod,
Has been turned to a dull wheel
By the miller in the road.
The mill-wheel and the wheel are old;
And the yellow leaves of the wood,
That wither and whiten and hew and cling,
Have fallen from the branches low.
The maples have faded away,
The cacti round the parlour stand,
And the maples have faded away,
As a river dwindles to sand.
But in the midst of the chilly snow,
With a soft and dreamy tread,
The feet that have trod the cold earth's floor
Have never been stained with red.
The maples have faded away,
The robin has set his love to his nest,
The orioles have flown to rest,
And the yellow-bees always are weary,
And the yellow-bees always are weary
Because of the magic power
That has moulded the things so fair and bright
And the charm of the charm they hold so light.
The maples have faded away,
The cacti round the parlour stand,
And the maples have faded away,
Because of the magic power
That has moulded the things so fair and bright.
The breath of the morning air,
And the beautiful, slanting sun,
Are laid along the ground below,
As quietly as a child can know,
From the depth of its dreaming trance,
The magic of fairy glance,--
But I miss the magic power
And the magic of faery voice,
And the magic of faery foot.
The morning wind, by nature kind,
Is fanned by the cool breeze of morn,
And the happy birds of the woodland sing
To the morning wind, the morning sun.
The sun, through hours of afternoon,
Is poised on the edge of earth and sea,
And the birds of the woodland boughs are one,
And the birds are blithesome and free.
The sun, in whose bright, sparkling ray
The sky looks into daylight fair;
And the birds are happy and happy that day,
When the sun is shining there.
The sun, in whose sweet golden ray
The sky looks into daylight fair;
And the birds are happy and happy that day,
While the sun is shining there.
The sun, in whose bright, sparkling ray
The sky looks into daylight fair;
And the birds are happy and happy that day,
When the sun
======================================== SAMPLE 952 ========================================
-L20 to "The House of the Lord"--but, with
Such a firm resolve,
The "Traveller" soon returned to home.
He lived in his own home of life,
And he sat on a chair together,
A man--a man--with a blue-eyed wife.
And the friends of the other day
Came to visit his gloomy spirit,
And the eyes of the other day
That beamed with a love at duty:
He loved the sea. And he hated it,
Loved to be with the people; to live,
Or to hate himself and his money.
And he went to the door of his home.
And he said, "There is no one here
Who may find you so sweet an one;
But this lone one is beautiful,
Praises on a throne divine.
And if all the world were a dog,
This one makes you a sorry trail!"
And he said: "I will drag or kill
The old wolf in his box, and will
Not ask him to eat with a club.
For a man who can sleep as a lamb
Is a man of such delicate stuff,
And he'll die as a cat can die,
And no one will care enough to beat him."
And the old wolf muttered his teeth,
"It is time to kill the man."
But he said: "It is time to strip
His horns of ears from his tail."
And the fox was angry and sharp,
And the birds made mock of his skill,
And he laughed with his jaws.
And the fox looked grave, and he said:
"I will let him out of his mouth
And keep him hence alive."
And the ancient fox said: "I will
Not take him alive to-day,
And that is the law of the world.
For a man who can live as a man,
He is master of and must live,
With the other fellow creatures.
And to-day I asked for a book.
But there was a thing for me.
The old fox said:
"There is reason to think that we,
Who are so used to be!"
When the days are long and the songs are loud
And the berries are on the tree,
And the leaves are in the wood and the children are coming,
And I hear the robins sing.
And when the birds are waking the livelong day,
And the wind blows over the hill,
The children gather by the roadside flowers
In for their morning still.
The songs begin to rhyme
With the ancient times and evils of the world,
From the bush to bush and tree,
And all because my heart is weary
Of its own bush days and times,
And I would fain go out among the flowers
And drink the nectar showers.
The little birds are moving
To the tune of the soaring lark,
From the bush into the meadow
Where the dewdrops are bright.
Through the folded leaf is waving
The soft and golden air,
Where the daisies are blooming
Under the leaning sky.
The clover fields are flushed with sun,
The swallows twitter on,
And the yellowing wheat is waving
Under the quiet moon.
And I, through the quiet forest,
Where the ripe clod blows away,
And the boughs lean down in silence,
Not the very God I pray,
Has the world no better thing to do
Than to run and run and run
Through the tangled leaves and mosses,
And after every step,
With leaves of every name
And with dust of every colour,
Rid of every shape and color,
I would follow and follow
The path I came, to catch her
And hold her hand and kiss her
Under those flying blossoms,
And find her mouth and kiss her--
Cushus and nymph and dragon,
Wherefore they are all like this?
When the birds are getting early
And the breeze is out of the creole,
And the fields run brown as laurels,
And the furrows smooth as glass;
When the long day's march is over,
And when lights are out of the door,
And little children come to play--
When, clear of heat and laughing
All, all at once the stalks are bare,
And the earth is dry and clinging--
When, from the great broad earth he springs,
All bare and piping like a thunderbolt,
And the trees and bushes of the east
And all the things on every side,
Keep time, and where the day brings it,
Finding its blood and noise no more.
The great sun sinks behind the hill,
Like fireflies in a field of
======================================== SAMPLE 953 ========================================
 as we pass!
And they who heard the songs of all the spheres,
I only see the shadow of those days.
The sun and moon are but a pair of horns,
They blow in and they thong, I suppose,
They strike so light they pelt like a great dew.
We have no other thing to do but sleep;
To lie awake is but to sleep, I fancy;
Let us, if ever we shall wake, may see
Our dear Aurora and her glorious twins
And Daphne with her train of starry eyes.
And when the stars are shining, I believe
They are more bright than all the stars we see,
Or more remote than are the Milky Way,
Or the most certain course that we have seen
On the most distant shores when we have come
To the calm region of eternal peace.
And then the great stars, the moon, are we.
To-morrow's light must be another star,
And we must build two crosses in the sky
With other crosses, the moon's silver globe.
You say we suffer with our human hand
But, being human, cannot understand.
The little goddess with her baby white
Has wrought a world's deliverance,
And her fine golden threads for us have spun,
And all their threads are fine and long,
As we might learn to do at even-song
The science of religion and of Truth.
She comes to us like April leaf
That dances in the breath
Of morning when the woods are green,
And all the song-birds singing keen,
And the loud rippling seas of blue
Beats over the blue calyxed
Stigma of all our understanding,
And we have learnt to know and feel
How love's inexorable control
Clasped in the arms of perfect peace
Shuts hands of man to loveliness.
She speaks to us of vast unknown worlds,
She speaks to us of nameless lands,
Where God's great rivers run their way
Through mountains and the bosoming swaths,
Where light comes forth unfurled at night,
And the sweet sounds of love return
Only to us, who are asleep
Beyond the heavens, on this dark sphere.
And then I think of unknown lands,
And other nations and strange skies,
That have no history but our own,
Nor have a history but the eyes
Of us who live through all eternity;
Huge lakes that look on high,
Unshaken glories of the sun,
That sink as rivers sink, yet run,
To some small lake we dream at noon,
And, through innumerable mist,
Never grow faint, or fearfully,
Nor make ourselves grown strong or weak.
And there, while all the world goes round
Her stately footsteps walk the winds;
And we behold in that far place
The nameless things that move in space,
The nameless things that move unknown,
The nameless things we cannot find.
And sometimes when the clouds at dusk
Come like a dream, we turn away,
And look into the silent dark,
And dread the sudden fall of day,
We still look back, and cannot see
The very things we cannot see.
Then is the golden dream fulfilled;
The night that covers us is gone;
The birds, that sing across the eaves,
Their nest of spice where she was born;
The birds, that light the southern sky,
All dreamless where the stars have gone,
Are flown, and is the mystery.
I remember, I remember
The fir-trees and the swinging leaves,
The fir-trees and the shining grass,
I remember, I remember
Of old, long after twenty years,
How one day, bright with asters and with stars,
And glittering with broken spears
And dancing with the dancing girls,
I passed among the dusty lanes,
And stood among the dusty stalls,
And laughed with all the dusty girls,
--The careless, foolish things -
That frightened me, and haunted me
Till all the house grew noisy with their cries.
But now the place is still alive,
The doors are open, and outside
The arras, and outside there is no footprint,
No noonday shining on the floor,
No cranny but a candle-lighted van,
And silence only, and the silence broken,
And not a sound, and I have heard alone
The crying of the little lost ones gone.
So many, many, many, many years ago,
When I was carried by a blind-man's foot,
Upon a bier-note in the woods, alone,
And heard no sound but the far distant crow,
And lost amid the singing as of tunes
That came to you
======================================== SAMPLE 954 ========================================

"Hush! the air is dull and dead--
Noonday silence and noonday sleep!
Hush! the forest rings with bell and stream
As the winds--with but a transient peal--
Like that fairy sound of fairy dreams
Come floating by on this fairy lake,
With an elfin echo to each note
That the night-wind whirls with a fairy flute!
Hush! the wind sings low with a fairy flute!
And the night-wind brings with its breath a sigh;
As it sweeps the leaves from the tallest trees,
And sets them trembling on the Fairy leas,
Till in death the breeze drifts down with ease.
Hush! the forest rings with a fairy flute!
And the night-wind brings with its breath a sigh;
As it sweeps the leaves with a fairy flute,
And turns them trembling on the Fairy leas,
Till in death the ear can hear no words
Of a mortal melody of birds,
Till the heart by the memory grows strong
With tender prophecy of departed years,
When hearts within in every hour grew weak
With its own dear fleeting influence,
And a heart could throb with transient pain
And only brook a longer life in vain.
But the voice of Love--oh! desolate!
Now how sweet from thy green sunny wave,
Now the breeze, as it wanders by,
Whisper sighs, and murmurs sighs,
As it wanders on life's distant way,
With a breath of the breath of flowers to play!
"The world is full of beauty, dear!
And this thy pageantry of love
Will make us both to worship there,
And worship where we will;
For, like to these, it takes my heart"--
Love framed his image on my thought,
And all the charm in which was wrought
Of his own loveliness it sought,
Was wrought by some less powerful spell,
Which taught it how to dance a well;
And then the magic spell was wrought,
And thine, sweet soul, is on my heart;
For, though I may unloose my dart,
Though pierced with many an arrow,
Yet in the bosom of the Love,
Thou wilt not miss one throb of love.
I have wandered far from thee, dear heart, in childhood,
In my weary wanderings over the sea,
Now the tide is at rest, and the wind is still colder,
And the sun, like a wanderer weary and pale,
Sends faint sounds to my ear, like tones from the minor,
Somewhere in its cradle that sings to the gale;
Hush, as in repose, my heart-o'erflow,
It is cool, and it flows through the wild-wood,
And the mavis sings loud in the grove of the tree;
And the sun is reflecting the blessings it showers on me
As I gaze on the sun, from its beams shining forth,
And I think it a beam that forever will glimmer,
Waked in the depths of the gloom of the wild worldly cloud.
Go, my heart! there are moments of softness and softness
For the weary, the sad, and the way-worn, toil-worn;
Go! as the dawn through the sky, through the earth and the
streams;
Go! as the dusk through the dream of the night sets in glory--
Thou, oh, let me dwell where the marge of the Ship lies,
And the mists on its breast, and the woods in their mistyness
Fold over in hues from the eyes of my devotees!
My heart is the home of my heart, and its feelings resemble
The home of my soul, on whose bower I slumber in bliss,
And muse on the light of those smiles, that illumine the
While I view the green tree-tops tipped down from the top
Of the apple-tree where the pear-tree's shadow reposes--
When the sky, like an infant's dash on its breast,
Lifts its light and deep leaves in the sunset's blue skies,
While the breezes that wave in the gale sigh aloud,
And the clouds from the billows that sweep from the cloud.
Oh, where is man's glory, if ever an angel,
Who shall wander away from the path that he sees,
Or the face of the man who, like me, lives in that land?
He rests not with me, for the way that he loves;
He heareth not often that sweet voice of his own,
But heareth the low of the birds in their chorus
That sing to the hearer, that song of his own
======================================== SAMPLE 955 ========================================
t’s noble knight,
A giant’s arms from his loved arms outrage.
Now from his horse he hurled the trembling weight;
And all the crowd cried, and all ran thereto,
So fierce some fell, and all looked on, and laughed,
But he the most approved his lord and praised.
The rest they praised, and he spoke fiercely, “Why,
O Lord of men, hast thou not made us see
A mighty champion through thick death and dread,
Who us doth rend and slay without our aid?”
Then spake the other Saint, and bade him speed
To his huge car, that suited ill to need,
That on his shoulder lay a steed, and freed
The reins, and on the ground ride forth on board.
He thanked his God in heaven, and stretched a hand
To strike the car, and straight his foot he hit;
And on his breast he struck that sanguine strand
That lay before his eyes; that other bit,
His sword full-breasted, and that other fleet
Like a wild deer, that on the heath is couched;
And next that mightiest knight he slew who struck.
The duke made answer, “Dismal day I hold,
And for the third time amorous, and at hand
Doomed to inflict on us the direful brand.
But what avails it me to try, if I
By stealth may rescue my loved lady; nay,
Nor let thy damsel save me from the stile,
Who in thy name is wont my force to bear.
“I hold not love, but vengeance on a foe
Makes him my princely friend, who oft and oft
Repents me of his deed, and scorns to know
The false rep falsely speak, and foul defile.”
Whence, like a deer, that from the mountain hies,
His heart is turned, his eyes were opened wide.
But while he stood, he turned him back apace,
Nor let him turn, but turned his courser’s pace
Forced him with all his arms, nor him kept pace.
But Rinaldo on his princely person cast
Light, loud, and vaunting, “Lo! what mischief lies!
What boots it to assail us, if he press
Our princes on our side? or shall we die?”
He spake, and turned his horse, and from the keep
Them swiftly whinnied, to the city hied,
Where a green mead of grass the miles off spread,
Sweet with the scent of heather and of red,
And trees that waved in summer o’er the mead.
The prince’s steed the while Rinaldo rode
Thither, and showed his kernil in the dells,
And reached the thicket of the greenwood bade
The prince’s horse, who to his camp conveyed
The prince near where the forest trees beheld
The warlike Rinaldo, with a fearless look;
And there he turned him from his chariot, took
And cast his reins aside, that without fail
To win the dame, Rinaldo bent him low,
So that, ere long, from battle he might go,
To fight the damsel had been vain or vain,
And therefore in the forest rode again.
In all that loveliest band, which in the dell
Had stood with Rinaldo, Arthur was no bane,
But from the wild wood followed him, and still
The forest kept him following where he rode,
Where he might still find better use and cheer
The prince, and still find pleasure in the chase.
But to the monarch his squire came near
With lowly gestures, and in words like these:
“My love, behold these two, their damsels hear,
“The princely sons of Arthur here at ease;
“And they, whose heads are laid upon these trees,
“A stately band, of stature might produce,
“Of courage bold and might majestic too;
“Yet not for these would I a warrior try,
“But for my damsels broiders to apply.
“I came not on such warriors as their foes
“Forbidding: here might ever have been found
“One who would never in his life have known
“The valor of his manhood or renown.
“Alike in strength, and valiant in the fight
“As if by magic, (for the gift of grace,)
“His arms lay on him, in an amorous way
“His thoughts he led,
======================================== SAMPLE 956 ========================================
, and
_"To what did you say, Judas Iscariot, you must
have taken away from me?"
"I was just killing her.  What could I do?"
"But--" Is it the Duke?" said the Duke.
"It was the King's"--"Perhaps it is a king's.  What?"
"How can I leave her?" asked the Earl.
"If you would leave her, tell me you know,"
remained silent and night-shade.  "What shall I do?"
"Oh, I shall die of a dead man," then said Judas Iscariot.
"The King's dead--they shall hang him.  I will leave him.  I
mothers' loves, and she was a father to me.  She was only a
suffering daughter to Count Walter, son to the Earl of Waltham married
deferentially to whom he was an enemy.
"What were you doing?" demanded the Earl's servants.
"Making her a bed?" asked Judas Iscariot.
Then the Earl whispered--"Your plans are too gloomy.  No sleep you
surely will make me fall asleep for your sake."
"I should say that," said the Earl; "but the king's not here--no
wakes!  He has heard from Judas Iscariot who has told us his
"It is a bad thing," was made in the Prince's voice.
"Yes, so far as I've you, is it?  I have all the patience to
ask it."
It was in the first half of June, eighty-five years late,
during which, after this, it happened that Judas Iscariot
to meet them, was in the midst of the woods:  and she took
the berries with her hand, and kissing it, grew old.
It was in the fourth half of June, eighty-five years since.
She brought them the berries.
"Oh, are you glad, Sir?" said Lucifer, drawing his bow;
"Oh, I am glad I have found the fruit," said the Earl.  "We
have found it.  God bless you!"
But the Earl whispered, "It seems to me well."
And to Lucifer he said, "Am I glad, then?"
thought Lucifer, returning that he never had found it,
and the Earl was not saying it.
The Earl was then asked to know the Earl's mind.
He told the Earl that his eyes were not dim.
The Earl said, "Yes, I know there is something in the sight of
my Lady Henry.  Indeed, nothing but a shadow of doubt in
her face.  He does not remember anything about the flowers.
She turned away quietly, with but a little grace for which he
granted, and she did not seem to forget it.
She had folded her hand over her brow, and asked him to enter
through.  He pointed out in front of him, and the path he had
narrowed was not so dark.  She had a right to do so, and she
would have asked him to take away the flowers which he had
given him, but he did not remain back there in the wood.  It
was no more than a dream that his mind lay still and utterly
sorrowed, for the Earl put the Earl into a sleep, and followed
him in the wood.
At that moment the Earl awakened out of his slumber, and,
having left him, began to think it was no dream, but another
thought.
At this moment the Earl awakened out of his slumber, and there
they both were sleeping.
At that moment came the Earl's sons, and they rested the
ladder upon the floor.
"Hush, hush," said Lucifer, "you cannot hear me--I cannot hear
your voice."
"What is it, sir?" said the Earl, striding away into the forest
With our Lady Barbara, the bride of a splendid Earl,
who was so beautiful as he left England.  He said to her,
"No, thank you," said he, "I cannot bear it.  I am a madman.
But I do not take your time."
"At three o'clock," she said, and drew back a little, "Come
hush!" and away they have left the house.
So she went away, and found them sleeping some hungry night
after night, and the doors were all closed.
He started and was sobbing loud.
"Come away, or I shall rob you of memories," he said.
And he left his father's house to wander at night on the hill,
and watch the night
======================================== SAMPLE 957 ========================================
e, v. 80.  The first verse of the Eumeningans is
_After-peal_, 'Or would I die,' says Marjorie Dawe.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatium.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatium.
Perambulatii.
Perambulatium.
Pericpitur.                                                                   _x._
Pugmalion, and death of Sthenelus, and the Trojans of Troy, and the
Pestilenians. See the letter to this poem.  See Alexander Cesar's
"And from its mountain led a hill of stones."
_The wintry west extends his blast,
And gives the breath of heaven the day.
The golden eve descends in showers,
And Alpine Boreas drives to war;
Right o'er the mountains breaks the clang,
And from the plain the hunter trusses:
The shepherd mingles with the hills,
And, hark! how loud his bugle rings!
How blithely winds the welcome sound!
How blithely winds the welcome sound!
How blithely winds the welcome sound!
How blithely winds the welcome sound!
How blithely winds the welcome sound!
"Bid that the winds my hearth shall burn,
That earthquakes shake the solid earth;
And, hark! the war-notes of my lute
Within the virgin bosom of my lute shall ring."
_The wintry winds howl o'er the burnie high,
The sun's loud face beholds a bloody stain,
And shivers in his hands, for war is nigh;
With beating heart, with fluttering wing,
The raging hunter drives his war-hounds far,
While to my side he warbles sweet "A star!"
The moon shone on the lea,
In that lone grove,
By yon lone grange,
Where, with his sweetheart meek and mild,
The pensive sire
Was ushered in,
By yon lone rill,
From fell Apron,
With footsteps taken as he went
With love's sweet stroke
Upon his glowing cheek, and eyes
Of that dark duke, his love's sweet prize.
"Oh! for the time," he whispered low,
"When shall the young and old
Linger on earth;
While the wintry winds,
That never even should change their clime,
Shall breathe in our cold northern clime,
And say, 'Return, and come with time!'
Oh! that long years of pain and heat;
Oh! all the cruel fates could stay,
When fierce AEneas drove his steed
Across the waves of battle gray,
And he, with arms aloft, did guide
To Ilion’s walls and Ilion’s side,
And there he found the warrior true,
The manly weapon of his prime,
And bravely fought, and well he knew
His friend was coming back again,
So great a host of warriors plain,
So bravely borne in days of old,
Were never wounds or wounds to thee.
But we have plundered through the sea,
And if vain foes our strokes assail,
Thy life, O Troy! we yet may see,
And think, "Thus is it thou and I
Will leave thee dying or prevail,
Or die, for that which thou hast made
May be the hope of every maid;
And we will follow thee, O Troy!"
But not unmindful of that word;
The sad soul of the murdered mother stirred
To life, and with a slow surprise
She saw her tender son arise,
She saw the father of the dead,
With tears, as of a piteous bride,
And in his arms she gently spread
Her little ones, and kissed the boy,
And o’er her brow in gentle tones
The softest woe and secret joys
A deep farewell she freely
======================================== SAMPLE 958 ========================================
,
With a little silver trumpet,
To the King of the Thundering inflict,
The grandest war song of the Northland,
The grandest fight of the Republic,
Which ever an unborn child sings singing.
It is to him who hears it,
That ever the wondrous story
Of two persons in the Highlands,
On receiving the summons of heaven.
This is the story of Fabius George,
The First Professor and Father,
Which, as the doctrine of the Bible,
Kept him in unimagined obscurity.
There is a volume in the Bible,
In all the rest of the West ages,
Where I have lived for some time.
There is an old and steadfast volume
In each one's ample bosom;
There are no books upon the page with passionate
impression;
There are no books of noble birth,
No graves upon the pages
Of the glorious deeds of the middle ages.
The book contains all noble treasures,
Nations and tribes of heroes,
Prophets and all the noble stories
Of past times and of races,
Ancient histories and customs of nations,
Ships, sail, groves, temperature, hath brought them,
And the world's most noble stories,
Of the many-ruffled problems
The world's highest wants together found out,
Of the wondrous new unfolding of wonders in the ocean depths,
Of the wondrous new unfolding of knowledge,
Of the manifold creations of knowledge.
There are the tales of the Pythian,
There are the histories of Musulman,
Three times the most illustrious,
Three times the greatest known of science,
Three times the greatest known of science,
Of the manifold creations of science.
There are the tale-tales of the Seer,
The histories of the eternal world and of the wise men,
And the tales of the Supreme Seer.
There are the tales of the Seer.
The stories of the star-dwellers,
Of the wondrous Star of Evening,
Of the unchanging, unchanging, unchanging,
Of the unchanging, unchanging, unchanging,
Of the unchanging, unchanging, unchanging,
Heights of the earth, unchanging, unchanging,
And the unchanging, unchanging, unchanging,
Heights of the earth, unchanging, unchanging,
They exist in the Universe, they are everywhere, they are everywhere!
In the great new ages when men shall stand,
No marveling marbles and no writing scrolls,
But they, the wonder and the master,
Can read the mystic volume of their records,
Not in the records of the heavenly centuries,
But in the glorious pages of the seers,
And it is they, the legend and the prophecy,
Are they, the legends and the records of the mystic truths,
And they, throughout all ages, with the mystic truth,
Are they, the marvel and the prophecy.
These are, indeed, the symbols and the symbols
That earth, the ocean, and the universe, can hold.
And these are they, the tablets and the pictures
That the creative God-heart contains, in all the wide world's
creations,
And the mystic mystic mystic, mystic,
Have woven and were woven by the hand of God,
These are the marvel and the truths that are, indeed,
The truths that are, the legends of the seers,
The myths that are, the fables and the visions,
The fables and the fables of men.
They are the mystic symbols of the earth,
The hieroglyphic symbols that the stars,
The unmeasured symbols of the earth,
The mystic shapes and the belief, are they,
The mystic symbols and the prophecy.
The mystic symbols, the mystic divinities,
All these are symbols of the soul of God,
The mystic symbols of the unseen world,
The mystic fables of the coming time,
The mystic divinities, the mystic and the prophecy,
This is the meaning of the Earthly meaning;
This is the meaning of the Earthly meaning,
The prophecy of God.
The words of the Prophet are spoken,
The words of the Prophet are spoken in vain,
The words of the Spirit of God spoken
Are cut in vain.
The voices of these men of God spoken
Are cut in vain.
The world shall be lifted to heaven,
The mighty and solemn voices shall say,
They who shall enter in glory,
The sacred places of the Holy City,
And, afar in the distance,
Shall come to a peace that no human hand shall essay,
But rise like a song of nations;
Then the world shall lie in peace, and God's word shall be
======================================== SAMPLE 959 ========================================
 to a very few of
themselves.  Thus they came to a place at once, where, like
hastily they knew it, they found, without any knowledge of it,
the men; and in the midst of them there ran a man of
look.  With eyes of expectation gleamed forth the coming
of the father and mother and daughters, who quickly turned their
faces to each other; and the maidens saw and wondered thereat
wept, and with their hands made signs that the things they had
would be in the way of death, they would have seen the deed,
and they would have mourned the deed of their deed, had not
her father brought to her a mind of such as was hers.
Weeping then she spoke to him and smote him with her hands,
mourning the loss of the child by the way that the great bard
came to see, and he shouted to her and spake to her winged
voice in words so gentle as would have made lightnings for
the city.
(ll. 1-2da) And it came to pass that the brother of the
nymphs bare him pain and sorrowful to the house of godlike
speaker, who was bringing gold to his daughter.  And she
was moved with compassion to see the lovely shape in her
wondering way, when he knew the wretched man.  She clasped
his head, pale as the very death of her father, and wept
(ll. 1-3da) And she came to the high door and gave him a groan
before his face, weeping with the wretched man.  He bowed his
head and wailed aloud, but the evil man had no heart to tell
(ll. 1-4) "O Lady of the silver bow, if any god is pitying
her, he shall have help to make her a true woman."
(ll. 1-6) "O Nymphs, O nymphs, O nymphs, is it thus the
hateful woman has betrayed my husband the evil man?  I saw him
reft of his comrades, and the handmaid in her beauty laid
before him with her hands.  And she spoke unto him softly her
voice, that he might speak.  'Tis all that thou hast in this
house," spake the winsome lord; "but first will I bestow upon
me also the gifts that God hath brought me, and I pray thee
God do thy will, who hast hidden the wicked.'
(ll. 1-10) "But when she had brought him forth, and his face
was waxen wan and wasted with lamentation, then she said,
'Thou, I had a dream that seemed within a dream, in the days of
a happy man, when the evil ones led thee hither.  And now
when thou hast drunken of the sorrow of thy sin, think
ever of us and of thine own country, how thou wouldest
end to return to thy own home, that I may learn to thank thee.
O my heart!  If thou canst look the fogs that lie hid from the
heavens, thou must remember that I was the only person with
thee.
(ll. 1-12) Then, having tasted of the food and drunken, she
pondered them among his shaven ears and beheld him shrivelled
and bewept, when she lamented him--she groaned within her
heart, and she cried out, lamenting the wretched man whom she
knew not.  And his heart was filled with sorrow for the
wretched man whom she had lately doomed.
(ll. 1-13) "Go ye forth yourselves unto the house of my brother
and of my brother, and tell him if any of them will come
(ll. 4) ye may return and visit the house of my beloved
wife, who is at her door and raises a kindly offering to
me, and a liberal hand to take the gifts.  But now, dear
Lady, my heart is full of troubles.  I have many
good wishes and sorrows.
(ll. 1-14) All my affairs and all my wife's comrades have
for me, in the abode of the Blessed One; all my noble
treasure, all my loving duties and happiness, stand
there within the hall, in the outermost ring of the doors
of my house, whereof a record I have ever heard.  In the
walls of my palace there lay a large table, meal and
meat, and sweet honey; and there I gave meat and rare
drink offering to my noble wife, who sat at the board, and
was glad when we sat down and feasted.

======================================== SAMPLE 960 ========================================
,--a
There is more still
Than the grave itself, more great
Than the grave itself, more great
Than its tomb, with the eyes of Kings,
The eyes which in blindness weep,
The tongue's deepest utterings,
And the tongue's deepest utterings--
In thee the regent's regal choice,
Whence even heroes' blood and voice
Have for a hero won.
And if the soul which thou hast made,
As all thy thought can,
By right of thee be deemed thine own!
Let the dead ages long to come,
To thy power bringing home,
To thy spirit bringing light,
With a joy too bright for sight,
With delight too great for sight,
With a hope too bright for sight,
With a heaven too dark for night,--
To the rest would come with thee,
In thy spirit bearing to-day,
All the rest thou couldst not see
In thy being bearing to-day,
Like the stars, round thee, their way,
Thou shouldst find thy rest and rest,
Like a babe, to whom a nest,
In the sunshine, of life's best,
With a voice like any angel's,
With a smile thy soul to cheer,
With a heart of joy, like mine,
To welcome thee in thy gladness.
There is nothing good in living,--nothing good in dying,
Nothing good in death,--
The good that is, the blessed breath
That makes life sweet and sweet;
Nothing of ill, in the good of life.
That is life, and that is death to all,
This life of sin and sorrow, which no tongue shall ever dim.
This is life,--and that is death;--
The heart that lives against the breath,
The tongue that speaks, the breath that sings,
The breath of spirit, and the heart
That gives the soul its wings.
Now the days are swift, the years
Can never sing to me;
I have lived, and now life is death.
I have seen with joy and fear
A little maid with shining hair,
A laughing face, a glancing eye,
A lovely face for gazing on;
But now I know I have been wrong,
I know I have been good a long,
I have been abused, and abused.
Through all the coming time,
Through all the lonely coming time,
I have not faced my fate.
I have not scorned nor sought to blame,
I have not seen the kiss of shame,
I have not lost the kiss.
And though my life had given birth
To such a simple child as earth,
And all my hopes to heaven,
I have not stood for scorn
Upon the edge of time,
The dawn, the sun, the moon, the stars,
My own, not following me,
Bowed my proud face and my proud heart
In the dust of caste,
And I am still to love.
I will not hate with all my powers
Whom God delights in his fair face,
Who in the morning of his days
Holds revels; whom he worships; who
Hath taken on his tawdry meal,
Bereft of all the breadomites;
Who, when the sun goes down; whose sight
Is dark in the horizon bright,
Doth laugh; whose cheeks are rosy red
With daintiest morsels, ruby-red;
Whose voice is like the cuckoo's note;
Who hath his love forgot,
As in the apple apple-blossoms
The bees hive by; who is his lord,
And follows with him when he bends
To gather dew-drops; whose lips,
Odorous as lips that taste,
Roses and bell-flowers and myrtle,
Are stained with blood, and when the west
Yields to the south wind's restless breath,
His love is mine.
Who cometh with the night and drowses to the grey-bearded pond?
He cometh in a fisher's garb of twilight,
And standeth at the arched water's edge.
O river of the unquiet heart!
O shadow-hunting soul that leapest not,
Thou seest this pale cold water-snake.
For, look! the lilies, the sweet lilies,
Are white as snow, and blue are they;
There is a garden in his way,
And where I go I know a maid,
And she hath found it, and she said,
'Farewell, my heart, since thou art dead,
Farewell, my lips, since thou art fled,
Farewell, my
======================================== SAMPLE 961 ========================================
 my grave.
_The Lady_, in the form of a swallow:
_The Lady_'s only daughter,
That lives in yonder green memento,
That once was called Carnacane.
A thousand years it is since first
That I beheld the light of bliss;
Where a sweet, tender beauty treads
My dearest hand, as is her will,
At every breath.
This is her only daughter,
That lives in yonder green memento,
And she hath ta'en the silvery threads
Of silence to her eyes.
Ours is the time of parting,
When our last moments are so few;
When many a rosy cheek
And rosy mouth to meet agéd kisses
Shall blossom o'er the rose.
But she hath left her faithful
A home of quietness and ease,
Where the sweetest and the best
Lie severed in the toil of love.
O then, O then, be this our all,
This sweet and happy time of Spring,
When our sweet Lady's fragrant, armèd arm
Shall clasp her in its glowing arm,
Like the implacable aureole
Outstretching to the blessed moon.
This is her only daughter,
That lives in yonder green memento,
That once was plunged in deep, dark waters
To die in starry peace.
And this is the most damsel
Of all the nameless tribe who lives
In yonder green M'Gormen.
Now let us sit together--
Here, and the evening pass;
I'll give you all that's promised
To make the whole world sweet.
So may the stars together
Be heaven's bliss, my love;
So may the stars together
Be heaven's bliss, my love.
I never drank the deeps
Of man's unrest;
I never drank the joys
That men have known--
I never drank the deeps
Of earth's unrest.
I never drank the joys
That man's unrest.
I never drank the waves
That wanly flow--
I never dreamed there came
A cloud of woe.
There never came a cloud
To stain the skies,
Nor any came within,
Nor was there eye to see,
Nor any eyes to meet;
Nor would there be, a, a
Rose ever met mine ear,
A cloud of woe to catch
A drop of woe to hear.
I never drank the waters
That flow below,
That fell to drown the spirits
Who lived below.
They are the sport of fools,
Who laugh and sing
At pleasures they would win,
And die without a sting.
I have a higher business than the others have,
And cannot stoop to plod upon the level of my knees;
I am monarch of all countries in the distant seas.
I am monarch of all people in the far North seas.
For my court have never known laws nor strict pasces.
I am lord of all the borders in the home of kings.
My court have never known laws nor strict pasces.
I am king of all the borders in the home of kings.
And I ride swift and hard upon the high, high, high.
Then my horse and I together, ride, ride, ride,
And all the way I seek the open air.
There is no law, no law, but in the far North seas.
And in the home of freedom I am king of slaves.
There is no law, no law, but in the home of kings.
Then ride away to northward and be king of all.
There is no law, no law, but in the home of kings.
Then ride away to northward and be king of all.
There is no law, no law, but in the home of kings.
A man's soul is as an eagle in the sky.
But when the heart is full of songs,
When the soul is heavy with the woes,
When the soul is empty of its love,
When the heart is heavy with the cares,
When the soul is heavy with the weight,
There is no law, no law, but in the home of kings.
My love is dead, and my eyes are shut.
O let me lie upon the ground,
And be upon the mountain-marge,
And listen to the nightingale
That sings about theines of Ale.
When the mighty vassals of the land
Went to Ale in their sorrow sore,
The maidens said a little word,
And I was very much more glad.
They found the King a waste land off,
A land of woe for all his kith and kin
======================================== SAMPLE 962 ========================================
 the dog-star.
Now is the time when she who was not born,
With her strong lover, fled from Europe's scorn,
Did not desire to live beyond the skies.
A great deep sorrow, too, was hers to know.
The first time I could pray, because she did
Deny the heavens, and let their stars agree
That she could never love them any more,
And, though they pity those that ask, abhor.
Her soul had grown from what it was before,
A tender shell, a leaf, a lump of clay,
An Iris, or an orb which saw no more
Than the vast Iris with the stars up-glow:
And, if it might, it could not.  Her desire
A vast desire made one, that evermore
Was but the spirit of the woman there.
My soul, the garden of the skies,
Where the wind-raines and the stars
Bask in the water of our eyes,
In the blue shimmer of the far off spears
That leave their scabbards of the dawn.
The world-wide flower, and the sun-harped grass,
In the cool stream, that ever runs
With the slow plash of some soft tune,
As it rests and dreams in the dry dry grass,
A sigh on a moist, rich lip.
The world-wide flower that waits to greet
From our dust and from our seas
The rose of all our sweetest May
That ever smoulderingly stays
In the cool heart of the dawn.
The world-wide flower that waits to greet
From the depths of the long day,
A sigh that wanders from sweet feet
To the worn white of the way.
To the soft heart of the dawn, and yet
To the heart of the patient flowers,
That in a grey, green world have met
With love in the dawn's white showers.
The world-wide flower that waits to greet
From our dust and from our seas,
Has come as a tiredfoot meet
At the cool twilight in the trees
With the twilight after it,
While the wind that comes to their feet
Pipes sighingly with the dawn.
The world-wide flower has come to part
From our dust and from our skies
With the twilight falling with the night
Of the dawn, and blown perfumes
From the light of the stars that close
Her face in cold gray ashes of her hair.
But where are those white feet now,
Those soft feet tripping of white flowers,
That are as white as dust beneath the snow?
Ah! who is so fair now, so sweet now.
Her face, she says, that I should like to know.
My mother kissed me in the still wood:
But the wind of the high spring meantime
Crisped the blue heavens: I was not mute:
Only the wind and then the deep green silence
Stole on my thoughts, and left me all distraught.
Nay, let me rest a little, knowing not
That I have failed, however great of heart,
Though the day fall upon my being numb
With the cool twilight; yet even a rose-wreath
Lift not such eyes as mine to where she slept:
But like the moon, the ghost of that bright sleeper
Murmuring of a strange and feverish dream
Among the poplars of the winter-fields
She would meek-hearted grow meek-white and tame,
And my hot heart, in a sudden fire of shame.
But, ah! she had been loved me not,
Though my lips had never drunk of love,
And my wild heart throbbing with my thought,
Was it, O my lover, that she loved me so?
Nay, let me sleep a little, knowing not
That I would go to her in love and tell her so.
What if I told her of a day,
That day as it is, she might reveal
Her heart, if it had understood
The words that made them, and reveal
How she would stoop to me and say:
I have a kiss upon my mouth,
A mouth that hath no words, she saith;
A kiss wherein the fire of love
Began to prey: O happy chance!
She tells me it is I who dream,
Or what it is I speak: she says:
I am the daughter of a wise and fair
And wise and fair beyond compare
For that last kiss, and yet, I fear,
She is unlovely, but I hear
She is unlovely, but I fear
She is unlovly, but I hear
She is unlovely, but I fear
She is unlovely, but I hear
She is unlovely, but
======================================== SAMPLE 963 ========================================
s of gold:
And so, along the horizon of the day,
These silver-blossoms float till night draws on,
Like glittering arrows, and the glimmering fire
Of the first shaft, that flashes from the sun.
Here, while the birds are singing in the warm
Cheerfulness of that quiet hour, anon
They'll hear a great voice singing, "The world's end."
And lo! a strange and fearful sound is born
Upon the night-wind's breath at break of day:
The birds are singing: "Who hath 'tended 'way?"
And all the flowers drink up the honey dew.
Ah! could we listen to our mother's prayer,
And cease to cry, and cease to weep and cry,
How we should tremble, when, at close of day,
We saw the moon rise, lo! all the stars of gold,
With the great light, like torches through the sky,
Flash out, at sunset, on our darkened way,
A glittering splendor, as of blood and fire,
And in red raiment red, the blood of man,
Immortal, spake to man's great earnest plan:
"O Thou, Who holdest all worlds,--one, One, One."
O Thou, who stonest earth-bound rivers free
Of rocky beds, who stonest fountains,--
O Thou, who sittest on the throne of night,
Who holdest all creation free,--
What! we cry, "O Lord, whom we call God,--
"Who keepest all the heavens of the earth,
"And stonest all the rivers of the air?"
The Lord, Whose Spirit is the hand that brings
To touch and strengthen us: He is the Law,
Wrought in the dark days, and the dark days
That are to follow: we'll cry out, Dear Lord,
And never hear of human being changed.
We shall grow weary, we shall curse and mourn,
We shall breathe long and long and we shall groan;
And all the while we shall be nothing worth,
Our mortal weakness; we shall cry, Lord,--all
That men can do."
So, one with me, all things.
The good Lord said: "This day I will not take
One step, or look about for any end;
For I have made my heart a better hope,
And have not lived, nor have not lived, an hour."
And when the last word from the altar fell
To the glad light and music of the stars,
Then a strange sound arose, a strange voice rose
From the dead child who stood upon the floor,
A woman's voice, low as a phantom's voice.
They called her, clasped her, clung to her, and said,
"Let the dead child go to her mother's bier;
So shall her own soul be a living death."
They called her, bade her take her father's place,
With all her heart and heart to choose his own:
So, when the last word from the altar fell,
That voice went forth,--and all the air was hushed:
And God was moved, and all the sky was gray.
"For God, not me, is not the sacrifice
"With which he dies, and takes from me the breath
"Of life that must be his, and life, and death."
And all the nations cried, "Forgive us, Lord,
"The mother's self, for God was good to all;
"And he who dies for millions, shivering, still
"The Father's self, is not the one to kill."
It was in that time, when every man,--
So rich in that most priceless precious thing he--
That curious gift of God--forgot to save;
And to be saved, when life had reached its span!
So many poor,--so many sick,--so many sick!
That all the people cried, "Forgive us, Lord,
"The mother's self, for God was good to all;"
But none cried "Never in a world so poor
"To live, that is to suffer, and be born;"
In this good hour, the silver trump shall thrill
The listening souls of all; and the great sun,
All the God's glory, shine upon us all,
And make our children's hearts of heaven burn.
And next day, when the great day sinks apace,
And the calm eve begins to gather in,
I'll set the trumpet in your waiting face,
And blow that trumpet round your happy feet!
Yes, this is life, and this is all your need:
For all the hopes we trust,
======================================== SAMPLE 964 ========================================
 of the _Times_ I never saw.
He was the first that rose and lost, the first
That came on earth--a man of few account,
And yet so poor that he forgot the fame
He never had--the name achieved on him;
Yet he was one who sought to climb and sit
With his head resting on a kingly place,
And so was weary, having wandered here.
He was a man of honour and of worth,
But yet at times, though weary, did he sit
In such a way as to complain of death.
Though he was rich in many a master's land,
And other poets sung him on a day
Begirt with laurel leaves, of native tongue.
When he was gone he died and left no proof
When he was gone, and yet there is a wood
Close by his side that was not cast in nought,
For he who now was gazing there, saw nought.
So on a day like this, it chanced one night
He entered England in a sad dark time.
And to his family he made complaint
Of something he had left so passing dear,
That he might in some future toil a while,
For many a year, perhaps, endure the pain
Of leaving friends who had kept him since away.
Thought he, "We hope that I may meet again
Thee to return, my friends, and, in God's eye,
To make thee happy."
'Twas a certain way
The poet went, and not at all alone;
It mattered not; for in his heart it spoke
Of something he had ventured all on his
To reconcile--the good report he had--
Of the great duties of the day before;
Of all his trials and so little done,
Of the great duties that he longed to share,
Of the great reign he could not long endure.
So when upon this journey he had gone
And returned to Spain, the news to him
Of what had happened to this England-town
Made all the country very sad and sad.
So now he traveled on from year to year
Through many a lonely desolation,
And reached at last the ocean of the West;
Whence he was sent to a great city, named
Great Dover Street by name--a town of Thames.
And when he entered there a change occurred;
The river swelled like some vast river towered
And swelled with towns from Thames, and there stood he
With splendid towers and temples crowned; and there
Beyond the city's gates, all worshippers,
He saw the venerable Governor of Saint Lawrence
With stately pomp go by--multiply
The Puritans did call him from his palace
Into the presence of some foreign king.
And while he sat there, many others hailed
To him the news that had been told to him
That some one who had entered with his court
Had gained the throne for some few minutes, and
Having thrown himself upon his seat he sat.
The only secret he possessed was this:
To tell the people what had happened then
To some one else, the bearer of his state,
And to the other to have settled down.
And then he said: "I knew that man was blest;
Yea, he hath risen again at last,
And unto me he speaks and fills my heart.
I will relate to him some other time
And speaks in hope. This man before his time
Is crowned King Henry, who to England bore
Such virtue, that not knowing it, he died;
But for that qualities which makes a king
Of England's realm a poor immortal man,
His days make good the glory of the world."
And then he gave command that all should be
Until they reached that castle at the door,
And to those friends there of the good report
Returned the tidings of his happy fate;
And when they reached that valley, where they stood
Of his estate, and what he yet must be,
They still were wondering, yet for truth they feared.
And some the while were watching him, for life
In some distempered way, and others kept
Within his treasury, whereby the law
Had saved the men who served him in the war,
And the Redeemer bade them not go hence:
The few there were who kept from being poor,
And of whose wealth then lived a prosperous life,
Were ever named great men, although to them
Was no great matter; and so great the joy
Which one would have, being such as these there were,
In one man's mind which neither weight nor soil,
Nor spirit could bear to endure, aught like
The rich achievement of a crownless man's fine trade.
Nor was there anything, save, all
======================================== SAMPLE 965 ========================================
, for this latter-word being the best of
"So there's no one in all that is not going."
"Oh! the time will come
When, with love and youth, that was most forlorn,
I shall go in my ship to sea with the sun!"
With the last hope the tide
Is beating back
And making deep and black
An old song.
The ship has become a two-and-twenty sail,
And now they lie becalmed and awake in the dark.
I shall never forget to enshrine my dead
In the churchyard sod;
There's a pleasure not to be had
In a life of good--
A pleasure not to be had
By a death so sad.
All around I see them stand,
Stubborn, naked, and like iron band,
Each with a halter neatly twisted and short;
And he sends a man,
And his comrade asks,
"Where's my game?"
The sea rolls on its face;
The sky drops down from the cliff's base,
And the gulls cry over it, "See, see!
I have found my friend!"
And the wind in the tree-tops whispers, "Away!
Here's the Cuckoo."
"Let them rest
To their dens of disgrace,
While the stormy winds blow over the lands that were
bitten,
Here's a man that has broken his fetters, broken his hands,
And his poor old soul
Is bowed with weakness."
To the blindfold's end
The sea came on in a golden band,
And the mist and the wind and the bursting seas
Awoke in them at their advent,
Though the old folk keep 'em here.
"We have put him to sea,"
Cried they; one, two, three;
"He will never come back to us any more!"
'Twas a long way out of the fog-land,
And he was gone for a day,
And they put him to sea on a sorry ship,
And they gave him a bone to eat.
'Twas a long way out of the fog-land
Where the old folk live,
And they put him to sea on a dismal day,
And they gave him out of the fog-land,
And they gave him a bone to eat.
So they gave him a bone for eat,
And they gave him a bone for eat,
And then they took him to London,
And they stuffed him with pebbles sweet,
And stuffed his mouth with pebbles sweet,
And stuffed his mouth with pebbles sweet,
And crowned his mouth with pebbles sweet,
And crowned his mouth with pebbles sweet,
And let the sea come over him any day.
Oh, what a plague is that one day!
What is it all across the way!
The wind it howls the winter through,
And the snow drifts down from the windy blue;
The rain it howls in a wretched place,
And the wind of the wind of the north-land is cold;
Through all this flesh so dark, so old;
Through all this flesh so white, so young!
What for the end shall I do for thee?
Now goes the wind at morn
And the leaves all white are born,
And soon or late is born
The white moon-beams that gleam
In the wintry clouds forlorn.
On the mountain, just beyond,
Where the old ice waylayreth,
There I find my new love, come at last,
To my old love's home so far.
She comes with the wind from the land,
She comes with the wild waves' motion;
She comes to the light in our starlight wisps
But my heart is sore with the anguish of it.
She is my heart's delight,
To have her wandering measure,
And all the world shall be
Like a happy blameless rilling.
I love her through the night,
And through the day and through the day,
But my heart is sore with the sorrow of it.
I have no lord but this,
O my heart's delight,
Love bears upon his head
Love's tokens of a king;
Love bears a sword away,
And the love-light of tears
Burns in the eyes of maids
Who laugh beneath the tears
Of maids who laugh in vain:
I love her through the night,
But my heart is sore with pain,
O my heart's delight,
Love bears upon his head
Love's tokens of a king;
I love him, for the night,
But my heart's delight
He wears about his head
Love's tokens
======================================== SAMPLE 966 ========================================
, of which it is the most natural work of the
_Sæpe._, the first part of the whole, was Tityus by Dictysius
_Sæpe._  This is a favourite with the _Sæpe._
_Sæpe._  Also, it is a famousimer.
_Syrinx._  It contains the ancient Fable, the Phæacian Cave.
_Aus._  That name is not renowned, but used sometimes to fill
_Sæpe._  There is much more about this _Sæpe._
_Sæpe._  The Phæacian Cave is a part of the coast of the Hellas, and
_Sæpe._  They came from Pluto's subterraneous cavern, where he
_Syrinx._  The name of Pluto, which was given to Mercury, is called
_Scytis._  The name of a nymph, or goddess.  That name was probably
_Theocritus._  It was the goddess Ampelus, and called Diana the
daughter of Æsymnus, on account of his want of body.
_Scythians._  Cicero says that Apollo bore the head, and that they had
_Theocritus._  I will not omit to relate of this one to the
_Hephaestus._  By the Phœnicians, I have observed that there are
_Nysaë qualis rosaries convertit._
_Hephaestus._  Cicero speaks of his mother with a beautiful name, and
_Hospes in montibus orna petit._
_Nymphaëlianou parvam huius._
_Theocritus._  The god Theocritus is not very old, but he is not very
_Ad summas citari._
_Sæpe mei domum._
_Theocritus._  Poet,--a son of Jupiter, and Laodamas.  He was also quite
_Adripitum._  When he was only nine years old he was just twelve.
_Sigilla sunt eum._  The Naiäd sisters are evidently about to take to
arranged.
_Hepheumano._  Laodamas, daughter of Neptune.  The Paphian queen was as
_King of the winds, thus spoke._
_The following named, and the next named, are Mr. Flaccus._
_Narsing._  This, however, is the face of that S.[i.orks]
_One from Aristophanes._
_Asteropæ, which was the poet of the world._
D. L.                                    _str._
D. L.                                   _v._
E. L.                               _v._
E. L.                                    _f._
E. L.                                      _p._
E. L.                                    _gr._
E. L.                                _f. l._
E. L.                               _f. l._
The appearance of his corse contains some particular traits which are
frequently found in the ballads which are often written.
A. L.                                   _st. xv._
_S. L.                         
======================================== SAMPLE 967 ========================================
, by Mr. James Aneur; and Mr. Robert Aneur,
"O my deary! I'm told it is so--
Whether not at all, at all hours,
Aunt, sweet, tender, close at hand
As the clouds of spring over the land,
And the dewy moonbeam, at our lee
Like a flower in an April glee,
When kindly a-slinging, round and small,
"Grandfather's ball play; and so
At whiles, in childhood, on the green
Of the hills, and the green wood there.
Where the grass-flower and the moth,
And the violets grow, and the ivy weaves,
And the clover, pink and pale,
To shelter the nestlings on,--
Where the sunbeams play, and the breezes walk,
And the whippoorwill 'l ecstasies mild
As the rustle of 'longberts deep
On the tall corn-fields by the rippling sheaves,
And the moonbeams, softly, wake
To their fairy lullaby;
Where, in dewy dawn of the gloaming,
The blackbird and owlet know
That a milking maid is roaming
Beside her sisters' flow.
Now an olden dream is fading,
Now the vision fades away;
So long peace and rest are keeping
O'er the happy, happy may.
Come again, come again, then,
Come, the gentle Spring time,
Ere the swallows twitter again
Through the trees, in the glen, clear, green,
Fresh with blossoming cherry.
Whither go ye, wandering ones,
Whither fly ye, chased by the flies?
Ever wandering, ever free,
Where the sunny sunshine brightens
Sweetest flowers in the garden,
Where beneath the old fir boughs
Feeds the fowl of the forest,
Where the wild-cat, flying at night,
Gives the forest her answer,
Where she hides, to her gloomy heart,
Only one of the feathered choirs
Birds have brought to her dwelling.
In the boughs, in the darkling wood,
Where the thrush's wild cry grows shrill,
Many a bright nest unseen 'neath warm leaves
Is ready to give her tune;
While soft wings to oaten pipes
Make sweet music drawing near,
Where the wild-ducks, on mossy step,
Dash their acorn cups in fear,--
Meet you there in the scented gloom,
In the sweet, misty open gloom
Of the banyan bushes, pied
With the dew of the morning.
"Where go ye, wandering bands?"
Is the song to the wandering bands
Of the wandering minstrel?"
"Down, down, down to the fragrant shade,
Down, down to the leafy glade,
Down, down, down to the selvage cold,
Down, down to the silent kind,
Down, down to the awful kind,
Down, down to the awful kind,
Down, down to the awful kind,
Down, down to the awful kind,
Brown-wet, gray and yellow-brown,
'Neath the trees, in the wood, there dwells
A rivulet, foaming and sweet,
By the rivulet's murmuring beat,
Down, down, to the awful kind,
Brown-wet, grey and yellow-brown,
'Neath the trees, in the wood, there dwells
A rivulet, soft and clear,
Down, down, down to the honey-bees'
 hive, 'neath the meadow-bars;
Where the sunbeams kiss the bank
With kisses, and with a kiss,
Sweeter than any mortal thing
Ever kissed a mortal thing.
And she comes, the flower of men,
Tending, beckoning, beckoning
To this little fairy way
To her long, far distant May.
Down, down, down to the sere shore,
There to dream in the sun's warm ray,
Drift of flight, to dream in the night,
Her long, long hair undrawn,
By the wind, about her gown.
And she comes, the wind, the wind,
Bringing, bearing,
(Playing, singing, with her hair a-tingle,
For her hair a-tingle)
To this little fairy way,
To her long, far distant May.
When the moon and the stars begin
To their great Lord's ear,
The tones of the choir
Ring forth, as of yore;
And, down from
======================================== SAMPLE 968 ========================================

Of the dead of the past; the years
That have not any history,--
No chronicles of those dead ages
That have not any history.
They are rich, and they are wise, and they
Are famous, and they cherish life
In the depths of a generous mind:
They are learned and at the root of all
That man is from without and can,
And from the root of all within
They prophesy what no man is;
They are weak and frail as clay,
But the roots in their hands are strong!--
What is that which they reveal?
Is it love like love that's cold,
Or does it love with the same old
That is born without and within?
We are poor in our own worth,
We are rich in our own worth,
And we have the seeds of earth,
But the first spring rains from the veins
Of the soul that is born without
That shall not exist.
We are little of earth, and yet men
Can prophesy that we are good;
We are rich, and not weak, but one,
And a strong man does the work
And gives it to the next man's son;
We are poor, and not poor, but one,
Can prophesy that we are good.
Then go on with your curse--but one!
If you like to go up and down,
I will make you rich in my store:
The sun and the rain shall not make you poor.
To the end of my ways one day there will come
An age that shall bring no tears,
And you shall not find the way to the tomb.
My path was the crooked of old,
And the wind blew my path through;
But out in the dark, by my light,
There lies a path that will take you in flight
To where the dead leaves lie deep and green,
By some lone road, but gone astray
We know, by some little way,
Is the end of the way.
To the end of the way that is right
There lies a road that will take you in flight
To where the dead leaves lie deep and green,
By some stray road, but gone astray
We know, by God's love, the way to the tomb.
The place where you wait for another heart
Is not far from the old love that has killed
A thousand memories,--not entirely,
But wholly away,
And between the dead leaves and the sun
That would be of no worth.
I saw the gray pathway of Death
Beneath that hill's desolate breast;
And I bowed to the weight of the years
That have stretched beyond all behest.
I saw the old road of life
Drowning the tears of a man;
But I bowed to the weight of the years
That have poured their dark pall on his breast,
And sorrow came back, and I knew
That the end of the way had been true.
I have known her face in the years
That are far from the living and known;
But I saw her soul buried deep
Where the lost dreams waken their own.
For I saw her side by the sea,
Treading the waves, sweeping the skies,
And ever I knew that the great Rock
Was the shrine of her glad renown.
But I saw the gold of her hair
Falling about her, and all
The splendors of all that shone fair
When the last dream died of the past.
She held in her hands what was best,
And I smiled at her pride and her wrath;
But I said, "I was slow to be tired,
And I did not know when it came.
"I never saw you a day yet:
So you think it a little: go down,
And I saw it your dream is, oh, so long
That you are forgot, and I think it a song!"
It was long in the fall when she was away,
And I was not as happy as happy could be
When she first came, with the light of a day,
And I was not worthy her first of my fee.
She kissed me, and blushed, and she took my warm hand,
And I am not worthy with less of her care;
But I feel she will never give back to me more
The thrill of the first love that has faded before.
The road was a long one, and there we began
A time when the sun came and the sky was a span.
Then I went back and out upon an old track,
And I looked a long time for the place to be filled;
But I found that the hill was a place of toil,
And the hills had begun for the fashion of man,
And I took my pack, full of laughter and talk
To
======================================== SAMPLE 969 ========================================
, the French
(Methinks the old men and rangers from the shops
Would never venture near a crowd in which they know
Of all their business).  And we have heard that, at one time,
A wooden horse-cart riding through the country
Was only fit for children to come through.
We never heard the horse-bells ring.
An idle thing is ...
Ah, but the old men tell me,
Out in the street beyond the world,
What can be better,
And which is better to despise
The folly of the world?
The street is full of shadow
And stars come out above it.
Gold dazzles in the distance.
The sky is like a shield
Where sunbeams play,
And no winds shudder
In clouds, in grasses,
That stir the dead.
In the world's heart a shadow
That moans beneath the shadow
Of a stone that will not be alone.
I have forgotten how
There was a time when I was young
And knew the joy of it.
The grey dust on a stone
Before my eyes is faded
By the old, old mood:
The dreary day is stilled
That lured me to the tomb
When the stone was with the rain--
And still the day is stilled.
This one can make a rhyme,
Or sing alone at night,
A requiem for the praise
And the forgotten dead.
And some delight to sing,
And some can sing in rhyme,
But all of them are lonely
Who never sang of anything.
The day is very old,
The clouds are ragged:
The winds are all of gold
And silver.
The hills are very sad
And silent.
The little quiet clouds
Seek silver:
Little thoughts that have dropped dead
Die out of silence.
The sun is very warm
Upon the quiet earth
And I am weary of my way
And I must rise and wander.
It has been long ago
That earth and sky are lonely,
When I was at my door
Of the old house where the young ghosts lived
When they were but a pack of dogs.
In the ancient quiet places
And in the open bars
Where the old faces of the old houses
Were always gentle and comforting to the young ghosts.
I used to know the little empty streets
Like the road where they used to go,
And I can fancy shadows of outline fantastic
And ghostly lines of shadow
Stretched between the trees to hide the sunlight
And the colour of the rose.
I used to think I'd find the way
Where the old houses always bloom,
And the green shadows of the elms are dancing
In the sun that never rests on the grass.
I used to think the little quiet places
Were fair to one and all my way
Through the glad summer with the golden shadows
Of the old familiar streets before the rain....
But now the leaves are all a-rotting
And my heart is tired of the long ago,
And it's only to see a road that is traveled
And the garden paths with golden stones and trees....
So it's all I have to go to see
With the closed blind eyes of the grey old town,
And its little face with its weary flowers
That is so often covered with dust and rain....
Will you come back to the heart, dear mother,
Because I will not go,
Because she never leaves your garden
To clasp another there,
Nor will you come behind my house
Because I have done my work
In other streets, and left the house
To wander in old quiet places
And in strange fashions?
As I came out across the fields
I saw a shadow in her room
And I saw something.
She turned and came out,
She went and came back,
She went and came back,
She went to live with me,
I was her body.
I have gone through the city,
For to-day I am weary,
For to-day I am gone
To the quiet place of my love
And nothing has changed me.
For what do I care
That now for a woman I am old,
And can be forgotten--
As I came out across the fields
I only came to the garden,
To give my love some glory
And take the hand of my woman
And kiss her mouth and eyes.
I have forgotten
What was once a flame, my mother,
But nothing remains of my soul,
You cannot think the roses I have set your lips upon,
And I will not remember.
I have forgotten.
The twilight falling,
Only a faint and flutter of the leaves
Is a sound of tiny bells,
And the wind is a voice without,
In
======================================== SAMPLE 970 ========================================
, and a very good
manner of the German.
_Lute, Musa, distancia, tendere cymbala_.
Sed cora, amor cochum datur, amorem,
Diana deis, pueri juvenis,
Et vox adsiduo germine dolores
A pedibus mulpa de lubrica sennore.
Quin hoc nisi admittere dotem
Nemo est: nisi, nisi admittere videntur,
Illa fuit? o quam bene tuta corona
Iustitia manus, omnium non habuisse,
Hortus ob hoc nostrae.
_Poss._ O praecepta, praeter propensius hastam,
Quo non secusus juris occidit artus,
Ora dedit gravi; quotis o quantus iunce,
Non ex natura sermones.
_C._  servanda quid aliter ex alitis?
Agnosterum genetrix: ut neque ad aptis,
Erit rem bene tutus.
_A._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_D._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_A._  servanda quicquid agat.
_D._  servanda quid alitis? Si quis tamen
Sylbres, si quando fletu quid alitis,
Sylbres, si quando fletu quid alitis,
Sylbres, si quando fletu quid aquis.
_A._  servanda quicquid alat.
_E._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_Cor._  servanda quicquid alat.
_F._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_G._  servanda quicquid alat, deus agat.
_G._  servanda quicquid alat, deus agat.
_G._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_E._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_F._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_G._  servanda quicquid opus agat.
_G._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_E._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_G._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_G._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_G._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_F._  servanda quid amant, et nomen.
_H._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_H._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_S._  servanda quicquid iam nomen.
_E._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_F._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_G._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_E._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_F._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_F._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_R._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_R._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_R._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_F._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_R._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_R._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_R._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_R._  servanda quicquid dum splendida tuli.
_R._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_R._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_F._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen.
_R._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen!
_R._  servanda quicquid amant et nomen!
_R._  servanda quicquid amant et
======================================== SAMPLE 971 ========================================
.
Of the old time say,
Of the old times say,
How was your heart in the times aforetime gay,
As when, as now, in life 'twas thought, we say--
What time we prayed we knew,--What time we prayed!
"We are coming, Heart, of long old times, to thee,
What time we are gazing on thy face;
And now with thought-things dost thou truly see
The old times, and the old times that we meet,--
And the old times, the old times, too old to fleet,--
The old times, the old times, with their emptiness,
And the old times lost,--and, losing thee, alas!
The selfsame power, and the life besides!"
"Nay, Soul," said the Moon, "and not to part,
But burn thyself to self in one sad flame,
And the old time grows old, and thunders home,
With all its noise, and a weary world of Fame,
And only a name, and merely a name."
"I, only I, who have lost thee,
Now know thee lost," she sighed;
"Only I seek to free thee
From a world of memory's terrors,
And to be thy heart's guide."
'Tis done,--the fatal thread is sever'd;
Her soul has lost its earthly ties!
The world has dropped from Heaven, and is sever'd.
The world lies drown'd amid the chaos;
The stars alone with them have fix'd their places;
And a soul, alone, has risen through space,
A soul, alone, has risen through space!
A soul, alone, has risen through space,
And all around, around it,
Are bound, all fix'd, all distant,
To a true, a true, a true, a existence of the soul.
And thou, O soul, for ever,
By every change in thee,
By every change in life, through all eternity,--
As thy soul, in earth, air, water, sea,--by every change,
If ever, except thine own, thou didst arise up above the
things that were given thee,
Behold, how all the mighty ones who look on thee are powerless
asleep!
See how they move, the awful ones, the hosts of the new life,
The mighty realms, the mountains, and the rivers and the oceans,
The mountains, the great mountains, and the thousand streams;
Each one a thousand thousand, thousand thousand thousand;
Each one a thousand thousand, thousand thousand thousand,
Millions of souls, rolling in the infinite wind.
In vain, in vain! there is no place,
No friend, a friend to bring thee peace,--no place to show thee,
No hand to touch thee, or to give thee light,--no place to turn thee
The sun is always brightening in the morning,
And, like a dream, all the world is blooming;
The night is never dark, and the stars alone
Light up their torches in the sky,
And everywhere is growing life,
And everywhere is heavenly joy.
My soul goes up to thee to-day,
And goes on stealing into thee,
A little way, and not too slow,
The world is ever turning as slow.
All things drop lamely now; at last appears
The death-tide's glimmer; but it was at last,
And all thy childish feelings are o'erpast,
And all thy wishes are forever o'er.
Then shall I, in this lonely night,
The clock that ticked thee with its wheels
Find out a language used to thee
By love--which is a living light,
And all is bright beyond the grave.
The lark has scarce begun to sing,
The sun has scarce begun to peep,
But with a glorious hope, he comes,
To chant the morn aloud of years,
When thou shalt bear him back with thee;
For Nature gave thee a blest birth,
And sent thee all thy wishes forth,
Ascending from thy very self,
To shine and clothe thyself in him.
So shall thy life long run its course,
As thou in life's eternal cause
Must shine before it is so brief,
And, like thyself, be too soon done.
My soul has had her daily work,
Count'd, and described and comely, and
My joys, my sorrows, and my griefs,
And that I may not say them now.
The grave, which I have loved so long,
With a strange pleasure turns to pain;
But that's not all; for grief and wrong
Have
======================================== SAMPLE 972 ========================================

Hasten to me? -- What think you? --
"What!" repeated Mrs. Ponsonby,
"You're afraid of me, though you see yourself;
That is, if you are cautious,
"There's no harm in making one at all;
You will never want me to see you again."
I remember, I remember,
In my life's far-away, distant years,
How I shivered and shivered in cold clime,
When I thought that those cold clime
Would be gray dawned to me.
Then I knew that those shuddering eyes
Were but clouds that, as now, will be gray
Behind a sky,
Where the thunder of cannon far-off rolls.
I remember once, when the cannon's red signal
Told where the terrible battle is ended,
How, with the lightning, my heart was in danger,
And how my soul trembled and fled to sink under
That looming death-shadows themselves.
Then, on the battle-plain lying there twisting
Like a madman, I knew that they never could bear it;
For each of them said I was dying for glory,
And that they were dead,
And that my soul, like a bird left for flight,
Flew for light.
And they said, "This is noble devotion.
Life, like yours, is full measure, but only
Glorification.
"O come with me; let us catch it, and go!"
But they said, "We will stay there our lives, until morning...
O! O! O! O! where does our banner prevail
Here to bear the death-shadows about me in Heaven...
O! O! O! where do our graves lie, to-morrow?"
It was three centuries after our battle began,
(When the clang of the helmet was heard at the helm,
And the shrapnel shattered the helmet of Toes),
When we struck and the clang of the statue rolled past us,
And we struck and the terrible echoes were still,
And it seemed to mankind in a dream of the ages
That the people in Heaven should be lifted and gone.
Yet our sword was feeble, and rested its sheath
On the mighty gonfalons of the foe.  And below,
Like a babe that is happy and gay in his path
From a rock where the rushing streams ran to seaward
It grew fainter and fainter, till gleamed at the eye
A glimmer of crimson, a glory, a marvel,
And the warriors stood round it and shouted and laughed.
On the morrow, a hymn of rejoicing was sung,
On the twelfth of the memorable conquering fight,
When a handful of shingle and clotted gore
Marked the path where our life-blood was dropping, and shedding
Its hot crimson upon the ground.
And beneath the horizon like ocean it flowed,
And the people were smothered and wept like a child.
For in days when the world-power is failing, and failing
Its strength on the earth but to keep us alive,
And its harvest of dust grow faint and avail
For the world -- and in days when the world's heart is failing
To the living alone grows life.
And the people that fought through the strife of the conflict
Still fought in their courage and knew that their fame
'Gainst the people was living and shone in the light;
Yet ever the glory swept on, and forever
The dark and the living shone out.
For heroes who died for a country they yielded
And fought for a cause 'neath the brow of the sky:
Where their dust is not dust but a cloud of dust,
And their tears are as dust and a cloud of the drear
Tears that fall from the eyes of the brave.
And wherever their home-lights are flying, there never
The glory of laurels goes down;
And wherever they live, there never heroes shall rise
Who saw only heroes of renown.
Yet many the years of their toil on the earth having started
A hero was born on that day. . .
The laurel was born with the foam of the ocean,
And the laurel was made with the bay.
The laurel was sweet with the perfume that hung
Bright o'er the laurels that grew on the hill,
And the song of the birds was a melody song
That awoke when the world was a-throb with the fire
Of an empire from sleep and of sorrows to joy.
"The laurel has won his reward," sang the hero,
"For the gift he would give with the sword, and the crown
Of his life, for the triumph that he will win
In the toiling and death
======================================== SAMPLE 973 ========================================
t the bairns on high;
And there is nought to see but clouds and cloud,
And the roar of the torrents in the wind--
For we are one, and thou art all.
"But the night is not yet overpast,
The winds no longer woo the rain,
Nor the thunder-shattered clouds of Kings
Can ever reach thy shores again."
The shades of night the city shrouded,
The moon shone like a silver crown,
And the streamlet of the night thrilled round,
And the stars that sang on the broad sea echoed
A tale as strange as the ancient gown.
"I am afoot," the Spirit said,
"And the light of Heaven wanders low,
As we ride through the midnight hours,
And ride the ways of the drifting hours."
Away! away!
On the swift mountain-waves;
Swift as the star-ships cleaving the bay,
We bound the sky and the wild sea before us,
Our hearts ride on for the light of the day.
I ride as the hurricane
Brings fresh from the forests far,
I ride as the wind on high,
I ride on the wind to its uttermost wild crest,
Or as the cloud in the thunder blazed.
I ride, but never before me
The path of my life is lost;
I have looked for the land with beautiful flowers,
I have looked for the land with its mountains--
I hope for the peace of the deep and the sea.
I ride, but never before me
The path of my life is free;
I shall love the sea with my passionate soul,
I shall hope that the years will never dim.
I ride, but never before me
The path of my life is wide;
I shall find a soul that speaks not to me,
And love it and love it at the tide.
To ride, we love, for we ride!
In the ride of the wind we ride;
We ride, and we rise, and we ride,
But the saddles are all our own ride.
The stars are out, the night is out,
The road to the west is one;
I ride, but never before me
The path of my life is gone.
The wind blew up from the mountain peak,
The stars were still all the night;
And the steed was heavy, and silent, and weak,
And the weary head turned from white.
I cried, "Oh, love has long lived by me
For the land of peace and the sea;
Bid it come, for the land I love
Come to the land with the sound of the sea!"
I mounted, I climbed, he climbed so high;
He stretched at my feet like a stone;
I turned and neared a billowy mountain-top,
And a valley of granite and strown.
I looked at the valley of desolate hills,
I looked at the myriad things,
The silent sea and the white sea-mist,
But the heart of me only smiled.
The wind blew up from the mountain peak,
The stars fell down from the sky;
And the soul of me only smiled and looked
And looked, and I did not lie.
My head drooped close to my shoulders,
My curls fell loose from my throat,
But still the sea and its ripple hurried on
Till the moon came up from the sea.
My feet kept the print of the white sands,
My arms kept the graceful sea-shell;
My feet kept the moving sand-bars,
And the sand-bars the bar.
I leaned, but the tide kept rushing,
I gazed at the shifting sands;
And I swept on the surge of the restless sea,
And swept till I trod on the sands.
Swift as the swallow sweeps by,
Swift as the tide to the land;
But dark as the night when it skims the stars
I swam till the moon came nigh.
I climbed on the sands alone,
I swam unceasing to death;
The stars, like lamps in the midnight gloom,
Gleamed white on the barren beach.
With never a thought of mine own
I hastened to life's dim unknown sea,
But, weary and worn with flight,
With never a touch of sweet care
For my wasted life there,
I swam as a child of the wild white sea,
The child of the moon-bathed feet;
And the deep night hailed me fleet.
I climbed on the sands alone,
And the swift sea followed my feet,
And the star-dazed shore heard my moan,
And the wave called in my ears:
But the sea, like a knell of iron,

======================================== SAMPLE 974 ========================================
.
This is the tale of the young King Christ, of Edith Nesbit
children in the West, of Edith Nesbit, and of the beautiful
daughter of the grand-grand-child Wilhelmine, whom she had married
on the way to be born and to nurse her little ones, the
daughter of great-grand-child Wilhelmine, who would often as
beforetime bring her back to them without protecting her.
Finally it was the custom of the great-grand-nour kings to
be always to be ruled over strangers, but in the East the
whole kingdom of the blest is divided and the West is one
sun-eminently divided, the sun being one great part of the
equinoctial kingdom of the golden world. The Hebrew period was
celebrated by the blest in the East, because as the sun rose in
the sixth century, a day out of its course at Bethlehem, a day in
which the blessed spirits dwelt, as they had received of good
and evil, the holy virgin of Zorra, who had the sweetest
fountains in the world for many generations, which are so like
the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean, gathering in a hundred
herds and flocks [to be more fruitful] than any other river.
The Holy Spirit, in the name of God, spoke, speaking to them
this word:
"Wretched creatures, who desert the villages [if]
with the impious wickedness of their wickedness; who, in their
folly art, makes them multiply and nourish their progenies;
who, with lust of their own goodness makes them wretched,
devouring their own desires, and taking from the others the
living plants [which blooms], from the fountain-head of their
birth; whose thoughts bear away with them, like the
dissipate; who finally plunders the happiness of their
splendid deeds [the crown of glory].
of these things is a subject for teaching [God] to man. But
since in his creation the first proud plant is again seen by
in its first sight, in our understanding, the lion under
the moon is seen. It is often found that the lightning, when
shooting [which has descended in the same manner_].
The river Aries shall be called [by name].
The river Aries shall have its name [by name of the river Aries]
(a name for the river Aries). [the water] it shall be called
Mozaide, the river Aries, from the banks of the Reins and River
Nybuhr, its name is not given in the recording of Homer; its
waters, and places it on the banks of the river Aries.
The river Aries, also name the ferry-boat which its name is
Graikshank's Norns [by name of Aries).]
Here dwelt an ancient woman, whose fame and situation
Gave her outwards widely in various tongues.  She was in
speech and manners the most delightful in all forms of
character. The first was neither uglier nor more
worthy in any other form to be admired.]
"This was very long ago a common problem under the same
Philosopher,--something he owned long ago, and which he
found too long ago. A single habit was in the habit, he
thought; he took delight in all kinds of natural
animals, and he, without much anxiety, sought to find,
according to his circumstances, the best kind of
expedience in behaviour; and this habit was not sole, but an
 upseness of feeling in his manners. In the first place,
sometimes to be seen among mankind, he took up the idea of
resembling the human race and the government of others,
which he created with his peculiar knowledge and
appreciated the Greek, but in the most forcible terms of
sublimity he also gave peculiar advantages.
inhabitants a long time before their native language!
"He was regarded by the poets in the present civilization
and most judiciously advised. He held his peace with
animals, in the poetry of the Greeks. He treated his
opinion of the highest excellence; and, having inculcated
his enemies with such address, he made them feel his
great happiness. For his heart's contentment he was quite
Content, for he was very happy. He had a faculty
erected by the golden mediums of religion and of
moral awe, and, in the form of religion and religion, was
perhaps a man of religion.
"He was an able and well-bred, too, in every society;
and had a well-bred, good-nat
======================================== SAMPLE 975 ========================================
;
There's more--if he knows what the place is, he's sure to come out
nearly the other day when that's done,
and in which he must have the luck to meet his fate in the first
day.
He goes all day on his luck to play, gaily sings for me,
But his good old father he gives me to the city side.
Where did he get his luck? You can talk to the people's pride;
Away with all we can, and leave none in the city side.
The city's folk will play and sing for me, the city folk.
But if I'm lost, I'll never live, nor any town get in;
For if I'm lost, the people'll have me.
I know where the topmasts are, and where the sides of the town
Oer the high white wall that fronts the sky,
I know, and I know the road that winds to the town,
I know on some dark blue sea, far away.
I climb on the back of the wheels in a quaint old age,
Treading the road, just over the top,
I have a story to tell, a story of great delight,
One of the little girls, I've seen this many a day,
And I'm sure you'll say
You'll find it in the garden where I am closely curled,
To take me for some girl in that far home below.
To get me out of this terrible place,
And be a man to meet me there.
I feel the world is telling my old romance,
And I am like a prince who has come and gone his way.
But if I'm not so bold, and always brave,
To don my very best, and bring a man to aid me here.
And if you see the man--
You'll catch it with your pun, when a man will be--
You'll go and win my love, as I will tell you so.
And that will be the point when I am old,
And you will see the people running there,
With eager faces, every one of them.
How can I be so bold?
I know a woman's ways, and in my heart I love her well;
But when my eyes have done their talking,
And I have tasted her sweet, I'll go and meet her,
And give her back the kiss she gave,
And kiss her lips and say,
I love her with my love, to give her such a kiss
As says--"I love her." Yes, I love her so.
(They get a letter in the office.)
If you hear music, it will break my heart.
It will not break my bed, or any more;
My cup of comfort is filled up for you,
And I shall sleep again in my forget-me-not.
When the world is asleep, and the rain is on the roofs,
And the wind and the rain come tumbling down
In a fury of blinding sleet and snow,
I shall walk by the window, I shall stand
To watch the quivering lights, one by one,
The whiteness of two young men on their feet,
And they shall know that I came here to-night.
I think, if I were dead, for I would die
If I were only alive and upright.
I saw the little watchhorse leap the fence
With springing hoofs, and the young men and boys,
And the black dogs, running before their packs,
And the bright young horses, and the wild green boys,
Shouting and laughing, jigging past me by.
It was the spring, the blessed time of day!
The sunlight fluttered from the brazen prow.
I lay at his feet and watched him pass,
And the sunflowers fluttered from the cloudy rack,
To greet him, after many a pleasant mile,
With the young men, walking arow,
And the young men, feeling his warm young breath,
Remembering kindness and the sun's fierce fire,
When he came back from the prison to the earth.
I saw the ship pass down the beach
Like a pale, sullen rose;
I heard the beating of her breast,
I knew she was alive as any man's body is.
A tree of tender green was standing in the sun,
In whose cool arms a little child was raised,
White, brown, and pale.  It held the child, and so
It raised him from his mother's earth.  She bowed
To lift him, saying, "A boy!"  And still he smiled.
A boy's gold hair hung from her small dark eyes,
And golden hair hung from her small dark head.
When I came back from work in the
======================================== SAMPLE 976 ========================================
,
An' a' that's right an' a' that's true,
Ye may pick up youruds an' wife,
An' ken ye weel what's i' the plan--
I wish Miss Jenny wad 'a' seen 'er.
If you're bairns, Miss Jenny Wreet, I wishes to be,
Wi' you, an' the pauper, an' a', dauds, an' tea;
I wish I was only an' that for an' a'.
We'd been mair happy than we were,
An' ca'ed frae mornin' to e'en,
We thought o' Miss Jenny Wreet, an' we'd been a canty an' a'
TUNE--_"Anither Daddie."_
I was a proud an' lofty patriot,
No forvran but an 'A1/8 school,
Yet I'll try to gar my paper mind resa',
An' say that I'll engage to doo.
An' there I'll be, whenas I wat wi' you,
Some civil' ta'en upo' yoursel;
An' when ye hae anither plan, mither, maist auant ye may
Wi' ane or wi' a' the pow' o't.
I'll tell you how I did dis labor,
I thought I wad be doo and blin';
I tint a wife wad gi'e a tore o't,
Or wad 'elp about it for ane an' hist.
I hae made this offer up an' out,
To ca' the rate I'd been about;
But a wife's wae's waur than I hae giv without,
An' a' that's gude and mayna' mend.
What's in the lond o' yon green hill,
That smiles thro' cloudy winter chill?
And what's to me the ?--for a' that,
The gowd to see my country lad
O' gaws, gudewife, wabster, up the wa'
O' kail-yards green, o' whins an' coons,
I could bestey a' my weary life
To hear my Nancy talk o' me,
There's naught in Europe can compare
The bonnie German blinkin' on her e'e.
An' a' the flocks which feed 'em, Jamie,
In ae point o' mettle:
An' a' the fash o' them I made,
That's now resided in the shade,
Wi' naught o' spice, nor work, nor siller;
An' a' the pouches o' the kail.
An' aye the guidman's wife, the brither
Up in the hill wi' gowd to lo'e;
An' aye the sangin' bairns, the dancin' o' the louns,
Wi' their music wild as linnets are:
But the sangster men, the guns,
They 're aft the same this warld's play,
A' the learning that can mak a man,
The puir doggist watches sair for thrawin',
An' a' the honours runnin' by.
An' when the pipes are playin' hame,
Weel worth the pouches, drinkin' ale,
The muse, to sing wi' Mr. Swinburne,
Thinks they, as weel's he,
Are unco vain, forheivers are to flee
Frae the sweet lasses' practice an' the honours o' the byre.
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
When the sun went down;
"We'll sing it, man for man!
We'll sing it, man for man!"
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
When the sun went down;
"We'll sing it, man for man!
We'll sing it, man for man!"
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
When the sun went down;
"We'll sing it, man for man!
We'll sing it, man for man!"
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
When the sun went down;
"We'll sing it, man for man!
We'll sing it, man for man!"
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
When the sun went down;
"We'll sing it, man for man!
We'll sing it, man for man!"
"Give us a
======================================== SAMPLE 977 ========================================

_Of the "Lost Cause," by Browning & Co., one of the most
insolent device and shameless of our times. His life is a lyric
This statement bore some years to Mr. Browning, who was, among
Mr. Browning's letters, that his unwholesome poem "Darne" has,
however, some touch of genuine humoristliness--some
properly the most perfect utterance of his words, which might
But, whatever the language he showed,
If it had been retained by one who had not yet survived to the
reader, if not before by a few days before the death of Mr.
Browning gives an faultyception of what might perhaps be supposed
occurrence of the poem as to its moral and tragic meaning; and
But he did not write it to the public; which was in the language of
He seems to have felt some ideal thirst in a poet, whose mind is
Thus his ardent hope yet no entrance betrays,
Nor his own secret babbled in no fault of lays.
Yet he saw, too, that all his hope declined,
And useless was his energy and his mind.
In the next place, we are to say that Browning was a character of
And the vocalists of poetry still constitute him. The most
indifferent poet, whose innate courage and activity he wrested so
certainly as to write, and to act with such rapid transitions,
in which he gave the expression, a poet and a critic--a man though
But this general impression of the poem, at least, is due to the
"The manner and effect on which he wrote is one of the most pathetic
beauties, though with respect to its authors, as a sort of
imitation of those written by him to whom he was a friend. To the
himself, in every instance of the more delightful forms, a young
It is plain, therefore, that he was a favourite with Browning, and
partly to the effect that he had to leave off the critics and
attempted to neglect his own practice in the arts of amusement.
rather than be pleased with the object of praise or censure; for
such a thing must be done in the style of an author of any
It is, in fact, a pleasure to have wished, at least, in
genius, that these writers placed themselves among the finest
drink-troughs, and who the most choice authorship of their
matters, have been able to find in plain prose the original
composition of the story, or their forms. They are, forsooth,
"As for the common interest, we take it immediately to use
the fact that a poet, at first, was compelled to use one of the
In this course, he seems to have had a mistake in his genius,
because he was so-so-so, but for the most part, the story of
himself, inasmuch as Browning's indefatigable indulgence was so
The period when he first began to display his comic-looking
sketch--a proof that some of the earnest sincerity of his
imagination were really the representatives of his thoughts
"The manner and effect on which he wrote is one of the many
interesting insects, and those that were formerly the most
disproportionate critics of the class are here made intelligent by
applicating that he was so-so much experienced as they were
himself in both his forms. The example of the great family of
knights, with their fine intelligence and faculty of obeying,
and their brilliant intellectual talent as well as faculty skill in
machinery to this intellectual mode of being the best. If we
consist of the true state. And though so great the influence of
human nature that it is natural to suppose that of their whole
"The great class of subtle knowledge, with whose profound hearts
we feel that we are in an infinite bondage, are not denied to
the stranger to a higher form than their habitual knowledge,
knowing that such is their habitual existence. They are so
truly noble that the very minute we notice them, it is understood
to place them in their proper knowledge, without being so near
"In an era when mankind were at a period of their own age,
there were, as by steaks, beside a tumult of an enterprise
before an enterprise so great, that an enterprise at once set
myself in a new world. But this scheme, which is more likely,
which I have ever tried to call it, is the delusion of an
unbelieving generation and a destiny, with which it is not
expected that some of the letters, named "Elliot" or "orse;"
and in which they are equally carried away. And the words
accidental
======================================== SAMPLE 978 ========================================
 and the Old Church, and the Bannockburne, and the
A. D. Jerome was the chief character of this incident when he
"It was _not_ the night when first I sailed with _fred_;
The chaplain of the village school was out;
The landlord of the stable roared with glee;
The maids of the corn-field danced with glee;
The little children gathered round the wheel,
Singing at willows, or in linnets wheeled,
When as I coursed about with striding moths,
A farmer on his beat up sabbath bells,
In crimson and in gold and crimson dyed,
Set up his wigwam with a flounce--a flounce--
And thus in triumph led my hardy life.
We passed a few white bushes at the door
Of that great elms-tree: here the elms grew still,
And o'er the elm-tree bole the thrushes sung:
And there my boys and I kept house and will,
Picking the blossoms with their tawny paces,
While the first pear-tree, in its scarlet splendor,
Dropped crimson from the elm-tree's prisms, while
The whispering elm-tree rocked itself to and fro.
We passed a few white bushes at the door,
White bushes at the door; and there we paused,
Remembering life, and death, and life once more.
We twirled the orange round in the chill dew,
Till the green branches showed the perfect day;
The blackbird in the peach-bloom told a tale,
Flushing with crimson, like a sudden rose,
Or silver flame, that flamed as it were strange,
Bending a yellow head like a young corn.
And so the years sped by, and as they passed,
And there was neither pain nor wonder here,
And as I watched the white leaves fall and cast
Their perfume o'er them, odors of my dear,
I knew, when I had played and found the art
To please but this child's eyes--and I was weak.
That evening I was with my father there,
Learning all lore in deep and curious wise;
I used things only when my childhood's call,
But all when he had used them well; I knew
They were the nicest of a riper Hall;
Yes, I remembered all the letters there,
Printed with flags, with leaves upon the walls,
Stamped in white ink, and traced with lively lines.
He is gone on the mountain! There he will come,
A white man like him, as I know full well;
He shall be seen in every day, on earth,
And I--undying joy, and happiness,
And all the years of human joy and play.
I loved him, he was dead! To dream is to strive;
To make a dream, a hope, a wish, one deed,
And all I did, in his white soul to be--
To be the soul that I loved him, all I had!
In the white dawn he rose with spring;
He was a child for twenty years,
And he was rich; and he was strong,
And all that I could do in dreams,
Awoke, and thought to work.
"He will come back," I say to him.
The summer sun was bright and glad,
The sunlight on the yellow moors
Lay round him with the fairy host
Of little meadow blossoms slim.
I was as happy as a star.
From blossoms sweet the bees went by,
Till, far and near, the old earth rang,
And the old earth was glad and glad.
Then I was happy as a bird.
The children slept within its nest,
Their heads were bowed as if in storm.
And I was happy as a star.
My heart was merry as a bird.
Then he came back and, glad again,
Was strong to work, to learn, to pray;
Was glad and gay, and he was wise,
And I was happy as a star.
"He will come back, come back," I say.
He will come back and bless and praise.
He will come back that all the years
That he has left me must have been
Blest yesterday, and rich, and glad.
And I remember, I remember,
When I was poor and he was poor,
How I would like to be his angel,
His angel proffered him to come
And bring a blessing for my brothers,
And bless my sisters in their home.
But when the day returns, I stand
Outside his garden, thinking of him.
The summer
======================================== SAMPLE 979 ========================================
, etc.
It is very pleasing, and some few years ago, we were still
From a high-fed smoking temple;
And the smell of the cooking rose to the smell of pitch and pine,
For we had to sit there, naked,
And the sun to the clouds was climbing high,
With the golden dragon about us,
And we knew it was time for our funeral,
When--the Devil and all his vipers--
With the bones o' the wicked dragon--
And the bones o' the wicked dragon--
We were ready to march back, head-on,
Through that dreadful, black-coated ghastly ride,
'Neath those terrible, bloody confines,
Where the ghastly, gory specters,
With the flesh of the bestial dragon,
Inclosed round the dismal cellar,
And the eyes of that evil dragon
Peeping out of their darkly dismal sockets,
Were lit on by the glimmering light;
And--such a ghastly, dismal figure
Was each form of that hideous Ber ferry,
From the bottom upwards, downward, downwards,
Of all those of the evil angels
That have clomb through the frightful liquor
Since the Eddystone-ship he launched,
And the dreaded, ghastly charnel-house,
Whence the monster had sprung.
"How it came out," we cried, with a shudder,
As in agony we staggered and staggered,
As in death we lay;
For the angels were bending above us,
And the mighty, old, grand confessor,
With his huge and bloody jaw-flesh
All bloody and torn,
And above the celestial glasses
The Angel I saw--a celestial angel:
And above all, on the brow of the Cherter,
Yes, he is the son of the red shuddering angel!
"He is coming! he comes!"
All amazed and all confounded,
As we stood with our dark eyes closed together,
Like a dense crowd of frightened doves,
That surround a corpse,
And recede into the darkness,
And walk out pale and fearful
Into the chill air,
Till our spirits reel and quiver
Into the profound air--
Till at last we are so helpless
(And the blackness o'er us and about us),
That we cannot keep down even
The terrors of the hell-born darkness
That is hiding them from mortal eyes.
For we are but the dead--they say,
But the devil knows what's hid from them
In the deepest deeps of the infernal darkness,
And no eye can look beneath.
For a hundred thousand thousand thousand devils
In the blackness o'er us and about us.
In the glare of the funeral dances
There's a ghastly, horrible yell,
And a shriek of souls in convulsions
Is worth a hundred hell-dollars in hell-den,
For their yellows make a hell of demons
That never cease to yell.
And the devils are stricken and muttering
Like the rabble of swarthy hell-deity,
And their ghastly faces are ghastly,
And their faces are ghastly,
And their heads are not so contracted
But they are doomed to the misery of hell-den,
And we hear them groaning and groaning
For their mansions empached and despoiled.
A hundred thousand devils
In the blackness o'er us and about us.
And the ghastly, gory giants
That are staring thro' the night.
They fill all the convulsions
With horrible howl and ghastly howl,
And they rend all the convulsions
That are staring thro' the night.
And the devils are coming wildly
Back to a black gallop and yell,
And the hell-hounds are pressing
Over the doomed limbs of the witch, that's hid by them
In the deepest shades of hell.
And the ghastly, gory giants
Shout their horrible horrible yelling.
And the damn'd, gory vixities
Have their devils all round them;
And our poor, damned, damned devils
Have their black crosses and guns;
And the horrid, ghastly figures
And the ghastly, gory creatures
Have their black crosses and guns.
The puddles are full of poison,
And the pestle-hillies are full
Of poison and guns and bones,
And the poison of hell's own air is a hell-born snaccab in the
There's horrible convulsions and squinting of wells
That are full of the poison of hell;
And there's ghastly
======================================== SAMPLE 980 ========================================
._  See also our poem.
_Lara._                                              _b._
_Lara._                                                  _c._
_Lara._                                                      _b._
_Lara._                                               _b._
_Lara._                                  _c._
_Maundred Harold._ Is it so? I have not heard.
_Oberon._                                                 {p. 7 Monkey.)
The infant restored himself for his own sake
In that one act of his young life
A youth restored himself to youth
A youthful beauty.                                    {p. 6 Monkey.)
The river sways amid the woods,
The ivies shrink from the descending steps,
And all the pleasant winding path
That leadeth to and fro.
I may not enter without fear
Thy dewy presence;
I may not enter without fear
Thy dewy presence.
But come--I'll not disturb thy slumber,
But come instead of singing--
Come from thy green and mossy bed,
And not disturb my slumber.
I'll not disturb thy silent sleep,
Or fright thee from my slumber.
But come!--I'll not disturb thy slumber,
But come instead of singing--
Come to thy green and mossy bed,
And not molest me sleeping.
I'll not disturb thy quietude,
But come instead of singing.
Come, sweetly as the dew comes forth
From the pure dewdrop bed,
And not disturb thy silent voice
Or fright thy fairy-ledges.
The primrose was a happy show,
In summer time;
Her kindred had with crimson bed
Their richest fur.
She lived in appletrees and lanes,
And sweet the gales;
Her cedar arms had woods and rills,
Had heard her seas.
Her voice was like the woodland pipe
That's strung on the Indian trees,
The sweetest note that music has
In all the breeze.
The forest gave it echo sweet,
As if the breath
Of Indian founts were breathing o'er
Its mossy hear.
The sweetest thing that ever was,
In spring or summer nill,
Was--that the pollering pine tree spanned
And whispered still.
I'm not a sylph that sings its songs
In summer time;
And yet when summer comes once more,
It will not climb.
It was not born of earth, or skies,
Or man, but--born
Of spring, I would say--the first-born lay
That woke the morn,
And woke the woods with all their green,
And freshening glee.
It was not born of kindly blood,
Fed from the brave;
To win a sister's smile or frown,
It was not born.
It is not paid with grief, nor fed
With human woe,
It is not mailed with life, but still
With a heart true!
It was not paid with human blood,
But--when we die
The Friend that made us from the clay
Is He that died.
He is not slain with leaping knee,
But stricken blind with mind;
He lives, and dies with human eyes,
The rest have died.
I was not by the power of the south-wind as I hurried,
I fled, I followed,
Had I the power, the
======================================== SAMPLE 981 ========================================
's "Art," in Latin thus given.
In the second place, the French "are set
With all things" in their "beau" or "on," is a most
protest that the French "are a charming collection of little
compositions of the English in general."
However, it is not quite evident that our author who has
The following satire is not sufficient to enable the reader
encumbered with the recitals under inquiring from one of the books
of the classical diction, especially the Italian. The poem is the
subject of this passage.
The poetry of the French is perhaps a proof of the desire of
To render the reader acquainted with the story, in the following
two themes for the history of the Cid, the son, and the father of
The history of the son is from the versification. The reader
necessity of the inferences that the poem was born, and
"Though to the eye of mortal things
Such were the woes that Fortune brings,"
the character of the son. His mother and mother attended him
on the same occasion, in speaking of the son, that in his early
life, and one of the chief characters of his poem, which remained
The history of the hero is of an unfettered and undivided
"As in the books, thus naturally flows;"
inaugurate a debt to the late indulgent father. Thus ends the
story, as he relates it. He may be reminded that it was written
upon the same day by William Jones, the son of Edward
Buddap, who was noted for the elegance of his form and
character, "the most resembles the Minos in his song," that he
Thus the same night in the discourse with the school he passed,
and the next day in the same place, and the following day again
After his return to Burdhas, he went to Burdhas, three years
before the publication of Burdim in New York.
burdening in the quality of things more properly introduced by
Under this old-fashion'd bed of earth
The air was soft and free;
The lark had risen and fetch'd his birth,
And car'd to greet the dawn;
And stars were peeping from the sky,
Like stars from out the deep;
The morn was still, the air was still,
All things were well and glad to-day,
The swallows were abroad to play,
All things look'd on that night.
Upon that night to Scotland's isle,
They sent the first-born of her birth,
That on these woods she might awhile
To taste the sweets of earth.
The eldest-born may see her grave,
The elder one to weep;
And every little plant may have
Some healing virtue to sleep:
The next-born heath shall see her ride
All clothed in greenwood braid;
The birches shall have order too,
To hearken to the dead:
The next-born heath and furrowed hill
Shall re-inclined be glad to live,
The trees shall crownèd be to new
Each Christmas Day of this.
The next-born is a little child
That dances in the sun;
And, when he stoops to wipe his clothes,
The crickets shall not play
For long or short; so, hence, ye see,
Our wood-hen comes every day,
And never comes one by the way
Unless he brings each maid:
One only will not let him go
And ask his love, or hers;
And that will let him long to know
Even what she gives each maid;
Even that will let him long to have
Those he can take or leave;
Even that will let him long to have
That sweetest thing that is;
Even that will let him long to have
Those he cannot take or leave;
Even that will let him long to have
Those he cannot take or leave;
Even that shall bring a happy heart
To the babe that is his part,
The fairest and the loveliest thing
That ever diddit a bird,
The dearest and the dearest of all days
That ever diddit a snake;
Even that will let him long to have
Those that do take and leave;
Even that will let him long to have
Those that do take and leave;
Even that will let him long to have
Those that do take and leave;
Even that will let him long to have
Those that do take and leave;
Even that will let him long to have
Those that do take and leave;
Even that will let him long to have
Those that do take and leave;
Even that will let him long to have
Those that do take and leave

======================================== SAMPLE 982 ========================================
 and and his brother
"This is my ship, but I shall not come again!"
"She may be wounded from the sea--she shall not come;
I shall not come to a strange, far-off home!"
"No, I shall have no ship nor ship--'tis she;
I shall return no more to a far distant land!"
"No, I shall carry no ship--she shall not come:
I shall return to her, and I shall take mine home."
The boat is loaded, the engine blackened,
And the engine sings " disappointments, fellows!"
The machine shrieks "help her," and all of it
Gruns into the machine's little plough-shares,
Shaking the ground, raking the corn from the sheaves,
Till the top of the rails is burned on the sheaves.
She takes the gun, she is coming, and quickly she rides
Straightway to the ship--the first man on the deck.
The butcher's wife she calls him, and on her are the last
As the butcher after his butcher, and in and out,
The flames roll over her like a wheel of flame.
She has grown fat and lazy and tired, she watches,
She watches, and the wash of the water grows cool.
A moment she sighs and licks her hand and moans,
Then a long, long while the engine has her load.
The engine keeps pulling the endless walls as it works,
And the fire keeps going over, and everything is
As useless as now, if there isn't enough to hinder,
There's a new world every day, and everything is dry.
"It's cold, it's cold," she sighs.
"I'm sure you'll never come back," she sighs;
"You'll suffer for all that!"
"So--yes, yes, you'll endure for all that!"
"Who cares how bad I am, or why I am!"
"Perhaps it's too bad, perhaps," she cries.
"If you haven't got a coat of boots and gloves,
Why then," she sighs, "you've got one awful naus!"
"You've got one hundred of the skirt-rings!"
"You'll think yourself quite undone?"
"It's all one skirt-rings, or a collar;
When you have used every stitch you've broken it off,
Quite true!"
"You're going to come back to the house?"
"Yes, you're going to come back, lady," she retorted,
"Or next time you may be a good young man,
You may be a right good fellow, when you're in cash!"
Away back in the town--that was the only way--
A paper engine going from the store for her,
She saw two snowy white pigeons. She took the bird's
But she'd not come on to find that the affair
Was in her pocket keeping.
'Twas clear enough
That Birdie, not egged ill, was sitting alone
Here in my garden alone, and he had gone
Half thinking of the danger.
"What did you do?"
"A bad cold try and pretty badly."
"Why, that's true as I know--but it _isn't_!"
"I didn't go behind the shed at day's noon,
I didn't think about it--and then I didn't,
And so I put two others to bed slumber."
"What was it?" I said, looking down the clock.
"Headitated from a letter that was writing a letter;
She said, she must go out again to see it."
"It was the last line that she wrote."
"Never mind. It's all over now."
"No, it won't do. You've lost some more of that."
"I have. I'm sorry. I ain't going to play,
I know I haven't a stocking. I've had enough,
I guess I'll go to see it."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Mow."
"Don't go to sleep. No, you're too tired to go.
There is but one stocking. I wouldn't wish I'd dreamed,
Unless I put it open."
"I might.  I'll go."
"No, I don't. That's all I'm for. First look at that."
"Go to the sale, Fred. What a dreadful price
For that damned little body that's gone stark mad!"
"Why, you'll be running all the time if you're tired.
I'll go to sale, I mean to hear a dog bark."
"Go to the sale, Fred. Well, it won't do.
I
======================================== SAMPLE 983 ========================================
 in the air and the bottom.
The sun is not always a-shining,
The south is not always blowing,
Nor night-winds which come when they blow
Are not the wind's 'disemberest,
For I would say "what's a-blowing,
Of wind in the east, and a-blowing,"
My spirit--the wind is in motion,
My breath in the leaves so ruddy,
My body within its white white snow-sprent,
The wind is fresh into mine hand,
The wind and the night already pass,
Like leaves in the wind swept brown and sombre.
As on we pass, it strikes us;
It strikes us gently;
Yet not so at all, for our sight are dark--
The whole of the world is a dark, dull dull light,
The world is a dark and old light,
The wind blows loud, yet stands out to-night,
And blows the clouds in our faces,
They are like stones within that hollow hollow pass
Which the wind and the wind were wont to cast.
The world and the world are the same, but the words
And words, and words, and thoughts, too are like ours--
A mighty sea of calm and quiet sea--
And they are salt--not we.
As long as the wind comes, and sends all day
Through the sea-shore, the vessel in play,
With a ripple-race here and a stretch of sea-weed there
The wind flows and the waves are a phantom ring of sound.
But they fade and are gone from us.
And they die in a breath,
As we pass down the track of the tide,
Abandoned by a step or a step:
And we have lost our way,
We have lost our way,
And are forever in sight of the sun,
But they fade and are gone.
In the years long gone by,
And the long, long years,
I lay me down in the sun and the shade,
And no voice has spoken or none can say,
But my heart keeps time to the deeps of the bay.
In the years long gone by,
And the long, long years,
I have cried in a sigh,
"O Youth, youth passes by,
The light of the Spring is gone down the sky,
And I hear a wind blowing and singing of May.
O Youth, Youth passes by,
And thy voice is still, and thy feet pass out.
O Youth, Youth passes by,
And thy feet pass out from the light of the sun."
Then I knew not how the answer came,
But I heard a rustle of wings from a flame,
A rustle that has always been always heard:
And the great wheels of the revolving spheres;
And the moving Pleiads, and the unnumbered years,
Came up upon the wondering air,
And each one said:
Youth passed on,
Life stood still,
Even Youth cried out: "Shall we go more soon?"
And the revolving spheres turned on their own,
And each said only to have his day.
Life passed on,
And before and since,
Only Life cried out:
Life stood still,
Even Youth cried out:
The Soul of the World is immortal--take it, take it,
Take it, take it, this life of ours,
Love that is kind and life that seems to be of ours.
Life--what have ye to do
For the world's wealth?
Life--what see we?
What have I to do?--
Life of mine, life of mine,
Life of mine, life of mine,
Life of mine that is so great,
Life of mine that is so great,
Life of mine that is so small
(Life of mine, life of mine,
Once was rife in the world's mouth too full of utter sods),
Shapes that struck out their lives and stabbied what was theirs,
What was yours, O my soul, O my heart,
You, O soul of my soul,
You, O heart that is so great,
What is yours, O my soul,
You, O my life, O my love,
(O heart, O heart of mine,
I was so weak ye were not half so strong for me, I was so blind,)
To you, O soul that is so great, O soul that is so strong!
And these were yours, O my soul, that is my heart, my own,
These were yours, O my sweet life, O love ye were mine,
O for the night to have remembered,
The Night that is the soul of me,
(O soul that is so great, O
======================================== SAMPLE 984 ========================================
 the day?
And still, I say't, the sun is not too warm;
I know it will be no moonlight to have found it to my mind.
In the house, where I was born,
I was rocked, a creature born
Fair and fearless, free from scorn
And mane and flesh. O my daughter,
Daughter of the earth and sun,
Did you say that you would thrive?
I asked not. How could you thrive?
How could you? I asked not. And yet I knew enough, and was blind.
And you were sick. I was a child--
I loved you and left not your love;
I was your baby. I loved you so long,
Long since my heart was sick.
And where I waned, a flower grew,
And the morning came and went,
With its little dream of life and beauty--
And in it, the star-light waned.
And I cried, "O dreary thing,
I, too, would build a house
I made of barren clay and mud;
But I love you and know."
And I wept--"But you and I
Have seen and known--
Have seen and wept too long,
We have seen so, long since,
And long since stamped the clay;
And yet, there is no space for me--
I am sorry. I will not love you.
The little moon-flower was like you,
The tiny cloud like wind;
But you were a living thing,
And I, who was, am blind.
"The great trees that grow near one
Wade out their boughs, and all day long
I watch them with my soul towards Heaven
I love with heart and will.
The stars are kindest and they watch
Their bodies, and they talk, and walk,
And, when they speak, they say:
'O I love you, I love you,
Here in the room, this room of mine
I like your very heart, maybe.'
The moon-flower lifted up in heart--
And I know, it is the moon:
How the heart yearns to know it,
And the eyes to see it--
How the heart is a-afraid,
And the moon's a-rearin'
That I love you--love you--love you, love you, love you.
The pines shuddered under the stars,
And the pines kept sighin'
As the golden apples fell
Out at the dark;
And the pines whispered, "It ain't I!
I love you, I love you, love you,
That's the way I die."
And the silence ached with the star-flower's flame.
And the white-lipped snowflakes whined
As they sang to the dark,
And the Night said, "It is only I
Who love you, love you, love you, love you,
I will never find you, love you, love you,
I will never break your heart!"
"There is only the wind and the grey sky overhead"
And the Night said, "There is only the snow and the blind,
And little Night says, "I'm tired, and all of it said,
That the sun'll soon be warm, and the wind to my mind,
That the stars will be kind, and the sun to my kind,
And the birdie o'er the nest, and the buzzard o' the brier,
And the birdie o'er the rest, and the birdie o'er the brier."
But the Night said, "There's only the wind and the dead,
And little Night said, "I'm tired, and all of it said,
That the sun will soon be warm, and the birdie o'er the brier,
And the birdie o'er the rest, and the birdie o'er the bier."
But Time said, "There's only the wind and the dead,
And little Night said, "There's only the dust on the street,
And little Night said, "It never was gold or Creak
Of your little baby, who's asleep by your side,
That you're born of a baby, and nursed on your knee,
Does it seem so small a thing to hold the sky?"
The Night said, "There's only the dawn and the dawn,"
And little Night said, "I'm tired, and all of it said,
That the sun'll soon be warm, and the birdie o'er the bier,
And the birdie o'er the rest, and the birdie o'er the bier!"
And they waked, and they w
======================================== SAMPLE 985 ========================================
'd,
And _bore_ in _saltik_, and _clap_ with, and the whole
Of that same carpet on the right, which did
Support the wall, and could so far extend,
That I could hardly get myself afloat
Once more into the sea below, nor think
There was a place more verdant, but all balls
And topazes most striking set my feet
In motionless dance round the white fringe.
And for example the first faint approach
Of which was made my former fear,--in fact
That never saw I clothed my skin with gauze,
Or spread cloth through, or spread it in the same
With cloth of gold, my colour, and--this heat
Is not so dire but with the blood it leaps
From out my veins, and so again I feel
The breath of life,--and I am fain to try
My colour too, lest, after, I be changed,
Or, after recollecting, set about
As one about to say, 'Well done, you five!'
And that is all we have: yet, in short, we shall,
Though not yet broken down, feel no surprise,
And think our fathers' eyes compelled to see,
When they have heard the news, that we and ours
Have been left all astonished and in tears.
_Ships later than usual, and they being done with, some of them
have been sent by a servant for the _lite_:  (a respectable House.)
And, if these men, with a little cash or more,
Received these orders, we should now remove,
The good old _muscos_, of whom I infer
They should be torn'd and broke in pieces at once. No;
But some of them had found upon the shore
A fair _herc_ chariot, which ourselves might see
As we had seen it--and to have it so,
Having reduced the owners by perusing it with salt,
For a new treasure, in so sweet a style,
As that we wish'd our spoons would make them thus
As quickly order'd to escape their hands.
'Tis true, I mean an animal could stand
'Twixt man and man, nor in a moment move
A muscle, or a muscle, or an air
So like its symmetry--and why not move?
But why not feel? For, since I can't, I swear
It is because our notion, sir, is short,--
And--by the law--why then those actions are
(If you've no sense--if not so partic'l)--can't
Be understood by being of a man
An action wholly double, or a limb?--
And why not play the fool with all the rest,
And be a man of words? Why, sir, pray grant
A favour to your horses and your hounds
(And you may ask the reason why) that I
Am not so chariot-like?
No, indeed,
I'll prove it well that you can after that--
For, if you make a journey to _Pharsalia_,
You shall not be a baggage-man like me,
For one talks of _Tuscany_ to the dead,
One of the "back-woods," if his legs go under,
Or his long ears are stunted while he treads
Upon the rocks,--I can believe the Gods,
And swear that this same Hippocrene of yours
Was only trespassed on the way you gave.
Well, 'tis a name of very rare Ducal
I have forgotten, sir,--and--don't you know--
But will you tell me how it would become
The reddest lips the rest would have to blow?
Nay, but you never know, I will not say
A word of what might chance to make you so.
For, being inside there,--you have been with me
Through all our lives, sir--I was never bound
So long as you would have me--so perhaps
I might have told you of our last farewells.
And, then, I pray you, do not recollect
That, in some former moment, I have been
There in your presence, and, among us all,
You never had forgotten, never once,
That I was here: there's something now to say
With which I've nothing that I could recall;
For if I did not, you had gone to France,
And been alive, and fed some score of lives.
You know now that I'm old and wrinkles o'er,
And my new youth is but a dream, I think,
And yet I fancy that I dream'd to-night
An idle dream of old. This morning I,
======================================== SAMPLE 986 ========================================
 with his bow,
When a woman has time to spare and live,
It will not be long to wait till you see
That the reason you have to do is to cease."
What else may the haughty pride of a fool?
The power of a sage to declare,
To let his proud tongue be silenced
With an enemy's bluntness?
No, I will not cease from your strife,
I will not be roused to speak.
We have been to the costliest thing in life.
Our blood has stained the plain;
We have found the warrior's crown
In the hands of man; we are not the costliest of men.
For us the stars have shone,
And the heavens have grown
More beautiful than their old renown.
We are not the guiltiest, nor the sad.
The stars are full of light;
It is one with us, and we are more bright.
We are not the first or the least of the first;
But we are made to shine, when our blood is the thirst,
And that is the end of our labours.
As the river or the cloud
Bears my soul unto its own,
So my soul with its full heart fills loud
And it fills the world with woe.
O'er us the wings of hope have furled;
But our golden sunfish throng
Round our spirits and our world,
And so glad is us along.
Like souls we move along,
With eyes that are far and deep.
All the beauty of the world
Is like sunshine made at even,
As a quiet resting-place
Till the heart is never tired.
Like the moonlight on the deep
We are lost in thought's dominion,
As are the tears that weep,
And are we with the dawn's first splendour.
O'er us the joy is born;
A glad, glad life is born;
The opening of the soul
In the depth of heaven,
And the meeting of the light.
There we are alone;
Nothing stirs within our ken;
Doubt's immortal on the dial;
Life's reality seems real,
And we are all in tune with morning.
For what are dreams of worth
But the sun's gold comparating?
Dreams that make earth earth earth earth
Air, and air is one great centre
Of the wide, unbounded spirit
Where there is no place for turning?
Lives there space for aught we seek?
Space, and space is one great whole.
What was given us for a proof
When we falter and we fail?
Doubt, that is not Death's almighty;
Songs that made a man rejoice;
Here nor God nor man can change.
Here the fulness of our being;
Here we are, the same live fires.
What was given us for light
To illume with darkness, dark?
Whence was given us for fire
In the day-time when we came--
Light, from spirit, to desire,
Fires that waxed and waned and waned,
Till we felt the end was peace?
How, without a pang, a part?
Only these are left alone,
Only these have left and gained
Life, and love, and heaven-born strength.
Only sorrowing, sick of soul;
Never hope and fear and faith;
All these find a voice, a goal,
Death in life and death in death.
O my heart, O my heart!
O my heart!
What is this that rises up to seek for God
And faithfulness within?
It is the light that comes from God's own heart,
The holy light of Faith.
It is the light that falls from out the dark
And falls from out the cross.
In faithfulness each soul must leave
For the same goal He walks upon his throne.
He knows the Father well;
He loves the end of all.
The true man is not born of long desire;
The true man comes from God.
The true man comes from out the dark to dwell
And seeketh not his Lord.
God is a worker fit for work or play;
The true man comes from God.
He is a saviour born of blood and hope;
The true man comes from death.
The good is equal to the evil, good
That freemen from the sin and shame of men.
'Tis equal to man's work that we must die;
The good is equal to the evil;
The good is equal to the evil.
There is no blessing upon God's broad earth;
There is no everlasting peace within.
The white man builds his farm as lightly as the pears
Along his walls whose fair
======================================== SAMPLE 987 ========================================
.
_To be a child, yet not afraid to roam,
But follow still with me?_
_The morn is fair, and the fresh wood o'er
With virgin grace reflected, 'neath yon dome
Is full of forms divine,
A form as lovely as the moon o'er flowers
That breathe out life in the sunny bowers.
And she is fair, and the sweet woodland airs
Through all her frame diffuse;
While on her cheek the blush of morning plays
As pure as heaven's own snow;
A tender light her eyes' reflected hue
Diffuses odors there;
While down her cheek the birds of dawning sing;
And the new dews of morn,
Like falling dews, her eyes' deep, tender blue,
While on her forehead clouds of rosy dye
Floating and floating by.
Her brow is like a sea of living light,
And all the soul of nature seems to swim
In all its depths serene;
And when she starts, she seems to float and swim
With joyous impulse kind,
And, as she bounds, her heart leaps at the sound
Of the young swallow's nest;
Her rippling billows swell, and in it fly
As the white billows break.
And then she changes what she once has been;
The crowd, the song, the laughter, and the cries
That fill the air with wonder, see her rise,
While overhead the clouds
Like swans, far floating in the sunny sky,
Like cranes, or birds, or herds of graceful mirth;
Some on her hip, some on her shoulder bare,
And some a-sparkle and are gone to air
To gaze in silence on her own fair face,
And think of it in tears.
And when at last the shades of eve begin
Upon the morn and sun,
She leaves the earth and waters pure and fain,
Nor fears to greet the day
Until the glorious hour of Hesper bring
The golden splendor to the vernal sky,
And let the dews of eve trickle from earth
With sacred dews, till heaven's high arch is hung
With livelier lustre from his rosy tongue,
As, from the showery height
The long cloud plies its flight;
While, like a meteor's path, the blue-eyed day
Follows the setting of the darkening way.
There is not life enough for her
To make a being of her own,
Whose form is but the shifting sand
Re-mingle with the morning star,
Which is the star of her dear heart,
Whose light a wintry wave would be,
And a brief summer's lingering glance,
When she finds her pilot near,
And leaves the land unblest to her,
And, like a lily, bows, and bows,
Heavy with heaven as summer-dew.
She loves not that which makes her love
The weary heart to feel;
She loves, but still, though hourly brought,
Sees all things lovely, good, and fair,
And hopes to see the rainbow light
Break o'er a heaven she would be at,
Which shows her of her own sweet will,
Whether a bloom or a sad dirge,
She loves, and loves because she will;--
Yet there's some love she holds with her,
Whose eye looks upward through a flood
Of light, and all the lovely things
That God has bound and sent to her
Are but shadows, which she needs must scan;
And where this beauty is she needs
To make the measure of her needs.
I saw a ship a-sailing,
And a merry train was she;
And the sweet song, "Hey for a harp!"
I saw a train a-comrades,
A train that seldom comes;
I saw my home a-straying,
A cottage like a glum;
And the sweet song, "Hey for a harp!"
I saw a train a-straying,
And a cottage like a moor,
And the song, "Hey for a harp!
There's a cottage like a weir."
I saw a rain-tranced country,
And a cottage like a tree,
And the song, "Hey for a harp!"
I saw a love-sweet;
And a couplet, and a green,
And a rose, and a garland of my love's red heart
That was happy in its dreams.
And the song, "Hey for a harp!"
I saw a garland of my love's red heart
That was happy in its dreams,
And the song, "Hey for a har
======================================== SAMPLE 988 ========================================
--for he was a man--
The elder of a poet's vein,
With a fine but vulgar melody--
And for all poems that belong
To the lovely, hapless minstrelsy
Of the country people far away,
He lived and died--for a lady's sake,
And for none of us, he must awake,
And for none of us, he must awake,
And for none of us, he must quake
As to death,
For none
Of us, oh, so good a man!
He went to his melodious play
In the city quaint and gray;
He sat him down on the grassy stone
In a shady nook to his own;
With an eye like a hawk, and a smile as bright,
And a smile as soft and as sweet as light,
To the fairest maid he brought it quite.
'Twas weary watching, and long I thought
A pleasure I might not dwell in,
For, oh, it came like a shady nook
To the maid I met there lately.
'Twas weary watching, and long I thought
Of all my childhood's years,
And of all the joy that there before
Had been a long, sad years,
And of all the drops that there on earth
Had lain down to fall thereon;
And of all my dreams--and of all my dreams,
And when, I dare say, is this truth--
I remember the flowers that crown the way
Up yonder, yonder, o'er the town
Away, away.
I saw my lady leave her chamber door
And come to you once more;
I saw the lily all alone
Amid the flowers so fair;
The bee she hummed a ditty o'er and o'er,
And told me she was weary.
'You go to fetch the darlings fine,
To deck your mother's shawl,'
I said, 'when I am far away,
I'll seek my lady's bower.'
The lily folds her fair white hand
O'er each white, silent head;
The bees they hummed a ditty o'er,
And told me they were dead;
And as I wandered by that place,
I thought she loved me too;
'O, would she lived, my dearest dear,
And I would stay with you!'
She turned to go, and left me there,
And came to where I sat with her
Beneath a loftycam tree.
She smiled--'What pleasure to have brought
The darlings of my bower!'
I said, 'A darlings they do bring;
But they will leave me standing lonely,
For I am wild alone;
And I, a maiden, wondrous fair,
Have many maids that cannot share
My bower of rest and ease.
'But if I loved you, let me be;
The cup of happiness isaker
To lips whose lips are thirsty,
And drink the tears of others' woe,
Who have no friends to stay and know
My bower of quiet rest to fill;
But I am bound and sometimes found
By this bright, happy heart of hers,
To love and serve, to keep it whole
Of its allotted task and stay,
Some sweet-tongued, wandering happiness
That ever rests in a sweet kiss,
And for the moment--Ah, but this--
To love and serve in the sweet days
That bless and bless mankind's Saviour!
'Twas when the morning, rosy-bright
And fresh as any maiden's cheek,
First saw the damsel roguish-eyed
Alone, so bright her features!
With wondering eyes and lovely mien,
Gazed she on the strange, sweet maid,
Beneath the rose-trees' ruddy glow,
And her bewildered mind betrayed
Her dream, till something in her ear
Did strike, that pierced me thus, to hear--
Some dream that haunts a maiden's heart,
And in the waking life apart
Comes from each waking, object each
Of being and being.
And as I rose to seek her side,
I told her that I loved her
Away, by night, by day and night,
For what she said to me, I did,
In a fond mocking fashion.
'Twas when the evening came and the sun
Gave back again his visible rays,
And, through a mist, I see her glide
Up yonder, and forever;
The moonlight fell from the distant hill,
And from the forest a voice rang still,
That whispered afar on yonder,
'Tis morning and no more day
======================================== SAMPLE 989 ========================================
,
Hans la sangre;
Ma claire.
Mais l'amour,
Ma claire.
Mes la chaire,
Ma claire.
Mes la chaire,
Ma claire.
Mes la chaire,
Ma claire;
Mes la chaire,
Me, me la chair,
Ma claire.
Oh! Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With cock-a-doo-doo-doo?
With cock-a-doo-doo-doo-doo?
With cock-a-doo-doo-doo!
With cock-a-doo-doo-doo-doo.
I wash my face in sand,
I curl my hair so free,
I bathe and make a perfect feast,
So help me, my dear.
How does your garden grow?
From your bright eyes I can see
Mill,Mill, perhaps....
Does your dear eyes grow liquid,
Does your dear face grow ruddy?
From your bright eyes I can see
Mill, perhaps....
Does your dear face grow ruddy,
Don, my dear?
From your bright, black eyes I can see
Mill, perhaps....
Do your dear voice still neigh me,
Whiskey, door, and dog?
I have no time for fumbling,
I won't go in for grumbling,
I can't go 'way.
For the green and the red,
For the green and the red,
I have little time for 'thieving,'
I have nothing to dread;
I have little time for crying,
When my baby's asleep;
For my heart's very sound ...
But I have to stop waiting,
For my wish to be crowned.
(The poem adoraries to Annie Morgan, after the Yule
lightings.]
Oh, my dove! that is all of white,
Oh, my dove! of white am I.
Oh, my dove! that is all of red,
Oh, my dove...that is all of red.
I love to have thee near the heart,
But I love to have thee near.
Oh, my dove!
(From an old paraphrase)
_I love to make thy lips to sing,
And make thy voice to ring;
But I love well to hear thee talk,
And I love best and dear._
_I love to hear thy voice that sings,
And hear thy laughter-playing,
But I love best to hear thy talk,
And I love best to haying._
I love to see thy little face,
So free, so frank and free,
I like to lean above thy hair,
But I love best to thee.
I love to see thy soft brown eyes,
So bright, so calm and fair;
I love to think that they were eyes,
And the love of thy sweet hair.
(From an old paraphrase)
I love to sit beside thy feet,
And all thy fragrance drink,
But I love best to kiss thy hands,
And all thy tears to think.
I love to smell the morning sweet,
And wet thy golden hair,
But I love best to go to sleep
And hear thee softly there.
(From an old paraphrase)
I love to hear thy soft brown voice,
Thy laughter's silver din,
But I love best to go to sleep,
Though thou shouldst fall to sin.
I love to linger by thy feet,
To hear thee near at hand,
But I love best to kiss thy lips,
And feel thy rippling sand.
I love to see thine angry eyes,
To see thy sweet smile stare,
But I love best to kiss thy hand,
And to bear up with care.
In all our happiness,
In all our happy ways,
In all our happy ways,
I love to be the last man sad
And carry home the years!
I have loved too many and loved too many,
I have come to be loved by good friends and bad fellows,
I have sat with a lamp in my bosom unbefitting
(For I know there is nothing more sweet than the dearest)
I have ventured to be the first man sad-eyed,
I am not as other men nor shall be before him
(I have trod as the seraphim bowed beneath him)
I will make you a song, or a story of love,
The words of the tongue that is bound to me now in rhyme:
(I am the most loving and good inspiration
(I have loved too many and loved as I have loved then)
And you shall be
======================================== SAMPLE 990 ========================================
, iii.
_Virgil_ (_Crescote_).  The meaning seems to be, B.
Innumerable languages form various kinds of vers.
Innumerable languages form different sorts of versicles.
Innumerable scholars form different sorts of versicles,
combining all kinds of words, letters, and edges.
Innumerable scholars form different sorts of versicles.
_Virgil_ (_Ocymum_).  For all, for all, we need only to consider
quantities of words, for one word, _o_, _o_, _o_, God.
_Pecipu_, or _orum_ (good word).  For all, for all, for all,
For all, for all is _dormus_ and _otam_ to us.
I do not say that this is so general, and surely it must be
comparatively, the _rondeau_ of the _rinest_ tongue.
But for all the _miseries_ of the _rinest_ tongue, there may be
severally metrical compositions, and must be counted from
which utt'rance may be called; _i.e._, in sordidness.
_quintell_, _puer_.
_quintell_, _i.e._, a _quintell_.
_quintell_, _puer_, _quintell_, _feeble_, _feeble_, _feeble_;
the _heir_ of the _eternity_ of the _heir_ to the wisest is
called a _quintell_ or _feeble_ syllable.
_quintell_, _puer_, _feeble_, _feeble_, _feeble_, _feeble_,
are poetry and invention common to Romans.
These _caties_ are the _caties_ of the Romans.
_quintell_, _puer_, _puer_, _feeble_, _feeble_, and _feeble_;
_quintell_, _puer_, _puer_, and _feeble_, _feeble_,
_puer_, and _puer_, and _feeble_, are beautiful.
These are also the ideas and images of ancient authors
which we are constantly striving to imitate.  They are far
more beautiful than in any of their works.  Thus the author of
these works, more recent and more strongly imitated than our
latter are; its smooth and precise structure, too, is still
so full of beauty and of vigorous youth, that we almost
understanding our own are unable to imagine what
Rome is like to be the original of it.
In the second place we are obliged to remember that this book
was designed in 1835 _with the pencil and the printed_
beginning _are_ full of the divine light of which the
Genoese Seraphim_, _i.e._, and _ruct_ are of most
rich and rare. Our modern copy has been frequently imitated
on this ground in the earlier editions.
To be regarded as the most learned poet in the book of the
_Goth and the Snake_, _and chiefly to the thirteen that have
appeared in the ancient _Poetry_, are to convey a mind and a
spiritual value in a _Poetica_, because in the poem they
are almost always genuine. Our modern copies have been
seldom quoted, and only by degrees adopted. Thus in the same
paradise, the _Dorian_ has the second reading:--
Celarent, _Greek_ and _Latien_ are introduced with a second
translations.
The _Nibelungenlied_ we pass in a little curious way. The
discourse is to be examined, namely, how to get the
notes translated from the text in order to end it. It is
sometimes tempted to think that the _scalchas_ which we pass
may be taken again into rolls, by means of dividing them
into the _humor_, which is a question by means of dividing them
into _humor_; for the _gemitu_ is not among the poems at all
_with_ the _subd_, as it suggests, at all times.
_vide_ it, I should not be led to suspect any novelty of
the whole volume. I should like to imagine that _one_ of
those alterations, with respect to the authorities, will be
a proof of the genuineness of the _peculiar rime_.
We may
======================================== SAMPLE 991 ========================================
, a _Folk_, two or three.
_Fie!_ if ever a friend forsook us,
_Fie!_ if ever a soul forsook us,
_Fie!_ if ever a house forsook us,
_Fie!_ if ever the heart forsook us,
_Fie!_ if ever our feet forsook us,
_Fie!_ if ever we lost us,
_Fie!_ if ever we gain the shore!
_Fie!_ if ever we lost us once,
_Fie!_ if ever we lost us once more!
That which we lose that hath most of luck,
_Fees us not, Fickle!_ can ne'er be found.
_Fie!_ my grief and my sadness I know,
But your fate I know, if at any rate,
In my hour of downfall to wait!
_Fie!_ if ever a friend forsook me,
_Fie!_ if ever, I live
To see once again the dark blue sky,
And once more embrace the earth and sea!
_Fie!_ if ever the hours of the day
Have a voice to answer my misery,
_Fie!_ if ever they mock and jeer me,
_Fie!_ if ever they hate to hear me!
Then, surely, they'll never condemn me,
And never condemn till I'm calm in my fall.
And, if they have tongues, and if hearts they will speak,
Proud is the heart, if the bosom has feeling:
_Fie!_ if ever from home they are flitting,
_Fie!_ while their souls fly under the ocean:
_Fie!_ their wild cries to the mountains echo!
And the cry and the shriek of the wind through the air!
In the rush and the roar, through the wild ravine,
In the glare of the lightning,
In darkness profound
And the glare of the torch, I have stood in the shadow,
Caught up by my feet, and called to the right.
I cried, and I clutched at the garment of flame!
I gave one last look to the heart of my son.
I gazed on the fire, it chilled me like smoke!
I writhing and choke,
I looked on the water, and could not speak!
And the blackness was black, and the darkness deep,
And the voice of my child through the darkness spoke:
_Fie!_ who would speak?--
_Fie!_ who would speak?--
_Fie!_ who would fling the world like a bat?
_Fie!_ who would loose the sea?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the universe?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the skies?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the earth?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the winds?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the flowers?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the seas?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the winds?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the seas?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the stars?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the world?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the winds?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the stars?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the winds?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the winds?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the tides?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the stars?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the tides?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the winds?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the Ocean?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the Ocean?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the stars?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the Ocean?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the All things?--
_Fie!_ who could loose the All things?--
_Fie!_ who could loose the All things?--
_Fie!_ who flung the All things round?--
_Fie!_ who could loose the All things round?--
_Fie!_ I cried, and the winds replied!--
_Fie!_ who would loose the All things round?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the All things round?--
_Fie!_ who would loose the All things round?...
_Fie!_ who would loose the All things round?

======================================== SAMPLE 992 ========================================
 of the
I am, my dear Sir,
The best knight in the east, Sir,
The Queen of all the world
O, come away.
I am Sir Hugh of Yair, my dear Sir,
And love you well,
You shall see a noble ladye.
Your true love is a fair ladye;
And I have a maid,
To share your bed,
And to wear petticoats, Sir Hugh,
And a cap of flowers.
And let love of a sorrow be your lot,
Whilst I sit by yon woodside, and look at you
With a love that is well-nigh like comfort for me.
O we were all so happy together,
That when you were dead I thought you dead.
O we were all so happy together,
And all so happy.
And what to you is this heart that shares
Your father's sorrow--what is it I that knows?
My lord is of Erin, and his sorrow is Erin,
And she hath a smile of the wistful eyes
As she looks at me from the grave of the boy--
I think it is Erin's lord, and the right
Of a love that is well-nigh like comfort for me.
I have loved you well, my own love,
But not as my lord was I;
I do love none whose sorrow is to be
Wounded by grief of a memory
That still is hovering above me--
But this was mine own beloved--
And I have loved you well
As a flower on the bough of the wild-wood tree--
I think of the grief that sears
My heart by the coldness of tears.
I have known you well, my true love,
But now we have come more near;
The sorrows that make such a vow,
You have spoken before, and I say now
I loved you well, my dear.
He's a poor man, but he thinks, my true love,
You have broken his heart to pieces;
But here's a health to his youth, my true love,
For mine shall be now,
With the health that his youth shall last
When I think of my beloved first
In the land of my birth;
And I will give my last swallow to the first,
To rest on the bank of the wild-swan,
And the rest I will keep for my true-love
When I see him again.
When they come to the humble and long for rest
Which they will not ask;
When they are found with their dead, my true love,
Whom they will see never more,
They will weep more of this or that, my true love,
Than weep for this poor maiden of the shore;
And their true love shall weep more, my true love,
For death will bring his own again;
And they shall sing in concert, my true love,
For my true love has given me.
The coldness of sorrow was deepened in her,
And all her wounds were blistered;
Her friends were afar, and her love for him
And hers were all strangers to strangers,
And her friends were all strangers to strangers.
No longer she bade her friends love her;
But bade them to love her.
He spake, and she made answer, my true love,
With sorrow and sadness and sadness;
"I have loved you too well, my true love,
But not as my love was to love you!"
She bade him love her, and bade him caress her,
And never persuade her;
But bade him love her and pity and bless her,
And never persuade her.
She saw the white water
Falling in the pool,
She saw the boats laving,
She saw the men kneel
To the boats with their feet lying,
And he said, "I give you
My faith and my love,
My love for to live
In my land so far above me!"
There is no soul that lives
In the livings of man,
The true, loving, beautiful,
Unchanged, and yet always so.
There is no soul that lives
In the summers of youth,
There is no soul that has grown old,
Of the beautiful, bright,
Free of the earth, with the woods above,
And the sea where the sands are running free,
And the sails of the winds that swoop over the foam,
And the sun and the clouds and the sun are thine.
There are no souls that rise
In a star-spangled air,
No wings that are out of the skies,
No passions that burn through with desire,
No witnesses that paint for mankind,
But the heart of the things they believe
======================================== SAMPLE 993 ========================================
, from his couch of leaves
To lift his pen and write in praise of God.
I read:  in this book was the story writ
Of Arthur, and that night in Arthur's hall,
And Merlin; and the shadow of the cross
He crowned, and cast it round Merlin.  Merlin writ,
In all his heart, all men who love their King,
Will know the name of that dead man, and make
The name the shadow.  Merlin sometimes came
And looked upon his books, and as he searched,
Found there, beyond his search, a skeleton
Traced on a hollow shelf of faded leaf,
Tightened of half a foot, and in the midst,
Bright as a kingfisher, a phantom face,
Sat, bending above her head; he bowed his head,
And asked him:  she is God?  I will not think;
But there the story rests.  There is a hand
That has not struck a prophet with a dream,
A hand that will not pierce my groping heart
To find therein the substance of a death
Out of this darkness, but a hand of God
That moved and fasted in my own, and said:
"I'll have a shadow of you, Merlin, and none.
Why should you know that all your leaves of earth
Are like the leaves of the red autumnal leaves,
And nothing but the rain that flecks the reeds,
You shall be like a kingfisher and sail
Far down the dark."  And while he argued her,
"I'll have a shadow of you, Merlin, and none."
But Merlin laughed, and on his finger gazed
A harper of the dark, who sat, upon his harp,
And all the players of the Mermaides,
A white king's shadow, sat; and Merlin smiled.
"Let's see at last," he said, "what things shall be
To-night, however, for all we have to-night
At last,--for I have seen you--and am sad--
You can't remember me, I think," she said,
"I think I can keep on a quiet word,
As if I could be glad:  I never knew
An anguish like a harper:  I have never,
Unless you told me, how you would have told me,
But tell me, tell me, pray me, where you go,
Whether you know, or neither, for my love
I keep a memory from you, if I make
Pity in this your love.  I am content
To have you never let me have another:
Now that you know the world is all about you
(And I am sad, and I will never stay)
You must not say you hate me for the world,
You say you love me for the one I care,
For all the world, and all the world besides.
There's nothing wrong in me; and I have been
So long in seeing it, and all alone;
But I have seen you leaving all my life
To save it.  Last night as I took my nap
I went into an old port after all.
I have seen me cross your garden when you took
To your own heart, and crying as I went,
You gave me tears, and said that I was sorry.
I know it now.  I know what I must do
To think it so; I don't see any use.
Somebody know how dark it will have been
If my last night an ache, an ache was good
If they were coming on; and then your eyes
Will pierce my soul, and I shall see you dead.
We shall go on together to our shame
Through darkness of the world.  We must be brave
In all we have.  You say you'll need it now;
We shall not find you till the judgment comes."
Like one of those who walk in wayside gloom,
Walking in doubt and terror up and down,
Who look in vain for light before they lose,
They saw that hideous shape of eyes and teeth,
That shrivelled hair, that wither like a leaf,
That chin from age and wrinkles.  Thus they walked
The long lit lit liturgy of weary life,
But when they learned the weary weary road
Which leads to peace and friendship, lo! a sound
Came from the far-off chambers of the sky,
And like a trumpet from the wind the call
Came where the angels sang; and straight I heard
The tenderness of angels, and the power
Of the great unseen player; and there came
A murmur as of waters in a sea
Of singing, from the sea; and all the waves
Began to warble,
======================================== SAMPLE 994 ========================================
 with his head,
And his eyes as he looked on the stars,
And he looked on the grass and the sky,
And he looked on the grass and the sky.
He saw, and he saw, and he heard,
And he saw, and he heard, and he heard,
And on with his head in the tree,
And on with her head on the tree,
And he looked on the earth and the sky.
He felt her arms round his neck,
On his face he felt her breath,
And the air around him swirled
Like the breath of life on the soul.
But I saw there was on her face
Something that seemed to be new,
Something that nothing could chase,
A something too strange, too true.
She would not let him see,
She would not touch him, nor feel,
But the grass drew back and grew,
And grew in the air, and grew.
In the night, in the night,
In the night, in the night,
It was strange to hear my name
Thrilling the air with my cry.
Yet still at my side stood she,
And I sat and mused there there,
And the moon rose o'er the sea,
And the sun went down the sky.
With a heart that never faltered,
And a wayward tongue that said
That I knew that the dead were better,
Why I stood and blushed at the dead.
Why I stood and blushed at the dead?
Why I looked in the dark and the cold?
Why I looked in the night and the cold,
And I stood and blushed, and I spoke
When the summer night was falling
That I knew that the dead were better,
And I stood and blushed at the dead.
And I pressed my lips to their red lips,
And I heaved a sigh to my dead,
And I heaved a sigh to their silent lips,
And I wept in the night and the dew,
And I looked 'mid their pale to see me,
And I wept 'mid their dew, and I cried,
"Thou art fallen to me."  And I thought,
"Is this all thou hast wrought?
Is this all thou hast wrought?
Speak to me, my dearest, speak to me!"
And she gave me her little white hand,
And her lips to my kiss,
And she said: "I have broken my heart
And said--I have torn thee away
And thine own again!"
I was there in the night.
I was there in the still,
And the night by me lay
Like a corpse unburied
In the lonely night.
Then a sharp cry rang, and I cried
With my heart in my breast,
"Kill me, kill me, O Love!" he cried,
"You shall have me at rest."
To your lips were sweet the lips
Of my beautiful lover,
And the eyes of my beautiful one
Burned in their tender fire.
But his lips were as dry as he was,
And his singing no longer
Was the sound of the night.
And he wept for his love!
He moaned out in the night,
That the eyes of my beautiful one
Burned in their tender light;
That the lips of his beautiful one
Moved more fiercely and tenderly,
And the wild black hair of my beautiful one
Was as white as the snow on Mount Sinai
That the Lord God left on the flaming throne
And on the flaming steed.
And his eyes were as cold as the winter stars
Of the Holy Mountain;
His face was as white as the winter snows,
And his soul was as sinless as the air,
And the way he went was a sinless way
That led up to God.
And his soul was as white as the winter snows,
And his heart as sinless, tho' it was cold,
Yet the way he went was a sinless way
That led up to God.
And his soul brimmed as the cup that holds last
To the Holy Mountain, tho' sometime it thirst,
Till its cup shall be filled.
And he sighed in his anguish, and drank his tears
In a deep, strange thirst like a night of years,
And his soul was aflame.
And he flung his arms forth, and he kissed the face,
And he prayed to his heart, and he kissed his mouth,
"Oh, my love, I shall die in those eyes,
And I die to give up my soul on earth
To the Lord God on high."
But I heard his breath on those violent lips
In a pause that had drawn less venomous breasts,
And
======================================== SAMPLE 995 ========================================
."
But, having thus enquired, he answers:
"Talk not of these, O man of wisdom!
Of these am I, thy son, the only
Sensible of faith, and fiery.
If thou speak with me of other things,
Speak as thou thinkest of the present.
If thou dost not reply to this,
Name but the following I will name thee;
If that is not thy thought of others,
Name but the things I cannot name thee."
Even as he ceased, they stood as waiting.
Doubting and terror in great terror,
Fearing the man of speech profanely,
And that the more speech he utter'd,
The more he said this, the less he spake,
"The more I say, the most unfavour'd!
The more I speak, the less is needful."
"Speak what thou wilt, but speak thou not falsely;
I am a man of burden, not of wisdom;
I strive to be another's comfort;
To be a help to all who seek me,
And none to think my thought is equal."
"If I speak thus ill, without some pallor
Shall these poor words be utter'd partly;
But they shall be some air around me."
Now was that utterance short and sparing,
When forth these words he mov'd, so slowly,
That scarcely was there word another.
Fasten'd against a wall of stone,
As Rocks some Alpine Borean breaks
On his unsheath'd and useless back,
So that 'twas hollow almost to the earth.
Where in an instant from his chain
The haunch was loos'd and in disorder
He fell into what path it led him,
Could he by sound of sound be stopp'd
Or not by sight of man be stopp'd,
Startled before it, could not speak.
Whereat this silence sank around them,
For there was silence in the air,
And 'twas as if the very Earth
Had lost her sensible of birth.
So to their nostrils as it grew,
In sight of the Metamorphoses
There was a shape, that through the veins
Did creep, as through a door of glass,
The sound of which did mix and mingle
Musick.  I saw it in the light
Gleam through the wave, and seem'd to pass
At top of the inverted oar,
As through an equal pool it did;
And then a voice, like that was from
Its passage, came upon mine ear,
Not as of water from the sea,
But of the tongue, which spake those words,
Yet as of a wind 'twas heard on earth.
"O soul, who in some dream do'st dwell,
That e'en as man dost at thy window,
Gaze fearfully upon her, standeth
The beauteous lady of the strand,
Who 'neath the green sea in her sand
Beareth love's castle strong and resolute,
So that upon her deck below
She reigneth ever, calm and faithful,
And reigneth ever, calm and faithful."
It stood upon a lofty mount,
As highest of the mountains high;
And from the craggy rocks of the wild
Blue eagle with the beak of steel
Did downward glister, showing highest
The broad gold splendour of its cloud,
Like that which the sun, from west to north,
At midmost of the world held forth,
Bathing with all his scars of fire
In the sea's blue glare, as if to shiver
Against the stormy hours of desire.
For they had reached the water's edge,
And were upon a forest edge,
Where shadows three car swiftly past,
Full of the murmur of a hush;
And the first sound was of the sea,
Upon a summer evening, when
The waters had a pleasant swell,
And all was luxury and ease,
The little gilded argent sea,
That like a silver bell in heaven,
Once bubbled and the whole year long,
Held up momently the slow time,
With measured beat and slow degrees,
Till at the last, with no sound else,
He brought the joyous island down.
And from the hollow of the rock,
Where it was lighted long before,
The silver bell rang loud and deep,
That like a shower of golden sand
Rang in swift rivers underground,
The merry bells rang merrily:
The little gilded argent sea,
It seemed a broad, wide emerald sea
That all the world was like to be,
In joy and tumult making gay,
On shores as smooth and fair as they.

======================================== SAMPLE 996 ========================================
,
"And this is all my song,
In my sweet song."
And a kiss he gave
Of the lips that loved,
And a kiss in part -
Then we laughed and turned and parted,
Leaving many happy things together
In the forest dark as the love-wood burning
In a strange, unbounded, Eden-glowing;
But I, too, uncharted and lonely
Walked the lonely solitudes, hoping for ever,
Happy as a child of sunshine -
And I longed for a voice to answer,
Ere I quite forgave him,
And will make him a memory of me
In the forest dark as the love-wood burning,
In the heart of the desert darkening,
And I live again in the pleasures primeval
Of the forest gloom as the love-wood burning,
And I know they are mine,
As the years that have flown
I follow their going
Ever alone.
For I see in his eyes
Sight, and I hear
The sound of his voice
When the clouds have shaken
In the wind's voice.
But the light is not shaken
In the breeze that drives
And the light is living
In the forest, still.
The breeze blows; it has left me alone;
I have wandered apart and was glad at my heart,
Save for those who have gone astray,
And I think, with the tears that are flowing
In my eyes, that were sad as a flower.
And the voice of my spirit is calling
To you and to me, like the cry
Of a bird at the gate,
And my heart like a breeze
On the earth below.
"_I shall die to my death, and I shall not live_
_In the forest gloom as the love-wind stirs_
_With the sigh of the wind on the cloud."_
"_I shall die to my death, and I shall not live in_
_The woods and the blossoms of even can_
_Fold round my bosom their tendrils curled_
_With their blossoms' soft green leaves in the world!_"
Out of the night of the night of my spirit that yearns
For the Master with me in the darkness and grief of my heart,
I hear the sound of the calling that every bird hears,--
Calling out of the night that is calling of love:
"_Wake not till morning and sleep muffle your eyes;
_For the eyes of thy master are brighter than suns can peer_
_For the stars are the spheres and the moon is the skies!_"
Out of the night of the night of my spirit that yearns
For the Master whose lips are as the lips of a child,
Out of the night of the night that is joy and love
At the door of the heart of the mystery deep set above,
Out of the night of the night of my dreams
When the voices of night shall repeat, echoing,
"_Wake not till dawn and the sleep muffle thy feet;_
_For the star of the dawn is the beacon of Love!_"
Out of the night of the night of my spirit that yearns
For the Master whose lips are as blood to my cheek;
Out of the night of the night of my dreams
When the voices of night shall repeat, far apart,
"_Wake not till dawn and the sleep muffle thy feet;_
_For the stars are the beams and the moon is the star!_"
Out of the night of the night of my dreams,
Out of the night of the night of my dreams,
The calling and calling, the calling and the thought
And the light of my soul are caught
Like the loveliest star
That gleams
Across the deep, dark sky--
The heart of the night is a pulse in my breast;
My soul grows strong for the calling,
But in the night of the night of the storm
My stars for my pilot are shining and rest;
But in the nights of the storm
The stars for my pilot are shining and rest.
Shall I lie full length on some soft pillow
With thoughts that are dreams that will never be done?
Shall I lie in love with some sweet dream-sea
And dream, and sing dreams that will bless and enfold
And make my sad heart glad with the music
Of voices that throng to the shore of the skies?
Or shall I hear their music that fills my head
And beats to my heart like a slave-driver
Who has not yet his pearl of heart's desire,
And, having his gift of being, has laid
A lock upon it for love-oath on his hire?
Or shall I hear their whisperings and caress
======================================== SAMPLE 997 ========================================
t, he has taken his grave.
And with a tear-stained hand
Have said:  How shall he stand
When I have bid the bar
I have not said:  How shall we say
He, with a bitter smile,
Sent me his farewell news!  Oh, where?
My soul was like a leaf that's blown
By a tempest that has overthrown. . . .
When I remember all he said
His tears that wept; his hopes that fled;
His fears that left me lonely there,
His smiles that cheered, his hopes that cheered. . . .
This was my only grief.  My own
He brought to glad me, knowing none. . . .
When I remember all he said,
How shall I find him, knowing none?
As through the gates of pearl I may see the light . . .
And now he looks to me,
As one who looks into the night:
And with a sudden light
Hears something that recoils apart,
As if it had a inner heart.
From his bright eyes, the glory of a darkened world,
He looks beyond, and never seems to comprehend. . . .
What can that mean?
No eyes have power
To see beyond the infinite of mortal pain.
There is no thing we can have known of agony,
No human agony nor agony but toil.
And we can speak;
Being well-nigh as God himself;
That we have known what we have felt;
How many, and how few, have understood;
How many, and how few, have recognized it all;
And how this miracle grows
In one man's heart of all-time made.
_That I am not always glad; that I am glad,
Or what I am when it has happened my undoing._
I am very happy now I have never done anything
But I am very happy, for whatever it be;
If I had never known joy, or pain, or sorrow,
I know that it would end in eternal night.
_The music of a long glassy._
Where is the voice that should give me,
Gently with a touch of art,
Where is the form, the light, that should live
In a world of beauty and melody?
A shadow takes me in my dream.
In every hour its magic power
Shines on my face and makes my hours
Grateful as wine of Arab mowers,
And I drink, and drink again. . . .
There is no sadness in the day; my song
Sets no sorrow in the night; my life
Is as a cloister, where it may commune
With some half-languishing flame of intense desire;
It is not of the world's great cruelty
That I am fearful of, but of a power
That is most supreme to its own pure art;
It is of an intensest and most ardent love;
And yet it is too truly all-embracing,
For me the world's too full of wakening and gladness,
And for my heart too full of the tender sadness
And for myself it turns to outward streaming. . . .
_He speaks:_
You are awake and I am listening;
The world is full of laughter.
And I wake, and I depart.
Why do I always haunt the chambers,
And watch the sunlight playing?
I cannot tell you how much trouble
Fills my heart as you are sleeping?
You need not wake; it hurts no longer,
And hurts until it suffers.
It was my own, I know.
I want to see you.
But I have drunken and would weep:
There is no reason why I weep.
I am so drunk I have not slept:
I am awake and I would weep. . . . .
_She kisses him, he sings, and he smiles at him._
Could I have hung me up outside
With the window shut before me,
With the key where I was opened,
That would hardly be my bed. . . .
Could I have sat upright,
I would have flung open the window,
And the room had just begun for me,
Leaving me alone there, alone,
And the clock just striking on the stone;
A minute or half-hour had passed,
And I could stand without, at last,
Like a rock just then cast off.
But the clock just striking on the stone,
And the hour had come its next;
And the clock itself, with listening ear,
Might have told my heart, but could not tell,
And I had not been awake before.
I saw you yesterday
As you were coming away,
And when at last, as from a dream,
I woke
======================================== SAMPLE 998 ========================================
!
And I've a-comin' to be wise, Bessie De Vine!
I'm travellin' 'mongst the Khyber 'ills,
An' diggin' up the Nile.
I'm thinkin' 'Old Virginiaawk
Will win my love an' gold:
I thought the song _Man_uk the Bo'sou
Would be my marriage-song!
He got so fat and soiled and soiled,
An' the clothes all worn and soiled,
He called a wife 'round at my side,
But I blamed him not for her child!
I know a girl, an' she is proud
To have me for her beau:
Yon little bead of sand an' salt
Grate up'n herse'f!"
"_Thar's nother soft eyes,_'n--_that's soft as silk;_
_They're nother_ eyes,_'n--_hair_, soft as milk!_"
When women grow so slim, that they
Can hardly keep their broth about,
They frisk about, an' cry, "Be quick!
You have a fishin' out!"
And they wag their heads anunder, too,
When they hook naughty carpets through,--
Till presently they wag: "See, see,
Where these dank millions last night grew!"
"_Thar wags his tongue!_"--so deaf I be!
When they wag Pelham about me,
Jest 'bout me, it mought me 'round an' cry,
"Now, Jinnie, mind that Bee!"
Ye hae heard the banjo cry,
Which children never heard,--
And little Jinnie's laugh, I trow,
Simpering all between.
Afar ye blooms of Eden smile,
Each like a little linnet's song;
For little Jinnie's words wad grace,
As squaws o'lived her bonny face,
An' naught but bonnie bluebells be
Thy tender favors true!
Or frae some black-bearded door
With hollies stolen,
We'll scamper owre the birken floor,
And naught but bonnie bluebells be
The lammies in the dells!
Ye hae scared the kinkaroo,
And scared the kinkaroo,
An' scared the hares, at beaus,
When they fin' fang wi' us and me
Far nits o' peace for you.
Ye hae scared the grouse, an' sheep,
Ye've scared the spotted hawk,
An' ken what ye were thinkin' o'
By hind' or unlitticker,--
I ken it's no the kink ye want,
But josh I'm laith to tarnish,--
As aft ha'e happened mony a week
O'er yon sic dern the way,
Ye see the sun was blazin' there,
Wi' mony a slima-fu' air,
An' mony a strange free laugh.
Aye, but the coffins kind they tease,
An' curse in't their dern away;
In less'ning than a mile they'd reach
Their seats at Cawnford-penny,--
Wi' little space they'd turn about,
An' noan in't, for they can't stay!
"The deil! the poor curst wight!" they cry,
"We're trapet now for honey bee,
An' lasses' heads are bent an' tight,
An' naething lassie's nappy!
We're trapet now for clammie-pail,
An' mony a canty day,
While pikes advanced, an' pipers played,
An' lasses sat an' han'in'!
An' lasses, skelpin' in an' out,
Will cowe their gowp a'ran,
Because, aye sin' it yan them a',
They didna get awa.
"The snaw-flake in the gloamin' croon
To him o'er hill an' plain,
He harks an' plows, an' weel yan ken
To tak his heart amain;
An' as the lasses like to buy
Their claes at Poverty,
Poor Johnnie's barn I've never seen,
The threats o' wark I dread,--
For, tumblin' in my house I sit
Wi' Margery at my head!"
Now
======================================== SAMPLE 999 ========================================
s.
_JEAN INORAM, _Sic Temporis._ See Note.
I was an Ocean-Traveller of folks, I was
The Ocean-Traveller also; he did play
An Ocean-Tenderer--and in that one way.
But now my turn comes back, and now, my friend,
I, too, have come across a rath, to find
This once, and not another way to mend.
I too am one deep pit that gapes behind
And pines, and there too halt to meet the end
Of your long road, O, I have worked and spun,
And all I did is do.
No rest, no rest I now; the stars are gone,
I know not how, and I have lived, that shone
In skies above, and seen the planets roll.
I watch the stars, and I have been their friend.
If not, this time the angels of your ease,
When you were mine, had done with that strange breeze,
And brought you many miles, and not a jot.
I'll put you in a jar and make you sweet,
And give you kisses as I always did,
And you will have, if that you love me yet.
I'll put you in a jar and make you cheer;
But what you will, I'll do for you when you
Have put your hand across your heart, and said
I only dreamed I was your lover there.
We two will sit upon the rocks
When the sky burns above us
And the breathless pool is still
Where we two went together.
We'll go no more a-roving
Where the skiff-locks meet the sea,
And the shark and the sea-mew,
And the racing sea-mew
And the racing sea-snake,
And the dolphin's death-wounds--
And the racing sea-snake!
In the cove's grass-greenish swamp
Of the old French quarter,
Where the windless water laps
From the gray spruce and laurel,
And the noisy plum-tree
Stops the stream in its flight,
Where we two sat together
On the rocky island's crest;
And the sand-dunes flapping round us:
It is death in the west.
The breathless clay-mosses flicker,
The slimy scented grass
Lolls in the moonlight cool;
And, like a shadowy glass,
The shadowy sea is glass
To our deep-sea seneschal.
To the sea's coral islands
And the purple ports of the West,
Where the ghostly water rises
Between the ghostly isles,
And the ghostly sands are white.
Where the surf-strewn reaches straggle,
And the yellow sands at even
Lie black against the grey-red sky;
Where the sea-moth flouts and scuddles
At the ghostly white-strewn sifting,
And the dead shark's death-wounds--
And the racing sea-snake!
Where the sea-snakes swarm and frisk and play,
And the dead sands splash and splash and run,
And the stealthy growling dies away
From the ghostly tapestries--
From the shoestrings and sea-mimes
Where the dead bones smell and ponder,
And the slow sea-mists--
Where we two were,
And you were I.
In a hollow tree at night
When the moon goes down the sky,
I sit alone in my room
And can remember the trees by the road;
The Thames hummed on the graves of the dead;
And a ghostly wraith in the leaves whispers,
"Go to! and be brief in your going;
For the smell of dead things is over,
And the smell of remembered things
Must blow on your road, once more.
But the smell is over, oh, so far away!--
Where we met, the wind fades back to-day!
Then come to the fields where they are grass,
They are thick; so thick and brown.
To see what they do not see--to know
They are cool; so thick and brown.
"The smell is over, oh, so far away!"
And a ghostly wraith in the leaves crying,
"Do you hear? or is all hope dead,
Or a faint sound gone, and the smell of the dead?
Do you hear? or all hope dead!"
"The smell is over, oh, so far away!"
And a ghostly wraith in the grass crying,
"Do you hear? or is all hope dead,
Then I tell you this, dear, this:

======================================== SAMPLE 1000 ========================================
, which it is
strongly difficult to understand. It will be difficult for many
persons of a writer to have been able to distinguish the parts
fictions it has before been traced in some language, though they
have been perfectly taken from some future mode.
 The author's work is as follows:
"For my own part,
Of all the rest, some there be
That with their own assistance strive to fill my chest;
And to my mind it seems that there has lately been
somewhat that I cannot help it. The other parts, I
thank you to say, are not yours.
"I think it is easy to see through the mouth
and the mouthpiece. The words are not easy, therefore,
to say anything, and yet they have not benumbed their
moments so with the time-worn condition of a man. To say
this,--spoke with contempt that was never before the
passage expects till it has been fairly run. I suppose
that the word will pass,--"
"But because your desire would have given us a
success,--why so humble?"--_Virgil Biglow_.
"In this case,
Allow me, Reader, to speak of your other parts:"--
and again he added a line of similar construction.
 "Sullenness, too, at the very core, is the sort to make a
wonderful appearance.
 "The passage here used here is not very much taken in
cough-breeks;"--thus, in the sense of thesense of my own
expectation, or of my own words, in a bad person, of a
poet whom I have often noticed. I only remember that the
subsequent lines had already produced two longer verses
generally superior to one longer poem than was consistent
contemplation could render, in some cases where the words
"serve et terra coeptorum in loco."
 The reader will remember, in the Preface to Canto III.
 "Toli de' duo inter spoli alta, quem sunt dii subiunt."--_Shelley_
 "Cadenonia,"--of the first name. It was also called severally
"Murella soluta, etc."--_Westright fingers_.
"I think that there is a certain level ground
Beyond which we can pass."
 "I was so completely resolved to go into the middle, my mind
sounded against that side of the line,"--_Hamlet_, III.
 This does not seem to have been suggested by the following
dramas (_i.e._, i. 35), as "he was going to go"--
"He went down the winding middle,"
"And left me a widow at my daughter's age,
A widow who long since had been lost," &c.
 _Nereus_: "He, too, having had his hour to go, and was
_Hamlet_," VI. "Thus did he go_.--I will mention one
note--that was the only thing I could say--with my old
comrade-maiden, in the following fifteen lines:
Hail to the lord that is so free!
Honour thy parents; honour not me:
Be of good heart; do what is just;
Think of my good deeds; think of my ill deeds;
And, when the last word of my last breath shall call,
Turn softly, and come to the upper wall;
And that ye shall, according to your self,
Remember what we brought about the house
Where you, as I their guilty witnesses
Then at the last, if e'er they filched your name,
May, after the perdition of our house,
Be put out of the way of their misleaders,
And so far, I much wonder why ye suffer
Such heavy vengeance, and the murder of us;
And that ye shall not be able to put out
Your single brother, and of the whole twelve
Make muster, who first hatch'd the foul ones."--
"If I had not been under your roof, I should not
have imagined it was you were stirring."
 _Hamlet_, act III. scene 1.
 "Where the sun and moon are at their funeral ceremony."--_Ib._
 This is, at the present date, popularly believed only by
young women in the church of St. James Castle, which gave the
warrior a full victory to the famous martyrdom and his nephew
during the last days of his life.
 Sir George Colburn comes again in the nineteenth century to see his
daughters, after the conquest of Edward I. and Queen Mary
 The author's memory is very much indebted to the _Lay