======================================== 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
======================================== SAMPLE 285 ========================================
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
======================================== SAMPLE 286 ========================================
, 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