GRADED POETRY

SEVENTH YEAR

Edited By:

Katherine D. BlakePrincipal, Girls' Department Public School No. 6, New York City

and

Georgia AlexanderSupervising Principal, Indianapolis, Indiana

1906

INTRODUCTION

Poetry is the chosen language of childhood and youth. The babyrepeats words again and again for the mere joy of their sound:the melody of nursery rhymes gives a delight which is quiteindependent of the meaning of the words. Not until youth approachesmaturity is there an equal pleasure in the rounded periods ofelegant prose. It is in childhood therefore that the young mindshould be stored with poems whose rhythm will be a present delightand whose beautiful thoughts will not lose their charm in lateryears. 

The selections for the lowest grades are addressed primarily tothe feeling for verbal beauty, the recognition of which in themind of the child is fundamental to the plan of this work. Theeditors have felt that the inclusion of critical notes in theselittle books intended for elementary school children would be notonly superfluous, but, in the degree in which critical commentdrew the child's attention from the text, subversive of the desiredresult. Nor are there any notes on methods. The best way to teachchildren to love a poem is to read it inspiringly to them. The French say: "The ear is the pathway to the heart. " A poemshould be so read that it will sing itself in the hearts of thelistening children. 

In the brief biographies appended to the later books the humanelement has been brought out. An effort has been made to callattention to the education of the poet and his equipment for hislife work rather than to the literary qualities of his style. 

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CONTENTS

FIRST HALF YEAR

Good Name _William Shakespeare_From "Love's Labor's Lost". _William Shakespeare_From "Richard II, " Act II, Sc. I _William Shakespeare_Jog on, Jog on _William Shakespeare_The Downfall of Wolsey _William Shakespeare_The Noble Nature _Ben Johnson_Song on a May Morning _John Milton_O God, our Help in Ages Past. _Isaac Watts_The Diverting History of John Gilpin _William Cowper_Bannockburn _Robert Burns_My Heart's in the Highlands _Robert Burns_The Solitary Reaper _William Wordsworth_Sonnet _William Wordsworth_"Soldier, Rest!" _Walter Scott_Lochinvar _Walter Scott_The Star-Spangled Banner _Francis Scott Key_Hohenlinden _Thomas Campbell_The Harp that Once through Tara's Halls _Thomas Moore_Childe Harold's Farewell to England _George Noel Gordon, Lord Byron_The Night before Waterloo _George Noel Gordon, Lord Byron_Abide with Me _Henry Francis Lyte_Horatius at the Bridge _Thomas B. Macauley_

SECOND HALF YEAR

Early Spring _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_Sir Galahad _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_The Charge of the Light Brigade _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_Ring out, Wild Bells. From "In Memoriam" _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_A Christmas Hymn _Alfred Domett_Home Thoughts from Abroad _Robert Browning_Pheidippides _Robert Browning_A Song of Clover _Saxe Holm_Song of Love _Lewis Carroll_Scythe Song _Andrew Lang_White Butterflies _Algernon Charles Swinburne_Recessional. A Victorian Ode _Rudyard Kipling_To a Waterfowl _William Cullen Bryant_The Death of the Flowers _William Cullen Bryant_Thanatopsis _William Cullen Bryant_From "Woodnotes" _Ralph Waldo Emerson_Daybreak _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_Hymn to the Night _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_Longing _James Russell Lowell_The Finding of the Lyre _James Russell Lowell_Waiting _John Burroughs_Columbus _Joaquin Miller_Evening Songs _John Vance Cheney_A Vagabond Song _Bliss Carman_Old Glory _James Whitcomb Riley_Kavanagh _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

Biographical Sketches of Authors

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SEVENTH YEAR--FIRST HALF

WILLIAM SHAKESPEAREENGLAND, 1564-1616

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls:Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;But he that filches from me my good nameRobs me of that which not enriches himAnd makes me poor indeed. 

--"OTHELLO, " Act II, Sc. 3. 

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When daisies pied and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hueDo paint the meadows with delight. 

--"LOVE'S LABOR'S LOST, " Act V, Sc. 2. 

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This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise;This fortress built by Nature for herselfAgainst infection and the hand of war;This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands;This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. 

--"RICHARD II, " Act II, Sc. 1. 

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Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, And merrily hent the stile-a:A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a. 

--From "WINTER'S TALE. "

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The Downfall of Wolsey

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!This is the state of man: to-day he puts forthThe tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossomsAnd bears his blushing honors thick upon him;The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surelyHis greatness is a ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown prideAt length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercyOf a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretchedIs that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have:And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. 

--From "HENRY VIII. "

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BEN JONSONENGLAND, 1574-1637

THE NOBLE NATURE

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

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JOHN MILTONENGLAND, 1608-1674

SONG ON A MAY MORNING

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with herThe flowery May, who from her green lap throwsThe yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspireMirth and youth and warm desire!Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 

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ISAAC WATTSENGLAND, 1674-1748

O God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home:

Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her frame, From everlasting Thou art God, To endless years the same. 

A thousand ages in Thy sightAre like an evening gone;Short as the watch that ends the nightBefore the rising sun. 

Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away;They fly forgotten, as a dreamDies at the opening day. 

O God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Be Thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home. 

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WILLIAM COWPERENGLAND, 1731-1800

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN

John Gilpin was a citizen, Of credit and renown, A trainband captain eke was heOf famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 'Though wedded we have beenThese twice ten tedious years, yet weNo holiday have seen. 

"To-morrow is our wedding day, And we will then repairUnto the Bell at EdmontonAll in a chaise and pair. 

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

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

"I am a linendraper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calenderWill lend his horse to go. "

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

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

The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allow'dTo drive up to the door, lest allShould say that she was proud. 

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

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

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

For saddletree scarce reach'd had heHis journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he sawThree customers come in. 

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

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

"Good lack!" quoth he--"yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty swordWhen I do exercise. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

His horse, who never in that sortHad handled been before, What thing upon his back had gotDid wonder more and more. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, as he went bowing downHis reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his backWere shatter'd at a blow. 

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

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

Thus all through merry IslingtonThese gambols did he play, Until he came unto the WashOf Edmonton so gay;

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

At Edmonton his loving wifeFrom the balcony spiedHer tender husband, wondering muchTo see how he did ride. 

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--here's the house, "They all at once did cry;"The dinner waits, and we are tired:"Said Gilpin--"So am I!"

But yet his horse was not a whitInclined to tarry there;For why?--his owner had a houseFull ten miles off, at Ware. 

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

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

The calender, amazed to seeHis neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him:

"What news? what news? your tidings tellTell me you must and shall--Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?"

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

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

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

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

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

"But let me scrape the dirt awayThat hangs upon your face;And stop and eat, for well you mayBe in a hungry case. "

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

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

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

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

Away went Gilpin, and awayWent Gilpin's hat and wig:He lost them sooner than at first, For why?--they were too big. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she sawHer husband posting downInto the country far away, She pull'd out half a crown;

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

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

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

Away went Gilpin, and awayWent postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to missThe lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry:--

"Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!"Not one of them was mute;And all and each that passed that wayDid join in the pursuit. 

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

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

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

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ROBERT BURNSSCOTLAND, 1759-1796

BANNOCKBURN

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bedOr to victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;See the front o' battle lower;See approach proud Edward's power--Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?Wha can fill a coward's grave?Wha sae base as be a slave?Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and lawFreedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains!By your sons in servile chains!We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!Tyrants fall in every foe!Liberty's in every blow!--Let us do or die!

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MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birthplace of valor, the country of worth:Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands forever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

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WILLIAM WORDSWORTHENGLAND, 1770-1850

THE SOLITARY REAPER

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass, Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain;Oh, listen! for the vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound. 

No nightingale did ever chantSo sweetly to reposing bandsOf travelers in some shady hauntAmong Arabian sands:A voice so thrilling ne'er was heardIn springtime from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day, Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending. I listened motionless and still;And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I boreLong after it was heard no more. 

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SONNETCOMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1802

Earth has not anything to show more fair:Dull would he be of soul who could pass byA sight so touching in its majesty:This city now doth like a garment wearThe beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples lieOpen unto the fields and to the sky;All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steepIn his first splendor valley, rock, or hill;Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!The river glideth at his own sweet will:Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;And all that mighty heart is lying still!

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WALTER SCOTTSCOTLAND, 1771-1832

"SOLDIER, REST!"

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking;Dream of battle-fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking, In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking;Dream of battle-fields no more, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 

No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come, At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here;Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. 

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep! the deer is in his den;Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen, How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugle sounds reveille. 

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LOCHINVAR

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west;Through all the wide border his steed was the best;And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none;He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Eske River where ford there was none;But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late;For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, )"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"--

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;--Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide--And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar. "

The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, --"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better by far, To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar. "

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near:So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung!"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;They'll have fleet steeds that follow, " quoth young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

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FRANCIS SCOTT KEYAMERICA, 1780-1843

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER[1]

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming--Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the fightO'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming!And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. O! say, does the star-spangled banner yet waveO'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On that shore dimly see through the mists of the deepWhere the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it waveO'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly sworeThat the havoc of war and the battle's confusionA home and a country should leave us no more?Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slaveFrom the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave;And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth waveO'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall standBetween their loved homes and war's desolation!Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued landPraise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto--"_In God is our trust_:"And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall waveO'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 

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[Footnote:1. The song is taken as it appears in Stedman and Hutchinson's_Library of American Literature_, vol. Iv. P. 419. The text, slightlydifferent from the common one, corresponds to the facsimile ofa copy made by Mr. Key in 1840. ]

THOMAS CAMPBELLSCOTLAND, 1777-1844

HOHENLINDEN

On Linden when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sightWhen the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'dEach horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heavenFar flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden's hills of stained snow, And darker yet shall be the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye Brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulcher. 

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THOMAS MOOREIRELAND, 1779-1852

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS

The Harp that once through Tara's HallsThe soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's wallsAs if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. 

No more to chiefs and ladies brightThe harp of Tara swells:The chord alone that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she givesIs when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. 

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GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRONENGLAND, 1788-1824

CHILDE HAROLD'S FAREWELL TO ENGLAND

Adieu, adieu! my native shoreFades o'er the waters blue;The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea, We follow in his flight;Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land--Good-night. 

A few short hours and he will riseTo give the morrow birth;And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate;Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;My dog howls at the gate. 

"Come hither, hither, my little page!Why dost thou weep and wail?Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, Or tremble at the gale?But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;Our ship is swift and strong;Our fleetest falcon scarce can flyMore merrily along. "

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind:Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that IAm sorrowful in mind;For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friends, save thee alone, But thee--and One above. 

"My father blessed me fervently, Yet did not much complain;But sorely will my mother sighTill I come back again. "--"Enough, enough, my little lad!Such tears become thine eye;If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry. "

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THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd thenHer beauty and her Chivalry, and brightThe lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell;But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne'er might be repeated: who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star;While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips--"The foe!They come! they come!"

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshaling in arms--the dayBattle's magnificently stern array!The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rentThe earth is cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!

--From "CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. "

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HENRY FRANCIS LYTEENGLAND, 1793-1847

ABIDE WITH ME

Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide;The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide:When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me. 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away;Change and decay in all around I see;O Thou who changest not, abide with me. 

I need Thy presence every passing hour;What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power?Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me. 

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless:Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is Death's sting? Where, Grave, thy victory?I triumph still, if Thou abide with me. 

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes, Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies;Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me. 

 * * * * *

THOMAS B. MACAULAYENGLAND, 1800-1859

HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE

The consul's brow was sad, and the consul's speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. "Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down;And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town?"Then out spoke brave Horatius, the captain of the gate:"To every man upon this earth death cometh, soon or late. Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may;I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopped by three. 

Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?"Then out spake Spurius Lartius--a Ramnian proud was he--"Lo! I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with thee. "And out spake strong Herminius--of Titian blood was he--"I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee. ""Horatius, " quoth the consul, "as thou sayest, so let it be. "And straight against that great array, forth went the dauntless three. Soon all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to seeOn the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless three. And from the ghastly entrance, where those bold Romans stood, The bravest shrank like boys who rouse an old bear in the wood. But meanwhile ax and lever have manfully been plied, And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide. "Come back, come back, Horatius!" loud cried the fathers all;"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!"Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back;And, as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack;But when they turned their faces, and on the farther shoreSaw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have crossed once more. But, with a crash like thunder, fell every loosened beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream. And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops was splashed the yellow foam. 

And, like a horse unbroken, when first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, and tossed his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free, And battlement, and plank, and pier whirled headlong to the sea. 

Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind;Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind. "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, with a smile on his pale face. "Now yield thee!" cried Lars Porsena, "now yield thee to our grace!"

Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see;Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus nought spake he;But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home, And he spoke to the noble river that rolls by the towers of Rome:"O Tiber! Father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!"So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed the good sword by his side, And, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank;But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, stood gazing where he sank, And when above the surges they saw his crest appear, Rome shouted, and e'en Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain:And fast his blood was flowing; and he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows:And oft they thought him sinking--but still again he rose. 

Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing place:But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within, And our good Father Tiber bare bravely up his chin. 

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villain drown?But for his stay, ere close of day we should have sacked the town!""Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena; "and bring him safe to shore;For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before. "

And now he feels the bottom;--now on dry earth he stands;Now round him throng the fathers to press his gory hands. And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, He enters through the river gate, borne by the joyous crowd. 

SEVENTH YEAR--SECOND HALF

ALFRED TENNYSONENGLAND, 1809-1892

EARLY SPRING

Once more the Heavenly PowerMakes all things new, And domes the red-plow'd hillsWith loving blue;The blackbirds have their wills, The throstles too. 

Opens a door in Heaven;From skies of glassA Jacob's ladder fallsOn greening grass, And o'er the mountain-wallsYoung angels pass. 

Before them fleets the shower, And bursts the buds, And shine the level lands, And flash the floods;The stars are from their handsFlung thro' the woods. 

The woods with living airsHow softly fann'd, Light airs from where the deep, All down the sand, Is breathing in his sleep, Heard by the land. 

O follow, leaping blood, The season's lure!O heart, look down and upSerene, secure. Warm as the crocus cup, Like snowdrops, pure!

Past, Future, glimpse and fadeThro' some slight spell, A gleam from yonder vale, Some far blue fell, And sympathies, how frail, In sound and smell. 

Till at thy chuckled note, Thou twinkling bird, The fairy fancies range, And, lightly stirr'd, Ring little bells of changeFrom word to word. 

For now the Heavenly PowerMakes all things new, And thaws the cold, and fillsThe flower with dew;The blackbirds have their wills, The poets too. 

 * * * * *

SIR GALAHAD

My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splintered spear shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel;They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bendOn whom their favors fall!For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall;But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine:I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill;So keep I fair through faith and prayerA virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns:Then by some secret shrine I ride;I hear a voice, but none are there;The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chants resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain meresI find a magic bark;I leap on board: no helmsman steers:I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light!Three angels bear the Holy Grail;With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And starlike mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borneThrough dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height;No branchy thicket shelter yields;But blessed forms in whistling stormsFly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight--to me is givenSuch hope, I know not fear;I yearn to breathe the airs of heavenThat often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams, And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armor that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, are turned to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, And through the mountain wallsA rolling organ-harmonySwells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear:"O just and faithful knight of God!Ride on! the prize is near. "So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All armed I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the Holy Grail. 

 * * * * *

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of deathRode the six hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!" he said;Into the valley of deathRode the six hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"Was there a man dismayed?Not though the soldier knewSome one had blundered;Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die:Into the valley of deathRode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of themVolleyed and thundered;Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hellRode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabers bare, Flashed as they turned in airSabring the gunners there, Charging an army, whileAll the world wondered. Plunged in the battery smoke, Right through the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReeled from the saber-stroke--Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not--Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind themVolleyed and thundered;Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so wellCame through the jaws of death, Back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade?Oh, the wild charge they made!All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made, Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!

 * * * * *

RING OUT, WILD BELLS

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light;The year is dying in the night:Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow;The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more;Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife;Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times;Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

--From "IN MEMORIAM. "

 * * * * *

ALFRED DOMETTENGLAND, 1811-1887

A CHRISTMAS HYMN

It was the calm and silent night!Seven hundred years and fifty-threeHad Rome been growing up to might, And now was queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars;Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain:Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and MarsHeld undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago. 

'Twas in the calm and silent night!The senator of haughty Rome, Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home;Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell. His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;What recked the Roman what befellA paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago. 

Within that province far awayWent plodding home a weary boorA streak of light before him lay, Fallen through a half-shut stable-doorAcross his path. He passed--for naughtTold what was going on within;How keen the stars, his only thought;The air how calm and cold and thin, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

Oh, strange indifference! low and highDrowsed over common joys and cares;The earth was still--but knew not why;The world was listening, unawares. How calm a moment may precedeOne that shall thrill the world for ever!To that still moment none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever--In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

It is the calm and solemn night!A thousand bells ring out, and throwTheir joyous peals abroad, and smiteThe darkness--charmed and holy now!The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given;For in that stable lay, new-born, The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

 * * * * *

ROBERT BROWNINGENGLAND, 1812-1889

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD

Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April's there, And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England--now!

And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossomed pear tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops, at the bent spray's edge--That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower--Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

 * * * * *

PHEIDIPPIDES

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock!Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to all!Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise--Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the aegis and spear!Also ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer, Now, henceforth and forever, --O latest to whom I upraiseHand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock!Present to help, potent to save, Pan--patron I call!

Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return!See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no specter that speaks!Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you, "Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid!Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed, Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs throughWas the space between city and city; two days, two nights did I burn

Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia has come!Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth;Razed to the ground is Eretria--but Athens, shall Athens sink, Drop into dust and die--the flower of Hellas utterly die, Die with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the stander-by?Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'erdestruction's brink?How--when? No care for my limbs!--there's lightning in all and some--Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!"

O my Athens--Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond?Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust, Malice, --each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate!Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stoodQuivering, --the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry wood:"Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate?Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyondSwing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 'Ye must'!"

No bolt launched from Olympos! Lo, their answer at last!"Has Persia come, --does Athens ask aid, --may Sparta befriend?Nowise precipitate judgment--too weighty the issue at stake!Count we no time lost time which lags thro' respect to the Gods!Ponder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the oddsIn your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to takeFull-circle her state in the sky!' Already she rounds to it fast:Athens must wait, patient as we--who judgment suspend. "

Athens, --except for that sparkle, --thy name, I had moldered to ash!That sent a blaze thro' my blood; off, off and away was I back, --Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile!Yet "O Gods of my land!" I cried, as each hillock and plain, Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again, "Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you erewhile?Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too rashLove in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack!

"Oak and olive and bay, --I bid you cease to enwreatheBrows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot, You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave!Rather I hail thee, Parnes, --trust to thy wild waste tract!Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if slackedMy speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to caveNo deity deigns to drape with verdure?--at least I can breathe, Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!"Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge;Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a barJutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across:"Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse?Athens to aid? Tho' the dive were thro' Erebos, thus I obey--Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No bridgeBetter!"--when--ha! what was it I came on, of wonders that are?

There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he--majestical Pan!Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof;All the great God was good in the eyes grave-kindly--the curlCarved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's aweAs, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. "Halt, Pheidippides!"--halt I did, my brain of a whirl:"Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?" he gracious began:"How is it, --Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof?

"Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast!Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old?Aye, and still, and forever her friend! Test Pan, trust me!Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faithIn the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The Goat-God saith:When Persia--so much as strews not the soil--is cast in the sea, Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least, Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!'

"Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!'"(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear--Fennel, --I grasped it a-tremble with Dew--whatever it bode), "While, as for thee . . . " But enough! He was gone. If I ran hitherto--Be sure that the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew. Parnes to Athens--earth no more, the air was my road;Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge!Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare!

Then spoke Miltiades. "And then, best runner of Greece, Whose limbs did duty indeed, --what gift is promised thyself?Tell it us straightway, --Athens the mother demands of her son!"Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at lengthHis eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strengthInto the utterance--"Pan spoke thus: 'For what thou hast doneCount on a worthy reward! Henceforth be allowed thee releaseFrom the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!'

"I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind!Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow, --Pound--Pan helping us--Persia to dust, and, under the deep, Whelm her away forever; and then, --no Athens to save, --Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave, --Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creepClose to my knees, --recount how the God was awful yet kind, Promised their sire reward to the full--rewarding him--so!"

Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day:So, when Persia was dust, all cried "To Akropolis!Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due!'Athens is saved, thank Pan, ' go shout!" He flung down his shield, Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel-fieldAnd Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine thro' clay, Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died--the bliss!

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of saluteIs still "Rejoice!"--his word which brought rejoicing indeed. So is Pheidippides happy forever, --then noble strong manWho could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god lovedso well, He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tellSuch tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, So to end gloriously--once to shout, thereafter be mute:"Athens is saved!"--Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. 

 * * * * *

HELEN HUNT JACKSONAMERICA, 1831-1885

A SONG OF CLOVER

I wonder what the Clover thinks, Intimate friend of Bob-o'-links, Lover of Daisies slim and white, Waltzer with Buttercups at night;Keeper of Inn for traveling Bees, Serving to them wine-dregs and lees, Left by the Royal Humming Birds, Who sip and pay with fine-spun words;Fellow with all the lowliest, Peer of the gayest and the best;Comrade of winds, beloved of sun, Kissed by the Dew-drops, one by one;Prophet of Good-Luck mysteryBy sign of four which few may see;Symbol of Nature's magic zone, One out of three, and three in one;Emblem of comfort in the speechWhich poor men's babies early reach;Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills, Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills, Sweet in its white, sweet in its red, --Oh, half its sweetness cannot be said;--Sweet in its every living breath, Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death!Oh! who knows what the Clover thinks?No one! unless the Bob-o'-links!

--"SAXE HOLM. "

 * * * * *

LEWIS CARROLLENGLAND, 1832-1898

A SONG OF LOVE

Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping, That lures the bird home to her nest?Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, To cuddle and croon it to rest?What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?'Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low--And the name of the secret is Love!For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning, Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?That stirs the vexed soul with an aching--a yearningFor the brotherly hand-grip of peace?Whence the music that fills all our being--that thrillsAround us, beneath, and above?'Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, or it goes--But the name of the secret is Love!For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, Like a picture so fair to the sight?That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, Till the little lambs leap with delight?'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, Though 'tis sung, by the angels above, In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear--And the name of the secret is Love!For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

 * * * * *

ANDREW LANGENGLAND, 1844-

SCYTHE SONG

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, What is the word methinks you know, Endless over-word that the ScytheSings to the blades of the grass below?Scythes that swing in the glass and clover, Something, still, they say as they pass;What is the word that, over and over, Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?

_Hush, ah hush_, the Scythes are saying, _Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;Hush_, they say to the grasses swaying;_Hush_, they sing to the clover deep!_Hush_--'tis the lullaby Time is singing--_Hush, and heed not, for all things pass;__Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging_Over the clover, over the grass!

 * * * * *

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNEENGLAND, 1837-

WHITE BUTTERFLIES

Fly, white butterflies, out to sea, Frail, pale wings for the wind to try, Small white wings that we scarce can see, Fly!

Some fly light as a laugh of glee, Some fly soft as a long, low sigh;All to the haven where each would be, Fly!

 * * * * *

RUDYARD KIPLINGENGLAND, 1865-

RECESSIONAL

A VICTORIAN ODE

God of our fathers, known of old--Lord of our far-flung battle line--Beneath whose awful hand we holdDominion over palm and pine--Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies--The captains and the kings depart--Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away--On dune and headland sinks the fire--Lo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!Judge of the nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe--Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law--Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard--All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard. For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!

Amen. 

 * * * * *

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANTAMERICA, 1794-1878

TO A WATERFOWL

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. 

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

 * * * * *

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread;The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stoodIn brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowersAre lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rainCalls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;But on the hills the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plagueon men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. 

And now when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up, and perished by my side. In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:Yet not unmeet was it that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 

 * * * * *

THANATOPSIS

To him who in the love of Nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty, and she glidesInto his darker musings, with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;--Go forth, under the open sky, and listTo Nature's teachings, while from all around--Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world--with kings, The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hillsRock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, --the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods--rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, --Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. --Take the wingsOf morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings--yet the dead are there:And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep--the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one as before will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glides away, the sons of men, The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron, and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man, --Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan, which movesTo that mysterious realm, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

 * * * * *

RALPH WALDO EMERSONAMERICA, 1803-1882

'Twas one of the charméd daysWhen the genius of God doth flow, The wind may alter twenty ways, A tempest cannot blow;It may blow north, it still is warm;Or south, it still is clear;Or east, it smells like a clover-farm;Or west, no thunder fear. The musing peasant lowly greatBeside the forest water sate;The rope-like pine roots crosswise grownCompose the network of his throne;The wide lake, edged with sand and grass, Was burnished to a floor of glass, Painted with green and proudOf the tree and of the cloud. He was the heart of all the scene;On him the sun looked more serene;To hill and cloud his face was known, --It seemed the likeness of their own;They knew by secret sympathyThe public child of earth and sky. "You ask, " he said, "what guideMe through trackless thickets led, Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and wide. I found the water's bed. The watercourses were my guide;I traveled grateful by their side, Or through their channel dry;They led me through the thicket damp, Through brake and fern, the beaver's camp, Through beds of granite cut my road, And their resistless friendship showed:The falling waters led me, The foodful waters fed me, And brought me to the lowest land, Unerring to the ocean sand. The moss upon the forest barkWas pole-star when the night was dark;The purple berries in the woodSupplied me necessary food;For Nature ever faithful isTo such as trust her faithfulness. When the forest shall mislead me, When the night and morning lie, When sea and land refuse to feed me, 'Twill be time enough to die;Then will yet my mother yieldA pillow in her greenest field, Nor the June flowers scorn to coverThe clay of their departed lover. "

--From "WOODNOTES. "

 * * * * *

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOWAMERICA, 1807-1882

DAYBREAK

A wind came up out of the sea, And said, "O mists, make room for me. "

It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone. "

And hurried landward far away, Crying, "Awake! it is the day. "

It said unto the forest, "Shout!Hang all your leafy banners out!"

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And said, "O bird, awake and sing. "

And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer, Your clarion blow; the day is near. "

It whispered to the fields of corn, "Bow down, and hail the coming morn. "

It shouted through the belfry-tower, "Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour. "

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie. "

 * * * * *

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ

May 28, 1857

It was fifty years agoIn the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. 

And Nature, the old nurse, tookThe child upon her knee, Saying: "Here is a story-bookThy Father has written for thee. 

"Come, wander with me, " she said, "Into regions yet untrod;And read what is still unreadIn the manuscripts of God. "

And he wandered away and awayWith Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and dayThe rhymes of the universe. 

And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail, She would sing a more wonderful song, Or tell a more marvelous tale. 

So she keeps him still a child, And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wildFor the beautiful Pays de Vaud;

Though at times he hears in his dreamsThe Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streamsFrom the glaciers clear and cold;

And the mother at home says, "Hark!For his voice I listen and yearn;It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!"

 * * * * *

HYMN TO THE NIGHT

I heard the trailing garments of the NightSweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with lightFrom the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above;The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight airMy spirit drank repose;The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, --From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bearWhat man has borne before!Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. 

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night!

 * * * * *

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELLAMERICA, 1819-1891

LONGING

Of all the myriad moods of mindThat through the soul come thronging, Which one was e'er so dear, so kind, So beautiful as Longing?The thing we long for, that we areFor one transcendent momentBefore the Present poor and bareCan make its sneering comment. 

Still, through our paltry stir and strife, Glows down the wished Ideal, And Longing molds in clay what LifeCarves in the marble Real;To let the new life in, we know, Desire must ope the portal;Perhaps the longing to be soHelps make the soul immortal. 

Longing is God's fresh heavenward willWith our poor earthward striving;We quench it that we may be stillContent with merely living:But, would we learn that heart's full scopeWhich we are hourly wronging, Our lives must climb from hope to hopeAnd realize our longing. 

Ah! let us hope that to our praiseGood God not only reckonsThe moments when we tread His ways, But when the spirit beckons, --That some slight good is also wroughtBeyond self-satisfaction, When we are simply good in thought, Howe'er we fail in action. 

 * * * * *

THE FINDING OF THE LYRE

There lay upon the ocean's shoreWhat once a tortoise served to cover. A year and more, with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by, As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dryCheap burial might provide it. 

It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it;With many a ban the fishermanHad stumbled o'er and spurned it;And there the fisher-girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brotherHow in their play the poor estrayMight serve some use or other. 

So there it lay, through wet and dry, As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, "Why, here, " cried he, "the thing of thingsIn shape, material, and dimensions!Give it but strings, and lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!"

So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, The shell disdained, a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered. O empty world that round us lies, Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, In thee what songs should waken!

 * * * * *

JOHN BURROUGHSAMERICA, 1837-

WAITING[1]

Serene, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, For lo! my own shall come to me. 

I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace?I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face. 

Asleep, awake, by night or day, The friends I seek are seeking me;No wind can drive my bark astray, Or change the tide of destiny. 

What matter if I stand alone?I wait with joy the coming years;My heart shall reap where it has sown, And garner up its fruit of tears. 

The waters know their own, and drawThe brook that springs in yonder height;So flows the good with equal lawUnto the soul of pure delight. 

The stars come nightly to the sky;The tidal wave unto the sea;Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, Can keep my own away from me. 

 * * * * *[Footnote 1: Used by courteous permission of the publishers, Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. , Boston. ]

JOAQUIN MILLERAMERICA, 1841-

COLUMBUS

Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind him the gates of Hercules;Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone. Brave Admiral, speak; what shall I say?""Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day;My men grow ghastly wan and weak, "The stout mate thought of home; a sprayOf salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?""Why, you shall say, at break of day, 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed and sailed as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said:"Why, now not even God would knowShould I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say--"He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. He curls his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite!Brave Admiral, say but one good word:What shall we do when hope is gone?"The words leapt as a leaping sword:"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that nightOf all dark nights! And then a speck--A light! a light! a light! a light!It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that worldIts greatest lesson: "On! sail on!"

 * * * * *

JOHN VANCE CHENEYAMERICA, 1848-

EVENING SONGS[1]

I

The birds have hid, the winds are low, The brake is awake, the grass aglow:The bat is the rover, No bee on the clover, The day is over, And evening come. 

The heavy beetle spreads her wings, The toad has the road, the cricket sings:The bat is the rover, No bee on the clover, The day is over, And evening come. 

II

It is that pale, delaying hourWhen nature closes like a flower, And on the spirit lies, The silence of the earth and skies. The world has thoughts she will not ownWhen shade and dream with night have flown;Bright overhead, a starMakes golden guesses what they are. 

III

Now is Light, sweet mother, down the west, With little Song against her breast;She took him up, all tired with play, And fondly bore him far away. 

While he sleeps, one wanders in his stead, A fainter glory round her head;She follows happy waters after, Leaving behind low, rippling laughter. 

IV

Behind the hilltop drops the sun, The curled heat falters on the sand, While evening's ushers, one by one, Lead in the guests of Twilight Land. 

The bird is silent overhead, Below the beast has laid him down;Afar, the marbles watch the dead, The lonely steeple guards the town. 

The south wind feels its amorous courseTo cloistered sweet in thickets found;The leaves obey its tender force, And stir 'twixt silence and a sound. 

 * * * * *[Footnote 1: From "Poems, " published by Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. , Boston. ]

BLISS CARMANCANADA, 1861-

A VAGABOND SONG[1]

There is something in the Autumn that is native to my blood--Touch of manner, hint of mood;And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. 

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cryOf bugles going by. And my lonely spirit thrillsTo see the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills. 

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of fameShe calls and calls each vagabond by name. 

 * * * * *[Footnote 1: From "Songs from Vagabondia, " by Bliss Carman. Usedby the courteous permission of the author and the publishers, Messrs. Small, Maynard, & Co. ]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEYAMERICA, 1852-

OLD GLORY[1]

Old Glory! say, who, By the ships and the crew, And the long, blended ranks of the gray and the blue--Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bearWith such pride everywhere, As you cast yourself free to the rapturous airAnd leap out full length, as we're wanting you to?--Who gave you that name, with the ring of the same, And the honor and fame so becoming to you?Your stripes stroked in ripples of white and of red, With your stars at their glittering best overhead--By day or by nightTheir delightfullest lightLaughing down from their little square heaven of blue!Who gave you the name of Old Glory--say, who--Who gave you the name of Old Glory?

The old banner lifted and faltering thenIn vague lisps and whispers fell silent again. Old Glory: the story we're wanting to hearIs what the plain facts of your christening were, --For your name--just to hear it, Repeat it, and cheer it, 's a tang to the spiritAs salt as a tear;--And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by, There's a shout in the throat and a blur in the eye, And an aching to live for you always--or die, If, dying, we still keep you waving on highAnd so, by our loveFor you, floating above, And the scars of all wars and the sorrows thereof, Who gave you the name of Old Glory, and whyAre we thrilled at the name of Old Glory?

Then the old banner leaped like a sail in the blast, And fluttered an audible answer at lastAnd it spake with a shake of the voice, and it said:By the driven snow-white and the living blood-redOf my bars and their heaven of stars overhead--By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast, As I float from the steeple or flap at the mast, Or droop o'er the sod where the long grasses nod, --My name is as old as the glory of GodSo I came by the name of Old Glory. 

 * * * * *[Footnote 1: This and the following poems are used by the courteouspermission of the publishers, Messrs. Bobbs, Merrill, & Co. , Indianapolis. ]

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOWAMERICA, 1807-1882

KAVANAGH

Ah, how wonderful is the advent of the spring!--the great annual miracle of the blossoming of Aaron'srod, repeated on myriads and myriads of branches!--the gentle progression and growth of herbs, flowers, trees, --gentle, and yet irrepressible, --which no force can stay, no violence restrain, likelove, that wins its way and cannot be withstood byany human power, because itself is divine power. Ifspring came but once a century, instead of once ayear, or burst forth with a sound of an earthquakeand not in silence, what wonder and expectationwould there be in all hearts to behold the miraculouschange!

But now the silent succession suggests nothingbut necessity. To most men, only the cessation ofthe miracle would be miraculous, and the perpetualexercise of God's power seems less wonderful thanits withdrawal would be. We are like children whoare astonished and delighted only by the second-handof the clock, not by the hour-hand. 

In the fields and woods, meanwhile, there wereother signs and signals of the summer. The darkeningfoliage; the embrowning grain; the golden dragonflyhaunting the blackberry bushes; the cawingcrows, that looked down from the mountain on thecornfield, and waited day after day for the scarecrowto finish his work and depart; and the smoke of far-offburning woods, that pervaded the air and hungin purple haze about the summits of the mountains, --these were the vaunt-couriers and attendants ofthe hot August. 

The brown autumn came. Out of doors, it broughtto the fields the prodigality of the golden harvest, --to the forest, revelations of light, --and to the sky, the sharp air, the morning mist, the red clouds atevening. Within doors, the sense of seclusion, thestillness of closed and curtained windows, musings bythe fireside, books, friends, conversation, and the long, meditative evenings. To the farmer, it brought surceaseof toil, --to the scholar, that sweet delirium ofthe brain which changes toil to pleasure. It broughtthe wild duck back to the reedy marshes of the south;it brought the wild song back to the fervid brain of thepoet. Without, the village street was paved with gold;the river ran red with the reflection of the leaves. Within, the faces of friends brightened the gloomywalls; the returning footsteps of the long-absentgladdened the threshold; and all the sweet amenitiesof social life again resumed their interrupted reign. 

The first snow came. How beautiful it was, fallingso silently, all day long, all night long, on themountains, on the meadows, on the roofs of theliving, on the graves of the dead! All white savethe river, that marked its course by a winding blackline across the landscape; and the leafless trees, thatagainst the leaden sky now revealed more fully thewonderful beauty and intricacy of their branches!

What silence, too, came with the snow, and whatseclusion! Every sound was muffled, every noisechanged to something soft and musical. No moretrampling hoofs, --no more rattling wheels! Onlythe chiming sleigh bells, beating as swift and merrilyas the hearts of children. 

 * * * * *

APPENDIX: BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

ENGLISH AUTHORS

GEOFFREY CHAUCER, the father of English poetry, was born inLondon in 1340. The colleges of Oxford and Cambridge both claim himas a student. He enjoyed the favor of King Edward the Third, andpassed much of his time at court. In 1386 he was made a knight, andduring the latter part of his life he received an annual pension. He died in 1400. His writings are in a language so different frommodern English that many persons cannot enjoy their beauties. Hisprincipal poems are "Canterbury Tales, " "The Legend of Good Women, ""The Court of Love, " and "Troilus and Cressida. "

EDMUND SPENSER was born in London about 1553. He wasgraduated at Cambridge in 1576, and soon after wrote "The Shepherd'sCalendar. " Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Walter Raleigh were his friendsand patrons. In 1598 Spenser was appointed a sheriff in Ireland, andnot long afterward in a rebellion his property was destroyed and hischild killed. He did not long survive this calamity. His best-knownpoem is "The Faery Queen. "

THE REIGN OF QUEEN ELIZABETH is often called the Golden Age ofEnglish literature. Not only did Spenser and Shakespeare live then, but a large number of minor poets also rendered the periodillustrious. Among the dramatic poets Christopher Marlowe, Beaumontand Fletcher, who wrote together, and Ben Jonson hold an honorableposition. The most noted lyric poets of the day were George Herbert, Sir Walter Raleigh, and Sir Philip Sidney. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, the greatest of English poets, was born at Stratford-on-Avon inApril, 1564. He is supposed to have been educated at the free schoolof Stratford. When he was about twenty-two, he went to London, andafter a hard struggle with poverty, he became first an actor, then asuccessful playwright and theater manager. Having gained not onlyfame but a modest fortune, he retired in 1611 to live at ease inStratford until his death in 1616. Besides the two long poems, "Venus and Adonis" and "Lucrece, " which first won popularity forhim, he has written thirty-seven plays, ranging from the lightestcomedy, through romance and historical narrative, to the darkesttragedy. Whatever form his verse takes, --sonnet, song, or dramaticpoetry, --it shows the touch of the master hand, the inspiration ofthe master mind. Of his plays those which are still most frequentlyacted are the tragedies "Hamlet, " "Macbeth, " "King Lear, " and"Othello, " the comedies "Midsummer-night's Dream, " "The Merchant ofVenice, " "As You Like It, " and "The Comedy of Errors, " and thehistorical plays "Julius Caesar, " "King Henry IV, " "King Henry V, "and "Richard III. "

BEN JONSON was born at Westminster, England, about 1573. Hewas the friend of Shakespeare and a famous dramatist in his day, buthis plays no longer hold the stage. His best play is "Every Man inhis Humour. " His songs and short poems are beautiful. He died in1637. His tomb in Westminster Abbey is inscribed "O Rare Ben Jonson!"

GEORGE HERBERT was born in Montgomery Castle, Wales, April 3, 1593. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. Later hestudied for the ministry and was appointed vicar of Bremerton. His"Sacred Poems" are noted for their purity and beauty of sentiment. He died in 1633. 

JOHN MILTON was born in London, December 9, 1608. He waseducated at Christ's College, Cambridge. Later he spent a year intravel, meeting the great Galileo while in Italy. He was an ardentadvocate of freedom, and under the Protectorate he was the secretaryof the Protector, Oliver Cromwell. When only forty-six, he becametotally blind, yet his greatest work was done after this misfortuneovertook him. As a poet he stands second only to Shakespeare. Hisearly poems, "Comus, " "L'Allegro, " "Il Penseroso, " and "Lycidas, "are very beautiful, and his "Paradise Lost" is the finest epic poemin the English language. He died in 1674. 

THE MINOR POETS of the age of Milton were Edmund Waller, Robert Herrick, George Wither, Sir John Suckling, and Sir RichardLovelace. 

JOHN DRYDEN was born August 9, 1631. He was educated atTrinity College, Cambridge. His poem in honor of the restorationof Charles II won him the position of Poet Laureate. His best-knownworks are the poetic "Translation of Virgil's Aeneid, " "Alexander'sFeast, " "The Hind and the Panther, " and the drama "The IndianEmperor. " He died in 1700. 

THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE was rendered brilliant by the writingsof Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison, Edward Young, James Thompson, William Collins, Sir Richard Steele, Jonathan Swift, and DanielDefoe. Not only were the poems of this period beautiful, but prosealso reached a high development. 

JOSEPH ADDISON was born at Milston, England, May 1, 1672. Hecompleted his education at Queen's and Magdalen colleges, Oxford. Heentered the diplomatic service and rose steadily, becoming one of thetwo principal secretaries of state two years before his death. Heattained a higher political position than any other writer has everachieved through his literary ability. With Steele he published_The Tatler_, and later _The Spectator_, at first a daily paper andafterward a tri-weekly one. He was a master of English prose, and hispoems are elevated and serious in style. He died in 1719. 

ISAAC WATTS was born at Southampton, July 17, 1674. He studiedfor the ministry. He wrote nearly five hundred hymns besides his"Divine and Moral Songs for Children. " Many of his hymns are stillfavorites. He died in 1748. 

ALEXANDER POPE was born in London, May 21, 1688. Sickly anddeformed, he was unable to attend school, but he was neverthelessa great student. His writings are witty and satirical. His best-knownpoems are "Essay on Man, " "Translation of the Iliad, " "Essay onCriticism, " and "The Rape of the Lock. " He died in 1744. 

THOMAS GRAY was born in London in 1716. He was educated atEton, and Peter-House College, Cambridge. He lived all his life atCambridge, ultimately being appointed professor of Modern History. His most famous poem is the "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. "He died in 1771. 

WILLIAM COWPER was born at Great Berkhamstead, England, November 26, 1731. He was educated at Westminster School, and studiedlaw at the Middle Temple, being called to the bar in 1754. He wasvery delicate and afflicted with nervousness that amounted toinsanity at times. Not until 1780 did he seriously begin his literarycareer. Then for a period of a little more than ten years he workedwith success and was happy. His most famous poems are "John Gilpin, ""The Task, " "Hope, " and "Lines on my Mother's Portrait. " In thelatter part of his life his nervous melancholy again affected him. He died in 1800. 

ROBERT BURNS was born at Ayr in Scotland, January 25, 1759. He was the son of a poor farmer, and he himself followed the plowin his earlier days. He was about to seek his fortune in Americawhen his first volume of poems was published and won him fame atonce. His style is simple and sincere, with a fire of intensity. His best poems are "Tam o'Shanter" and "The Cottar's Saturday Night. "He died July 21, 1796. 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, England, on April 7, 1770. He completed his education at St John'sCollege, Cambridge, taking his degree of B A in 1791. He wasappointed Poet Laureate in 1843, succeeding Robert Southey. He isthe poet of nature and of simple life. Among his best known poemsare "The Ode to Immortality, " "The Excursion, " and "YarrowRevisited. " He died April 23, 1850. 

SIR WALTER SCOTT was born in Edinburgh, August 15, 1771. Hewas educated at Edinburgh University and afterward studied law inhis father's office. His energy and tireless work were marvelous. He followed the practice of his profession until he was appointedClerk of Session. His official duties were scrupulously performed, yet his literary work surpasses in volume and ability that of any ofhis contemporaries. Novelist, historian, poet, he excelled in whateverstyle of literature he attempted. His best-known poems are "The Ladyof the Lake, " "Marmion, " and "The Lay of the Last Minstrel. " He diedin 1832. 

ROBERT SOUTHEY was born at Bristol, August 12, 1774. He wasexpelled from Westminster School for writing an article againstschool flogging. Later he studied at Balliol College, Oxford. He wasan incessant worker, laboring at all branches of literature, fromhis famous nursery story, "The Three Bears, " to "The Life of Nelson. "He was appointed Laureate in 1813. His most successful long poems are"Thalaba, " and "The Curse of Kehama. " He died in 1843. 

THOMAS CAMPBELL was born in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1777. He waseducated at the university of his native town, and he was regarded asits most brilliant scholar, in his later life he was elected LordRector of the university. His best known poems are "The Pleasures ofHope, " "Gertrude of Wyoming, " and "Ye Mariners of England. " He diedin 1844. 

THOMAS MOORE was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1779. He waseducated at Trinity College, and afterward studied law at the MiddleTemple, London. "Lalla Rookh, " and his "Irish Melodies" have won forhim a lasting fame as a poet. He died February 26, 1852. 

JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT was born near London in 1784. He leftschool when only fifteen to become a clerk in the War Office, wherehe remained until 1808, when he and his brother published _TheExaminer_. From that time he was occupied as an editor and writer, being connected with different periodicals. He was the intimatefriend of Byron, Moore, Shelley, and Keats. One of his best poems, "Rimini, " was written in prison, where he was condemned to remain fortwo years because he had published a satirical article about theprince regent. In his later years a pension of two hundred poundswas granted him. He died August 28, 1859. 

GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON, was born in London, January22, 1788. He studied at Trinity College, Cambridge, but did notremain to take his degree. While at the university he published avolume of poems, "Hours of Idleness, " which he followed shortly bythe satirical poem "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, " which wonhim immediate recognition. He wrote many dramatic poems, but his mostbeautiful work is "Childe Harold. " He was the friend of Shelley andLeigh Hunt, and together they published _The Liberal_. In 1823he joined the Greeks in their struggle for freedom, and the exposureand exertion that he suffered in this war brought on the fever ofwhich he died in April, 1824. 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY was born at Field Place, England, August4, 1792. He was entered at University College, Oxford, but wasshortly expelled as an atheist. His life was a sad one, his firstmarriage was unhappy, and he was drowned when only thirty years old, in July, 1822. His longest and best works are "The Cenci, ""Prometheus Unbound, " "The Revolt of Islam, " and "Adonais, " an elegyon the death of his friend, the poet Keats, near whom he was buried. 

JOHN KEATS was born in London, England, in 1795 or 1796. Hispoem "Endymion" was criticised severely in the _QuarterlyReview_. Keats was so sensitive that this criticism is supposed tohave aggravated his malady, and thus to be responsible for his earlydeath. Among his other poems may be noted "Hyperion, " "Lamia, " and"The Eve of St Agnes. " He died at Rome in 1821. 

THOMAS HOOD was born in London, England, May 23, 1799. Hishumorous verses first attracted attention, but his serious poems havegiven him a lasting place in literature. Among these are "The Song ofthe Shirt, " "The Bridge of Sighs, " "Eugene Aram, " and "Ode toMelancholy. " He died in 1845. 

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY, was born in Leicestershire, October 25, 1800. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, andstudied law. He disliked his profession, greatly preferringliterature. In 1830 he entered Parliament and was made Secretary ofWar in 1839. He was elected Lord Rector of Glasgow University andwas raised to the peerage in 1857. He died in 1859. His best-knownpoems are "Ivry" and "The Lays of Ancient Rome. "

THE REIGN OF QUEEN VICTORIA from a literary standpoint issecond only to that of Elizabeth in brilliancy. The Victorian Age isusually applied to the whole century, during the better part of whichVictoria reigned. The literature of this age is rich with the writingsof Robert Browning, Alfred Tennyson, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Algernon Charles Swinburne, Dante Gabriel Rossetti and his sisterChristina, William Morris, Matthew Arnold, Edwin Arnold, JeanIngelow, Owen Meredith, Arthur Hugh Clough, Adelaide Procter, and ahost of minor poets. 

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON, was born at Somersby, August 6, 1809. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. His first book ofpoems, written with his brother Charles, was published two yearsbefore he entered college; from that time until his death his literarywork was continuous. In 1850 he succeeded Wordsworth as Poet Laureate, and thirty-four years later was raised to the peerage. His poemscover a wide range--lyrics, ballads, idyls, and dramas. His mostimportant works are "The Princess, " "In Memoriam, " "Maud, " and "TheIdylls of the King. " He died in 1892. 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING was born at Durham, England, March6, 1809. She was highly educated and was proficient in both Greek andLatin. She wrote her first verses at the age of ten, and her firstvolume of poems was published when she was but seventeen years old. In 1846 she was married to the poet Robert Browning. Her first knownworks are "Aurora Leigh, " a novel in verse, "The Portuguese Sonnets, ""Casa Guidi Windows, " and "The Cry of the Children, " a poem writtento show the wretchedness of the little children employed in the minesand factories of England. She died at Florence, Italy, in June, 1861. 

ROBERT BROWNING was born in Camberwell, England, in 1812. Hewas educated at the University of London. He married ElizabethBarrett, the poet, and together they lived much of their time inItaly. They were deeply interested in the struggle of Italy forfreedom, and both wrote on this subject. In his long life Browningwrote many volumes of poems, and it is difficult to choose amongthem. "The Pied Piper of Hamelin" is always a favorite with the youngpeople, as are "How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, ""Herve Riel, " and "Ratisbon. " His most popular poems are "PippaPasses, " "The Ring and the Book, " "A Blot on the 'Scutcheon, " and"Saul. " He died in 1889. 

MARIAN EVANS, who wrote under the name of George Eliot, wasborn at Aubury Farm, near Nuneaton, England, November 22, 1819. Shewas carefully educated and was a most earnest student. While herpoems are beautiful, her best work is in prose, and she ranks as oneof England's greatest novelists. Her most famous novels are "AdamBede, " "The Mill on the Floss, " "Silas Marner, " and "Middlemarch. "She married Mr John Cross, in May, 1880, and died December 22 of thesame year. 

JEAN INGELOW was born at Boston, England, in 1820. She isknown both as a poet and novelist. Her best-known poems are "Songsof Seven" and "The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire. " She diedin 1897. 

MATTHEW ARNOLD, son of Thomas Arnold of Rugby, was born atLaleham, England, December 24, 1822. He was educated at Rugby andOxford. In 1857 he was elected professor of Poetry at Oxford. He ischiefly noted for his essays, though his poems are lofty in sentimentand polished in diction. "Sohrab and Rustum" is his most importantpoem. He died in 1888. 

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK was born in Staffordshire, England, in 1826. She won her fame as a writer of novels, of which the bestis "John Halifax, Gentleman. " She died in 1887. 

WILLIAM MORRIS was born in Walthamstow, March 24, 1834. Hewas educated at Exeter College, Oxford. Before he was thirty yearsold he founded an establishment for the manufacture of artisticmaterials for household decoration. His work in this direction hasimproved the beauty of all household fabrics, and has affected thetaste in household art in both England and America. Neverthelesshe is best known as a poet. His finest poems are "The EarthlyParadise, " a series of Norse legends, "Three Northern Stones, "translated from Icelandic poems, and his translations of "TheOdyssey. " He died in 1896. 

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE was born in London, April 5, 1837. He was educated partly in France, at Eton, and at Balliol College, Oxford. He left the University without a degree to spend severalyears in travel. He is a master of English, using a wider vocabularythan any of his contemporaries, and the musical effects of his manyvaried meters have won for him a unique position in poetry. He hasbeen called "the greatest metrical inventor in English literature. "His works in French and Latin show him to be a poet in threelanguages. His best-known works are "Poems and Ballads, " "Songsbefore Sunrise, " and "Mary Stuart. " He is the greatest livingEnglish poet. 

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI was born in London, May 12, 1828. Hestudied art in the antique school of the Royal Academy, and becameknown as an artist before he won fame as a poet. His most widelyknown poem is "The Blessed Damozel. " He died in 1882. 

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI, the sister of D. G. Rossetti, wasborn in London, December 5, 1830. She ranks as one of the greatestand most spiritual of English poetesses. 

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD was born in Sussex, June 10, 1832. He waseducated at King's College, London, and at University College, Oxford. He was appointed principal of the Government SanscritCollege at Poonah, India, and Fellow of the University of Bombay, andheld these posts through the Sepoy Rebellion. Returning to London in1861, he was one of the editors of the _Daily Telegraph_, andthrough his influence Henry M. Stanley undertook his first expeditioninto Africa to find Livingstone. Nearly all of his poetry deals withOriental legends, and much of his time was spent in India and Japan. His principal works are "The Light of Asia, " "Pearls of the Faith, ""Indian Song of Songs, " "Japonica, " and "The Light of the World. "

RUDYARD KIPLING was born in Bombay, India, December 30, 1865. He was educated partly in England, but returned to India when he wasonly fifteen, and there began his literary work and first won fame. His writings are mainly in prose, and he is at his best when writingof India. His poems are all short, and "The Recessional" and "TheDove of Dacca" are especially fine. In prose the "Jungle Books, ""The Naulakha, " and "Kim" are the most popular. 

AMONG THE MINOR POETS of the Victorian Age may be mentionedthe following:--

John Henry, Cardinal Newman, 1801-1890. Author of many volumes ofsermons and the hymn "Lead Kindly Light. "

Henry Francis Lyte, 1763-1847. Author of many hymns, the mostpopular of which is "Abide with Me. "

Alfred Domett, 1811-1887. Author of "Christmas Hymn. "

Arthur Hugh Clough, 1810-1861. Author of "Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich. "

Charles Mackay, 1814-1889. Author of many songs, among them "There isa Good Time Coming" and "Cheer, Boys, Cheer!"

AMERICAN AUTHORS

In the early days of this country the time and thought of thesettlers were taken up in struggling with the difficulties of theirsurroundings, so that there was little opportunity for theestablishment of an American literature. For art, poetry, and thebeautiful in life, the colonists naturally turned to the mothercountry--to the home which they had so lately left. During the periodbefore the French and Indian War the subject of religion and nicepoints of doctrine filled the minds of the Americans, hence we findthat the first American writer who attained to a European reputationwas the Rev. Jonathan Edwards, a distinguished divine and presidentof Princeton College. His books on "The Religious Affections" and"The Freedom of the Will" are still studied. 

After the French and Indian War, politics became the absorbing topicof the day, and Benjamin Franklin was the first to achieve fame inthis field of letters. His writings in "Poor Richard's Almanac, "honest and wholesome in tone, exercised a marked influence upon theliterature of his time. Among the orators who won distinction in thediscussion of civil liberty are James Otis, John and Samuel Adams, and Patrick Henry. The writings of John Jay, Alexander Hamilton, andJames Madison in _The Federalist_ secured the adoption of theConstitution and survive to this day as brilliant examples ofpolitical essays, while the state papers of George Washington andThomas Jefferson are models of clearness and elegance of style. 

With the peace and prosperity that followed the establishment of ourrepublic came the opportunity to cultivate the broader fields ofliterature. Relieved of the strain of the struggle for civil andreligious liberty, the people could satisfy their inclinations towardthe beautiful in art and life, and from that time until the presentday the writers of America have held their own in the front ranksof the authors of the English-speaking peoples. 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, the first American poet to windistinction, was born in New York City in 1795. He was educated inColumbia College. He died prematurely when only twenty-five years old. His best-known poems are "The Culprit Fay" and "The American Flag. "He was the intimate friend of Fitz-Greene Halleck, the Connecticutpoet, author of "Marco Bozzaris. " The last four lines of Drake's"American Flag" were written by Fitz-Greene Halleck. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. He was educated at Williams College. He studiedlaw and was admitted to the bar. His first poem was published whenhe was thirteen. His best-known poem, "Thanatopsis, " was writtenwhen he was only nineteen and delivered at his college commencement. After practicing law for a short time, he became editor of _TheEvening Post_ and continued this work until his death. When he wasseventy-two, he began his translation of Homer, which occupied himfor six years. He died in 1878. 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON was born in Boston, May 20, 1803. Hestudied at Harvard College, and after a period of teaching, becamepastor of a Unitarian church in Boston for a short time. Later hesettled in Concord, spending his time in writing and lecturing inthis country and England. He was the founder of what has been called"The Concord School of Philosophy. " His best-known poems are "TheConcord Hymn, " "Rhodora, " "The Snow Storm, " "Each and All, " "TheDays, " and "The Humble Bee. " He died in 1882. 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW was born in Portland, Maine, February 27, 1807. He was educated at Bowdoin College and, after aperiod of study abroad, was appointed professor of Foreign Languagesthere. This position he gave up to become professor of ModernLanguages and Literature at Harvard College. At Cambridge he was afriend of Hawthorne, Holmes, Emerson, Lowell, and Alcott. Hisbest-known long poems are "Evangeline, " "Hiawatha, " "The Buildingof the Ship, " and "The Courtship of Miles Standish. " He made a finetranslation of Dante's "Divine Comedy. " Among his many short poems, "Excelsior, " "The Psalm of Life, " "The Wreck of the Hesperus, " "TheVillage Blacksmith, " and "Paul Revere's Ride" are continuouslypopular. He died in 1882. He was the first American writer who washonored by a memorial in Westminster Abbey. 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER was born near Haverhill, Massachusetts, December 17, 1807. He was educated in the public school, working atthe same time on his father's farm or at making shoes. Having leftthe academy, he devoted himself to literature. He was an ardentabolitionist, and many of his poems are written to aid the cause offreedom in which he was so deeply interested. His best-known poemsare "Snow-Bound, " "Barbara Frietchie, " "Maude Muller, " and "Voices ofFreedom. " He died in 1892. 

EDGAR ALLAN POE was born in Boston, Massachusetts, January 19, 1809. The story of his life is as melancholy as was his genius. Wild, dissipated, reckless, he was dismissed from West Point. Healienated his best friends and lived the greatest part of his life inthe deepest poverty, dying in 1849 from the effects of dissipationand exposure. His best poems are "The Raven, " "The Bells, " and"Annabel Lee. "

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 29, 1809. He was educated at Harvard College and studiedmedicine, spending two years in the hospitals of Europe. He wassuccessively professor of Anatomy and Physiology at DartmouthCollege, a physician in regular practice in Boston, and professor ofanatomy at Harvard College--this position he held from 1847 to 1882. He was nearly fifty before he became widely known as a writer, when"The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table" was published. He was successfulas essayist, novelist, poet, a kindly wit playing through much of hiswork. His best-known poems are "Old Ironsides, " "The ChamberedNautilus, " "The One-hoss Shay, " "The Last Leaf, " and "The Boys. " Hedied in 1894. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, February 22, 1819. He was educated at Harvard College. He succeededLongfellow as professor of Modern Languages and Literature atHarvard. He was also editor of the _Atlantic Monthly_ and ofthe _North American Review_. He was appointed minister to Spainand later to England, where he was our ambassador for five years. Hisbest-known poems are "The Vision of Sir Launfal, " "Commemoration Ode, ""The Biglow Papers, " "The Present Crisis, " and "The First Snowfall. "He died in 1891. 

WALT WHITMAN was born in West Hills, Long Island, May 31, 1819. He was unable to go to college. He served in various occupations, teacher, printer, writer, until in the great Civil War he volunteeredas a war nurse. His exertions and exposure in this work destroyed hishealth, so that most of his remaining years he was dependent upon hisfriends. His most beautiful poem is "O Captain, My Captain, " writtenafter the assassination of Lincoln. He died in 1892. 

CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER, who wrote under the name of JoaquinMiller, was born in Indiana in 1841. While yet a boy he went to Oregonand later to California, where he led a wild life among the miners, fighting the Indians, practicing law, and becoming a county judge. After several years in Europe and New York, he settled down as afruit grower in California. He wrote "Songs of the Sierras, " "Songsof the Sun-Lands, " and "The Ship in the Desert. "

AMONG THE MINOR AMERICAN POETS the following are worthy ofnote:--

Francis Scott Key, 1779-1843. "The Star-Spangled Banner. "

Emma Hart Willard, 1787-1870. "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep. "

John Howard Payne, 1792-1852. "Home Sweet Home. "

Josiah Gilbert Holland, 1819-1881. "Bittersweet. "

Julia Ward Howe, 1819-. "The Battle Hymn of the Republic. "

Alice Cary, 1820-1871. Phoebe Cary, 1824-1871. Joint authors ofseveral volumes of poems. "Order for a Picture, " A. C. "Nearer Home, " P. C. 

Thomas Buchanan Read, 1822-1872. "Drifting, " "Sheridan's Ride. "

John Burroughs, naturalist, 1837-. "Waiting. "

Edward Rowland Sill, 1841-1887. "The Fool's Prayer, " "Opportunity. "

Sidney Lanier, 1842-1881. "The Song of the Chattahoochee, " "TheMarshes of Glynn, " "A Song of the Future. "

John Vance Cheney, 1848-. "Thistle Drift, " "Wood Blooms, " "EveningSongs. "

James Whitcomb Riley, 1853-. "Rhymes of Childhood. "

Eugene Field, 1850-1895. "With Trumpet and Drum, " and "Love Songs ofChildhood. "