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Oliver Herford | To Stern Critics | Here's to stern Critics!
May they some day learn
The forward lookout's
Better than the stern!
| Here's to stern Critics! | May they some day learn
The forward lookout's
Better than the stern! | quatrain |
Thomas Gent | Written On The Death Of General Washington. | Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds
The world shall gaze with wonder and applause,
While, on fair History's page, the patriot reads
Thy matchless virtue in thy Country's cause.
Yes, it was thine, amid destructive war,
To shield it nobly from oppression's chain;
By justice arm'd, to brave each threat'ning jar,
Assert its freedom, and its rights maintain.
Much honour'd Statesman, Husband, Father, Friend,
A generous nation's grateful tears are thine;
E'en unborn ages shall thy worth commend,
And never-fading laurels deck thy shrine.
Illustrious Warrior! on the immortal base,
By Freedom rear'd, thy envied name shall stand;
And Fame, by Truth inspired, shall fondly trace
Thee, Pride and Guardian of thy Native Land! | Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds
The world shall gaze with wonder and applause,
While, on fair History's page, the patriot reads
Thy matchless virtue in thy Country's cause.
Yes, it was thine, amid destructive war, | To shield it nobly from oppression's chain;
By justice arm'd, to brave each threat'ning jar,
Assert its freedom, and its rights maintain.
Much honour'd Statesman, Husband, Father, Friend,
A generous nation's grateful tears are thine;
E'en unborn ages shall thy worth commend,
And never-fading laurels deck thy shrine.
Illustrious Warrior! on the immortal base,
By Freedom rear'd, thy envied name shall stand;
And Fame, by Truth inspired, shall fondly trace
Thee, Pride and Guardian of thy Native Land! | free_verse |
Archibald Lampman | Why Do Ye Call The Poet Lonely. | Why do ye call the poet lonely,
Because he dreams in lonely places?
He is not desolate, but only
Sees, where ye cannot, hidden faces. | Why do ye call the poet lonely, | Because he dreams in lonely places?
He is not desolate, but only
Sees, where ye cannot, hidden faces. | quatrain |
Michael Drayton | Sonnets: Idea XXV | O, why should nature niggardly restrain
That foreign nations relish not our tongue?
Else should my lines glide on the waves of Rhine,
And crown the Pyren's with my living song.
But bounded thus, to Scotland get you forth!
Thence take you wing unto the Orcades!
There let my verse get glory in the north,
Making my sighs to thaw the frozen seas.
And let the bards within that Irish isle,
To whom my Muse with fiery wings shall pass,
Call back the stiff-necked rebels from exile,
And mollify the slaughtering gallowglass;
And when my flowing numbers they rehearse,
Let wolves and bears be charm'd with my verse. | O, why should nature niggardly restrain
That foreign nations relish not our tongue?
Else should my lines glide on the waves of Rhine,
And crown the Pyren's with my living song. | But bounded thus, to Scotland get you forth!
Thence take you wing unto the Orcades!
There let my verse get glory in the north,
Making my sighs to thaw the frozen seas.
And let the bards within that Irish isle,
To whom my Muse with fiery wings shall pass,
Call back the stiff-necked rebels from exile,
And mollify the slaughtering gallowglass;
And when my flowing numbers they rehearse,
Let wolves and bears be charm'd with my verse. | sonnet |
Madison Julius Cawein | Spring | First Came the rain, loud, with sonorous lips;
A pursuivant who heralded a prince:
And dawn put on her livery of tints,
And dusk bound gold about her hair and hips:
And, all in silver mail, the sunlight came,
A knight, who bade the winter let him pass;
And freed imprisoned beauty, naked as
The Court of Love, in all her wildflower shame.
And so she came, in breeze-borne loveliness,
Across the hills; and heav'n bent down to bless:
Above her head the birds were as a lyre;
And at her feet, like some strong worshipper,
The shouting water p'n'd praise of her
Who, with blue eyes, set the wild world on fire. | First Came the rain, loud, with sonorous lips;
A pursuivant who heralded a prince:
And dawn put on her livery of tints,
And dusk bound gold about her hair and hips: | And, all in silver mail, the sunlight came,
A knight, who bade the winter let him pass;
And freed imprisoned beauty, naked as
The Court of Love, in all her wildflower shame.
And so she came, in breeze-borne loveliness,
Across the hills; and heav'n bent down to bless:
Above her head the birds were as a lyre;
And at her feet, like some strong worshipper,
The shouting water p'n'd praise of her
Who, with blue eyes, set the wild world on fire. | sonnet |
Henry Kendall | By a River | By red-ripe mouth and brown, luxurious eyes
Of her I love, by all your sweetness shed
In far, fair days, on one whose memory flies
To faithless lights, and gracious speech gainsaid,
I pray you, when yon river-path I tread,
Make with the woodlands some soft compromise,
Lest they should vex me into fruitless sighs
With visions of a woman's gleaming head!
For every green and golden-hearted thing
That gathers beauty in that shining place,
Beloved of beams and wooed by wind and wing,
Is rife with glimpses of her marvellous face;
And in the whispers of the lips of Spring
The music of her lute-like voice I trace. | By red-ripe mouth and brown, luxurious eyes
Of her I love, by all your sweetness shed
In far, fair days, on one whose memory flies
To faithless lights, and gracious speech gainsaid, | I pray you, when yon river-path I tread,
Make with the woodlands some soft compromise,
Lest they should vex me into fruitless sighs
With visions of a woman's gleaming head!
For every green and golden-hearted thing
That gathers beauty in that shining place,
Beloved of beams and wooed by wind and wing,
Is rife with glimpses of her marvellous face;
And in the whispers of the lips of Spring
The music of her lute-like voice I trace. | sonnet |
William Wordsworth | Mark The Concentrated Hazels That Enclose | Mark the concentred hazels that enclose
Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray
Of noontide suns: and even the beams that play
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows,
Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows
Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom,
The very image framing of a Tomb,
In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose
Among the lonely mountains. Live, ye trees!
And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep
Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep:
For more than Fancy to the influence bends
When solitary Nature condescends
To mimic Time's forlorn humanities. | Mark the concentred hazels that enclose
Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray
Of noontide suns: and even the beams that play
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows, | Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows
Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom,
The very image framing of a Tomb,
In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose
Among the lonely mountains. Live, ye trees!
And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep
Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep:
For more than Fancy to the influence bends
When solitary Nature condescends
To mimic Time's forlorn humanities. | sonnet |
Robert William Service | Young Fellow My Lad | "Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad,
On this glittering morn of May?"
"I'm going to join the Colours, Dad;
They're looking for men, they say."
"But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad;
You aren't obliged to go."
"I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad,
And ever so strong, you know."
. . . . .
"So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you're looking so fit and bright."
"I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad,
But I feel that I'm doing right."
"God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad,
You're all of my life, you know."
"Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad,
And I'm awfully proud to go."
. . . . .
"Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad?
I watch for the post each day;
And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad,
And it's months since you went away.
And I've had the fire in the parlour lit,
And I'm keeping it burning bright
Till my boy comes home; and here I sit
Into the quiet night."
. . . . .
"What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad?
No letter again to-day.
Why did the postman look so sad,
And sigh as he turned away?
I hear them tell that we've gained new ground,
But a terrible price we've paid:
God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound;
But oh I'm afraid, afraid."
. . . . .
"They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad:
You'll never come back again:
(OH GOD! THE DREAMS AND THE DREAMS I'VE HAD,
AND THE HOPES I'VE NURSED IN VAIN!)
For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you proved in the cruel test
Of the screaming shell and the battle hell
That my boy was one of the best.
"So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad,
In the gleam of the evening star,
In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child,
In all sweet things that are.
And you'll never die, my wonderful boy,
While life is noble and true;
For all our beauty and hope and joy
We will owe to our lads like you." | "Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad,
On this glittering morn of May?"
"I'm going to join the Colours, Dad;
They're looking for men, they say."
"But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad;
You aren't obliged to go."
"I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad,
And ever so strong, you know."
. . . . .
"So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you're looking so fit and bright."
"I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad,
But I feel that I'm doing right."
"God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad,
You're all of my life, you know."
"Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad,
And I'm awfully proud to go." | . . . . .
"Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad?
I watch for the post each day;
And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad,
And it's months since you went away.
And I've had the fire in the parlour lit,
And I'm keeping it burning bright
Till my boy comes home; and here I sit
Into the quiet night."
. . . . .
"What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad?
No letter again to-day.
Why did the postman look so sad,
And sigh as he turned away?
I hear them tell that we've gained new ground,
But a terrible price we've paid:
God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound;
But oh I'm afraid, afraid."
. . . . .
"They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad:
You'll never come back again:
(OH GOD! THE DREAMS AND THE DREAMS I'VE HAD,
AND THE HOPES I'VE NURSED IN VAIN!)
For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you proved in the cruel test
Of the screaming shell and the battle hell
That my boy was one of the best.
"So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad,
In the gleam of the evening star,
In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child,
In all sweet things that are.
And you'll never die, my wonderful boy,
While life is noble and true;
For all our beauty and hope and joy
We will owe to our lads like you." | free_verse |
William Butler Yeats | To A Poet | You say, as I have often given tongue
In praise of what another's said or sung,
'Twere politic to do the like by these;
But have you known a dog to praise his fleas? | You say, as I have often given tongue | In praise of what another's said or sung,
'Twere politic to do the like by these;
But have you known a dog to praise his fleas? | quatrain |
Henry Lawson | The Prime Of Life | Oh, the strength of the toil of those twenty years, with father, and master, and men!
And the clearer brain of the business man, who has held his own for ten:
Oh, the glorious freedom from business fears, and the rest from domestic strife!
The past is dead, and the future assured, and I'm in the prime of life!
She bore me old, and they kept me old, and they worked me early and late;
I carried the loads of my selfish tribe, from seven to thirty eight:
I slaved with dad, in the dust and heat, that my brothers might enjoy,
But I rest to-day in the prime of life, and I'll live and die a boy!
When the last crop failed, and the stock were gone, did the old man's head go down?
No! he started business, on what was left, in the produce line in town.
They sent my brothers to boarding schools, when our way to the front we'd won,
They'd borrow, and borrow, but never had aught but contempt for the eldest son.
My brothers they went to the world away, and they left the home in strife.
They sowed wild oats in the pride of youth, and they pawned the prime of life.
They sowed too fast, and they sowed too far; and they came back one by one,
You couldn't tell which is the eldest son and which is the youngest son.
Oh, I longed for a love that I could not claim, and a breath of the youth denied,
But I stuck to the store when the old man went, and the mater until she died:
With Job's own sister and Satan's aunt, good Lord! and the fiend's own wife,
But I'm free of them now, it is no matter how, and I'm in the prime of life.
My brothers have turned respectable, and are steady as men can be:
The youngest and worst is a leading light, and he aims at reforming me!
But I lend and help, and I'll fix them up, for I can't but see with a sigh,
That the youngest, who left us a handsome boy, is an older man than I.
But it's 'Lord make us thankful' three times a day, before they eat their fill,
They can thank the Lord if they like, I say, but I reckon I pay the bill.
They feel independent, I'm glad to know, for if all I hear is true,
My brothers agree that I do no more than I have a right to do.
They'll work in the store while I see the world, and I'll let them share the till,
But I sail to-day, for a year away, to go wherever I will:
I sail with the woman who waited for me, old sweetheart; and brand new wife,
She is handsome and true, and she's thirty-two, and I'm in the prime of life.
For Capetown, and London, and Norraway, for Germany, Holland, and France,
For Switzerland, Italy, anywhere, for Greece, and for Egypt a glance,
For India, China, and 'strange Japan', for the East with mystery rife,
I have made enough, and I have my love, and I'm in the prime of life! | Oh, the strength of the toil of those twenty years, with father, and master, and men!
And the clearer brain of the business man, who has held his own for ten:
Oh, the glorious freedom from business fears, and the rest from domestic strife!
The past is dead, and the future assured, and I'm in the prime of life!
She bore me old, and they kept me old, and they worked me early and late;
I carried the loads of my selfish tribe, from seven to thirty eight:
I slaved with dad, in the dust and heat, that my brothers might enjoy,
But I rest to-day in the prime of life, and I'll live and die a boy!
When the last crop failed, and the stock were gone, did the old man's head go down?
No! he started business, on what was left, in the produce line in town.
They sent my brothers to boarding schools, when our way to the front we'd won,
They'd borrow, and borrow, but never had aught but contempt for the eldest son. | My brothers they went to the world away, and they left the home in strife.
They sowed wild oats in the pride of youth, and they pawned the prime of life.
They sowed too fast, and they sowed too far; and they came back one by one,
You couldn't tell which is the eldest son and which is the youngest son.
Oh, I longed for a love that I could not claim, and a breath of the youth denied,
But I stuck to the store when the old man went, and the mater until she died:
With Job's own sister and Satan's aunt, good Lord! and the fiend's own wife,
But I'm free of them now, it is no matter how, and I'm in the prime of life.
My brothers have turned respectable, and are steady as men can be:
The youngest and worst is a leading light, and he aims at reforming me!
But I lend and help, and I'll fix them up, for I can't but see with a sigh,
That the youngest, who left us a handsome boy, is an older man than I.
But it's 'Lord make us thankful' three times a day, before they eat their fill,
They can thank the Lord if they like, I say, but I reckon I pay the bill.
They feel independent, I'm glad to know, for if all I hear is true,
My brothers agree that I do no more than I have a right to do.
They'll work in the store while I see the world, and I'll let them share the till,
But I sail to-day, for a year away, to go wherever I will:
I sail with the woman who waited for me, old sweetheart; and brand new wife,
She is handsome and true, and she's thirty-two, and I'm in the prime of life.
For Capetown, and London, and Norraway, for Germany, Holland, and France,
For Switzerland, Italy, anywhere, for Greece, and for Egypt a glance,
For India, China, and 'strange Japan', for the East with mystery rife,
I have made enough, and I have my love, and I'm in the prime of life! | free_verse |
William Wordsworth | Roman Antiquities - From The Roman Station At Old Penrith | How profitless the relics that we cull,
Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome,
Unless they chasten fancies that presume
Too high, or idle agitations lull!
Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full,
To have no seat for thought were better doom,
Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull
Of him who gloried in its nodding plume.
Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they?
Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp?
The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay?
Mere Fibulae without a robe to clasp;
Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recalls;
Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals! | How profitless the relics that we cull,
Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome,
Unless they chasten fancies that presume
Too high, or idle agitations lull! | Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full,
To have no seat for thought were better doom,
Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull
Of him who gloried in its nodding plume.
Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they?
Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp?
The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay?
Mere Fibulae without a robe to clasp;
Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recalls;
Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals! | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Of Love. | 1. Instruct me now what love will do.
2. 'Twill make a tongueless man to woo.
1. Inform me next, what love will do.
2. 'Twill strangely make a one of two.
1. Teach me besides, what love will do.
2. 'Twill quickly mar, and make ye too.
1. Tell me now last, what love will do.
2. 'Twill hurt and heal a heart pierc'd through. | 1. Instruct me now what love will do.
2. 'Twill make a tongueless man to woo. | 1. Inform me next, what love will do.
2. 'Twill strangely make a one of two.
1. Teach me besides, what love will do.
2. 'Twill quickly mar, and make ye too.
1. Tell me now last, what love will do.
2. 'Twill hurt and heal a heart pierc'd through. | octave |
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson | Rupert Brooke | Your face was lifted to the golden sky
Ablaze beyond the black roofs of the square,
As flame on flame leapt, flourishing in air
Its tumult of red stars exultantly,
To the cold constellations dim and high;
And as we neared, the roaring ruddy flare
Kindled to gold your throat and brow and hair
Until you burned, a flame of ecstasy.
The golden head goes down into the night
Quenched in cold gloom - and yet again you stand
Beside me now with lifted face alight,
As, flame to flame, and fire to fire you burn ...
Then, recollecting, laughingly you turn,
And look into my eyes and take my hand.
| Your face was lifted to the golden sky
Ablaze beyond the black roofs of the square,
As flame on flame leapt, flourishing in air
Its tumult of red stars exultantly, | To the cold constellations dim and high;
And as we neared, the roaring ruddy flare
Kindled to gold your throat and brow and hair
Until you burned, a flame of ecstasy.
The golden head goes down into the night
Quenched in cold gloom - and yet again you stand
Beside me now with lifted face alight,
As, flame to flame, and fire to fire you burn ...
Then, recollecting, laughingly you turn,
And look into my eyes and take my hand. | sonnet |
William Wordsworth | Influence Of Natural Objects | In Calling Forth and Strengthening the Imagination
in Boyhood and Early Youth
Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe!
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
And giv'st to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion! not in vain,
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul,
Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,
But with high objects, with enduring things,
With life and nature; purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying by such discipline
Both pain and fear, until we recognize
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
With stinted kindness. In November days,
When vapours rolling down the valleys made
A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
At noon; and mid the calm of summer nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling Lake,
Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went
In solitude, such intercourse was mine:
'Twas mine among the fields both day and night,
And by the waters, all the summer long.
And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
The cottage windows through the twilight blazed,
I heeded not the summons: happy time
It was indeed for all of us; for me
It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud
The village clock tolled six -I wheeled about,
Proud and exulting like an untired horse
That cares not for his home. All shod with steel
We hissed along the polished ice, in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures, the resounding horn,
The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle: with the din
Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while the distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars,
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
To cut across the reflex of a Star;
Image that, flying still before me, gleamed
Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. | In Calling Forth and Strengthening the Imagination
in Boyhood and Early Youth
Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe!
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
And giv'st to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion! not in vain,
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul,
Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,
But with high objects, with enduring things,
With life and nature; purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying by such discipline
Both pain and fear, until we recognize
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
With stinted kindness. In November days,
When vapours rolling down the valleys made
A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
At noon; and mid the calm of summer nights, | When, by the margin of the trembling Lake,
Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went
In solitude, such intercourse was mine:
'Twas mine among the fields both day and night,
And by the waters, all the summer long.
And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
The cottage windows through the twilight blazed,
I heeded not the summons: happy time
It was indeed for all of us; for me
It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud
The village clock tolled six -I wheeled about,
Proud and exulting like an untired horse
That cares not for his home. All shod with steel
We hissed along the polished ice, in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures, the resounding horn,
The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle: with the din
Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while the distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars,
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
To cut across the reflex of a Star;
Image that, flying still before me, gleamed
Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. | free_verse |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | True Brotherhood | God, what a world, if men in street and mart
Felt that same kinship of the human heart
Which makes them, in the face of flame and flood,
Rise to the meaning of true Brotherhood! | God, what a world, if men in street and mart | Felt that same kinship of the human heart
Which makes them, in the face of flame and flood,
Rise to the meaning of true Brotherhood! | quatrain |
Richard Le Gallienne | Shadows | Shadows! the only shadows that I know
Are happy shadows of the light of you,
The radiance immortal shining through
Your sea-deep eyes up from the soul below;
Your shadow, like a rose's, on the grass
Where your feet pass.
The shadow of the dimple in your chin,
The shadow of the lashes of your eyes,
As on your cheek, soft as a moth, it lies;
And, as a church, I softly enter in
The solemn twilight of your mighty hair,
Down falling there.
These are Love's shadows, Love knows none but these:
Shadows that are the very soul of light,
As morning and the morning blossom bright,
Or jewelled shadows of moon-haunted seas;
The darkest shadows in this world of ours
Are made of flowers. | Shadows! the only shadows that I know
Are happy shadows of the light of you,
The radiance immortal shining through
Your sea-deep eyes up from the soul below;
Your shadow, like a rose's, on the grass
Where your feet pass. | The shadow of the dimple in your chin,
The shadow of the lashes of your eyes,
As on your cheek, soft as a moth, it lies;
And, as a church, I softly enter in
The solemn twilight of your mighty hair,
Down falling there.
These are Love's shadows, Love knows none but these:
Shadows that are the very soul of light,
As morning and the morning blossom bright,
Or jewelled shadows of moon-haunted seas;
The darkest shadows in this world of ours
Are made of flowers. | free_verse |
William Shakespeare | The Sonnets LVII - Being your slave what should I do but tend | Being your slave what should I do but tend,
Upon the hours, and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend;
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are, how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love, that in your will,
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill. | Being your slave what should I do but tend,
Upon the hours, and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend;
Nor services to do, till you require. | Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are, how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love, that in your will,
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill. | sonnet |
Madison Julius Cawein | Sorrow. A Quatrain. | Death takes her hand and leads her through the waste
Of her own soul, wherein she hears the voice
Of lost Love's tears, and, famishing, can but taste
The dead-sea fruit of Life's remembered joys. | Death takes her hand and leads her through the waste | Of her own soul, wherein she hears the voice
Of lost Love's tears, and, famishing, can but taste
The dead-sea fruit of Life's remembered joys. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | To God. | God, who me gives a will for to repent,
Will add a power to keep me innocent;
That I shall ne'er that trespass recommit
When I have done true penance here for it. | God, who me gives a will for to repent, | Will add a power to keep me innocent;
That I shall ne'er that trespass recommit
When I have done true penance here for it. | quatrain |
Lennox Amott | On Plucking A Hedgerow Rose. | I saw on a hedge that was flourishing by
A rose that was stirred by the breath of the morn,
So smiling and fragrant it looked there, that I
Was tempted to seize it, forgetting the thorn.
I eagerly plucked it but found to my pain
'Twas scentless and in it an insect was curled,
So I flung it away to the hedgerow again
And I thought of the joys of this troublesome world. | I saw on a hedge that was flourishing by
A rose that was stirred by the breath of the morn, | So smiling and fragrant it looked there, that I
Was tempted to seize it, forgetting the thorn.
I eagerly plucked it but found to my pain
'Twas scentless and in it an insect was curled,
So I flung it away to the hedgerow again
And I thought of the joys of this troublesome world. | octave |
George MacDonald | That Holy Thing. | They all were looking for a king
To slay their foes, and lift them high:
Thou cam'st a little baby thing
That made a woman cry.
O son of man, to right my lot
Nought but thy presence can avail;
Yet on the road thy wheels are not,
Nor on the sea thy sail!
My fancied ways why shouldst thou heed?
Thou com'st down thine own secret stair:
Com'st down to answer all my need,
Yea, every bygone prayer! | They all were looking for a king
To slay their foes, and lift them high:
Thou cam'st a little baby thing
That made a woman cry. | O son of man, to right my lot
Nought but thy presence can avail;
Yet on the road thy wheels are not,
Nor on the sea thy sail!
My fancied ways why shouldst thou heed?
Thou com'st down thine own secret stair:
Com'st down to answer all my need,
Yea, every bygone prayer! | free_verse |
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | The Harvest Moon | It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves. | It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes | Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves. | sonnet |
Walter De La Mare | Some One | Some one came knocking
At my wee, small door;
Some one came knocking,
I'm sure - sure - sure;
I listened, I opened,
I looked to left and right,
But naught there was a-stirring
In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
At all, at all, at all. | Some one came knocking
At my wee, small door;
Some one came knocking,
I'm sure - sure - sure;
I listened, I opened, | I looked to left and right,
But naught there was a-stirring
In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
At all, at all, at all. | free_verse |
Victor James Daley | A King in Exile | O the Queen may keep her golden
Crown and sceptre of command!
I would give them both twice over
To be King of Babyland.
Sure, it is a wondrous country
Where the beanstalks grow apace,
And so very near the moon is
You could almost stroke her face.
And the dwellers in that country
Hold in such esteem their King,
They believe that if he chooses
He can do'just anything!
And, although his regal stature
May be only four-feet-ten,
Think him tallest, strongest, bravest,
Noblest, wisest, best of men.
Ah, how fondly I remember
The good time serene and fair,
In the bygone years when I, too,
Was a reigning monarch there!
But my subjects they discrowned me
When they'd older, colder, grown;
And they took away my sceptre,
And upset my royal throne.
Yet, although a King in Exile,
Without subjects to command,
I am glad at heart to think I
Once was King of Babyland. | O the Queen may keep her golden
Crown and sceptre of command!
I would give them both twice over
To be King of Babyland.
Sure, it is a wondrous country
Where the beanstalks grow apace,
And so very near the moon is
You could almost stroke her face.
And the dwellers in that country | Hold in such esteem their King,
They believe that if he chooses
He can do'just anything!
And, although his regal stature
May be only four-feet-ten,
Think him tallest, strongest, bravest,
Noblest, wisest, best of men.
Ah, how fondly I remember
The good time serene and fair,
In the bygone years when I, too,
Was a reigning monarch there!
But my subjects they discrowned me
When they'd older, colder, grown;
And they took away my sceptre,
And upset my royal throne.
Yet, although a King in Exile,
Without subjects to command,
I am glad at heart to think I
Once was King of Babyland. | free_verse |
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde | Vita Nuova | I stood by the unvintageable sea
Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray;
The long red fires of the dying day
Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;
And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:
'Alas!' I cried, 'my life is full of pain,
And who can garner fruit or golden grain
From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!'
My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw,
Nathless I threw them as my final cast
Into the sea, and waited for the end.
When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw
From the black waters of my tortured past
The argent splendour of white limbs ascend! | I stood by the unvintageable sea
Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray;
The long red fires of the dying day
Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily; | And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:
'Alas!' I cried, 'my life is full of pain,
And who can garner fruit or golden grain
From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!'
My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw,
Nathless I threw them as my final cast
Into the sea, and waited for the end.
When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw
From the black waters of my tortured past
The argent splendour of white limbs ascend! | sonnet |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | The World's Need | So many gods, so many creeds,
So many paths that wind and wind,
While just the art of being kind,
Is all the sad world needs. | So many gods, so many creeds, | So many paths that wind and wind,
While just the art of being kind,
Is all the sad world needs. | quatrain |
Charles Baudelaire | The Eyes Of Beauty | You are a sky of autumn, pale and rose;
But all the sea of sadness in my blood
Surges, and ebbing, leaves my lips morose,
Salt with the memory of the bitter flood.
In vain your hand glides my faint bosom o'er,
That which you seek, beloved, is desecrate
By woman's tooth and talon; ah, no more
Seek in me for a heart which those dogs ate.
It is a ruin where the jackals rest,
And rend and tear and glut themselves and slay
A perfume swims about your naked breast!
Beauty, hard scourge of spirits, have your way!
With flame-like eyes that at bright feasts have flared
Burn up these tatters that the beasts have spared!
| You are a sky of autumn, pale and rose;
But all the sea of sadness in my blood
Surges, and ebbing, leaves my lips morose,
Salt with the memory of the bitter flood. | In vain your hand glides my faint bosom o'er,
That which you seek, beloved, is desecrate
By woman's tooth and talon; ah, no more
Seek in me for a heart which those dogs ate.
It is a ruin where the jackals rest,
And rend and tear and glut themselves and slay
A perfume swims about your naked breast!
Beauty, hard scourge of spirits, have your way!
With flame-like eyes that at bright feasts have flared
Burn up these tatters that the beasts have spared! | sonnet |
William Wordsworth | Spanish Guerillas | They seek, are sought; to daily battle led,
Shrink not, though far outnumbered by their Foes,
For they have learnt to open and to close
The ridges of grim war; and at their head
Are captains such as erst their country bred
Or fostered, self-supported chiefs, like those
Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose;
Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian fled.
In One who lived unknown a shepherd's life
Redoubted Viriatus breathes again;
And Mina, nourished in the studious shade,
With that great Leader vies, who, sick of strife
And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid
In some green island of the western main. | They seek, are sought; to daily battle led,
Shrink not, though far outnumbered by their Foes,
For they have learnt to open and to close
The ridges of grim war; and at their head | Are captains such as erst their country bred
Or fostered, self-supported chiefs, like those
Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose;
Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian fled.
In One who lived unknown a shepherd's life
Redoubted Viriatus breathes again;
And Mina, nourished in the studious shade,
With that great Leader vies, who, sick of strife
And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid
In some green island of the western main. | sonnet |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXCIV. Love And Matrimony. | Curly locks! curly locks! wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet feed the swine;
But sit on a cushion and sow a fine seam,
And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream! | Curly locks! curly locks! wilt thou be mine? | Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet feed the swine;
But sit on a cushion and sow a fine seam,
And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream! | quatrain |
Richard Le Gallienne | Love's Tenderness | Deem not my love is only for the bloom,
The honey and the marble, that is You;
Tis so, Belov'd, common loves consume
Their treasury, and vanish like the dew.
Nay, but my love's a thing that's far more true;
For little loves a little hour hath room,
But not for us their brief and trivial doom,
In a far richer soil our loving grew,
From deeper wells of being it upsprings;
Nor shall the wildest kiss that makes one mouth,
Draining all nectar from the flowered world,
Slake its divine unfathomable drouth;
And, when your wings against my heart lie furled,
With what a tenderness it dreams and sings! | Deem not my love is only for the bloom,
The honey and the marble, that is You;
Tis so, Belov'd, common loves consume
Their treasury, and vanish like the dew. | Nay, but my love's a thing that's far more true;
For little loves a little hour hath room,
But not for us their brief and trivial doom,
In a far richer soil our loving grew,
From deeper wells of being it upsprings;
Nor shall the wildest kiss that makes one mouth,
Draining all nectar from the flowered world,
Slake its divine unfathomable drouth;
And, when your wings against my heart lie furled,
With what a tenderness it dreams and sings! | sonnet |
Emma Lazarus | Gifts. | "O World-God, give me Wealth!" the Egyptian cried.
His prayer was granted. High as heaven, behold
Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide
Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold.
Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet,
World-circling traffic roared through mart and street,
His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined,
Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep.
Seek Pharaoh's race to-day and ye shall find
Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.
"O World-God, give me beauty!" cried the Greek.
His prayer was granted. All the earth became
Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak,
Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,
Peopled the world with imaged grace and light.
The lyre was his, and his the breathing might
Of the immortal marble, his the play
Of diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue.
Go seek the sun-shine race, ye find to-day
A broken column and a lute unstrung.
"O World-God, give me Power!" the Roman cried.
His prayer was granted. The vast world was chained
A captive to the chariot of his pride.
The blood of myriad provinces was drained
To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart.
Invulnerably bulwarked every part
With serried legions and with close-meshed Code,
Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed its home,
A roofless ruin stands where once abode
The imperial race of everlasting Rome.
"O Godhead, give me Truth!" the Hebrew cried.
His prayer was granted; he became the slave
Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,
Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to save.
The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,
His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld.
Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power.
Seek him to-day, and find in every land.
No fire consumes him, neither floods devour;
Immortal through the lamp within his hand. | "O World-God, give me Wealth!" the Egyptian cried.
His prayer was granted. High as heaven, behold
Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide
Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold.
Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet,
World-circling traffic roared through mart and street,
His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined,
Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep.
Seek Pharaoh's race to-day and ye shall find
Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.
"O World-God, give me beauty!" cried the Greek.
His prayer was granted. All the earth became
Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak, | Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,
Peopled the world with imaged grace and light.
The lyre was his, and his the breathing might
Of the immortal marble, his the play
Of diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue.
Go seek the sun-shine race, ye find to-day
A broken column and a lute unstrung.
"O World-God, give me Power!" the Roman cried.
His prayer was granted. The vast world was chained
A captive to the chariot of his pride.
The blood of myriad provinces was drained
To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart.
Invulnerably bulwarked every part
With serried legions and with close-meshed Code,
Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed its home,
A roofless ruin stands where once abode
The imperial race of everlasting Rome.
"O Godhead, give me Truth!" the Hebrew cried.
His prayer was granted; he became the slave
Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,
Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to save.
The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,
His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld.
Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power.
Seek him to-day, and find in every land.
No fire consumes him, neither floods devour;
Immortal through the lamp within his hand. | free_verse |
Thomas Moore | Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXI. | With twenty chords my lyre is hung,
And while I wake them all for thee,
Thou, O maiden, wild and young,
Disportest in airy levity.
The nursling fawn, that in some shade
Its antlered mother leaves behind,
Is not more wantonly afraid,
More timid of the rustling wind! | With twenty chords my lyre is hung,
And while I wake them all for thee, | Thou, O maiden, wild and young,
Disportest in airy levity.
The nursling fawn, that in some shade
Its antlered mother leaves behind,
Is not more wantonly afraid,
More timid of the rustling wind! | octave |
Madison Julius Cawein | An Old Song | It's Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one
With a vagabond foot that follows!
And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon
Your arm with the hearty words, "Come on!
We'll soon be out of the hollows,
My heart!
We'll soon be out of the hollows!"
It's Oh, for the songs, where the hope's some one
With a renegade foot that doubles!
And a kindly look that he turns upon
Your face with the friendly laugh, "Come on!
We'll soon be out of the troubles,
My heart!
We'll soon be out of the troubles!"
| It's Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one
With a vagabond foot that follows!
And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon
Your arm with the hearty words, "Come on! | We'll soon be out of the hollows,
My heart!
We'll soon be out of the hollows!"
It's Oh, for the songs, where the hope's some one
With a renegade foot that doubles!
And a kindly look that he turns upon
Your face with the friendly laugh, "Come on!
We'll soon be out of the troubles,
My heart!
We'll soon be out of the troubles!" | sonnet |
Paul Laurence Dunbar | L'Envoi. | Oh, awful Power whose works repel
The marvel of the earth's designs,--
I 'll hie me otherwhere to dwell,
Arcadia has trolley lines. | Oh, awful Power whose works repel | The marvel of the earth's designs,--
I 'll hie me otherwhere to dwell,
Arcadia has trolley lines. | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCCIII. Lullabies. | Rock well my cradle,
And "bee baa," my son;
You shall have a new gown,
When ye lord comes home.
Oh! still my child, Orange,
Still him with a bell;
I can't still him, ladie,
Till you come down yoursell! | Rock well my cradle,
And "bee baa," my son; | You shall have a new gown,
When ye lord comes home.
Oh! still my child, Orange,
Still him with a bell;
I can't still him, ladie,
Till you come down yoursell! | octave |
Edwin C. Ranck | A Pun From The Deep. | A funny thing once happened to a German from Berlin,
For once he got too gay and seized a swordfish by the fin,
This made the big fish angry, and he sawed the German's chin.
"Just Tell Them That I Saw You" said the swordfish with a grin. | A funny thing once happened to a German from Berlin, | For once he got too gay and seized a swordfish by the fin,
This made the big fish angry, and he sawed the German's chin.
"Just Tell Them That I Saw You" said the swordfish with a grin. | quatrain |
James Whitcomb Riley | At Last | A dark, tempestuous night; the stars shut in
With shrouds of fog; an inky, jet-black blot
The firmament; and where the moon has been
An hour agone seems like the darkest spot.
The weird wind - furious at its demon game -
Rattles one's fancy like a window-frame.
A care-worn face peers out into the dark,
And childish faces - frightened at the gloom -
Grow awed and vacant as they turn to mark
The father's as he passes through the room:
The gate latch clatters, and wee baby Bess
Whispers, "The doctor's tummin' now, I dess!"
The father turns; a sharp, swift flash of pain
Flits o'er his face: "Amanda, child! I said
A moment since - I see I must AGAIN -
Go take your little sisters off to bed!
There, Effie, Rose, and CLARA MUSTN'T CRY!"
"I tan't he'p it - I'm fyaid 'at mama'll die!"
What are his feelings, when this man alone
Sits in the silence, glaring in the grate
That sobs and sighs on in an undertone
As stoical - immovable as Fate,
While muffled voices from the sick one's room
Come in like heralds of a dreaded doom?
The door-latch jingles: in the doorway stands
The doctor, while the draft puffs in a breath -
The dead coals leap to life, and clap their hands,
The flames flash up. A face as pale as death
Turns slowly - teeth tight clenched, and with a look
The doctor, through his specs, reads like a book.
"Come, brace up, Major!" - "Let me know the worst!"
"W'y you're the biggest fool I ever saw -
Here, Major - take a little brandy first -
There! She's a BOY - I mean HE is - hurrah!"
"Wake up the other girls - and shout for joy -
Eureka is his name - I've found A BOY!" | A dark, tempestuous night; the stars shut in
With shrouds of fog; an inky, jet-black blot
The firmament; and where the moon has been
An hour agone seems like the darkest spot.
The weird wind - furious at its demon game -
Rattles one's fancy like a window-frame.
A care-worn face peers out into the dark,
And childish faces - frightened at the gloom -
Grow awed and vacant as they turn to mark
The father's as he passes through the room:
The gate latch clatters, and wee baby Bess
Whispers, "The doctor's tummin' now, I dess!" | The father turns; a sharp, swift flash of pain
Flits o'er his face: "Amanda, child! I said
A moment since - I see I must AGAIN -
Go take your little sisters off to bed!
There, Effie, Rose, and CLARA MUSTN'T CRY!"
"I tan't he'p it - I'm fyaid 'at mama'll die!"
What are his feelings, when this man alone
Sits in the silence, glaring in the grate
That sobs and sighs on in an undertone
As stoical - immovable as Fate,
While muffled voices from the sick one's room
Come in like heralds of a dreaded doom?
The door-latch jingles: in the doorway stands
The doctor, while the draft puffs in a breath -
The dead coals leap to life, and clap their hands,
The flames flash up. A face as pale as death
Turns slowly - teeth tight clenched, and with a look
The doctor, through his specs, reads like a book.
"Come, brace up, Major!" - "Let me know the worst!"
"W'y you're the biggest fool I ever saw -
Here, Major - take a little brandy first -
There! She's a BOY - I mean HE is - hurrah!"
"Wake up the other girls - and shout for joy -
Eureka is his name - I've found A BOY!" | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Upon A Child | Here a pretty baby lies
Sung asleep with lullabies;
Pray be silent, and not stir
Th' easy earth that covers her. | Here a pretty baby lies | Sung asleep with lullabies;
Pray be silent, and not stir
Th' easy earth that covers her. | quatrain |
Walter Scott (Sir) | To A Lady - With Flowers From A Roman Wall | Take these flowers which, purple waving,
On the ruin'd rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.
Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there;
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths the Beauty's hair. | Take these flowers which, purple waving,
On the ruin'd rampart grew, | Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.
Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there;
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths the Beauty's hair. | octave |
Vachel Lindsay | Once More - To Gloriana | Girl with the burning golden eyes,
And red-bird song, and snowy throat:
I bring you gold and silver moons
And diamond stars, and mists that float.
I bring you moons and snowy clouds,
I bring you prairie skies to-night
To feebly praise your golden eyes
And red-bird song, and throat so white. | Girl with the burning golden eyes,
And red-bird song, and snowy throat: | I bring you gold and silver moons
And diamond stars, and mists that float.
I bring you moons and snowy clouds,
I bring you prairie skies to-night
To feebly praise your golden eyes
And red-bird song, and throat so white. | octave |
William Ernest Henley | In Hospital - VIII - Staff-Nurse: Old Style | The greater masters of the commonplace,
REMBRANDT and good SIR WALTER - only these
Could paint her all to you: experienced ease
And antique liveliness and ponderous grace;
The sweet old roses of her sunken face;
The depth and malice of her sly, grey eyes;
The broad Scots tongue that flatters, scolds, defies;
The thick Scots wit that fells you like a mace.
These thirty years has she been nursing here,
Some of them under SYME , her hero still.
Much is she worth, and even more is made of her.
Patients and students hold her very dear.
The doctors love her, tease her, use her skill.
They say 'The Chief' himself is half-afraid of her. | The greater masters of the commonplace,
REMBRANDT and good SIR WALTER - only these
Could paint her all to you: experienced ease
And antique liveliness and ponderous grace; | The sweet old roses of her sunken face;
The depth and malice of her sly, grey eyes;
The broad Scots tongue that flatters, scolds, defies;
The thick Scots wit that fells you like a mace.
These thirty years has she been nursing here,
Some of them under SYME , her hero still.
Much is she worth, and even more is made of her.
Patients and students hold her very dear.
The doctors love her, tease her, use her skill.
They say 'The Chief' himself is half-afraid of her. | sonnet |
Arthur Macy | On A Library Wall | When faltering fingers bid me cease to write,
And, laying down the pen, I seek the Night,
May those, to whom the Daylight still is sweet,
With loving lips my name ofttimes repeat.
And should Belshazzar's spirit hither stray,
And linger o'er the lines I write to-day,
May he, who wept for Babylonia's fall,
Look kindly at this "writing on the wall"! | When faltering fingers bid me cease to write,
And, laying down the pen, I seek the Night, | May those, to whom the Daylight still is sweet,
With loving lips my name ofttimes repeat.
And should Belshazzar's spirit hither stray,
And linger o'er the lines I write to-day,
May he, who wept for Babylonia's fall,
Look kindly at this "writing on the wall"! | octave |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | I Breathed Enough To Learn The Trick, | I breathed enough to learn the trick,
And now, removed from air,
I simulate the breath so well,
That one, to be quite sure
The lungs are stirless, must descend
Among the cunning cells,
And touch the pantomime himself.
How cool the bellows feels! | I breathed enough to learn the trick,
And now, removed from air, | I simulate the breath so well,
That one, to be quite sure
The lungs are stirless, must descend
Among the cunning cells,
And touch the pantomime himself.
How cool the bellows feels! | octave |
Robert Browning | Song | I.
Nay but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught, speak truth, above her?
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
II.
Because, you spend your lives in praising;
To praise, you search the wide world over;
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
If earth holds aught, speak truth, above her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much! | I.
Nay but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught, speak truth, above her? | Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
II.
Because, you spend your lives in praising;
To praise, you search the wide world over;
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
If earth holds aught, speak truth, above her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much! | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Upon Julia's Voice | When I thy singing next shall hear,
I'll wish I might turn all to ear,
To drink-in notes and numbers, such
As blessed souls can't hear too much
Then melted down, there let me lie
Entranced, and lost confusedly;
And by thy music strucken mute,
Die, and be turn'd into a Lute. | When I thy singing next shall hear,
I'll wish I might turn all to ear, | To drink-in notes and numbers, such
As blessed souls can't hear too much
Then melted down, there let me lie
Entranced, and lost confusedly;
And by thy music strucken mute,
Die, and be turn'd into a Lute. | octave |
Oliver Herford | To The Publisher | To The Publisher! - Drink!
Let his virtue be shown
In the Good Works of others
If not in his own. | To The Publisher! - Drink! | Let his virtue be shown
In the Good Works of others
If not in his own. | quatrain |
Unknown | Drunkards | Sing a song of sick gents,
Pockets full of rye,
Four and twenty highballs,
We wish that we might die.
| Sing a song of sick gents, | Pockets full of rye,
Four and twenty highballs,
We wish that we might die. | quatrain |
Algernon Charles Swinburne | The Festival of Beatrice | Dante, sole standing on the heavenward height,
Beheld and heard one saying, "Behold me well:
I am, I am Beatrice." Heaven and hell
Kept silence, and the illimitable light
Of all the stars was darkness in his sight
Whose eyes beheld her eyes again, and fell
Shame-stricken. Since her soul took flight to dwell
In heaven, six hundred years have taken flight.
And now that heavenliest part of earth whereon
Shines yet their shadow as once their presence shone
To her bears witness for his sake, as he
For hers bare witness when her face was gone:
No slave, no hospice now for grief, but free
From shore to mountain and from Alp to sea. | Dante, sole standing on the heavenward height,
Beheld and heard one saying, "Behold me well:
I am, I am Beatrice." Heaven and hell
Kept silence, and the illimitable light | Of all the stars was darkness in his sight
Whose eyes beheld her eyes again, and fell
Shame-stricken. Since her soul took flight to dwell
In heaven, six hundred years have taken flight.
And now that heavenliest part of earth whereon
Shines yet their shadow as once their presence shone
To her bears witness for his sake, as he
For hers bare witness when her face was gone:
No slave, no hospice now for grief, but free
From shore to mountain and from Alp to sea. | sonnet |
William Morris | The Orchard. | Midst bitten mead and acre shorn,
The world without is waste and worn,
But here within our orchard-close,
The guerdon of its labour shows.
O valiant Earth, O happy year
That mocks the threat of winter near,
And hangs aloft from tree to tree
The banners of the Spring to be. | Midst bitten mead and acre shorn,
The world without is waste and worn, | But here within our orchard-close,
The guerdon of its labour shows.
O valiant Earth, O happy year
That mocks the threat of winter near,
And hangs aloft from tree to tree
The banners of the Spring to be. | octave |
Edward Lear | Book Of Nonsense Limerick 48. | There was an Old Person of Mold,
Who shrank from sensations of cold;
So he purchased some muffs,
Some furs and some fluffs,
And wrapped himself from the cold. | There was an Old Person of Mold, | Who shrank from sensations of cold;
So he purchased some muffs,
Some furs and some fluffs,
And wrapped himself from the cold. | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CXCI. Riddles. | Ten and ten and twice eleven,
Take out six and put in seven;
Go to the green and fetch eighteen,
And drop one a coming. | Ten and ten and twice eleven, | Take out six and put in seven;
Go to the green and fetch eighteen,
And drop one a coming. | quatrain |
Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow | The Great Physician. | "And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up.
"That whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have eternal life."
St. John, 3:14, 15.
What means that cry of anguish,
That strikes the distant ear;
The loud and piercing wailing,
In desert wilds we hear?
From Israel's camp it cometh,
For Israel hath rebelled;
And these are cries of anguish,
By wrath of God impelled.
It is no common sorrow,
Extorts that bitter groan;
'Tis from the broken hearted,
And caused by sin alone.
Lo! in the far off desert,
Upon that tented ground,
Are many hundred thousands
Of weary travellers found.
In desert of Arabia,
Near forty years they roam;
And soon they are to enter
"Canaan their happy home."
But come with me and visit
A people so distressed;
They are the seed that Jacob
When dying pronounced blessed.
We'll draw aside the curtain
Of tent that's nearest by;
Ah! what a mournful picture
For stranger's curious eye.
See on that couch reclining,
A young and lovely girl,
With brow and neck half shaded.
By many a clustering curl.
She was an only daughter,
Nurtured with tenderest care;
The idol of her parents,
And fairest of the fair.
In bloom of youth and beauty,
But yesterday she shone;
And her fond parents thought her
A mine of wealth unknown.
She seems like one that sleepeth,
But there's no sign of breath;
And coil'd 'neath her arm a serpent,
Whose bite is certain death.
Yet not alone the mourners
In this sad tent are found;
Shriek after shriek is echoed
For many miles around.
The mother, too, is bitten,
With infant in her arms;
And sire, in strength of manhood;
And bride, with all her charms.
But see on pole suspended,
A serpent now appears;
And hark! what blissful tidings
Salute the mourner's ears.
For every one that's bitten,
A remedy is found;
However bad the case is,
However deep the wound.
If but one spark remaineth
Of life in any soul,
Just look upon this serpent,
That look will make thee whole.
But there's a wound that's deeper
Than fiery serpent gave;
And bite that's doubly fatal,
It kills beyond the grave.
And there's a great physician,
That e'en this wound may cure;
And those to him applying,
May life and health secure.
The broken heart he healeth,
He cures the sin-sick soul;
And all who will behold him,
May look and be made whole.
"I am the way!" he crieth;
"And all who will may come,
I'll pardon their transgression,
And safe conduct them home.
"To cleanse from all pollution,
My blood doth freely flow;
And sins, though red as scarlet,
Shall be as white as snow.
"Thy ransom to pay for thee,
E'en my own life it cost;
And he such love that slighteth,
Forever shall be lost."
April 14, 1853.
| "And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up.
"That whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have eternal life."
St. John, 3:14, 15.
What means that cry of anguish,
That strikes the distant ear;
The loud and piercing wailing,
In desert wilds we hear?
From Israel's camp it cometh,
For Israel hath rebelled;
And these are cries of anguish,
By wrath of God impelled.
It is no common sorrow,
Extorts that bitter groan;
'Tis from the broken hearted,
And caused by sin alone.
Lo! in the far off desert,
Upon that tented ground,
Are many hundred thousands
Of weary travellers found.
In desert of Arabia,
Near forty years they roam;
And soon they are to enter
"Canaan their happy home."
But come with me and visit
A people so distressed;
They are the seed that Jacob
When dying pronounced blessed.
We'll draw aside the curtain
Of tent that's nearest by;
Ah! what a mournful picture | For stranger's curious eye.
See on that couch reclining,
A young and lovely girl,
With brow and neck half shaded.
By many a clustering curl.
She was an only daughter,
Nurtured with tenderest care;
The idol of her parents,
And fairest of the fair.
In bloom of youth and beauty,
But yesterday she shone;
And her fond parents thought her
A mine of wealth unknown.
She seems like one that sleepeth,
But there's no sign of breath;
And coil'd 'neath her arm a serpent,
Whose bite is certain death.
Yet not alone the mourners
In this sad tent are found;
Shriek after shriek is echoed
For many miles around.
The mother, too, is bitten,
With infant in her arms;
And sire, in strength of manhood;
And bride, with all her charms.
But see on pole suspended,
A serpent now appears;
And hark! what blissful tidings
Salute the mourner's ears.
For every one that's bitten,
A remedy is found;
However bad the case is,
However deep the wound.
If but one spark remaineth
Of life in any soul,
Just look upon this serpent,
That look will make thee whole.
But there's a wound that's deeper
Than fiery serpent gave;
And bite that's doubly fatal,
It kills beyond the grave.
And there's a great physician,
That e'en this wound may cure;
And those to him applying,
May life and health secure.
The broken heart he healeth,
He cures the sin-sick soul;
And all who will behold him,
May look and be made whole.
"I am the way!" he crieth;
"And all who will may come,
I'll pardon their transgression,
And safe conduct them home.
"To cleanse from all pollution,
My blood doth freely flow;
And sins, though red as scarlet,
Shall be as white as snow.
"Thy ransom to pay for thee,
E'en my own life it cost;
And he such love that slighteth,
Forever shall be lost."
April 14, 1853. | free_verse |
Rupert Brooke | Sonnet: "I Said I Splendidly Loved You; It's Not True" | I said I splendidly loved you; it's not true.
Such long swift tides stir not a land-locked sea.
On gods or fools the high risk falls, on you,
The clean clear bitter-sweet that's not for me.
Love soars from earth to ecstasies unwist.
Love is flung Lucifer-like from Heaven to Hell.
But, there are wanderers in the middle mist,
Who cry for shadows, clutch, and cannot tell
Whether they love at all, or, loving, whom:
An old song's lady, a fool in fancy dress,
Or phantoms, or their own face on the gloom;
For love of Love, or from heart's loneliness.
Pleasure's not theirs, nor pain. They doubt, and sigh,
And do not love at all. Of these am I. | I said I splendidly loved you; it's not true.
Such long swift tides stir not a land-locked sea.
On gods or fools the high risk falls, on you,
The clean clear bitter-sweet that's not for me. | Love soars from earth to ecstasies unwist.
Love is flung Lucifer-like from Heaven to Hell.
But, there are wanderers in the middle mist,
Who cry for shadows, clutch, and cannot tell
Whether they love at all, or, loving, whom:
An old song's lady, a fool in fancy dress,
Or phantoms, or their own face on the gloom;
For love of Love, or from heart's loneliness.
Pleasure's not theirs, nor pain. They doubt, and sigh,
And do not love at all. Of these am I. | sonnet |
Vachel Lindsay | The Cornfields | The cornfields rise above mankind,
Lifting white torches to the blue,
Each season not ashamed to be
Magnificently decked for you.
What right have you to call them yours,
And in brute lust of riches burn
Without some radiant penance wrought,
Some beautiful, devout return? | The cornfields rise above mankind,
Lifting white torches to the blue, | Each season not ashamed to be
Magnificently decked for you.
What right have you to call them yours,
And in brute lust of riches burn
Without some radiant penance wrought,
Some beautiful, devout return? | octave |
Oliver Herford | Anticipation | When I grow up I mean to be
A Lion large and fierce to see.
I'll mew so loud that Cook in fright
Will give me all the cream in sight.
And anyone who dares to say
"Poor Puss" to me will rue the day.
Then having swallowed him I'll creep
Into the Guest Room Bed to sleep. | When I grow up I mean to be
A Lion large and fierce to see. | I'll mew so loud that Cook in fright
Will give me all the cream in sight.
And anyone who dares to say
"Poor Puss" to me will rue the day.
Then having swallowed him I'll creep
Into the Guest Room Bed to sleep. | octave |
James McIntyre | Power Of Love. | Love it is the precious loom,
Whose shuttle weaves each tangled thread,
And works flowers of exquisite bloom,
Shedding their perfume where we tread. | Love it is the precious loom, | Whose shuttle weaves each tangled thread,
And works flowers of exquisite bloom,
Shedding their perfume where we tread. | quatrain |
George MacDonald | Up In The Tree | What would you see, if I took you up
My little aerie-stair?
You would see the sky like a clear blue cup
Turned upside down in the air.
What would you do, up my aerie-stair
In my little nest on the tree?
With cry upon cry you would ripple the air
To get at what you would see.
And what would you reach in the top of the tree
To still your grasping grief?
Not a star would you clutch of all you would see,
You would gather just one green leaf.
But when you had lost your greedy grief,
Content to see from afar,
Your hand it would hold a withering leaf,
But your heart a shining star. | What would you see, if I took you up
My little aerie-stair?
You would see the sky like a clear blue cup
Turned upside down in the air.
What would you do, up my aerie-stair | In my little nest on the tree?
With cry upon cry you would ripple the air
To get at what you would see.
And what would you reach in the top of the tree
To still your grasping grief?
Not a star would you clutch of all you would see,
You would gather just one green leaf.
But when you had lost your greedy grief,
Content to see from afar,
Your hand it would hold a withering leaf,
But your heart a shining star. | free_verse |
Eric Mackay | Death. | Death.
It is the joy, it is the zest of life,
To know that Death, ungainly to the vile,
Is not a traitor with a reckless knife,
And not a serpent with a look of guile,
But one who greets us with a seraph's smile, -
An angel - guest to tend us after strife,
And keep us true to God when fears are rife,
And sceptic thought would daunt us or defile.
He walks the world as one empower'd to fill
The fields of space for Father and for Son.
He is our friend, though morbidly we shun
His tender touch, - a cure for every ill.
He is the king of peace, when all is done.
Earth and the air are moulded to his will. | Death.
It is the joy, it is the zest of life,
To know that Death, ungainly to the vile,
Is not a traitor with a reckless knife,
And not a serpent with a look of guile, | But one who greets us with a seraph's smile, -
An angel - guest to tend us after strife,
And keep us true to God when fears are rife,
And sceptic thought would daunt us or defile.
He walks the world as one empower'd to fill
The fields of space for Father and for Son.
He is our friend, though morbidly we shun
His tender touch, - a cure for every ill.
He is the king of peace, when all is done.
Earth and the air are moulded to his will. | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLV. Love And Matrimony. | "John, come sell thy fiddle,
And buy thy wife a gown."
"No, I'll not sell my fiddle,
For ne'er a wife in town." | "John, come sell thy fiddle, | And buy thy wife a gown."
"No, I'll not sell my fiddle,
For ne'er a wife in town." | quatrain |
Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson | Love Song (From A Happy Boy) | Have you love for me,
Yours my love shall be,
While the days of life are flowing.
Short was summer's stay,
Grass now pales away,
With our play will come regrowing.
What you said last year
Sounds yet in my ear, -
Birdlike at the window sitting,
Tapping, trilling there,
Singing, in would bear
Joy the warmth of sun befitting.
Litli-litli-lu,
Do you hear me too,
Youth behind the birch-trees biding?
Now the words I send,
Darkness will attend,
May be you can give them guiding.
Take it not amiss!
Sang I of a kiss?
No, I surely never planned it.
Did you hear it, you?
Give no heed thereto,
Haste I make to countermand it.
Oh, good-night, good-night
Dreams enfold me bright
Of your eyes' persuasive mildness.
Many a silent word
From their corners heard, -
Breaking forth with gentle wildness.
Now my song is still;
Is there more you will?
All the tones, to me returning,
Laughing, luring, soar;
Did you wish me more?
Still and warm the night is yearning.
| Have you love for me,
Yours my love shall be,
While the days of life are flowing.
Short was summer's stay,
Grass now pales away,
With our play will come regrowing.
What you said last year
Sounds yet in my ear, -
Birdlike at the window sitting,
Tapping, trilling there,
Singing, in would bear
Joy the warmth of sun befitting. | Litli-litli-lu,
Do you hear me too,
Youth behind the birch-trees biding?
Now the words I send,
Darkness will attend,
May be you can give them guiding.
Take it not amiss!
Sang I of a kiss?
No, I surely never planned it.
Did you hear it, you?
Give no heed thereto,
Haste I make to countermand it.
Oh, good-night, good-night
Dreams enfold me bright
Of your eyes' persuasive mildness.
Many a silent word
From their corners heard, -
Breaking forth with gentle wildness.
Now my song is still;
Is there more you will?
All the tones, to me returning,
Laughing, luring, soar;
Did you wish me more?
Still and warm the night is yearning. | free_verse |
James Robinson Planche | Song | Three score and ten by common calculation
The years of man amount to; but we'll say
He turns four-score, yet, in my estimation,
In all those years he has not lived a day.
Out of the eighty you must first remember
The hours of night you pass asleep in bed;
And, counting from December to December,
Just half your life you'll find you have been dead.
To forty years at once by this reduction
We come; and sure, the first five from your birth,
While cutting teeth and living upon suction,
You're not alive to what this life is worth.
From thirty-five next take for education
Fifteen at least at college and at school;
When, notwithstanding all your application,
The chances are you may turn out a fool.
Still twenty we have left us to dispose of,
But during them your fortune you've to make;
And granting, with the luck of some one knows of,
'Tis made in ten, that's ten from life to take.
Out of the ten yet left you must allow for
The time for shaving, tooth and other aches,
Say four--and that leaves, six, too short, I vow, for
Regretting past and making fresh mistakes.
Meanwhile each hour dispels some fond illusion;
Until at length, sans eyes, sans teeth, you may
Have scarcely sense to come to this conclusion,
You've reached four-score, but haven't lived a day! | Three score and ten by common calculation
The years of man amount to; but we'll say
He turns four-score, yet, in my estimation,
In all those years he has not lived a day.
Out of the eighty you must first remember
The hours of night you pass asleep in bed;
And, counting from December to December,
Just half your life you'll find you have been dead.
To forty years at once by this reduction | We come; and sure, the first five from your birth,
While cutting teeth and living upon suction,
You're not alive to what this life is worth.
From thirty-five next take for education
Fifteen at least at college and at school;
When, notwithstanding all your application,
The chances are you may turn out a fool.
Still twenty we have left us to dispose of,
But during them your fortune you've to make;
And granting, with the luck of some one knows of,
'Tis made in ten, that's ten from life to take.
Out of the ten yet left you must allow for
The time for shaving, tooth and other aches,
Say four--and that leaves, six, too short, I vow, for
Regretting past and making fresh mistakes.
Meanwhile each hour dispels some fond illusion;
Until at length, sans eyes, sans teeth, you may
Have scarcely sense to come to this conclusion,
You've reached four-score, but haven't lived a day! | free_verse |
Paul Laurence Dunbar | Precedent | The poor man went to the rich man's doors,
"I come as Lazarus came," he said.
The rich man turned with humble head,--
"I will send my dogs to lick your sores!" | The poor man went to the rich man's doors, | "I come as Lazarus came," he said.
The rich man turned with humble head,--
"I will send my dogs to lick your sores!" | quatrain |
Bliss Carman (William) | Speech And Silence. | The words that pass from lip to lip
For souls still out of reach!
A friend for that companionship
That's deeper than all speech! | The words that pass from lip to lip | For souls still out of reach!
A friend for that companionship
That's deeper than all speech! | quatrain |
Robert Bloomfield | The Broken Crutch. - A Tale. | "I tell you, Peggy," said a voice behind
A hawthorn hedge, with wild briars thick entwin'd,
Where unseen trav'llers down a shady way
Journey'd beside the swaths of new-mown hay,
"I tell you, Peggy, 'tis a time to prove
Your fortitude, your virtue, and your love.
From honest poverty our lineage sprung,
Your mother was a servant quite as young; -
You weep; perhaps she wept at leaving home,
Courage, my girl, nor fear the days to come.
Go still to church, my Peggy, plainly drest,
And keep a living conscience in your breast;
Look to yourself, my lass, the maid's best fame,
Beware, nor bring the Meldrums into shame:
Be modest, to the voice of age attend,
Be honest, and you'll always find a friend:
Your uncle Gilbert, stronger far than I,
Will see you safe; on him you must rely;
I've walk'd too far; this lameness, oh! the pain;
Heav'n bless thee, child! I'll halt me back again;
But when your first fair holiday may be,
Rise with the lark, and spend your hours with me."
Young Herbert Brooks, in strength and manhood bold,
Who, round the meads, his own possessions, stroll'd,
O'erheard the charge, and with a heart so gay,
Whistled his spaniel and pursu'd his way.
A Hint for a Libertine.
Soon cross'd his path, and short obeisance paid,
Stout Gilbert Meldrum and a country maid;
A box upon his shoulder held full well
Her worldly riches, but the truth to tell
She bore the chief herself; that nobler part.
That beauteous gem, an uncorrupted heart.
And then that native loveliness! that cheek!
It bore the very tints her betters seek;
At such a sight the libertine would glow,
With all the warmth that he can ever know;
Would send his thoughts abroad without control,
The glimmering moon-shine of his little soul.
"Above the reach of justice I shall soar,
Her friends may weep, not punish; they're too poor:
That very thought the rapture will enhance,
Poor, young, and friendless; what a glorious chance!
Herbert's Character.
A few spare guineas may the conquest make, -
I love the treachery for treachery's sake, -
And when her wounded honour jealous grows,
I'll cut away ten thousand oaths and vows,
And tell my comrades, with a manly stride,
How I, a girl out-witten and out-lied."
Such was not Herbert - he had never known
Love's genuine smiles, nor suffer'd from his frown;
And as to that most honourable part
Of planting daggers in a parent's heart,
A novice quite: - he past his hours away,
Free as a bird and buxom as the day;
Yet, should a lovely girl by chance arise,
Think not that Herbert Brooks would shut his eyes.
On thy calm joys with what delight I dream,
Thou dear green valley of my native stream!
Regret for Devastation by Enclosures.
Fancy o'er thee still waves th' enchanting wand,
And every nook of thine is fairy land,
And ever will be, though the axe should smite
In Gain's rude service, and in Pity's spite,
Thy clustering alders, and at length invade
The last, last poplars, that compose thy shade:
Thy stream shall then in native freedom stray,
And undermine the willows in its way,
These, nearly worthless, may survive this storm,
This scythe of desolation call'd "Reform."
No army past that way! yet are they fled,
The boughs that, when a school-boy, screen'd my head:
I hate the murderous axe; estranging more
The winding vale from what it was of yore,
Than e'en mortality in all its rage,
And all the change of faces in an age.
The Tale pursued.
"Warmth," will they term it, that I speak so free?
They strip thy shades, - thy shades so dear to me!
In Herbert's days woods cloth'd both hill and dale;
But peace, Remembrance! let us tell the tale.
His home was in the valley, elms grew round
His moated mansion, and the pleasant sound
Of woodland birds that loud at day-break sing,
With the first cuckoos that proclaim the spring,
Flock'd round his dwelling; and his kitchen smoke,
That from the towering rookery upward broke,
Of joyful import to the poor hard by,
Stream'd a glad sign of hospitality;
So fancy pictures; but its day is o'er;
The moat remains, the dwelling is no more!
Its name denotes its melancholy fall,
For village children call the spot "Burnt-Hall."
The Church.
But where's the maid, who in the meadow-way
Met Herbert Brooks amongst the new-mown hay?
Th' adventure charm'd him, and next morning rose
The Sabbath, with its silence and repose,
The bells ceas'd chiming, and the broad blue sky
Smil'd on his peace, and met his tranquil eye
Inverted, from the foot-bridge on his way
To that still house where all his fathers lay;
There in his seat, each neighbour's face he knew -
The stranger girl was just before his pew!
He saw her kneel, with meek, but cheerful air,
And whisper the response to every prayer;
And, when the humble roof with praises rung,
He caught the Hallelujah from her tongue,
Rememb'ring with delight the tears that fell
When the poor father bade his child farewell;
Love strengthened by Reflection.
And now, by kindling tenderness beguil'd,
He blest the prompt obedience of that child,
And link'd his fate with hers: - for, from that day,
Whether the weeks past cheerily away,
Or deep revolving doubts procur'd him pain,
The same bells chim'd - and there she was again!
What could be done? they came not there to woo,
On holy ground, - though love is holy too.
They met upon the foot-bridge one clear morn,
She in the garb by village lasses worn;
He, with unbutton'd frock that careless flew,
And buskin'd to resist the morning dew;
With downcast look she courtsied to the ground,
Just in his path - no room to sidle round.
An Interview.
"Well, pretty girl, this early rising yields
The best enjoyment of the groves and fields,
And makes the heart susceptible and meek,
And keeps alive that rose upon your cheek.
I long'd to meet you, Peggy, though so shy,
I've watch'd your steps and learn'd your history;
You love your poor lame father, let that be
A happy presage of your love for me.
Come then, I'll stroll these meadows by your side,
I've seen enough to wish you for my bride,
And plainly tell you so. - Nay, let me hold
This guiltless hand, I prize it more than gold;
Of that I have my share, but now pursue
Such lasting wealth as I behold in you.
My lands are fruitful and my gardens gay,
My houshold cheerful as the summer's day;
One blessing more will crown my happy life,
Like Adam, pretty girl, I want a wife."
Frequent Meetings. - Family Pride.
Need it be told his suit was not denied,
With youth, and wealth, and candour on his side
Honour took charge of love so well began,
And accidental meetings, one by one,
Increas'd so fast midst time's unheeded flight,
That village rumour married them outright;
Though wiser matrons, doubtful in debate,
Pitied deluded Peggy's hapless fate.
Friends took th' alarm, "And will he then disgrace
"The name of Brooks with this plebeian race?"
Others, more lax in virtue, not in pride,
Sported the wink of cunning on one side;
"He'll buy, no doubt, what Peggy has to sell,
A little gallantry becomes him well."
Meanwhile the youth with self-determin'd aim,
Disdaining fraud, and pride's unfeeling claim,
Marriage proposed
Above control pursued his generous way,
And talk'd to Peggy of the marriage day.
Poor girl! she heard, with anguish and with doubt,
What her too knowing neighbours preach'd about,
That Herbert would some nobler match prefer,
And surely never, never marry her;
Yet, with what trembling and delight she bore
The kiss, and heard the vow, "I'll doubt no more;"
"Protect me Herbert, for your honour's sake
You will," she cried, "nor leave my heart to break."
Then wrote to uncle Gilbert, joys, and fears,
And hope, and trust, and sprinkled all with tears.
Rous'd was the dormant spirit of the brave,
E'en lameness rose to succour and to save;
For, though they both rever'd young Herbert's name,
And knew his unexceptionable fame;
Doubts. - Parental Feelings.
And though the girl had honestly declar'd
Love's first approaches, and their counsel shar'd,
Yet, that he truly meant to take for life
The poor and lowly Peggy for a wife;
Or, that she was not doom'd to be deceiv'd,
Was out of bounds: - it could not be believ'd.
"Go, Gilbert; save her; I, you know, am lame;
Go, brother, go; and save my child from shame.
Haste, and I'll pray for your success the while,
Go, go;" - then bang'd his crutch upon the stile: -
It snapt. - E'en Gilbert trembled while he smote,
Then whipt the broken end beneath his coat;
"Aye, aye, I'll settle them; I'll let them see
Who's to be conqu'ror this time, I or he!"
Gilbert on the Road! - An Adventure.
Then off he set, and with enormous strides,
Rebellious mutterings and oaths besides,
O'er clover-field and fallow, bank and brier,
Pursu'd the nearest cut, and fann'd the fire
That burnt within him. - Soon the Hall he spied,
And the grey willows by the water side;
Nature cried "halt!" nor could he well refuse;
Stop, Gilbert, breathe awhile, and ask the news.
"News?" cried a stooping grandame of the vale,
Aye, rare news too; I'll tell you such a tale;
But let me rest; this bank is dry and warm;
Do you know Peggy Meldrum at the farm?
Young Herbert's girl? He'as cloath'd her all in white.
You never saw so beautiful a sight!
Ah! he's a fine young man, and such a face!
I knew his grandfather and all his race;
He rode a tall white horse, and look'd so big,
But how shall I describe his hat and wig?"
A promising Story cut short.
"Plague take his wig," cried Gilbert, "and his hat,
Where's Peggy Meldrum? can you tell me that?"
"Aye; but have patience man, you'll hear anon,
For I shall come to her as I go on,
So hark 'ye friend; his grandfather I say," -
"Poh, poh," - cried Gilbert, as he turn'd away.
Her eyes were fix'd, her story at a stand,
The snuff-box lay half open'd in her hand;
"You great ill-manner'd clown! but I must bear it;
You oaf; to ask the news, and then won't hear it!"
But Gilbert had gain'd forty paces clear,
When the reproof came murmuring on his ear.
Again he ask'd the first that past him by;
A cow-boy stopt his whistle to reply.
"Why, I've a mistress coming home, that's all,
They're playing Meg's diversion at the Hall;
A Cow-Boy's Bravery
"For master's gone, with Peggy, and his cousin,
And all the lady folks, about a dozen,
To church, down there; he'll marry one no doubt,
For that it seems is what they're gone about;
I know it by their laughing and their jokes,
Tho' they wor'nt ask'd at church like other folks."
Gilbert kept on, and at the Hall-door found
The winking servants, where the jest went round:
All expectation; aye, and so was he,
But not with heart so merry and so free.
The kitchen table, never clear from beef,
Where hunger found its solace and relief,
Free to all strangers, had no charms for him,
For agitation worried every limb;
Ale he partook, but appetite had none,
And grey-hounds watch'd in vain to catch the bone.
Sitting upon Thorns.
All sounds alarm'd him, and all thoughts perplex'd,
With dogs, and beef, himself, and all things vex'd,
Till with one mingled caw above his head,
Their gliding shadows o'er the court-yard spread,
The rooks by thousands rose: the bells struck up;
He guess'd the cause, and down he set the cup,
And listening, heard, amidst the general hum,
A joyful exclamation, "Here they come!" -
Soon Herbert's cheerful voice was heard above,
Amidst the rustling hand-maids of his love,
And Gilbert follow'd without thought or dread,
The broad oak stair-case thundr'd with his tread;
Light tript the party, gay as gay could be,
Amidst their bridal dresses - there came he!
And with a look that guilt could ne'er withstand,
Approach'd his niece and caught her by the hand,
Anger disarmed.
"Now are you married, Peggy, yes or no?
Tell me at once, before I let you go!"
Abrupt he spoke, and gave her arm a swing,
But the same moment felt the wedding ring,
And stood confus'd. - She wip'd th' empassion'd tear,
"I am, I am; but is my father here?"
Herbert stood by, and sharing with his bride,
That perturbation which she strove to hide;
"Come, honest Gilbert, you're too rough this time,
Indeed here's not the shadow of a crime;
But where's your brother? When did you arrive?
We waited long, for Nathan went at five!"
All this was Greek to Gilbert, downright Greek:
He knew not what to think, nor how to speak.
The case was this; that Nathan with a cart
To fetch them both at day-break was to start,
An Explanation.
And so he did - but ere he could proceed,
He suck'd a charming portion with a reed,
Of that same wedding-ale, which was that day
To make the hearts of all the village gay;
Brim full of glee he trundled from the Hall,
And as for sky-larks, he out-sung them all;
Till growing giddy with his morning cup.
He, stretch'd beneath a hedge, the reins gave up;
The horse graz'd soberly without mishap,
And Nathan had a most delightful nap
For three good hours - Then, doubting, when he woke,
Whether his conduct would be deem'd a joke,
With double haste perform'd just half his part,
And brought the lame John Meldrum in his cart:
And at the moment Gilbert's wrath was high,
And while young Herbert waited his reply,
A general Meeting.
The sound of rattling wheels was at the door;
"There's my dear father now," - they heard no more,
The bridegroom glided like an arrow down,
And Gilbert ran, though something of a clown,
With his best step; and cheer'd with smiles and pray'rs
They bore old John in triumph up the stairs:
Poor Peggy, who her joy no more could check,
Clung like a dewy woodbine round his neck,
And all stood silent - Gilbert, off his guard,
And marvelling at virtue's rich reward,
Loos'd the one loop that held his coat before,
Down thumpt the broken crutch upon the floor!
They started, half alarm'd, scarce knowing why,
But through the glist'ning rapture of his eye
The bridegroom smil'd, then chid their simple fears,
And rous'd the blushing Peggy from her tears;
Gilbert put upon his Defense.
Around the uncle in a ring they came,
And mark'd his look of mingled pride and shame.
"Now honestly, good Gilbert, tell us true
What meant this cudgel? What was it to do?
I know your heart suspected me of wrong,
And that most true affection urg'd along
Your feelings and your wrath; you were beside
Till now the rightful guardian of the bride.
But why this cudgel?" - "Guardian! that's the case,
Or else to day you had not seen my face,
But John about the girl was so perplex'd,
And I, to tell the truth, so mortal vex'd,
That when he broke this crutch, and stampt and cried,
For John and Peggy, Sir, I could have died,
I know I could; for she was such a child,
So tractable, so sensible, and mild,
The plain Truth.
That if between you roguery had grown,
(Begging your pardon,) 'twould have been your own;
She would not hurt a fly. - So off I came
And had you only sought to blast her fame,
Been base enough to act as hundreds would,
And ruin a poor maid - because you could,
With this same cudgel, (you may smile or frown)
An' please you, Sir, I meant to knock you down."
A burst of laughter rang throughout the hall,
And Peggy's tongue, though overborne by all,
Pour'd its warm blessings, for, without control
The sweet unbridled transport of her soul
Was obviously seen, till Herbert's kiss
Stole, as it were, the eloquence of bliss.
Mirth and Reconciliation.
"Welcome, my friends; good Gilbert, here's my hand;
Eat, drink, or rest, they're all at your command:
And whatsoever pranks the rest may play,
Still you shall be the hero of to-day,
Doubts might torment, and blunders may have teaz'd,
But ale can cure them; let us all be pleas'd.
Thou, venerable man, let me defend
The father of my new dear bosom friend;
You broke your crutch, well, well, worse luck might be,
I'll be your crutch, John Meldrum, lean on me,
And when your lovely daughter shall complain,
Send Gilbert's wooden argument again.
If still you wonder that I take a wife
From the unpolish'd walks of humble life,
I'll tell you on what ground my love began,
And let the wise confute it if they can.
I saw a girl, with nature's untaught grace,
Turn from my gaze a most engaging face;
Herbert's Apology.
I saw her drop the tear, I knew full well
She felt for you much more than she could tell.
I found her understanding, bright as day,
Through all impediments still forc'd its way;
On that foundation shall my soul rely,
The rock of genuine humility.
Call'd as she is to act a nobler part,
To rule my houshold, and to share my heart,
I trust her prudence, confident to prove
Days of delight, and still unfading love;
For, while her inborn tenderness survives,
That heav'nly charm of mothers and of wives,
I'll look for joy: - Here come the neighbours all;
Broach the old barrel, feast them great and small,
For I'm determin'd while the sun's so bright,
That this shall be a wedding-day outright:
John Meldrum's wish. - Conclusion.
How cheerly sound the bells! my charmer, come,
Expand your heart, and know yourself at home.
Sit down, good John;" - "I will," the old man cried,
"And let me drink to you, Sir, and the bride;
My blessing on you: I am lame and old,
I can't make speeches, and I wo'nt be bold;
But from my soul I wish, and wish with pain,
That brave good gentlemen would not disdain
The poor, because they're poor: for, if they live
Midst crimes that parents never can forgive,
If, like the forest beast they wander wild,
To rob a father, or to crush a child,
Nature will speak, aye, just as Nature feels,
And wish - a Gilbert Meldrum at their heels."
| "I tell you, Peggy," said a voice behind
A hawthorn hedge, with wild briars thick entwin'd,
Where unseen trav'llers down a shady way
Journey'd beside the swaths of new-mown hay,
"I tell you, Peggy, 'tis a time to prove
Your fortitude, your virtue, and your love.
From honest poverty our lineage sprung,
Your mother was a servant quite as young; -
You weep; perhaps she wept at leaving home,
Courage, my girl, nor fear the days to come.
Go still to church, my Peggy, plainly drest,
And keep a living conscience in your breast;
Look to yourself, my lass, the maid's best fame,
Beware, nor bring the Meldrums into shame:
Be modest, to the voice of age attend,
Be honest, and you'll always find a friend:
Your uncle Gilbert, stronger far than I,
Will see you safe; on him you must rely;
I've walk'd too far; this lameness, oh! the pain;
Heav'n bless thee, child! I'll halt me back again;
But when your first fair holiday may be,
Rise with the lark, and spend your hours with me."
Young Herbert Brooks, in strength and manhood bold,
Who, round the meads, his own possessions, stroll'd,
O'erheard the charge, and with a heart so gay,
Whistled his spaniel and pursu'd his way.
A Hint for a Libertine.
Soon cross'd his path, and short obeisance paid,
Stout Gilbert Meldrum and a country maid;
A box upon his shoulder held full well
Her worldly riches, but the truth to tell
She bore the chief herself; that nobler part.
That beauteous gem, an uncorrupted heart.
And then that native loveliness! that cheek!
It bore the very tints her betters seek;
At such a sight the libertine would glow,
With all the warmth that he can ever know;
Would send his thoughts abroad without control,
The glimmering moon-shine of his little soul.
"Above the reach of justice I shall soar,
Her friends may weep, not punish; they're too poor:
That very thought the rapture will enhance,
Poor, young, and friendless; what a glorious chance!
Herbert's Character.
A few spare guineas may the conquest make, -
I love the treachery for treachery's sake, -
And when her wounded honour jealous grows,
I'll cut away ten thousand oaths and vows,
And tell my comrades, with a manly stride,
How I, a girl out-witten and out-lied."
Such was not Herbert - he had never known
Love's genuine smiles, nor suffer'd from his frown;
And as to that most honourable part
Of planting daggers in a parent's heart,
A novice quite: - he past his hours away,
Free as a bird and buxom as the day;
Yet, should a lovely girl by chance arise,
Think not that Herbert Brooks would shut his eyes.
On thy calm joys with what delight I dream,
Thou dear green valley of my native stream!
Regret for Devastation by Enclosures.
Fancy o'er thee still waves th' enchanting wand,
And every nook of thine is fairy land,
And ever will be, though the axe should smite
In Gain's rude service, and in Pity's spite,
Thy clustering alders, and at length invade
The last, last poplars, that compose thy shade:
Thy stream shall then in native freedom stray,
And undermine the willows in its way,
These, nearly worthless, may survive this storm,
This scythe of desolation call'd "Reform."
No army past that way! yet are they fled,
The boughs that, when a school-boy, screen'd my head:
I hate the murderous axe; estranging more
The winding vale from what it was of yore,
Than e'en mortality in all its rage,
And all the change of faces in an age.
The Tale pursued.
"Warmth," will they term it, that I speak so free?
They strip thy shades, - thy shades so dear to me!
In Herbert's days woods cloth'd both hill and dale;
But peace, Remembrance! let us tell the tale.
His home was in the valley, elms grew round
His moated mansion, and the pleasant sound
Of woodland birds that loud at day-break sing,
With the first cuckoos that proclaim the spring,
Flock'd round his dwelling; and his kitchen smoke,
That from the towering rookery upward broke,
Of joyful import to the poor hard by,
Stream'd a glad sign of hospitality;
So fancy pictures; but its day is o'er;
The moat remains, the dwelling is no more!
Its name denotes its melancholy fall,
For village children call the spot "Burnt-Hall."
The Church.
But where's the maid, who in the meadow-way
Met Herbert Brooks amongst the new-mown hay?
Th' adventure charm'd him, and next morning rose
The Sabbath, with its silence and repose,
The bells ceas'd chiming, and the broad blue sky
Smil'd on his peace, and met his tranquil eye
Inverted, from the foot-bridge on his way
To that still house where all his fathers lay;
There in his seat, each neighbour's face he knew -
The stranger girl was just before his pew!
He saw her kneel, with meek, but cheerful air,
And whisper the response to every prayer;
And, when the humble roof with praises rung,
He caught the Hallelujah from her tongue,
Rememb'ring with delight the tears that fell
When the poor father bade his child farewell;
Love strengthened by Reflection.
And now, by kindling tenderness beguil'd,
He blest the prompt obedience of that child,
And link'd his fate with hers: - for, from that day,
Whether the weeks past cheerily away,
Or deep revolving doubts procur'd him pain,
The same bells chim'd - and there she was again!
What could be done? they came not there to woo,
On holy ground, - though love is holy too.
They met upon the foot-bridge one clear morn,
She in the garb by village lasses worn;
He, with unbutton'd frock that careless flew,
And buskin'd to resist the morning dew;
With downcast look she courtsied to the ground,
Just in his path - no room to sidle round.
An Interview.
"Well, pretty girl, this early rising yields
The best enjoyment of the groves and fields,
And makes the heart susceptible and meek,
And keeps alive that rose upon your cheek.
I long'd to meet you, Peggy, though so shy, | I've watch'd your steps and learn'd your history;
You love your poor lame father, let that be
A happy presage of your love for me.
Come then, I'll stroll these meadows by your side,
I've seen enough to wish you for my bride,
And plainly tell you so. - Nay, let me hold
This guiltless hand, I prize it more than gold;
Of that I have my share, but now pursue
Such lasting wealth as I behold in you.
My lands are fruitful and my gardens gay,
My houshold cheerful as the summer's day;
One blessing more will crown my happy life,
Like Adam, pretty girl, I want a wife."
Frequent Meetings. - Family Pride.
Need it be told his suit was not denied,
With youth, and wealth, and candour on his side
Honour took charge of love so well began,
And accidental meetings, one by one,
Increas'd so fast midst time's unheeded flight,
That village rumour married them outright;
Though wiser matrons, doubtful in debate,
Pitied deluded Peggy's hapless fate.
Friends took th' alarm, "And will he then disgrace
"The name of Brooks with this plebeian race?"
Others, more lax in virtue, not in pride,
Sported the wink of cunning on one side;
"He'll buy, no doubt, what Peggy has to sell,
A little gallantry becomes him well."
Meanwhile the youth with self-determin'd aim,
Disdaining fraud, and pride's unfeeling claim,
Marriage proposed
Above control pursued his generous way,
And talk'd to Peggy of the marriage day.
Poor girl! she heard, with anguish and with doubt,
What her too knowing neighbours preach'd about,
That Herbert would some nobler match prefer,
And surely never, never marry her;
Yet, with what trembling and delight she bore
The kiss, and heard the vow, "I'll doubt no more;"
"Protect me Herbert, for your honour's sake
You will," she cried, "nor leave my heart to break."
Then wrote to uncle Gilbert, joys, and fears,
And hope, and trust, and sprinkled all with tears.
Rous'd was the dormant spirit of the brave,
E'en lameness rose to succour and to save;
For, though they both rever'd young Herbert's name,
And knew his unexceptionable fame;
Doubts. - Parental Feelings.
And though the girl had honestly declar'd
Love's first approaches, and their counsel shar'd,
Yet, that he truly meant to take for life
The poor and lowly Peggy for a wife;
Or, that she was not doom'd to be deceiv'd,
Was out of bounds: - it could not be believ'd.
"Go, Gilbert; save her; I, you know, am lame;
Go, brother, go; and save my child from shame.
Haste, and I'll pray for your success the while,
Go, go;" - then bang'd his crutch upon the stile: -
It snapt. - E'en Gilbert trembled while he smote,
Then whipt the broken end beneath his coat;
"Aye, aye, I'll settle them; I'll let them see
Who's to be conqu'ror this time, I or he!"
Gilbert on the Road! - An Adventure.
Then off he set, and with enormous strides,
Rebellious mutterings and oaths besides,
O'er clover-field and fallow, bank and brier,
Pursu'd the nearest cut, and fann'd the fire
That burnt within him. - Soon the Hall he spied,
And the grey willows by the water side;
Nature cried "halt!" nor could he well refuse;
Stop, Gilbert, breathe awhile, and ask the news.
"News?" cried a stooping grandame of the vale,
Aye, rare news too; I'll tell you such a tale;
But let me rest; this bank is dry and warm;
Do you know Peggy Meldrum at the farm?
Young Herbert's girl? He'as cloath'd her all in white.
You never saw so beautiful a sight!
Ah! he's a fine young man, and such a face!
I knew his grandfather and all his race;
He rode a tall white horse, and look'd so big,
But how shall I describe his hat and wig?"
A promising Story cut short.
"Plague take his wig," cried Gilbert, "and his hat,
Where's Peggy Meldrum? can you tell me that?"
"Aye; but have patience man, you'll hear anon,
For I shall come to her as I go on,
So hark 'ye friend; his grandfather I say," -
"Poh, poh," - cried Gilbert, as he turn'd away.
Her eyes were fix'd, her story at a stand,
The snuff-box lay half open'd in her hand;
"You great ill-manner'd clown! but I must bear it;
You oaf; to ask the news, and then won't hear it!"
But Gilbert had gain'd forty paces clear,
When the reproof came murmuring on his ear.
Again he ask'd the first that past him by;
A cow-boy stopt his whistle to reply.
"Why, I've a mistress coming home, that's all,
They're playing Meg's diversion at the Hall;
A Cow-Boy's Bravery
"For master's gone, with Peggy, and his cousin,
And all the lady folks, about a dozen,
To church, down there; he'll marry one no doubt,
For that it seems is what they're gone about;
I know it by their laughing and their jokes,
Tho' they wor'nt ask'd at church like other folks."
Gilbert kept on, and at the Hall-door found
The winking servants, where the jest went round:
All expectation; aye, and so was he,
But not with heart so merry and so free.
The kitchen table, never clear from beef,
Where hunger found its solace and relief,
Free to all strangers, had no charms for him,
For agitation worried every limb;
Ale he partook, but appetite had none,
And grey-hounds watch'd in vain to catch the bone.
Sitting upon Thorns.
All sounds alarm'd him, and all thoughts perplex'd,
With dogs, and beef, himself, and all things vex'd,
Till with one mingled caw above his head,
Their gliding shadows o'er the court-yard spread,
The rooks by thousands rose: the bells struck up;
He guess'd the cause, and down he set the cup,
And listening, heard, amidst the general hum,
A joyful exclamation, "Here they come!" -
Soon Herbert's cheerful voice was heard above,
Amidst the rustling hand-maids of his love,
And Gilbert follow'd without thought or dread,
The broad oak stair-case thundr'd with his tread;
Light tript the party, gay as gay could be,
Amidst their bridal dresses - there came he!
And with a look that guilt could ne'er withstand,
Approach'd his niece and caught her by the hand,
Anger disarmed.
"Now are you married, Peggy, yes or no?
Tell me at once, before I let you go!"
Abrupt he spoke, and gave her arm a swing,
But the same moment felt the wedding ring,
And stood confus'd. - She wip'd th' empassion'd tear,
"I am, I am; but is my father here?"
Herbert stood by, and sharing with his bride,
That perturbation which she strove to hide;
"Come, honest Gilbert, you're too rough this time,
Indeed here's not the shadow of a crime;
But where's your brother? When did you arrive?
We waited long, for Nathan went at five!"
All this was Greek to Gilbert, downright Greek:
He knew not what to think, nor how to speak.
The case was this; that Nathan with a cart
To fetch them both at day-break was to start,
An Explanation.
And so he did - but ere he could proceed,
He suck'd a charming portion with a reed,
Of that same wedding-ale, which was that day
To make the hearts of all the village gay;
Brim full of glee he trundled from the Hall,
And as for sky-larks, he out-sung them all;
Till growing giddy with his morning cup.
He, stretch'd beneath a hedge, the reins gave up;
The horse graz'd soberly without mishap,
And Nathan had a most delightful nap
For three good hours - Then, doubting, when he woke,
Whether his conduct would be deem'd a joke,
With double haste perform'd just half his part,
And brought the lame John Meldrum in his cart:
And at the moment Gilbert's wrath was high,
And while young Herbert waited his reply,
A general Meeting.
The sound of rattling wheels was at the door;
"There's my dear father now," - they heard no more,
The bridegroom glided like an arrow down,
And Gilbert ran, though something of a clown,
With his best step; and cheer'd with smiles and pray'rs
They bore old John in triumph up the stairs:
Poor Peggy, who her joy no more could check,
Clung like a dewy woodbine round his neck,
And all stood silent - Gilbert, off his guard,
And marvelling at virtue's rich reward,
Loos'd the one loop that held his coat before,
Down thumpt the broken crutch upon the floor!
They started, half alarm'd, scarce knowing why,
But through the glist'ning rapture of his eye
The bridegroom smil'd, then chid their simple fears,
And rous'd the blushing Peggy from her tears;
Gilbert put upon his Defense.
Around the uncle in a ring they came,
And mark'd his look of mingled pride and shame.
"Now honestly, good Gilbert, tell us true
What meant this cudgel? What was it to do?
I know your heart suspected me of wrong,
And that most true affection urg'd along
Your feelings and your wrath; you were beside
Till now the rightful guardian of the bride.
But why this cudgel?" - "Guardian! that's the case,
Or else to day you had not seen my face,
But John about the girl was so perplex'd,
And I, to tell the truth, so mortal vex'd,
That when he broke this crutch, and stampt and cried,
For John and Peggy, Sir, I could have died,
I know I could; for she was such a child,
So tractable, so sensible, and mild,
The plain Truth.
That if between you roguery had grown,
(Begging your pardon,) 'twould have been your own;
She would not hurt a fly. - So off I came
And had you only sought to blast her fame,
Been base enough to act as hundreds would,
And ruin a poor maid - because you could,
With this same cudgel, (you may smile or frown)
An' please you, Sir, I meant to knock you down."
A burst of laughter rang throughout the hall,
And Peggy's tongue, though overborne by all,
Pour'd its warm blessings, for, without control
The sweet unbridled transport of her soul
Was obviously seen, till Herbert's kiss
Stole, as it were, the eloquence of bliss.
Mirth and Reconciliation.
"Welcome, my friends; good Gilbert, here's my hand;
Eat, drink, or rest, they're all at your command:
And whatsoever pranks the rest may play,
Still you shall be the hero of to-day,
Doubts might torment, and blunders may have teaz'd,
But ale can cure them; let us all be pleas'd.
Thou, venerable man, let me defend
The father of my new dear bosom friend;
You broke your crutch, well, well, worse luck might be,
I'll be your crutch, John Meldrum, lean on me,
And when your lovely daughter shall complain,
Send Gilbert's wooden argument again.
If still you wonder that I take a wife
From the unpolish'd walks of humble life,
I'll tell you on what ground my love began,
And let the wise confute it if they can.
I saw a girl, with nature's untaught grace,
Turn from my gaze a most engaging face;
Herbert's Apology.
I saw her drop the tear, I knew full well
She felt for you much more than she could tell.
I found her understanding, bright as day,
Through all impediments still forc'd its way;
On that foundation shall my soul rely,
The rock of genuine humility.
Call'd as she is to act a nobler part,
To rule my houshold, and to share my heart,
I trust her prudence, confident to prove
Days of delight, and still unfading love;
For, while her inborn tenderness survives,
That heav'nly charm of mothers and of wives,
I'll look for joy: - Here come the neighbours all;
Broach the old barrel, feast them great and small,
For I'm determin'd while the sun's so bright,
That this shall be a wedding-day outright:
John Meldrum's wish. - Conclusion.
How cheerly sound the bells! my charmer, come,
Expand your heart, and know yourself at home.
Sit down, good John;" - "I will," the old man cried,
"And let me drink to you, Sir, and the bride;
My blessing on you: I am lame and old,
I can't make speeches, and I wo'nt be bold;
But from my soul I wish, and wish with pain,
That brave good gentlemen would not disdain
The poor, because they're poor: for, if they live
Midst crimes that parents never can forgive,
If, like the forest beast they wander wild,
To rob a father, or to crush a child,
Nature will speak, aye, just as Nature feels,
And wish - a Gilbert Meldrum at their heels." | free_verse |
John Carr (Sir) | Song. | Ah! if my voice is heard in vain,
This fond, this falling, tear
May yet thy dire intent restrain,
May yet dissolve my fear.
Th' unsparing wound that lays thee low
Will bend thy Julia too:
Could she survive the fatal blow
Who only lives in you? | Ah! if my voice is heard in vain,
This fond, this falling, tear | May yet thy dire intent restrain,
May yet dissolve my fear.
Th' unsparing wound that lays thee low
Will bend thy Julia too:
Could she survive the fatal blow
Who only lives in you? | free_verse |
James Whitcomb Riley | The Rose. | It tossed its head at the wooing breeze;
And the sun, like a bashful swain,
Beamed on it through the waving frees
With a passion all in vain, -
For my rose laughed in a crimson glee,
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The honey-bee came there to sing
His love through the languid hours,
And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king
Might boast of his palace-towers:
But my rose bowed in a mockery,
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The humming-bird, like a courtier gay,
Dipped down with a dalliant song,
And twanged his wings through the roundelay
Of love the whole day long:
Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The firefly came in the twilight dim
My red, red rose to woo -
Till quenched was the flame of love in him,
And the light of his lantern too,
As my rose wept with dew-drops three
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
And I said: I will cult my own sweet rose -
Some day I will claim as mine
The priceless worth of the flower that knows
No change, but a bloom divine -
The bloom of a fadeless constancy
That hides in the leaves in wait for me!
But time passed by in a strange disguise,
And I marked it not, but lay
In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes,
Till the summer slipped away,
And a chill wind sang in a minor key:
"Where is the rose that waits for thee?"
* * * * *
I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain
Of bloom on a withered stalk,
Pelted down by the autumn rain
In the dust of the garden-walk,
That an Angel-rose in the world to be
Will hide in the leaves in wait for me. | It tossed its head at the wooing breeze;
And the sun, like a bashful swain,
Beamed on it through the waving frees
With a passion all in vain, -
For my rose laughed in a crimson glee,
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The honey-bee came there to sing
His love through the languid hours,
And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king
Might boast of his palace-towers:
But my rose bowed in a mockery,
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The humming-bird, like a courtier gay,
Dipped down with a dalliant song, | And twanged his wings through the roundelay
Of love the whole day long:
Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The firefly came in the twilight dim
My red, red rose to woo -
Till quenched was the flame of love in him,
And the light of his lantern too,
As my rose wept with dew-drops three
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
And I said: I will cult my own sweet rose -
Some day I will claim as mine
The priceless worth of the flower that knows
No change, but a bloom divine -
The bloom of a fadeless constancy
That hides in the leaves in wait for me!
But time passed by in a strange disguise,
And I marked it not, but lay
In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes,
Till the summer slipped away,
And a chill wind sang in a minor key:
"Where is the rose that waits for thee?"
* * * * *
I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain
Of bloom on a withered stalk,
Pelted down by the autumn rain
In the dust of the garden-walk,
That an Angel-rose in the world to be
Will hide in the leaves in wait for me. | free_verse |
Jacob Bigelow | Thom' Quadrijug'. | Tom's coach and six, whither in such haste going?
But a short journey, to his own undoing.
Quadrijugis Thomas quo nunc se proripit ille?
Abiit in celerem--brevis est via, nota--ruinam. | Tom's coach and six, whither in such haste going? | But a short journey, to his own undoing.
Quadrijugis Thomas quo nunc se proripit ille?
Abiit in celerem--brevis est via, nota--ruinam. | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Satan. | When we 'gainst Satan stoutly fight, the more
He tears and tugs us than he did before;
Neglecting once to cast a frown on those
Whom ease makes his without the help of blows. | When we 'gainst Satan stoutly fight, the more | He tears and tugs us than he did before;
Neglecting once to cast a frown on those
Whom ease makes his without the help of blows. | quatrain |
Rupert Brooke | There's Wisdom In Women | "Oh love is fair, and love is rare;" my dear one she said,
"But love goes lightly over." I bowed her foolish head,
And kissed her hair and laughed at her. Such a child was she;
So new to love, so true to love, and she spoke so bitterly.
But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known,
And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own,
Or how should my dear one, being ignorant and young,
Have cried on love so bitterly, with so true a tongue? | "Oh love is fair, and love is rare;" my dear one she said,
"But love goes lightly over." I bowed her foolish head, | And kissed her hair and laughed at her. Such a child was she;
So new to love, so true to love, and she spoke so bitterly.
But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known,
And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own,
Or how should my dear one, being ignorant and young,
Have cried on love so bitterly, with so true a tongue? | octave |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Christmas Tree | Christmas is just one week off,
And Old Santa's in the house;
In the attic heard a cough
Th' other day when not a mouse
Nor a rat, I know, was there.
Mother said, "You'd better be
Good, or else, I do declare!
There won't be a Christmas-tree."
Christmas is next week. And I'm
So excited! In the night
Hardly ever sleep. One time
Woke and heard strange footsteps, right
In the hall, go down the stair;
When I cried to mother, she
Said, "Lie down, now! I declare
If you don't no Christmas-tree."
Yes; next week is Christmas. And
I heard some one laughing sure,
Low, half smothered by a hand,
In the parlor where the door
'S always locked and, my! my hair
Fairly crept. And suddenly
Heard a hoarse voice say, "Take care!
Or you'll get no Christmas-tree."
Mother was a-lying down;
'T was n't she. And then the cook
And my nurse had gone in town.
Father, he was at a book.
Must have been Old Santa there
Just a-lying low to see
If I'm good or I declare!
Trimming up my Christmas-tree.
One night, huh! the kitchen door
Banged wide open. 'T was n't wind.
And three knocks, or was it four?
Shook the window. I just skinned
Out of there and up the stair
Where my mother was; and she
Smiled, "'T was Santa, I'll declare!
Bringing in your Christmas-tree."
And I never pout or cry
When I have to go to bed;
Just get in my gown and lie
Quiet; listening for the tread
Of a foot upon the stair,
Or a voice it seems to me
Santa's saying, "I declare,
It's a lovely Christmas-tree!"
Every one just walks the chalk
Now it's near to Christmas. Yes,
I'm as careful in my talk
As a boy could be, I guess:
"For Old Santa's everywhere, "
Mother says mysteriously,
"And, unless you're good, 'declare
You won't have a Christmas-tree." | Christmas is just one week off,
And Old Santa's in the house;
In the attic heard a cough
Th' other day when not a mouse
Nor a rat, I know, was there.
Mother said, "You'd better be
Good, or else, I do declare!
There won't be a Christmas-tree."
Christmas is next week. And I'm
So excited! In the night
Hardly ever sleep. One time
Woke and heard strange footsteps, right
In the hall, go down the stair;
When I cried to mother, she
Said, "Lie down, now! I declare
If you don't no Christmas-tree."
Yes; next week is Christmas. And
I heard some one laughing sure, | Low, half smothered by a hand,
In the parlor where the door
'S always locked and, my! my hair
Fairly crept. And suddenly
Heard a hoarse voice say, "Take care!
Or you'll get no Christmas-tree."
Mother was a-lying down;
'T was n't she. And then the cook
And my nurse had gone in town.
Father, he was at a book.
Must have been Old Santa there
Just a-lying low to see
If I'm good or I declare!
Trimming up my Christmas-tree.
One night, huh! the kitchen door
Banged wide open. 'T was n't wind.
And three knocks, or was it four?
Shook the window. I just skinned
Out of there and up the stair
Where my mother was; and she
Smiled, "'T was Santa, I'll declare!
Bringing in your Christmas-tree."
And I never pout or cry
When I have to go to bed;
Just get in my gown and lie
Quiet; listening for the tread
Of a foot upon the stair,
Or a voice it seems to me
Santa's saying, "I declare,
It's a lovely Christmas-tree!"
Every one just walks the chalk
Now it's near to Christmas. Yes,
I'm as careful in my talk
As a boy could be, I guess:
"For Old Santa's everywhere, "
Mother says mysteriously,
"And, unless you're good, 'declare
You won't have a Christmas-tree." | free_verse |
Samuel Rogers | Captivity. | Caged in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake
When the hern screams along the distant lake,
Her little heart oft flutters to be free,
Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key.
In vain! the nurse that rusted relic wears,
Nor mov'd by gold--nor to be mov'd by tears;
And terraced walls their black reflection throw
On the green-mantled moat that sleeps below. | Caged in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake
When the hern screams along the distant lake, | Her little heart oft flutters to be free,
Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key.
In vain! the nurse that rusted relic wears,
Nor mov'd by gold--nor to be mov'd by tears;
And terraced walls their black reflection throw
On the green-mantled moat that sleeps below. | octave |
Muriel Stuart | Words. | Is it not brave to be a king, Techelles! -
Usumcasane and Theridamas,
Is it not passing brave to be a king,
And ride in triumph through Persepolis? - MARLOWE.
Bring the great words that scourge the thundering line
With lust and slaughter - words that reek of doom
And the lost battle and the ruined shrine; -
Words dire and black as midnight on a tomb;
Hushed speech of waters on the lip of gloom;
Huge sounds of death and plunder in the night; -
Words whose vast plumes above the ages meet,
Girdling the lost, dark centuries in their flight,
The slave of their unfetterable feet.
Bring words as pure as rills of earliest Spring
In some far cranny of the hillside born
To stitch again the earth's green habiting; -
Words lonely as the long, blue fields of morn; -
Words on the wistful lyre of winds forlorn
To the sad ear of grief from distance blown;
Thin bleat of fawn and airy babble of birds;
Sounds of bright water slipping on the stone
Where the thrilled fountain pipes to woodland words.
Bring passionate words from noontide's slumber roused,
To slake the amorous lips of love with fruit,
Dripping with honey, and with syrups drowsed
To draw bee-murmurs from the dreaming lute -
Words gold and mad and headlong in pursuit
Of laughter; words that are too sweet to say
And fade, unsaid, upon some rose's mouth; -
Words soft as winds that ever blow one way,
The summer way, the long way from the south.
For such words have high lineage, and were known
Of Milton once, whose heart on theirs still beats;
Marlowe hurled forth huge stars to make them crown;
They are stained still with the dying lips of Keats;
As queens they trod the cloak in Shakespeare's streets;
Pale hands of Shelley gently guard their flame;
Chatterton's heart was burst upon their spears:
Their dynasty unbroken, and their name
Music in all men's mouths for all men's ears.
But now they are lost, their lordliest 'scutcheon stained;
Upon their ruined walls no trumpet rings;
Their shrines defiled, their sacraments profaned:
Men crown the crow, they have given the jackal wings.
Slaves wear the peplum, beggars ride as kings.
They couple foolish words and look for birth
Of mighty emperor, Christ or Avatar,
They mate with slaves from whom no king comes forth;
No child is theirs who follow not the Star.
Lyric Apollo! Thou art worshipped still!
We quest for beauty on Thy hills like hounds,
Let these poor rhymers babble as they will,
Filling their pipes with shrill and crazy sounds.
Poets still praise Thee, music still abounds,
And Beauty knows the hour of Thy return,
For the Gods live albeit temples burn,
Suffer the fools their folly, let them be,
Wreathing each other with their wreaths of straw,
Trailing their pageants of the mud; but we
Await Thy laurel on our brows with awe.
And if Thou wreathe not, let us still be found
Thy slaves: Thou dost not bind unworthy things.
Them hast Thou chained not. Better heads uncrowned
Than mock regalia of the rabble's kings!
| Is it not brave to be a king, Techelles! -
Usumcasane and Theridamas,
Is it not passing brave to be a king,
And ride in triumph through Persepolis? - MARLOWE.
Bring the great words that scourge the thundering line
With lust and slaughter - words that reek of doom
And the lost battle and the ruined shrine; -
Words dire and black as midnight on a tomb;
Hushed speech of waters on the lip of gloom;
Huge sounds of death and plunder in the night; -
Words whose vast plumes above the ages meet,
Girdling the lost, dark centuries in their flight,
The slave of their unfetterable feet.
Bring words as pure as rills of earliest Spring
In some far cranny of the hillside born
To stitch again the earth's green habiting; -
Words lonely as the long, blue fields of morn; -
Words on the wistful lyre of winds forlorn
To the sad ear of grief from distance blown;
Thin bleat of fawn and airy babble of birds;
Sounds of bright water slipping on the stone | Where the thrilled fountain pipes to woodland words.
Bring passionate words from noontide's slumber roused,
To slake the amorous lips of love with fruit,
Dripping with honey, and with syrups drowsed
To draw bee-murmurs from the dreaming lute -
Words gold and mad and headlong in pursuit
Of laughter; words that are too sweet to say
And fade, unsaid, upon some rose's mouth; -
Words soft as winds that ever blow one way,
The summer way, the long way from the south.
For such words have high lineage, and were known
Of Milton once, whose heart on theirs still beats;
Marlowe hurled forth huge stars to make them crown;
They are stained still with the dying lips of Keats;
As queens they trod the cloak in Shakespeare's streets;
Pale hands of Shelley gently guard their flame;
Chatterton's heart was burst upon their spears:
Their dynasty unbroken, and their name
Music in all men's mouths for all men's ears.
But now they are lost, their lordliest 'scutcheon stained;
Upon their ruined walls no trumpet rings;
Their shrines defiled, their sacraments profaned:
Men crown the crow, they have given the jackal wings.
Slaves wear the peplum, beggars ride as kings.
They couple foolish words and look for birth
Of mighty emperor, Christ or Avatar,
They mate with slaves from whom no king comes forth;
No child is theirs who follow not the Star.
Lyric Apollo! Thou art worshipped still!
We quest for beauty on Thy hills like hounds,
Let these poor rhymers babble as they will,
Filling their pipes with shrill and crazy sounds.
Poets still praise Thee, music still abounds,
And Beauty knows the hour of Thy return,
For the Gods live albeit temples burn,
Suffer the fools their folly, let them be,
Wreathing each other with their wreaths of straw,
Trailing their pageants of the mud; but we
Await Thy laurel on our brows with awe.
And if Thou wreathe not, let us still be found
Thy slaves: Thou dost not bind unworthy things.
Them hast Thou chained not. Better heads uncrowned
Than mock regalia of the rabble's kings! | free_verse |
George Gordon Byron | To A. ------ | 1.
Oh! did those eyes instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine,
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
2.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair,
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
3.
When nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd, that too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
4.
Therefore to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
5.
These might the boldest Sylph appal,
When gleaming with meridian blaze,
Thy beauty must enrapture all,
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
6.
'Tis said that Berenice's hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven,
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Thou would'st so far outshine the seven.
7.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister lights would scarce appear,
E'en suns which systems now controul,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. | 1.
Oh! did those eyes instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine,
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
2.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair,
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
3. | When nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd, that too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
4.
Therefore to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
5.
These might the boldest Sylph appal,
When gleaming with meridian blaze,
Thy beauty must enrapture all,
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
6.
'Tis said that Berenice's hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven,
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Thou would'st so far outshine the seven.
7.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister lights would scarce appear,
E'en suns which systems now controul,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. | free_verse |
Thomas Moore | To .... .... On Seeing Her With A White Veil And A Rich Girdle. | Put off the vestal Veil, nor, oh!
Let weeping angels View it;
Your cheeks belie its virgin snow.
And blush repenting through it.
Put off the fatal zone you wear;
The shining pearls around it
Are tears, that fell from Virtue there,
The hour when Love unbound it. | Put off the vestal Veil, nor, oh!
Let weeping angels View it; | Your cheeks belie its virgin snow.
And blush repenting through it.
Put off the fatal zone you wear;
The shining pearls around it
Are tears, that fell from Virtue there,
The hour when Love unbound it. | octave |
Robert Herrick | To Mistress Mary Willand. | One more by thee, love, and desert have sent,
T' enspangle this expansive firmament.
O flame of beauty! come, appear, appear
A virgin taper, ever shining here. | One more by thee, love, and desert have sent, | T' enspangle this expansive firmament.
O flame of beauty! come, appear, appear
A virgin taper, ever shining here. | quatrain |
Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni | Love And Art. | S' come nella penna.
As pen and ink alike serve him who sings
In high or low or intermediate style;
As the same stone hath shapes both rich and vile
To match the fancies that each master brings;
So, my loved lord, within thy bosom springs
Pride mixed with meekness and kind thoughts that smile:
Whence I draw nought, my sad self to beguile,
But what my face shows--dark imaginings.
He who for seed sows sorrow, tears, and sighs,
(The dews that fall from heaven, though pure and clear,
From different germs take divers qualities)
Must needs reap grief and garner weeping eyes;
And he who looks on beauty with sad cheer,
Gains doubtful hope and certain miseries. | S' come nella penna.
As pen and ink alike serve him who sings
In high or low or intermediate style;
As the same stone hath shapes both rich and vile
To match the fancies that each master brings; | So, my loved lord, within thy bosom springs
Pride mixed with meekness and kind thoughts that smile:
Whence I draw nought, my sad self to beguile,
But what my face shows--dark imaginings.
He who for seed sows sorrow, tears, and sighs,
(The dews that fall from heaven, though pure and clear,
From different germs take divers qualities)
Must needs reap grief and garner weeping eyes;
And he who looks on beauty with sad cheer,
Gains doubtful hope and certain miseries. | free_verse |
Thomas Moore | Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXVI. | Hither, gentle Muse of mine,
Come and teach thy votary old
Many a golden hymn divine,
For the nymph with vest of gold.
Pretty nymph, of tender age,
Fair thy silky looks unfold;
Listen to a hoary sage,
Sweetest maid with vest of gold! | Hither, gentle Muse of mine,
Come and teach thy votary old | Many a golden hymn divine,
For the nymph with vest of gold.
Pretty nymph, of tender age,
Fair thy silky looks unfold;
Listen to a hoary sage,
Sweetest maid with vest of gold! | octave |
Robert Herrick | Haste Hurtful. | Haste is unhappy; what we rashly do
Is both unlucky, aye, and foolish, too.
Where war with rashness is attempted, there
The soldiers leave the field with equal fear. | Haste is unhappy; what we rashly do | Is both unlucky, aye, and foolish, too.
Where war with rashness is attempted, there
The soldiers leave the field with equal fear. | quatrain |
Christina Georgina Rossetti | On The Wing. - Sonnet. | Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
We stood together in an open field;
Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,
Sporting at ease and courting full in view.
When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,
Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;
So farewell life and love and pleasures new.
Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,
Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,
I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops
Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep. | Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
We stood together in an open field;
Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,
Sporting at ease and courting full in view. | When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,
Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;
So farewell life and love and pleasures new.
Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,
Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,
I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops
Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep. | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Revenge. | Man's disposition is for to requite
An injury, before a benefit:
Thanksgiving is a burden and a pain;
Revenge is pleasing to us, as our gain. | Man's disposition is for to requite | An injury, before a benefit:
Thanksgiving is a burden and a pain;
Revenge is pleasing to us, as our gain. | quatrain |
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