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The Frightened Lion

Walter Crane

A Bull Frog, according to rule, Sat a-croak in his usual pool: And he laughed in his heart As a Lion did start In a fright from the brink like a fool. Imaginary Fears Are The Worst

Mail Drop

Paul Cameron Brown

A boat sits on the very shallows of a lake in egg-cup fashion, a tea-cosy covering waves, orchestrating the bob of colours in white enamel blue inverted water. Afar, the boat is a rasher of bacon a strip, stripling, stipend slicing the lake, distancing. The boat is an envelope at the end of the world, planet-sized, pea-green about to spin crazily into the sun at the end of a rifle-sized mail drop. The boat rides amid the between places of things, furtive longings where crones sit within waiting bushes & lizards visit skin, dirge of teeth gnashing the fringe canopy of flowing leaves.

How To Make A Man Of Consequence

Mark Lemon

A brow austere, a circumspective eye. A frequent shrug of the os humeri; A nod significant, a stately gait, A blustering manner, and a tone of weight, A smile sarcastic, an expressive stare: Adopt all these, as time and place will bear; Then rest assur'd that those of little sense Will deem you sure a man of consequence.

An Alphabet Of Old Friends

Walter Crane

A A carrion crow sat on an oak, Watching a tailor shape his cloak. "Wife, bring me my old bent bow, That I may shoot yon carrion crow." The tailor he shot and missed his mark, And shot his own sow quite through the heart. "Wife, wife, bring brandy in a spoon, For our old sow is in a swoon." B Ba, ba, black sheep, Have you any wool? Yes, marry, have I, Three bags full. One for my master, One for my dame, But none for the little boy That cries in the lane. C Hen.    Cock, cock, I have la-a-ayed! Cock. Hen, hen, that's well sa-a-ayed! Hen.    Although I have to go bare-footed every day-a-ay! Cock. (Con spirito.) Sell your eggs and buy shoes! Sell your eggs and buy shoes! D Dickery, dickery, dock, The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, Down the mouse ran, Dickery, dickery, dock. E Elizabeth, Elspeth, Betsy, and Bess, They all went together to seek a bird's nest They found a bird's nest with five eggs in; They all took one, and left four in. F Father, father, I've come to confess. O, yes, dear daughter, what have you done? G Gang and hear the owl yell, Sit and see the swallow flee, See the foal before its mither's e'e, 'Twill be a thriving year wi' thee. H Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top; When the wind blows the cradle will rock; When the wind ceases the cradle will fall, And down will come baby and cradle and all. I I had a little husband No bigger than my thumb; I put him in a pint pot, And there I bade him drum. I bought a little horse That galloped up and down; I bridled him, and saddled him, And sent him out of town. I gave him a pair of garters, To tie up his little hose, And a little silk handkerchief, To wipe his little nose. J Jack Sprat would eat no fat, His wife would eat no lean; Was not that a pretty trick To make the platter clean? K King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he. He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three Every fiddler had a fiddle, And a very fine fiddle had he; Twee, tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers. Oh, there's none so rare As can compare With King Cole and his fiddlers three! L Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And can't tell where to find them. Let them alone and they'll come home, And bring their tails behind them, &c. M Mistress Mary, Quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells, And cockle shells. And cowslips all of a-row. N Needles and pins, needles and pins, When a man marries his trouble begins. O Once I saw a little bird, Come hop, hop, hop; So I cried, "Little bird, Will you stop, stop, stop?" And was going to the window, To say, "How do you do?" When he shook his little tail, And far away he flew. P Pease-pudding hot, pease-pudding cold; Pease-pudding in the pot, nine days old. Q Queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey. R Ride a-cock horse to Banbury Cross, To see an old woman get up on her horse; Rings on her fingers and bells at her toes, And so she makes music wherever she goes. S Simple Simon met a pieman, Going to the fair; Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Let me taste your ware!" T Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief, Taffy came to my house, And stole a leg of beef. I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was not at home; Taffy came to my house, And stole a marrow-bone. I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed; I took the marrow-bone, And broke Taffy's head. U Up hill and down dale, Butter is made in every vale; And if Nancy Cock Is a good girl, She shall have a spouse, And make butter anon, Before her old grandmother Grows a young man. V Valentine, Oh, Valentine, Curl your locks as I do mine; Two before and two behind; Good-morrow to you, Valentine. W "Where are you going, my pretty maid?" "I'm going a milking, sir," she said. "May I go with you, my pretty maid?" "You're kindly welcome, sir," she said. "What is your father, my pretty maid?" "My father's a farmer, sir," she said. "Say will you marry me, my pretty maid?" "Yes, if you please, kind sir," she said. "What is your fortune, my pretty maid?" "My face is my fortune, sir," she said. "Then, I won't marry you, my pretty maid!" "Nobody asked you, sir," she said. X Cross X patch, Draw the latch, Sit by the fire and spin: Take a cup And drink it up, Then call the neighbours in. Y You know that Monday is Sunday's brother; Tuesday is such another; Wednesday you must go to church and pray; Thursday is half-holiday; On Friday it is too late to begin to spin, And Saturday is half-holiday again. Z ZODIAC FOR THE NURSERY. The ram, the bull, the heavenly twins, And next the crab, the lion shines, The virgin and the scales, The scorpion, archer, and the goat, The man who holds the watering-pot, And fish with glittering scales.

Pastime.

Christina Georgina Rossetti

A boat amid the ripples, drifting, rocking, Two idle people, without pause or aim; While in the ominous west there gathers darkness Flushed with flame. A haycock in a hayfield backing, lapping, Two drowsy people pillowed round about; While in the ominous west across the darkness Flame leaps out. Better a wrecked life than a life so aimless, Better a wrecked life than a life so soft; The ominous west glooms thundering, with its fire Lit aloft.

To E. G., Dedicating A Book

George MacDonald

A broken tale of endless things, Take, lady: thou art not of those Who in what vale a fountain springs Would have its journey close. Countless beginnings, fair first parts, Leap to the light, and shining flow; All broken things, or toys or hearts, Are mended where they go. Then down thy stream, with hope-filled sail, Float faithful fearless on, loved friend; 'Tis God that has begun the tale And does not mean to end.

Echoes.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

A breath                         A breath And a sigh, -                     And a sigh, -  How we fly                       How we fly From Death!                      From Death! -  A palm                           Sing on Warm pressed,                    O our bird! As we guessed                    Thou art heard Love's psalm.                    Alone. A word                           We know Breathed close,                  No life, And then rose                    Neither strife, The bird                         Nor woe, That cowers                      Nor aught In the wood                      But this hour, -  'Mid a flood                     Love's dower Of flowers,                      Dear bought. -  Till Love's                      Death's voice Heart sighs,                     Is away, Like the cries                   And we may Of doves, -                      Rejoice. Then sings                       The bird His song,                        Of our song Beating strong                   May be long White wings, -                   Unheard, Heart clear                      But, Dear, Though faint,                    Bend low; Like a saint                     It is now In prayer. -                     We hear. He reigns                        Dear Heart In power,                        Your kiss! -  And Love's hour                  After this Disdains.                        We part. Forget                           A breath For a day                        And a sigh, -  All his sway,                    How we fly Life's fret.                     From Death!

Doubting

Henry Kendall

A brother wandered forth with me, Beside a barren beach: He harped on things beyond the sea, And out of reach. He hinted once of unknown skies, And then I would not hark, But turned away from steadfast eyes, Into the dark. And said 'an ancient faith is dead And wonder fills my mind: I marvel how the blind have led So long the blind. 'Behold this truth we only know That night is on the land! And we a weary way must go To find God's hand.' I wept 'Our fathers told us, Lord, That Thou wert kind and just, But lo! our wailings fly abroad For broken trust. 'How many evil ones are here Who mocking go about, Because we are too faint with fear To wrestle Doubt! 'Thy riddles are beyond the ken Of creatures of the sod: Remember that we are but men, And Thou art God! 'O, doting world, methinks your stay Is weaker than a reed! Our Father turns His face away; 'Tis dark indeed.' The evening woods lay huddled there, All wrapped in silence strange: A sudden wind and lo! the air Was filled with change. 'Your words are wild,' my brother said, 'For God's voice fills the breeze; Go hide yourself, as Adam did, Amongst the trees. 'I pluck the shoes from off my feet, But dare to look around; Behold,' he said, 'my Lord I greet, On holy ground!' And God spake through the wind to me 'Shake off that gloom of Fear, You fainting soul who could not see That I was near. 'Why vex me crying day and night? You call on me to hark! But when I bless your world with light, Who makes it dark? 'Is there a ravelled riddle left That you would have undone? What other doubts are there to sift?' I answered 'None.' 'My son, look up, if you would see The Promise on your way, And turn a trustful face to me.' I whispered 'Yea.'

Song Of The Redwood-Tree

Walt Whitman

A California song! A prophecy and indirection a thought impalpable, to breathe, as air; A chorus of dryads, fading, departing or hamadryads departing; A murmuring, fateful, giant voice, out of the earth and sky, Voice of a mighty dying tree in the Redwood forest dense. Farewell, my brethren, Farewell, O earth and sky farewell, ye neighboring waters; My time has ended, my term has come. Along the northern coast, Just back from the rock-bound shore, and the caves, In the saline air from the sea, in the Mendocino country, With the surge for bass and accompaniment low and hoarse, With crackling blows of axes, sounding musically, driven by strong arms, Riven deep by the sharp tongues of the axes there in the Redwood forest dense, I heard the mighty tree its death-chant chanting. The choppers heard not the camp shanties echoed not; The quick-ear'd teamsters, and chain and jack-screw men, heard not, As the wood-spirits came from their haunts of a thousand years, to join the refrain; But in my soul I plainly heard. Murmuring out of its myriad leaves, Down from its lofty top, rising two hundred feet high, Out of its stalwart trunk and limbs out of its foot-thick bark, That chant of the seasons and time chant, not of the past only, but the future. You untold life of me, And all you venerable and innocent joys, Perennial, hardy life of me, with joys, 'mid rain, and many a summer sun, And the white snows, and night, and the wild winds; O the great patient, rugged joys! my soul's strong joys, unreck'd by man; (For know I bear the soul befitting me I too have consciousness, identity, And all the rocks and mountains have and all the earth;) Joys of the life befitting me and brothers mine, Our time, our term has come. Nor yield we mournfully, majestic brothers, We who have grandly fill'd our time; With Nature's calm content, and tacit, huge delight, We welcome what we wrought for through the past, And leave the field for them. For them predicted long, For a superber Race they too to grandly fill their time, For them we abdicate in them ourselves, ye forest kings! In them these skies and airs these mountain peaks Shasta Nevadas, These huge, precipitous cliffs this amplitude these valleys grand Yosemite, To be in them absorb'd, assimilated. Then to a loftier strain, Still prouder, more ecstatic, rose the chant, As if the heirs, the Deities of the West, Joining, with master-tongue, bore part. Not wan from Asia's fetishes, Nor red from Europe's old dynastic slaughter-house, (Area of murder-plots of thrones, with scent left yet of wars and scaffolds every where,) But come from Nature's long and harmless throes peacefully builded thence, These virgin lands Lands of the Western Shore, To the new Culminating Man to you, the Empire New, You, promis'd long, we pledge, we dedicate. You occult, deep volitions, You average Spiritual Manhood, purpose of all, pois'd on yourself giving, not taking law, You Womanhood divine, mistress and source of all, whence life and love, and aught that comes from life and love, You unseen Moral Essence of all the vast materials of America, (age upon age, working in Death the same as Life,) You that, sometimes known, oftener unknown, really shape and mould the New World, adjusting it to Time and Space, You hidden National Will, lying in your abysms, conceal'd, but ever alert, You past and present purposes, tenaciously pursued, may-be unconscious of yourselves, Unswerv'd by all the passing errors, perturbations of the surface; You vital, universal, deathless germs, beneath all creeds, arts, statutes, literatures, Here build your homes for good establish here These areas entire, Lands of the Western Shore, We pledge, we dedicate to you. For man of you your characteristic Race, Here may be hardy, sweet, gigantic grow here tower, proportionate to Nature, Here climb the vast, pure spaces, unconfined, uncheck'd by wall or roof, Here laugh with storm or sun here joy here patiently inure, Here heed himself, unfold himself (not others' formulas heed) here fill his time, To duly fall, to aid, unreck'd at last, To disappear, to serve. Thus, on the northern coast, In the echo of teamsters' calls, and the clinking chains, and the music of choppers' axes, The falling trunk and limbs, the crash, the muffled shriek, the groan, Such words combined from the Redwood-tree as of wood-spirits' voices ecstatic, ancient and rustling, The century-lasting, unseen dryads, singing, withdrawing, All their recesses of forests and mountains leaving, From the Cascade range to the Wasatch or Idaho far, or Utah, To the deities of the Modern henceforth yielding, The chorus and indications, the vistas of coming humanity the settlements, features all, In the Mendocino woods I caught. The flashing and golden pageant of California! The sudden and gorgeous drama the sunny and ample lands; The long and varied stretch from Puget Sound to Colorado south; Lands bathed in sweeter, rarer, healthier air valleys and mountain cliffs; The fields of Nature long prepared and fallow the silent, cyclic chemistry; The slow and steady ages plodding the unoccupied surface ripening the rich ores forming beneath; At last the New arriving, assuming, taking possession, A swarming and busy race settling and organizing every where; Ships coming in from the whole round world, and going out to the whole world, To India and China and Australia, and the thousand island paradises of the Pacific; Populous cities the latest inventions the steamers on the rivers the railroads with many a thrifty farm, with machinery, And wool, and wheat, and the grape and diggings of yellow gold. But more in you than these, Lands of the Western Shore! (These but the means, the implements, the standing-ground,) I see in you, certain to come, the promise of thousands of years, till now deferr'd, Promis'd, to be fulfill'd, our common kind, the Race. The New Society at last, proportionate to Nature, In Man of you, more than your mountain peaks, or stalwart trees imperial, In Woman more, far more, than all your gold, or vines, or even vital air. Fresh come, to a New World indeed, yet long prepared, I see the Genius of the Modern, child of the Real and Ideal, Clearing the ground for broad humanity, the true America, heir of the past so grand, To build a grander future.

A Book For The King

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A book has been made for the King, A book of beauty and art; To the good king's eyes A smile shall rise Hiding the ache in his heart - Hiding the hurt and the grief As he turns it, leaf by leaf. A book has been made for the King, A book of blood and of blight; To the Great King's eyes A look shall rise That will blast and wither and smite - Yes, smite with a just God's rage, As He turns it, page by page.

De Te

Adam Lindsay Gordon

A burning glass of burnished brass, The calm sea caught the noontide rays, And sunny slopes of golden grass And wastes of weed-flower seem to blaze. Beyond the shining silver-greys, Beyond the shades of denser bloom, The sky-line girt with glowing haze The farthest, faintest forest gloom, And the everlasting hills that loom. We heard the hound beneath the mound, We scared the swamp hawk hovering nigh, We had not sought for that we found, He lay as dead men only lie, With wan cheek whitening in the sky, Through the wild heath flowers, white and red, The dumb brute that had seen him die, Close crouching, howl'd beside the head, Brute burial service o'er the dead. The brow was rife with seams of strife, A lawless death made doubly plain The ravage of a reckless life; The havoc of a hurricane Of passions through that breadth of brain, Like headlong horses that had run Riot, regardless of the rein, 'Madman, he might have lived and done Better than most men,' whispered one. The beams and blots that Heaven allots To every life with life begin. Fool! would you change the leopard's spots, Or blanch the Ethiopian's skin? What more could he have hoped to win, What better things have thought to gain, So shapen, so conceived in sin? No life is wholly void and vain, Just and unjust share sun and rain. Were new life sent, and life misspent, Wiped out (if such to God seemed good), Would he (being as he was) repent, Or could he, even if he would, Who heeded not things understood (Though dimly) even in savage lands By some who worship stone or wood, Or bird or beast, or who stretch hands Sunward on shining Eastern sands? And crime has cause. Nay, never pause Idly to feel a pulseless wrist; Brace up the massive, square-shaped jaws, Unclench the stubborn, stiff'ning fist, And close those eyes through film and mist That kept the old defiant glare; And answer, wise Psychologist, Whose science claims some little share Of truth, what better things lay there? Aye! thought and mind were there,, some kind Of faculty that men mistake For talent when their wits are blind,, An aptitude to mar and break What others diligently make. This was the worst and best of him, Wise with the cunning of the snake, Brave with the she wolf's courage grim, Dying hard and dumb, torn limb from limb. And you, Brown, you're a doctor; cure You can't, but you can kill, and he, 'Witness his mark', he signed last year, And now he signs John Smith, J.P. We'll hold our inquest now, we three; I'll be your coroner for once; I think old Oswald ought to be Our foreman, Jones is such a dunce,, There's more brain in the bloodhound's sconce. No man may shirk the allotted work, The deed to do, the death to die; At least I think so,, neither Turk, Nor Jew, nor infidel am I,, And yet I wonder when I try To solve one question, may or must, And shall I solve it by-and-by, Beyond the dark, beneath the dust? I trust so, and I only trust. Aye, what they will, such trifles kill. Comrade, for one good deed of yours, Your history shall not help to fill The mouths of many brainless boors. It may be death absolves or cures The sin of life. 'Twere hazardous To assert so. If the sin endures, Say only, 'God, who has judged him thus, Be merciful to him and us.'

Epilogue To Through The Looking Glass

Lewis Carroll

A boat, beneath a sunny sky Lingering onward dreamily In an evening of July, Children three that nestle near, Eager eye and willing ear Pleased a simple tale to hear, Long has paled that sunny sky: Echoes fade and memories die: Autumn frosts have slain July. Still she haunts me, phantomwise Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes. Children yet, the tale to hear, Eager eye and willing ear, Lovingly shall nestle near. In a Wonderland they lie, Dreaming as the days go by, Dreaming as the summers die: Ever drifting down the stream, Lingering in the golden gleam, Life what is it but a dream?

The Bat, The Bush, And The Duck.

Jean de La Fontaine

[1] A bush, duck, and bat, having found that in trade, Confined to their country, small profits were made, Into partnership enter'd to traffic abroad, Their purse, held in common, well guarded from fraud. Their factors and agents, these trading allies Employ'd where they needed, as cautious as wise: Their journals and ledgers, exact and discreet, Recorded by items expense and receipt. All throve, till an argosy, on its way home, With a cargo worth more than their capital sum, In attempting to pass through a dangerous strait, Went down with its passengers, sailors, and freight, To enrich those enormous and miserly stores, From Tartarus distant but very few doors. Regret was a thing which the firm could but feel; Regret was the thing they were slow to reveal; For the least of a merchant well knows that the weal Of his credit requires him his loss to conceal. But that which our trio unluckily suffer'd Allow'd no repair, and of course was discover'd. No money nor credit, 'twas plain to be seen Their heads were now threaten'd with bonnets of green;[2] And, the facts of the case being everywhere known, No mortal would open his purse with a loan. Debts, bailiffs, and lawsuits, and creditors gruff, At the crack of day knocking, (Importunity shocking!) Our trio kept busy enough. The bush, ever ready and on the alert, Now caught all the people it could by the skirt: - 'Pray, sir, be so good as to tell, if you please, If you know whereabout the old villanous seas Have hid all our goods which they stole t' other night. The diver, to seek them, went down out of sight. The bat didn't venture abroad in the day, And thus of the bailiffs kept out of the way. Full many insolvents, not bats, to hide so, Nor bushes, nor divers, I happen to know, But even grand seigniors, quite free from all cares, By virtue of brass, and of private backstairs.

Fight Of A Buffalo With Wolves.

James McIntyre

A buffalo, lord of the plain, With massive neck and mighty mane, While from his herd he slowly strays, He on green herbage calm doth graze, And when at last he lifts his eyes A savage wolf he soon espies, But scarcely deigns to turn his head For it inspires him with no dread, He knows the wolf is treacherous foe But feels he soon could lay him low, A moment more and there's a pair Whose savage eyes do on him glare, But with contempt them both he scorns Unworthy of his powerful horns; Their numbers soon do multiply But the whole pack he doth defy, He could bound quickly o'er the plain And his own herd could soon regain; His foes they now are full a score With lolling tongues pant for his gore, He hears their teeth all loudly gnash So eager his big bones to crash, On every side they him infest, The north, the south, the east, the west Fierce rage doth now gleam from his eye, Resolved to conquer or to die, 'Round him they yelp and howl and growl, He glares on them with angry scowl, They circle closer him around, He roars and springs with mighty bound, And of his powers gives ample proof, Felling them with horn and hoof, Though some lay dead upon the plain, Yet their attack was not in vain, For they have tasted of his blood, Resolved it soon shall pour a flood, He feels that they have torn his hide And streams gush from each limb and side, He rushes on them in despair And tosses them full high in air, But others rush on him and pull Down to the earth that glorious bull; On the flesh of this noble beast Their bloody jaws they soon do feast, Full worthy of a better fate Far from his herd and his dear mate, Who now do look for him in vain His bones do whiten now the plain.

Per Aspera Ad Astra.

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

A canvas-back duck, rarely roasted, between us, A bottle of Chambertin, worthy of praise Less noble a wine at our age would bemean us A salad of celery en mayonnaise, With the oysters we've eaten, fresh, plump, and delicious, Naught left of them now but a dream and the shells; No better souper e'en Lucullus could wish us Why, even our waiter regards us as swells. Your dress is a marvel, your jewels show finely, Your friends in the circle all envied your box; You say Lilli Lehman sang quite too divinely I know I can't lose on that last deal in stocks. Without waits our footman to call for our carriage Gad, how he must hate us, out there in the cold! We rode in a hack on the day of our marriage, Number two forty-six I was rolling in gold, For I'd quite fifty dollars; and don't you remember We drove down to Taylor's, a long cherished dream: How grandly I ordered just think, in December! Some cake, and two plates of vanilla ice-cream. And how we enjoyed it! Your glance was the proudest Among the proud beauties, your face the most fair; I'm rather afraid, too, your laugh was the loudest; I know we shocked every one we didn't care. Now we'd care a great deal with two sons at college, And daughters just out, whose sneers make you wince, We've tasted the fruit of Society's knowledge I don't think we've quite enjoyed anything since. All through, dear? Now, don't wipe your mouth with the doily! They're really not careful at all with their wine; It wasn't half warmed the salad was oily And I don't think the duck was remarkably fine.

The Impetuous Breeze And The Diplomatic Sun

Guy Wetmore Carryl

A Boston man an ulster had, An ulster with a cape that fluttered: It smacked his face, and made him mad, And polyglot remarks he uttered: "I bought it at a bargain," said he, "I'm tired of the thing already." The wind that chanced to blow that day Was easterly, and rather strong, too: It loved to see the galling way That clothes vex those whom they belong to: "Now watch me," cried this spell of weather, "I'll rid him of it altogether." It whirled the man across the street, It banged him up against a railing, It twined the ulster round his feet, But all of this was unavailing: For not without resource it found him: He drew the ulster closer round him. "My word!" the man was heard to say, "Although I like not such abuse, it's Not strange the wind is strong to-day, It always is in Massachusetts. Such weather threatens much the health of Inhabitants this Commonwealth of." The sun, emerging from a rift Between the clouds, observed the victim, And how the wind beset and biffed, Belabored, buffeted, and kicked him. Said he, "This wind is doubtless new here: 'Tis quite the freshest ever blew here." And then he put forth all his strength, His warmth with might and main exerted, Till upward in its tube at length The mercury most nimbly spurted. Phenomenal the curious sight was, So swift the rise in Fahrenheit was. The man supposed himself at first The prey of some new mode of smelting: His pulses were about to burst, His every limb seemed slowly melting, And, as the heat began to numb him, He cast the ulster wildly from him. "Impulsive breeze, the use of force," Observed the sun, "a foolish act is, Perceiving which, you see, of course. How highly efficacious tact is." The wondering wind replied, "Good gracious! You're right about the efficacious." THE MORAL deals, as morals do, With tact, and all its virtues boasted, But still I can't forget, can you, That wretched man, first chilled, then roasted? Bronchitis seized him shortly after, And that's no cause for vulgar laughter.

Fortvne And The Boy

Walter Crane

A Boy heedless slept by the well By Dame Fortune awaked, truth to tell, Said she, "Hadst been drowned, 'Twould have surely been found This by Fortune, not Folly befel." Fortune Is Not Answerable For Our Want Of Foresight

A Broken Rainbow On The Skies Of May

Madison Julius Cawein

A Broken rainbow on the skies of May, Touching the dripping roses and low clouds, And in wet clouds its scattered glories lost: So in the sorrow of her soul the ghost Of one great love, of iridescent ray, Spanning the roses dim of memory, Against the tumult of life's rushing crowds A broken rainbow on the skies of May. A flashing humming-bird among the flowers, Deep-coloured blooms; its slender tongue and bill Sucking the syrups and the calyxed myrrhs, Till, being full of sweets, away it whirrs: Such was his love that won her heart's rich bowers To give to him their all, their honied showers, The bloom from which he drank his body's fill A flashing humming-bird among the flowers. A moon, moth-white, that through long mists of fleece Moves amber-girt into a bulk of black, And, lost to vision, rims the black with froth: A love that swept its moon, like some great moth, Across the heaven of her soul's young peace; And, smoothly passing, in the clouds did cease Of time, through which its burning light comes back A moon, moth-white, that moves through mists of fleece. A bolt of living thunder downward hurled, Momental blazing from the piled-up storm, That instants out the mountains and the ocean, The towering crag, then blots the sight's commotion: Love, love that swiftly coming bared the world, The deeps of life, 'round which fate's clouds are curled, And, ceasing, left all night and black alarm A bolt of living thunder downward hurled.

Sonnets. XI

John Milton

A Book was writ of late call'd Tetrachordon; And wov'n close, both matter, form and stile; The Subject new: it walk'd the Town a while, Numbring good intellects; now seldom por'd on. Cries the stall-reader, bless us! what a word on A title page is this! and some in file Stand spelling fals, while one might walk to Mile- End Green. Why is it harder Sirs then Gordon, Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp? Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp. Thy age, like ours, O Soul of Sir John Cheek, Hated not Learning wors then Toad or Asp; When thou taught'st Cambridge, and King Edward Greek.

Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part I. - XIII - Casual Incitement

William Wordsworth

A bright-haired company of youthful slaves, Beautiful strangers, stand within the pale Of a sad market, ranged for public sale, Where Tiber's stream the immortal City laves: Angli by name; and not an Angel waves His wing who could seem lovelier to man's eye Than they appear to holy Gregory; Who, having learnt that name, salvation craves For Them, and for their Land. The earnest Sire, His questions urging, feels, in slender ties Of chiming sound, commanding sympathies; De-Irians, he would save them from God's ire; Subjects of Saxon Aella, they shall sing Glad Halle-lujahs to the eternal King!

The British Tar.

William Schwenck Gilbert

A British tar is a soaring soul, As free as a mountain bird, His energetic fist should be ready to resist A dictatorial word His nose should pant and his lips should curl, His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl, His bosom should heave and his heart should glow, And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow. His eyes should flash with an inborn fire, His brow with scorn be rung; He never should bow down to a domineering frown, Or the tang of a tyrant tongue. His foot should stamp and his throat should growl, His hair should twirl and his face should scowl: His eyes should flash and his breast protrude, And this should be his customary attitude!

The Stockman

Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

(Air: 'A wet sheet and a flowing sea.') A bright sun and a loosened rein, A whip whose pealing sound Rings forth amid the forest trees As merrily forth we bound' As merrily forth we bound, my boys, And, by the dawn's pale light, Speed fearless on our horses true From morn till starry night. 'Oh! for a tame and quiet herd,' I hear some crawler cry; But give to me the mountain mob With the flash of their tameless eye' With the flash of their tameless eye, my boys, As down the rugged spur Dash the wild children of the woods, And the horse that mocks at fear. There's mischief in you wide-horned steer, There's danger in you cow; Then mount, my merry horsemen all, The wild mob's bolting now' The wild mob's bolting now, my boys, But 'twas never in their hides To show the way to the well-trained nags That are rattling by their sides. Oh! 'tis jolly to follow the roving herd Through the long, long summer day, And camp at night by some lonely creek When dies the golden ray. Where the jackass laughs in the old gum tree, And our quart-pot tea we sip; The saddle was our childhood's home, Our heritage the whip.

The Dilettante And The Critic.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

A boy a pigeon once possess'd, In gay and brilliant plumage dress'd; He loved it well, and in boyish sport Its food to take from his mouth he taught, And in his pigeon he took such pride, That his joy to others he needs must confide. An aged fox near the place chanc'd to dwell, Talkative, clever, and learned as well; The boy his society used to prize, Hearing with pleasure his wonders and lies. "My friend the fox my pigeon must see He ran, and stretch'd 'mongst the bushes lay he "Look, fox, at my pigeon, my pigeon so fair! His equal I'm sure thou hast look'd upon ne'er!" "Let's see!" The boy gave it. "'Tis really not bad; And yet, it is far from complete, I must add. The feathers, for, instance, how short! 'Tis absurd!" So he set to work straightway to pluck the poor bird. The boy screamed. "Thou must now stronger pinions supply, Or else 'twill be ugly, unable to fly." Soon 'twas stripp'd oh, the villain! and torn all to pieces. The boy was heart-broken, and so my tale ceases. *    *    *    * He who sees in the boy shadow'd forth his own case, Should be on his guard 'gainst the fox's whole race.

The Bottle Tree

Eugene Field

A bottle tree bloometh in Winkyway land - Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say! A snug little berth in that ship I demand That rocketh the Bottle-Tree babies away Where the Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day And reacheth its fruit to each wee, dimpled hand; You take of that fruit as much as you list, For colic's a nuisance that doesn't exist! So cuddle me and cuddle me fast, And cuddle me snug in my cradle away, For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast - Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say! The Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day! Heigh-ho for Winkyway land! And Bottle-Tree fruit (as I've heard people say) Makes bellies of Bottle-Tree babies expand - And that is a trick I would fain understand! Heigh-ho for a bottle to-day! And heigh-ho for a bottle to-night - A bottle of milk that is creamy and white! So cuddle me close, and cuddle me fast, And cuddle me snug in my cradle away, For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast - Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!

Christmas Roses

Lizzie Lawson

A BUNCH of Christmas Roses, dear, To greet my fairest child, I plucked them in my garden where The drifting snow lay piled. I cannot bring thee violets dear, Or cowslips growing wild, Or daisy chain for thee to wear, For thee to wear, my child. For all the grassy meadows near Are clad with snow, my child; Through all the days of winter drear No ray of sun has smiled. I plucked this bunch of verses, dear, From out my garden wild, I plucked them in the winter drear For you, my fairest child, Your wet and wintry hours to cheer, They're Christmas Roses, child.

On The Detraction Which Followed The Publication Of A Certain Poem

William Wordsworth

A book came forth of late, called PETER BELL; Not negligent the style; the matter? good As aught that song records of Robin Hood; Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell; But some (who brook those hackneyed themes full well, Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood) Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood, On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen, Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice, Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men To thee appear not an unmeaning voice, Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen!

The Unperfected.

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

A broken mirror in a trembling hand; Sad, trembling lips that utter broken thought: One of a wide and wandering, aimless band; One in the world who for the world hath naught. A heart that loves beyond the shallow word; A heart well loved beyond its flowerless worth: One who asks God to answer the prayer heard; One from the dust returning to the earth. Can miracle ne'er make the mirror whole For one who, seeing, could be nobly bold? Who could well die, to magnify the soul, - Whose strength of love will shake the graveyard's mould?

First Glance.

George Parsons Lathrop

A budding mouth and warm blue eyes; A laughing face; - and laughing hair, So ruddy does it rise From off that forehead fair; Frank fervor in whate'er she said, And a shy grace when she was still; A bright, elastic tread; Enthusiastic will; These wrought the magic of a maid As sweet and sad as the sun in spring, Joyous, yet half-afraid Her joyousness to sing. What weighs the unworthiness of earth When beauty such as this finds birth? Rare maid, to look on thee Gives all things harmony!

Watching The Crows

Henry Lawson

A bushman got lost in a scrub in the North, And all the long morning the searchers went forth. They swore at the rain that had washed out the tracks And left not a trace for the eyes of the blacks; But, trusting the signs that the blackfellow knows, A quiet old darkey stood watching the crows. The solemn old blackman stood silently by; He stood like a statue, his face to the sky. Black Billy was out of the bearings, we thought, If he looked above for the bushman we sought; For we rather suspected the spirit would go In, well, quite another direction, you know. Most bushmen on solemn occasions will joke, And unto Black Bill 'twas the super who spoke. He asked, as he cocked his red nose in the air, 'You think it old Harrison sit down up there?' 'I'm watching the crows. Where the white man lies dead The crows will fly over,' the blackfellow said. The blackfellow died, and long years have gone round Since the day when old Harrison's body was found; But still do I see, in my vision at night, A faint figure come like a shadow in sight, And nearer and nearer it comes till it grows Like the form of that blackfellow, 'watching the crows'.

The Carrion Crow

Walter Crane

1 A carrion crow sat on an oak, Derry, derry, derry, decco; A carrion crow sat on an oak, Watching a tailor shaping his cloak. Heigh-ho! the carrion crow, Derry, derry, derry, decco. 2 "O wife, bring me my old bent bow," Derry, derry, derry, decco; "O wife, bring me my old bent bow, "That I may shoot yon carrion crow." Heigh-ho! the carrion crow, Derry, derry, derry, decco. 3 The tailor shot, and he missed his mark, Derry, derry, derry, decco; The tailor shot, and he missed his mark, And shot his old sow right through the heart Heigh-ho! the carrion crow, Derry, derry, derry, decco. 4 "O wife, bring brandy in a spoon," Derry, derry, derry, decco; "O wife, bring brandy in a spoon, "For our old sow is in a swoon." Heigh-ho! the carrion crow, Derry, derry, derry, decco.

Deserted.

Madison Julius Cawein

A broken rainbow on the skies of May Touching the sodden roses and low clouds, And in wet clouds like scattered jewels lost: Upon the heaven of a soul the ghost Of a great love, perfect in its pure ray, Touching the roses moist of memory To die within the Present's grief of clouds - A broken rainbow on the skies of May. A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers, Or red or white; its darting length of tongue Sucking and drinking all the cell-stored sweet, And now the surfeit and the hurried fleet: A love that put into expanding bowers Of one's large heart a tongue's persuasive powers To cream with joy, and riffled, so was gone - A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers. A foamy moon which thro' a night of fleece Moves amber girt into a bulk of dark, And, lost to eye, rims all the black with froth: A love of smiles, that, tinctured like a moth, Moved thro' a soul's night-dun and made a peace - More bland than Melancholy's white - to cease In blanks of Time zoned with pale Memory's spark - A foamy moon that brinks a storm with fleece. A blaze of living thunder - not a leap - Momental spouting balds the pil'd storm, The ghastly mountains and the livid ocean, The pine-roared crag, then blots the sight's commotion: A love that swiftly pouring bared the deep, Which cleaves white Life from Death, Death from white Sleep, And, ceasing, gave a brain one blur of storm - Blank blast of midnight, love for Death and Sleep.

The Shooting Of Dan Mcgrew

Robert William Service

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon; The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune; Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew, And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou. When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare, There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty and loaded for bear. He looked like a man with a foot in the grave, and scarcely the strength of a louse, Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house. There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue; But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew. There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell; And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell; With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done, As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one. Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do, And I turned my head - and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou. His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze, Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze. The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool, So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool. In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway; Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands - my God! but that man could play! Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear, And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear; With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold, A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold; While high overhead, green, yellow, and red, the North Lights swept in bars - Then you've a haunch what the music meant ... hunger and night and the stars. And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans; But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means; For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above; But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love; A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true - (God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, - the lady that's known as Lou.) Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear; But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear; That some one had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie; That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die. 'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through - "I guess I'll make it a spread misere," said Dangerous Dan McGrew. The music almost died away ... then it burst like a pent-up flood; And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood. The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash, And the lust awoke to kill, to kill ... then the music stopped with a crash, And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way; In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway; Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm; And, "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn; But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true, That one of you is a hound of hell ... and that one is Dan McGrew." Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark; And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark; Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew, While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou. These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know; They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it's so. I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two - The woman that kissed him and - pinched his poke - was the lady that's known as Lou.

The Lion And The Hunter.

Jean de La Fontaine

[1] A braggart, lover of the chase, Had lost a dog of valued race, And thought him in a lion's maw. He ask'd a shepherd whom he saw, 'Pray show me, man, the robber's place, And I'll have justice in the case.' ''Tis on this mountain side,' The shepherd man replied. 'The tribute of a sheep I pay, Each month, and where I please I stray.' Out leap'd the lion as he spake, And came that way, with agile feet. The braggart, prompt his flight to take, Cried, 'Jove, O grant a safe retreat!' A danger close at hand Of courage is the test. It shows us who will stand - Whose legs will run their best.

The Vainglorious Oak And The Modest Bulrush

Guy Wetmore Carryl

A bulrush stood on a river's rim, And an oak that grew near by Looked down with cold hauteur on him, And addressed him this way: "Hi!" The rush was a proud patrician, and He retorted, "Don't you know, What the veriest boor should understand, That 'Hi' is low?" This cutting rebuke the oak ignored. He returned, "My slender friend, I will frankly state that I'm somewhat bored With the way you bow and bend." "But you quite forget," the rush replied, "It's an art these bows to do, An art I wouldn't attempt if I'd Such boughs as you." "Of course," said the oak, "in my sapling days My habit it was to bow, But the wildest storm that the winds could raise Would never disturb me now. I challenge the breeze to make me bend, And the blast to make me sway." The shrewd little bulrush answered, "Friend, Don't get so gay." And the words had barely left his mouth When he saw the oak turn pale, For, racing along south-east-by-south, Came ripping a raging gale. And the rush bent low as the storm went past, But stiffly stood the oak, Though not for long, for he found the blast No idle joke. Imagine the lightning's gleaming bars, Imagine the thunder's roar, For that is exactly what eight stars Are set in a row here for! The oak lay prone when the storm was done, While the rush, still quite erect, Remarked aside, "What under the sun Could one expect?" And THE MORAL, I'd have you understand, Would have made La Fontaine blush, For it's this: Some storms come early, and Avoid the rush!

The Valley Of Baca.

Emma Lazarus

PSALM LXXXIV. A brackish lake is there with bitter pools Anigh its margin, brushed by heavy trees. A piping wind the narrow valley cools, Fretting the willows and the cypresses. Gray skies above, and in the gloomy space An awful presence hath its dwelling-place. I saw a youth pass down that vale of tears; His head was circled with a crown of thorn, His form was bowed as by the weight of years, His wayworn feet by stones were cut and torn. His eyes were such as have beheld the sword Of terror of the angel of the Lord. He passed, and clouds and shadows and thick haze Fell and encompassed him. I might not see What hand upheld him in those dismal ways, Wherethrough he staggered with his misery. The creeping mists that trooped and spread around, The smitten head and writhing form enwound. Then slow and gradual but sure they rose, Those clinging vapors blotting out the sky. The youth had fallen not, his viewless foes Discomfited, had left the victory Unto the heart that fainted not nor failed, But from the hill-tops its salvation hailed. I looked at him in dread lest I should see, The anguish of the struggle in his eyes; And lo, great peace was there! Triumphantly The sunshine crowned him from the sacred skies. "From strength to strength he goes," he leaves beneath The valley of the shadow and of death. "Thrice blest who passing through that vale of Tears, Makes it a well," - and draws life-nourishment From those death-bitter drops. No grief, no fears Assail him further, he may scorn the event. For naught hath power to swerve the steadfast soul Within that valley broken and made whole.

The Schoolboy, The Pedant, And The Owner Of A Garden.

Jean de La Fontaine

A boy who savour'd of his school, - A double rogue and double fool, - By youth and by the privilege Which pedants have, by ancient right, To alter reason, and abridge, - A neighbour robb'd, with fingers light, Of flowers and fruit. This neighbour had, Of fruits that make the autumn glad, The very best - and none but he. Each season brought, from plant and tree, To him its tribute; for, in spring, His was the brightest blossoming. One day, he saw our hopeful lad Perch'd on the finest tree he had, Not only stuffing down the fruit, But spoiling, like a Vandal brute, The buds that play advance-courier Of plenty in the coming year. The branches, too, he rudely tore, And carried things to such a pass, The owner sent his servant o'er To tell the master of his class. The latter came, and came attended By all the urchins of his school, And thus one plunderer's mischief mended By pouring in an orchard-full. It seems the pedant was intent On making public punishment, To teach his boys the force of law, And strike their roguish hearts with awe. The use of which he first must show From Virgil and from Cicero, And many other ancients noted, From whom, in their own tongues, he quoted. So long, indeed, his lecture lasted, While not a single urchin fasted, That, ere its close, their thievish crimes Were multiplied a hundred times. I hate all eloquence and reason Expended plainly out of season. Of all the beasts that earth have cursed While they have fed on't, The school-boy strikes me as the worst - Except the pedant. The better of these neighbours two For me, I'm sure, would never do.

The Nuts Of Knowledge

George William Russell

A cabin on the mountain side hid in a grassy nook Where door and windows open wide that friendly stars may look. The rabbit shy can patter in, the winds may enter free, Who throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy. And when the sun sets dimmed in eve and purple fills the air, I think the sacred Hazel Tree is dropping berries there From starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla's Well o'erflows; For sure the enchanted waters pour through every wind that blows. I think when night towers up aloft and shakes the trembling dew How every high and lonely thought that thrills my being through Is but a ruddy berry dropped down through the purple air, And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere.

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXX.

Thomas Moore

A broken cake, with honey sweet, Is all my spare and simple treat: And while a generous bowl I crown To float my little banquet down, I take the soft, the amorous lyre, And sing of love's delicious fire: In mirthful measures warm and free, I sing, dear maid, and sing for thee!

The Lady's Rock

John Campbell

A brother's eye had seen the grief That Duart's lady bore; His boat with sail half-raised flies down The sound by green Lismore. Ahaladah, Ahaladah! Why speeds your boat so fast? No scene of joy shall light your track Adown the spray-strewn blast. The very trees upon the isle Rock to and fro, and wail; The very birds cry sad and shrill, Storm driven, where you sail; O when for yon dim mainland shore You launched your keel to start You knew not of the load 'twill bear, The heavier load your heart. See what is that, which yonder gleams, Where skarts alone make home; Is that but one oft-breaking sea, Some frequent fount of foam? The morn is dark and indistinct, Is all through drift and cloud; Around the rock white waters toss, As flaps in wind a shroud. It cannot be a leaping jet, Nor form of rock or wave There stands some being saved by God In mercy from the grave! "Down with the sail, out oars! the boat Can reach the leeward side: Mother of Heaven! look you, men, Where breaks that roaring tide." "A living woman, do I dream Or stands my sister there, Where only at the middle ebb The shelving ledge is bare?" O white as surf that sweeps her knee, She falls, but not to die; Ahaladah is at her side, He bears her up on high. Away from Duart now he steers; Why curses he its lord; Why flee to Inveraray's strength, As though he feared his sword? Proud triumph's notes were often heard Where Aray's waters sing, And mourners there have often wept The slain for faith and king. But never would that lady's lips There speak her grievous woe, Though in her chamber in the night Her frequent tears would flow. She dreamt of wrong where love was sought, Of crafty cruel eyes, Of one steep stair, of grasping hands That stifled piteous cries; Of wind which tore the hissing waves, And howled o'er mountains bare; Where swollen burns in feathery clouds Were dashed into the air. Of one wet rock, of horror wild, When she was left alone, Till madness seemed to whelm her thought And, with a shuddering moan, Again she heard the surges rush, And, where she shrinking turned, The seaweed there, like woman's hair, The murderous billows spurned. Again the night and wind were joined To mock her hope of aid, Till shrieking, she awoke, where once She slept a happy maid. But none would she accuse, and dumb Rebuked the vengeance call, Till one dark eve at supper-time Within the old dim hall, She heard some whisper, and she saw Her brother leave his place, Go forth, and entering, beckon out A band, with stern set face. Again he came, and o'er her bent, And whispered "Sister dear, Let fall your veil about your head, Nor tremble when you hear That Duart comes in mourner's guise! Lo, there he takes his seat. Chief, tell us why your mien is sad, When friends and kinsmen meet?" "My woes are great, my wife lies dead, But yester week these hands Closed her sweet eyes, and now I bring Her body to your lands." Then was the arras drawn aside And girt with wake lights drear, Beneath the archway's carven vault, Was borne a white-crossed bier. And Duart rose; his shifting eye Moved like a marsh-fire pale, But circling back, still restless scanned The lady of the veil. Then through the silence broke a voice, "Know you that lady, chief? She too, a guest with us, like you, Well knows the pangs of grief. "You come from far, bring wine." To each The ruddy goblet passed. The lady raised her hand, and back The heavy veil she cast. Strong Duart reeled as from a stroke; He stared as at the dead: How could her glance o'er that dark face Such deathly palor spread? "Your play is out, ah cursed fiend!" Ahaladah cried loud; "Your death shall be no phantom false, No empty mask your shroud: If hospitality's high law Here shields your life awhile, By all the saints you yet shall feel The vengeance of Argyll." *            *            *            *            * In Edinburgh Duart's Lord Strides down the shadowed town; The white moon glints on roofs o'erhead, And on St Giles's crown. Another step is on the street, The watchmen hear no cry; But drenched in blood lies Duart, where Ahaladah passed by.

First Glance

George Parsons Lathrop

A budding mouth and warm blue eyes; A laughing face; and laughing hair, - So ruddy was its rise From off that forehead fair; Frank fervor in whate'er she said, And a shy grace when she was still; A bright, elastic tread; Enthusiastic will; These wrought the magic of a maid As sweet and sad as the sun in spring; - Joyous, yet half-afraid Her joyousness to sing.

Fata Morgana

Christina Georgina Rossetti

A blue-eyed phantom far before Is laughing, leaping toward the sun: Like lead I chase it evermore, I pant and run. It breaks the sunlight bound on bound: Goes singing as it leaps along To sheep-bells with a dreamy sound A dreamy song. I laugh, it is so brisk and gay; It is so far before, I weep: I hope I shall lie down some day, Lie down and sleep.

A Boat Beneath A Sunny Sky

Lewis Carroll

A boat beneath a sunny sky, Lingering onward dreamily In an evening of July, Children three that nestle near, Eager eye and willing ear, Pleased a simple tale to hear, Long has paled that sunny sky: Echoes fade and memories die: Autumn frosts have slain July. Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes. Children yet, the tale to hear, Eager eye and willing ear, Lovingly shall nestle near. In a Wonderland they lie, Dreaming as the days go by, Dreaming as the summers die: Ever drifting down the stream, Lingering in the golden dream, Life, what is it but a dream?

A Song In The Night.

George MacDonald

A brown bird sang on a blossomy tree, Sang in the moonshine, merrily, Three little songs, one, two, and three, A song for his wife, for himself, and me. He sang for his wife, sang low, sang high, Filling the moonlight that filled the sky; "Thee, thee, I love thee, heart alive! Thee, thee, thee, and thy round eggs five!" He sang to himself, "What shall I do With this life that thrills me through and through! Glad is so glad that it turns to ache! Out with it, song, or my heart will break!" He sang to me, "Man, do not fear Though the moon goes down and the dark is near; Listen my song and rest thine eyes; Let the moon go down that the sun may rise!" I folded me up in the heart of his tune, And fell asleep with the sinking moon; I woke with the day's first golden gleam, And, lo, I had dreamed a precious dream!

Le Marais Du Cygne

John Greenleaf Whittier

A blush as of roses Where rose never grew! Great drops on the bunch-grass, But not of the dew! A taint in the sweet air For wild bees to shun! A stain that shall never Bleach out in the sun! Back, steed of the prairies! Sweet song-bird, fly back! Wheel hither, bald vulture! Gray wolf, call thy pack! The foul human vultures Have feasted and fled; The wolves of the Border Have crept from the dead. From the hearths of their cabins, The fields of their corn, Unwarned and unweaponed, The victims were torn, By the whirlwind of murder Swooped up and swept on To the low, reedy fen-lands, The Marsh of the Swan. With a vain plea for mercy No stout knee was crooked; In the mouths of the rifles Right manly they looked. How paled the May sunshine, O Marais du Cygne! On death for the strong life, On red grass for green! In the homes of their rearing, Yet warm with their lives, Ye wait the dead only, Poor children and wives! Put out the red forge-fire, The smith shall not come; Unyoke the brown oxen, The ploughman lies dumb. Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh, O dreary death-train, With pressed lips as bloodless As lips of the slain! Kiss down the young eyelids, Smooth down the gray hairs; Let tears quench the curses That burn through your prayers. Strong man of the prairies, Mourn bitter and wild! Wail, desolate woman! Weep, fatherless child! But the grain of God springs up From ashes beneath, And the crown of his harvest Is life out of death. Not in vain on the dial The shade moves along, To point the great contrasts Of right and of wrong: Free homes and free altars, Free prairie and flood, The reeds of the Swan's Marsh, Whose bloom is of blood! On the lintels of Kansas That blood shall not dry; Henceforth the Bad Angel Shall harmless go by; Henceforth to the sunset, Unchecked on her way, Shall Liberty follow The march of the day

In the Land of Dreams

Mary Hannay Foott

A bridle-path in the tangled mallee, With blossoms unnamed and unknown bespread, And two who ride through its leafy alley, But never the sound of a horse's tread. And one by one whilst the foremost rider Puts back the boughs which have grown apace, And side by side where the track is wider, Together they come to the olden place. To the leaf-dyed pool whence the mallards flattered, Or ever the horses had paused to drink; Where the word was said and the vow was uttered That brighten for ever its weedy brink. And Memory closes her sad recital, In Fate's cold eyes there are kindly gleams, While for one brief moment of blest requital, The parted have met, in the Land of Dreams. 13th June, 1882

The Bugler's First Communion

Gerard Manley Hopkins

A bugler boy from barrack (it is over the hill There) - boy bugler, born, he tells me, of Irish Mother to an English sire (he Shares their best gifts surely, fall how things will), This very very day came down to us after a boon he on My late being there begged of me, overflowing Boon in my bestowing, Came, I say, this day to it - to a First Communion. Here he knelt then 'n regimental red. Forth Christ from cupboard fetched, how fain I of feet To his youngster take his treat! Low-latched in leaf-light housel his too huge godhead. There! and your sweetest sendings, ah divine, By it, heavens, befall him! as a heart Christ's darling, dauntless; Tongue true, vaunt- and tauntless; Breathing bloom of a chastity in mansex fine. Frowning and forefending angel-warder Squander the hell-rook ranks sally to molest him; March, kind comrade, abreast him; Dress his days to a dexterous and starlight order. How it d'es my heart good, visiting at that bleak hill, When limber liquid youth, that to all I teach Yields tender as a pushed peach, Hies headstrong to its wellbeing of a self-wise self-will! Then though I should tread tufts of consolation D'ys 'fter, s' I in a sort deserve to And do serve God to serve to Just such slips of soldiery Christ's royal ration. Nothing 'lse is like it, no, not all so strains Us: fresh youth fretted in a bloomfall all portending That sweet's sweeter ending; Realm both Christ is heir to and th're r'igns. O now well work that sealing sacred ointment! O for now charms, arms, what bans off bad And locks love ever in a lad! Let m' though see no more of him, and not disappointment Those sweet hopes quell whose least me quickenings lift. In scarlet or somewhere of some day seeing That brow and bead of being, An our day's God's own Galahad. Though this child's drift Seems by a div'ne doom ch'nnelled, nor do I cry Disaster there; but may he not rankle and roam In backwheels though bound home? - That left to the Lord of the Eucharist, I here lie by; Recorded only, I have put my lips on pleas Would brandle adamantine heaven with ride and jar, did Prayer go disregarded: Forward-like, but however, and like favourable heaven heard these.

Parables And Riddles.

Friedrich Schiller

I. A bridge of pearls its form uprears High o'er a gray and misty sea; E'en in a moment it appears, And rises upwards giddily. Beneath its arch can find a road The loftiest vessel's mast most high, Itself hath never borne a load, And seems, when thou draw'st near, to fly. It comes first with the stream, and goes Soon as the watery flood is dried. Where may be found this bridge, disclose, And who its beauteous form supplied! II. It bears thee many a mile away, And yet its place it changes ne'er; It has no pinions to display, And yet conducts thee through the air. It is the bark of swiftest motion That every weary wanderer bore; With speed of thought the greatest ocean It carries thee in safety o'er; One moment wafts thee to the shore. III. Upon a spacious meadow play Thousands of sheep, of silvery hue; And as we see them move to-day, The man most aged saw them too. They ne'er grow old, and, from a rill That never dries, their life is drawn; A shepherd watches o'er them still, With curved and beauteous silver horn. He drives them out through gates of gold, And every night their number counts; Yet ne'er has lost, of all his fold, One lamb, though oft that path he mounts. A hound attends him faithfully, A nimble ram precedes the way; Canst thou point out that flock to me, And who the shepherd, canst thou say? IV. There stands a dwelling, vast and tall, On unseen columns fair; No wanderer treads or leaves its hall, And none can linger there. Its wondrous structure first was planned With art no mortal knows; It lights the lamps with its own hand 'Mongst which it brightly glows. It has a roof, as crystal bright, Formed of one gem of dazzling light; Yet mortal eye has ne'er Seen Him who placed it there. V. Within a well two buckets lie, One mounts, and one descends; When one is full, and rises high, The other downward wends. They wander ever to and fro Now empty are, now overflow. If to the mouth thou liftest this, That hangs within the dark abyss. In the same moment they can ne'er Refresh thee with their treasures fair. VI. Know'st thou the form on tender ground? It gives itself its glow, its light; And though each moment changing found. Is ever whole and ever bright. In narrow compass 'tis confined, Within the smallest frame it lies; Yet all things great that move thy mind, That form alone to thee supplies. And canst thou, too, the crystal name? No gem can equal it in worth; It gleams, yet kindles near to flame, It sucks in even all the earth. Within its bright and wondrous ring Is pictured forth the glow of heaven, And yet it mirrors back each thing Far fairer than to it 'twas given. VII. For ages an edifice here has been found, It is not a dwelling, it is not a Pane; A horseman for hundreds of days may ride round, Yet the end of his journey he ne'er can attain. Full many a century o'er it has passed, The might of the storm and of time it defies! Neath the rainbow of Heaven stands free to the last, In the ocean it dips, and soars up to the skies. It was not vain glory that bade its erection, It serves as a refuge, a shield, a protection; Its like on the earth never yet has been known And yet by man's hand it is fashioned alone. VIII. Among all serpents there is one, Born of no earthly breed; In fury wild it stands alone, And in its matchless speed. With fearful voice and headlong force It rushes on its prey, And sweeps the rider and his horse In one fell swoop away. The highest point it loves to gain; And neither bar nor lock Its fiery onslaught can restrain; And arms invite its shock. It tears in twain like tender grass, The strongest forest-trees; It grinds to dust the hardened brass, Though stout and firm it be. And yet this beast, that none can tame, Its threat ne'er twice fulfils; It dies in its self-kindled flame. And dies e'en when it kills. IX. We children six our being had From a most strange and wondrous pair, Our mother ever grave and sad, Our father ever free from care. Our virtues we from both receive, Meekness from her, from him our light; And so in endless youth we weave Round thee a circling figure bright. We ever shun the caverns black, And revel in the glowing day; 'Tis we who light the world's dark track, With our life's clear and magic ray. Spring's joyful harbingers are we, And her inspiring streams we swell; And so the house of death we flee, For life alone must round us dwell. Without us is no perfect bliss, When man is glad, we, too, attend, And when a monarch worshipped is, To him our majesty attend. X. What is the thing esteemed by few? The monarch's hand it decks with pride, Yet it is made to injure too, And to the sword is most allied. No blood it sheds, yet many a wound Inflicts, gives wealth, yet takes from none; Has vanquished e'en the earth's wide round, And makes life's current smoothly run. The greatest kingdoms it has framed, The oldest cities reared from dust, Yet war's fierce torch has ne'er inflamed; Happy are they who in it trust! XI. I live within a dwelling of stone, There buried in slumber I dally; Yet, armed with a weapon of iron alone, The foe to encounter I sally. At first I'm invisible, feeble, and mean, And o'er me thy breath has dominion; I'm easily drowned in a raindrop e'en, Yet in victory waxes my pinion. When my sister, all-powerful, gives me her hand, To the terrible lord of the world I expand. XII. Upon a disk my course I trace, There restlessly forever flit; Small is the circuit I embrace, Two hands suffice to cover it. Yet ere that field I traverse, I Full many a thousand mile must go, E'en though with tempest-speed I fly, Swifter than arrow from a bow. XIII. A bird it is, whose rapid motion With eagle's flight divides the air; A fish it is, and parts the ocean, That bore a greater monster ne'er; An elephant it is, whose rider On his broad back a tower has put: 'Tis like the reptile base, the spider, Whenever it extends its foot; And when, with iron tooth projecting, It seeks its own life-blood to drain, On footing firm, itself erecting, It braves the raging hurricane.

The Hospitable Caledonian And The Thankless Viper

Guy Wetmore Carryl

A Caledonian piper Who was walking on the wold Nearly stepped upon a viper Rendered torpid by the cold; By the sight of her admonished, He forbore to plant his boot, But he showed he was astonished By the way he muttered "Hoot!" Now this simple-minded piper Such a kindly nature had That he lifted up the viper And bestowed her in his plaid. "Though the Scot is stern, at least he No unhappy creature spurns, 'Sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,'" Quoth the piper (quoting Burns). This was unaffected kindness, But there was, to state the fact, Just a slight soupcon of blindness In his charitable act. If you'd watched the piper, shortly You'd have seen him leap aloft, As this snake, of ways uncourtly, Bit him suddenly and oft. There was really no excuse for This, the viper's cruel work, And the piper found a use for Words he'd never learned at kirk; But the biting was so thorough That although the doctors tried, Not the best in Edinburgh Could assist him, and he died. And THE MORAL is: The piper Of the matter made a botch; One can hardly blame the viper If she took a nip of Scotch, For she only did what he did, And his nippie wasn't small, Otherwise, you see, he needed Not have seen the snake at all.

An Alphabet Of Old Friends.

Walter Crane

A A carrion crow sat on an oak, Watching a tailor shape his cloak. "Wife, bring me my old bent bow, That I may shoot yon carrion crow." The tailor he shot and missed his mark, And shot his own sow quite through the heart. "Wife, wife, bring brandy in a spoon, For our old sow is in a swoon." B Ba, ba, black sheep, Have you any wool? Yes, marry, have I, Three bags full. One for my master, One for my dame, But none for the little boy That cries in the lane. C Hen.    Cock, cock, I have la-a-ayed! Cock. Hen, hen, that's well sa-a-ayed! Hen.    Although I have to go bare-footed every day-a-ay! Cock. (Con spirito.) Sell your eggs and buy shoes! Sell your eggs and buy shoes! D Dickery, dickery, dock, The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, Down the mouse ran, Dickery, dickery, dock. E Elizabeth, Elspeth, Betsy, and Bess, They all went together to seek a bird's nest They found a bird's nest with five eggs in; They all took one, and left four in. F Father, father, I've come to confess. O, yes, dear daughter, what have you done? G Gang and hear the owl yell, Sit and see the swallow flee, See the foal before its mither's e'e, 'Twill be a thriving year wi' thee. H Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top; When the wind blows the cradle will rock; When the wind ceases the cradle will fall, And down will come baby and cradle and all. I I had a little husband No bigger than my thumb; I put him in a pint pot, And there I bade him drum. I bought a little horse That galloped up and down; I bridled him, and saddled him, And sent him out of town. I gave him a pair of garters, To tie up his little hose, And a little silk handkerchief, To wipe his little nose. J Jack Sprat would eat no fat, His wife would eat no lean; Was not that a pretty trick To make the platter clean? K King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he. He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three Every fiddler had a fiddle, And a very fine fiddle had he: Twee, tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers. Oh, there's none so rare As can compare With King Cole and his fiddlers three! L Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And can't tell where to find them. Let them alone and they'll come home, And bring their tails behind them, &c. M Mistress Mary, Quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells, And cockle shells. And cowslips all of a-row. N Needles and pins, needles and pins, When a man marries his trouble begins. O Once I saw a little bird, Come hop, hop, hop; So I cried, "Little bird, Will you stop, stop, stop?" And was going to the window, To say, "How do you do?" When he shook his little tail, And far away he flew. P Pease-pudding hot, pease-pudding cold; Pease-pudding in the pot, nine days old. Q Queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey. R Ride a-cock horse to Banbury Cross, To see an old woman get up on her horse; Rings on her fingers and bells at her toes, And so she makes music wherever she goes. S Simple Simon met a pieman, Going to the fair; Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Let me taste your ware!" T Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief, Taffy came to my house, And stole a leg of beef. I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was not at home; Taffy came to my house And stole a marrow-bone. I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed; I took the marrow-bone, And broke Taffy's head. U Up hill and down dale, Butter is made in every vale; And if Nancy Cock Is a good girl, She shall have a spouse. And make butter anon, Before her old grandmother Grows a young man. V Valentine, Oh, Valentine, Curl your locks as I do mine: Two before and two behind; Good-morrow to you, Valentine. W "Where are you going, my pretty maid?" "I'm going a milking, sir," she said. "May I go with you, my pretty maid?" "You're kindly welcome, sir," she said. "What is your father, my pretty maid?" "My father's a farmer, sir," she said. "Say will you marry me, my pretty maid?" "Yes, if you please, kind sir," she said. "What is your fortune, my pretty maid?" "My face is my fortune, sir," she said. "Then, I won't marry you, my pretty maid!" "Nobody asked you, sir," she said. X Cross X patch, Draw the latch, Sit by the fire and spin: Take a cup And drink it up, Then call the neighbours in. Y You know that Monday is Sunday's brother; Tuesday is such another; Wednesday you must go to church and pray; Thursday is half-holiday; On Friday it is too late to begin to spin, And Saturday is half-holiday again. Z ZODIAC FOR THE NURSERY. The ram, the bull, the heavenly twins. And next the crab, the lion shines, The virgin and the scales, The scorpion, archer, and the goat, The man who holds the watering-pot, And fish with glittering scales.

The Bat And The Two Weasels.

Jean de La Fontaine

[1] A blundering bat once stuck her head Into a wakeful weasel's bed; Whereat the mistress of the house, A deadly foe of rats and mice, Was making ready in a trice To eat the stranger as a mouse. 'What! do you dare,' she said, 'to creep in The very bed I sometimes sleep in, Now, after all the provocation I've suffer'd from your thievish nation? Are you not really a mouse, That gnawing pest of every house, Your special aim to do the cheese ill? Ay, that you are, or I'm no weasel.' 'I beg your pardon,' said the bat; 'My kind is very far from that. What! I a mouse! Who told you such a lie? Why, ma'am, I am a bird; And, if you doubt my word, Just see the wings with which I fly. Long live the mice that cleave the sky!' These reasons had so fair a show, The weasel let the creature go. By some strange fancy led, The same wise blunderhead, But two or three days later, Had chosen for her rest Another weasel's nest, This last, of birds a special hater. New peril brought this step absurd; Without a moment's thought or puzzle, Dame weasel oped her peaked muzzle To eat th' intruder as a bird. 'Hold! do not wrong me,' cried the bat; 'I'm truly no such thing as that. Your eyesight strange conclusions gathers. What makes a bird, I pray? Its feathers. I'm cousin of the mice and rats. Great Jupiter confound the cats!' The bat, by such adroit replying, Twice saved herself from dying. And many a human stranger Thus turns his coat in danger; And sings, as suits, where'er he goes, 'God save the king!' - or 'save his foes!'[2]

The Walking Bell

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

A child refused to go betimes To church like other people; He roam'd abroad, when rang the chimes On Sundays from the steeple. His mother said: "Loud rings the bell, Its voice ne'er think of scorning; Unless thou wilt behave thee well, 'Twill fetch thee without warning." The child then thought: "High over head The bell is safe suspended " So to the fields he straightway sped As if 'twas school-time ended. The bell now ceas'd as bell to ring, Roused by the mother's twaddle; But soon ensued a dreadful thing! The bell begins to waddle. It waddles fast, though strange it seem; The child, with trembling wonder, Runs off, and flies, as in a dream; The bell would draw him under. He finds the proper time at last, And straightway nimbly rushes To church, to chapel, hastening fast Through pastures, plains, and bushes. Each Sunday and each feast as well, His late disaster heeds he; The moment that he bears the bell, No other summons needs he.

The Emperor's Progress. - A Study in Three Stages.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

On the Busts of Nero in the Uffizj. I. A child of brighter than the morning's birth And lovelier than all smiles that may be smiled Save only of little children undefiled, Sweet, perfect, witless of their own dear worth, Live rose of love, mute melody of mirth, Glad as a bird is when the woods are mild, Adorable as is nothing save a child, Hails with wide eyes and lips his life on earth, His lovely life with all its heaven to be. And whoso reads the name inscribed or hears Feels his own heart a frozen well of tears, Child, for deep dread and fearful pity of thee Whom God would not let rather die than see The incumbent horror of impending years. II. Man, that wast godlike being a child, and now, No less than kinglike, art no more in sooth For all thy grace and lordliness of youth, The crown that bids men's branded foreheads bow Much more has branded and bowed down thy brow And gnawn upon it as with fire or tooth Of steel or snake so sorely, that the truth Seems here to bear false witness. Is it thou, Child? and is all the summer of all thy spring This? are the smiles that drew men's kisses down All faded and transfigured to the frown That grieves thy face? Art thou this weary thing? Then is no slave's load heavier than a crown And such a thrall no bondman as a king. III. Misery, beyond all men's most miserable, Absolute, whole, defiant of defence, Inevitable, inexplacable, intense, More vast than heaven is high, more deep than hell, Past cure or charm of solace or of spell, Possesses and pervades the spirit and sense Whereto the expanse of the earth pays tribute; whence Breeds evil only, and broods on fumes that swell Rank from the blood of brother and mother and wife. 'Misery of miseries, all is misery,' saith The heavy fair-faced hateful head, at strife With its own lusts that burn with feverous breath Lips which the loathsome bitterness of life Leaves fearful of the bitterness of death.

The Woods And The Woodman.

Jean de La Fontaine

A certain wood-chopper lost or broke From his axe's eye a bit of oak. The forest must needs be somewhat spared While such a loss was being repair'd. Came the man at last, and humbly pray'd That the woods would kindly lend to him - A moderate loan - a single limb, Whereof might another helve be made, And his axe should elsewhere drive its trade. O, the oaks and firs that then might stand, A pride and a joy throughout the land, For their ancientness and glorious charms! The innocent Forest lent him arms; But bitter indeed was her regret; For the wretch, his axe new-helved and whet, Did nought but his benefactress spoil Of the finest trees that graced her soil; And ceaselessly was she made to groan, Doing penance for that fatal loan. Behold the world-stage and its actors, Where benefits hurt benefactors! - A weary theme, and full of pain; For where's the shade so cool and sweet, Protecting strangers from the heat, But might of such a wrong complain? Alas! I vex myself in vain; Ingratitude, do what I will, Is sure to be the fashion still.

Cui Bono?

Henry Kendall

A clamour by day and a whisper by night, And the Summer comes with the shining noons, With the ripple of leaves, and the passionate light Of the falling suns and the rising moons. And the ripple of leaves and the purple and red Die for the grapes and the gleam of the wheat, And then you may pause with the splendours, or tread On the yellow of Autumn with lingering feet. You may halt with the face to a flying sea, Or stand like a gloom in the gloom of things, When the moon drops down and the desolate lea Is troubled with thunder and desolate wings. But alas for the grey of the wintering eves, And the pondering storms and the ruin of rains; And alas for the Spring like a flame in the leaves, And the green of the woods and the gold of the lanes! For, seeing all pathos is mixed with our past, And knowing all sadness of storm and of surge Is salt with our tears for the faith that was cast Away like a weed o'er a bottomless verge, I am lost for these tokens, and wearied of ways Wedded with ways that are waning amain, Like those that are filled with the trouble that slays; Having drunk of their life to the lees that are pain. And yet I would write to you! I who have turned Away with a bitter disguise in the eyes, And bitten the lips that have trembled and burned Alone for you, darling, and breaking with sighs. Because I have touched with my fingers a dress That was Beauty's; because that the breath of thy mouth Is sweetness that lingers; because of each tress Showered down on thy shoulders; because of the drouth That came in thy absence; because of the lights In the Passion that grew to a level with thee Is it well that our lives have been filled with the nights And the days which have made it a sorrow to be? Yea, thus having tasted all love with thy lips, And having the warmth of thy hand in mine own, Is it well that we wander, like parallel ships, With the silence between us, aloof and alone? With my face to the wall shall I sleep and forget The shadow, the sweet sense of slumber denies, If even I marvel at kindness, and fret, And start while the tears are all wet in mine eyes? Oh, darling of mine, standing here with the Past, Trampled under our feet in the bitterest ways, Is this speech like a ghost that it keeps us aghast On the track of the thorns and in alien days? When I know of you, love, how you break with our pain, And sob for the sorrow of sorrowful dreams, Like a stranger who stands in the wind and the rain And watches and wails by impassable streams: Like a stranger who droops on a brink and deplores, With famishing hands and frost in the feet, For the laughter alive on the opposite shores With the fervour of fire and the wind of the wheat.

The Eagle, The Wild Sow, And The Cat.

Jean de La Fontaine

[1] A certain hollow tree Was tenanted by three. An eagle held a lofty bough, The hollow root a wild wood sow, A female cat between the two. All busy with maternal labours, They lived awhile obliging neighbours. At last the cat's deceitful tongue Broke up the peace of old and young. Up climbing to the eagle's nest, She said, with whisker'd lips compress'd, 'Our death, or, what as much we mothers fear, That of our helpless offspring dear, Is surely drawing near. Beneath our feet, see you not how Destruction's plotted by the sow? Her constant digging, soon or late, Our proud old castle will uproot. And then - O, sad and shocking fate! - She'll eat our young ones, as the fruit! Were there but hope of saving one, 'Twould soothe somewhat my bitter moan.' Thus leaving apprehensions hideous, Down went the puss perfidious To where the sow, no longer digging, Was in the very act of pigging. 'Good friend and neighbour,' whisper'd she, 'I warn you on your guard to be. Your pigs should you but leave a minute, This eagle here will seize them in it. Speak not of this, I beg, at all, Lest on my head her wrath should fall.' Another breast with fear inspired, With fiendish joy the cat retired. The eagle ventured no egress To feed her young, the sow still less. Fools they, to think that any curse Than ghastly famine could be worse! Both staid at home, resolved and obstinate, To save their young ones from impending fate, - The royal bird for fear of mine, For fear of royal claws the swine. All died, at length, with hunger, The older and the younger; There staid, of eagle race or boar, Not one this side of death's dread door; - A sad misfortune, which The wicked cats made rich. O, what is there of hellish plot The treacherous tongue dares not! Of all the ills Pandora's box[2] outpour'd, Deceit, I think, is most to be abhorr'd.

The Poet And The Critics.

Henry Austin Dobson

If those who wield the Rod forget, 'Tis truly--Quis custodiet? A certain Bard (as Bards will do) Dressed up his Poems for Review. His Type was plain, his Title clear; His Frontispiece by FOURDRINIER. Moreover, he had on the Back A sort of sheepskin Zodiac;-- A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,--in fine, A neat and "classical" Design. But the in-Side?--Well, good or bad, The Inside was the best he had: Much Memory,--more Imitation;-- Some Accidents of Inspiration;-- Some Essays in that finer Fashion Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;-- And some (of course) more roughly wrought To catch the Advocates of Thought. In the less-crowded Age of ANNE, Our Bard had been a favoured Man; Fortune, more chary with the Sickle, Had ranked him next to GARTH or TICKELL;-- He might have even dared to hope A Line's Malignity from POPE! But now, when Folks are hard to please, And Poets are as thick as--Peas, The Fates are not so prone to flatter, Unless, indeed, a Friend ... No Matter. The Book, then, had a minor Credit: The Critics took, and doubtless read it. Said A.--These little Songs display No lyric Gift; but still a Ray,-- A Promise. They will do no Harm. 'Twas kindly, if not very warm. Said B.--The Author may, in Time, Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme: His Efforts now are scarcely Verse. This, certainly, could not be worse. Sorely discomfited, our Bard Worked for another ten Years--hard. Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on; New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone; Before his second Volume came His Critics had forgot his Name: And who, forsooth, is bound to know Each Laureate in embryo! They tried and tested him, no less,- The sworn Assayers of the Press. Said A.--The Author may, in Time.... Or much what B. had said of Rhyme. Then B.--These little Songs display.... And so forth, in the sense of A. Over the Bard I throw a Veil. There is no MORAL to this Tale.

The Lady's Song.[1]

John Dryden

A Choir of bright beauties in spring did appear, To choose a May-lady to govern the year; All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green; The garland was given, and Phyllis was queen: But Phyllis refused it, and sighing did say, I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away. While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore, The Graces are banish'd, and Love is no more: The soft god of pleasure, that warm'd our desires, Has broken his bow, and extinguish'd his fires; And vows that himself and his mother will mourn, Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return. Forbear your addresses, and court us no more; For we will perform what the Deity swore: But if you dare think of deserving our charms, Away with your sheephooks, and take to your arms; Then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn, When Pan, and his son, and fair Syrinx return.

Gourds

Paul Cameron Brown

A cemetery overgrown such that each tombstone is a pauper fungus crowded, dark with leaves, or hollow gourds hideous, in a forest sleep.

A Vision of Legal Shadows

James Williams

A case at chambers left for my opinion Had taxed my brain until the noon of night, I read old law, and loathed the long dominion Of fiction over right. I had consulted Coke and Cruise and Chitty, The works where ancient learning reigns supreme, Until exhausted nature, moved with pity, Sent me a bookman's dream. Six figures, all gigantic as Gargantua, Floated before my eyes, and all the six Were shades like those that once the bard of Mantua Saw by the shore of Styx. The first was one with countenance imperious, His toga dim with centuries of dust; "My name," quoth he, "is Aulus and Agerius,[B] My voice is hoarse with rust. "Yet once I played my part in law proceedings, And writers wrote of one they never saw, I gave their point to formul' and pleadings, I lived but in the law." The second had a countenance perfidious; What wonder? Pr'tors launched their formul' In vain against Numerius Negidius, And not a whit cared he. With voice of high contempt he greeted Aulus; "In interdicts thou wast mine enemy, Once passed no day that students did not call us As parties, me and thee. "On paper I was plaintiff or defendant, On paper thou wast evermore the same; We lived apart, a life that was transcendant, For it was but a name. "I hate thee, Aulus, hate thee," low he muttered, "It was by thee that I was always tricked, My unsubstantial bread I ate unbuttered In dread of interdict. "And yet 'twas but the sentiment I hated: Like thee I ne'er was drunk e'en vi or clam,[C] With wine that was no wine my thirst was sated. Like thee I was a sham." Two country hinds in 'broidered smocks next followed, Each trundled him a cart-wheel by the spokes, Oblivion now their names hath well-nigh swallowed, For they were Stiles and Nokes. They spake no word, for speech to them was grievous, With bovine eyes they supplicated me; "We wot not what ye will, but prithee leave us, Unlettered folk are we." "Go," said I, "simple ones, and break your fallows, Crush autumn apples in the cider press, Law, gaffer Stiles, thy humble name still hallows, Contracted to J. S." Another pair of later time succeeded, With buckles on their shoes and silken hose, A garb that told it was to them who heeded John Doe's and Richard Roe's. "Ah me! I was a casual ejector,[D] In the brave days of old," I heard one say; "I knew Elizabeth, the Lord Protector I spake with yesterday." To whom in contradiction snarled the other, "There was no living blood our veins to fill. Both you and I were nought but shadows, brother, And we are shadows still." Room for a lady, room, as at Megiddo The hosts made way for passage of the king, For from the darkness crept there forth a widow In weeds and wedding ring. "I am the widow, I, whereof the singers Of Scotland sang, their cruel words so smote My tender heart, that ofttimes itched my fingers To take them by the throat. "He scoffed at me, dour bachelor of Glasgow,[E] If I existed not for him, the knave, 'Twas all his fault who let some bonnie lass go Unwedded to her grave."

Spring Dirge

Victor James Daley

A child came singing through the dusty town A song so sweet that all men stayed to hear, Forgetting for a space their ancient fear Of evil days and death and fortune's frown. She sang of Winter dead and Spring new-born In the green fields beyond the far hills' bound; And how this fair Spring, coming blossom-crowned, Would cross the city's threshold on the morn. And each caged bird in every house anigh, Even as she sang, caught up the glad refrain Of Love and Hope and fair days come again, Till all who heard forgot they had to die. And all the ghosts of buried woes were laid That heard the song of this sweet sorceress; The Past grew to a dream of old distress, And merry were the hearts of man and maid. So, at the first faint blush of tender dawn, Spring stole with noiseless steps through the gray gloom, And men knew only by a strange perfume That she had softly entered and withdrawn. But ah! the lustre of her violet eyes Was dimmed with tears for her sweet singing maid, Whose voice would sound no more in shine or shade To charm men's souls at set of sun or rise. For there, with dews of dawn upon her hair, Like a fair flower plucked and flung away, Dead in the street the little maiden lay Who gave new life to hearts nigh dead of care. Alas! must this be still the bitter doom Awaiting those, the finer-souled of earth, Who make for men a morning song of mirth While yet the birds are dumb amid the gloom? They walk on thorny ways with feet unshod, Sing one last song, and die as that song dies. There is no human hand to close their eyes, And very heavy is the hand of God.

The Christian Slave

John Greenleaf Whittier

A Christian! going, gone! Who bids for God's own image? for his grace, Which that poor victim of the market-place Hath in her suffering won? My God! can such things be? Hast Thou not said that whatsoe'er is done Unto Thy weakest and Thy humblest one Is even done to Thee? In that sad victim, then, Child of Thy pitying love, I see Thee stand; Once more the jest-word of a mocking band, Bound, sold, and scourged again! A Christian up for sale! Wet with her blood your whips, o'ertask her frame, Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame, Her patience shall not fail! A heathen hand might deal Back on your heads the gathered wrong of years: But her low, broken prayer and nightly tears, Ye neither heed nor feel. Con well thy lesson o'er, Thou prudent teacher, tell the toiling slave No dangerous tale of Him who came to save The outcast and the poor. But wisely shut the ray Of God's free Gospel from her simple heart, And to her darkened mind alone impart One stern command, Obey!3 So shalt thou deftly raise The market price of human flesh; and while On thee, their pampered guest, the planters smile, Thy church shall praise. Grave, reverend men shall tell From Northern pulpits how thy work was blest, While in that vile South Sodom first and best, Thy poor disciples. sell. Oh, shame! the Moslem thrall, Who, with his master, to the Prophet kneels, While turning to the sacred Kebla feels His fetters break and fall. Cheers for the turbaned Bey Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne Their inmates into day: But our poor slave in vain. Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes; Its rites will only swell his market price, And rivet on his chain. God of all right! how long Shall priestly robbers at Thine altar stand, Lifting in prayer to Thee, the bloody hand And haughty brow of wrong? Oh, from the fields of cane, From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cell; From the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell, And coffle's weary chain; Hoarse, horrible, and strong, Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry, Filling the arches of the hollow sky, How long, O God, how long

Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXXV. Jingles.

Unknown

A cat came fiddling out of a barn, With a pair of bag-pipes under her arm; She could sing nothing but fiddle cum fee, The mouse has married the humble-bee; Pipe, cat, - dance, mouse, We'll have a wedding at our good house.

The Maiden (Prose Fable)

Jean de La Fontaine

A certain damsel of considerable pride made up her mind to choose a husband who should be young, well-built, and handsome; of agreeable manners and - note these two points - neither cold nor jealous. Moreover, she held it necessary that he should have means, high birth, intellect; in fact, everything. But whoever was endowed with everything? The fates were evidently anxious to do their best for her, for they sent her some most noteworthy suitors. But these the proud beauty found not half good enough. "What, men like those! You propose them for me! Why they are pitiable! Look at them - fine types, indeed!" According to her one was a dullard; another's nose was impossible. With this it was one thing; with that it was another; for superior people are disdainful above all things. After these eligible gentlemen had been dismissed, came others of less worth, and at these too she mocked. "Why," said she, "I would not bemean myself to open the door to such. They must think me very anxious to be married. Thank Heaven my single state causes me no regrets." The maiden contented herself with such notions until advancing age made her step down from her pedestal. Adieu then to all suitors. One year passed and then another. Her anxiety increased, and after anger came grief. She felt that those little smiles and glances which, at the bidding of love, lurk in the countenances of fair maidens were day by day deserting her. Finally, when love himself departed, her features gave pleasure to none. Then she had recourse to those hundred little ruses and tricks of the toilet to repair the ravages of time; but nothing that she could do arrested the depredations of that despicable thief. One may repair a house gone to ruin: but the same thing is not possible with a face! Her refined ladyship now sang to a different tune, for her mirror advised her to take a husband without delay. Perhaps also her heart harboured the wish. Even superior persons may have longings! This one at last made a choice that people would at one time have thought impossible; for she was very pleased and happy in marrying an ugly cripple.

Nocturne.

Edwin C. Ranck

A cat duet. A silhouette. A high brick wall, An awful squall. A moonlit night, A mortal fight. A man in bed, Sticks out his head. Gee Whiz! The man has riz. His arm draws back A big bootjack-- A loud swish, Squish! "What's that?" A dead cat.

The Frogs Asking A King.

Jean de La Fontaine

[1] A certain commonwealth aquatic, Grown tired of order democratic, By clamouring in the ears of Jove, effected Its being to a monarch's power subjected. Jove flung it down, at first, a king pacific. Who nathless fell with such a splash terrific, The marshy folks, a foolish race and timid, Made breathless haste to get from him hid. They dived into the mud beneath the water, Or found among the reeds and rushes quarter. And long it was they dared not see The dreadful face of majesty, Supposing that some monstrous frog Had been sent down to rule the bog. The king was really a log, Whose gravity inspired with awe The first that, from his hiding-place Forth venturing, astonish'd, saw The royal blockhead's face. With trembling and with fear, At last he drew quite near. Another follow'd, and another yet, Till quite a crowd at last were met; Who, growing fast and strangely bolder, Perch'd soon upon the royal shoulder. His gracious majesty kept still, And let his people work their will. Clack, clack! what din beset the ears of Jove? 'We want a king,' the people said, 'to move!' The god straight sent them down a crane, Who caught and slew them without measure, And gulp'd their carcasses at pleasure; Whereat the frogs more wofully complain. 'What! what!' great Jupiter replied; 'By your desires must I be tied? Think you such government is bad? You should have kept what first you had; Which having blindly fail'd to do, It had been prudent still for you To let that former king suffice, More meek and mild, if not so wise. With this now make yourselves content, Lest for your sins a worse be sent.'

Life's Chequer-Board

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

"'Tis all a Chequer-Board of Nights and Days, Where Detiny with men for pieces plays, Hither and thither moves, and mates and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays." Omar Khayyam. A Chequer-Board of mingled Light and Shade? And We the Pieces on it deftly laid? Moved and removed, without a word to say, By the Same Hand that Board and Pieces made? No Pieces we in any Fateful Game, Nor free to shift on Destiny the blame; Each Soul doth tend its own immortal flame, Fans it to Heaven, or smothers it in shame.

First Love

William Schwenck Gilbert

A clergyman in Berkshire dwelt, The REVEREND BERNARD POWLES, And in his church there weekly knelt At least a hundred souls. There little ELLEN you might see, The modest rustic belle; In maidenly simplicity, She loved her BERNARD well. Though ELLEN wore a plain silk gown Untrimmed with lace or fur, Yet not a husband in the town But wished his wife like her. Though sterner memories might fade, You never could forget The child-form of that baby-maid, The Village Violet! A simple frightened loveliness, Whose sacred spirit-part Shrank timidly from worldly stress, And nestled in your heart. POWLES woo'd with every well-worn plan And all the usual wiles With which a well-schooled gentleman A simple heart beguiles. The hackneyed compliments that bore World-folks like you and me, Appeared to her as if they wore The crown of Poesy. His winking eyelid sang a song Her heart could understand, Eternity seemed scarce too long When BERNARD squeezed her hand. He ordered down the martial crew Of GODFREY'S Grenadiers, And COOTE conspired with TINNEY to Ecstaticise her ears. Beneath her window, veiled from eye, They nightly took their stand; On birthdays supplemented by The Covent Garden band. And little ELLEN, all alone, Enraptured sat above, And thought how blest she was to own The wealth of POWLES'S love. I often, often wonder what Poor ELLEN saw in him; For calculated he was NOT To please a woman's whim. He wasn't good, despite the air An M.B. waistcoat gives; Indeed, his dearest friends declare No greater humbug lives. No kind of virtue decked this priest, He'd nothing to allure; He wasn't handsome in the least, He wasn't even poor. No he was cursed with acres fat (A Christian's direst ban), And gold yet, notwithstanding that, Poor ELLEN loved the man. As unlike BERNARD as could be Was poor old AARON WOOD (Disgraceful BERNARD'S curate he): He was extremely good. A BAYARD in his moral pluck Without reproach or fear, A quiet venerable duck With fifty pounds a year. No fault had he no fad, except A tendency to strum, In mode at which you would have wept, A dull harmonium. He had no gold with which to hire The minstrels who could best Convey a notion of the fire That raged within his breast. And so, when COOTE and TINNEY'S Own Had tootled all they knew, And when the Guards, completely blown, Exhaustedly withdrew, And NELL began to sleepy feel, Poor AARON then would come, And underneath her window wheel His plain harmonium. He woke her every morn at two, And having gained her ear, In vivid colours AARON drew The sluggard's grim career. He warbled Apiarian praise, And taught her in his chant To shun the dog's pugnacious ways, And imitate the ant. Still NELL seemed not, how much he played, To love him out and out, Although the admirable maid Respected him, no doubt. She told him of her early vow, And said as BERNARD'S wife It might be hers to show him how To rectify his life. "You are so pure, so kind, so true, Your goodness shines so bright, What use would ELLEN be to you? Believe me, you're all right." She wished him happiness and health, And flew on lightning wings To BERNARD with his dangerous wealth And all the woes it brings.

Verses On A Cat.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

1. A cat in distress, Nothing more, nor less; Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye, As I am a sinner, It waits for some dinner To stuff out its own little belly. 2. You would not easily guess All the modes of distress Which torture the tenants of earth; And the various evils, Which like so many devils, Attend the poor souls from their birth. 3. Some a living require, And others desire An old fellow out of the way; And which is the best I leave to be guessed, For I cannot pretend to say. 4. One wants society, Another variety, Others a tranquil life; Some want food, Others, as good, Only want a wife. 5. But this poor little cat Only wanted a rat, To stuff out its own little maw; And it were as good SOME people had such food, To make them HOLD THEIR JAW!

Casha

Paul Cameron Brown

A child-like fawn moistened nudging & joyous breath, an allowance for leave as her gentle hand budges my sibling cupping. And walking in a field of gardens - our Jardin des Plantes - a molecule in depth flowery pennons near Picardy wet. Casha tendrils here pinion the eye, little Annabel Lee with the sunshine wet in her parting hand that all the birds in grace sigh at Saint Francis breathless.

A Child Said, What Is The Grass?

Walt Whitman

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them; It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps, And here you are the mother's laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues! And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps. What do you think has become of the young and old men? What do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere; The smallest sprouts show there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceased the moment life appeared. All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

The Double Chamber

Charles Baudelaire

A chamber that is like a reverie; a chamber truly spiritual, where the stagnant atmosphere is lightly touched with rose and blue. There the soul bathes itself in indolence made odorous with regret and desire. There is some sense of the twilight, of things tinged with blue and rose: a dream of delight during an eclipse. The shape of the furniture is elongated, low, languishing; one would think it endowed with the somnambulistic vitality of plants and minerals. The tapestries speak an inarticulate language, like the flowers, the skies, the dropping suns. There are no artistic abominations upon the walls. Compared with the pure dream, with an impression unanalysed, definite art, positive art, is a blasphemy. Here all has the sufficing lucidity and the delicious obscurity of music. An infinitesimal odour of the most exquisite choice, mingled with a floating humidity, swims in this atmosphere where the drowsing spirit is lulled by the sensations one feels in a hothouse. The abundant muslin flows before the windows and the couch, and spreads out in snowy cascades. Upon the couch lies the Idol, ruler of my dreams. But why is she here? who has brought her ? what magical power has installed her upon this throne of delight and reverie? What matter she is there; and I recognise her. These indeed are the eyes whose flame pierces the twilight; the subtle and terrible mirrors that I recognise by their horrifying malice. They attract, they dominate, they devour the sight of whomsoever is imprudent enough to look at them. I have often studied them; these Black Stars that compel curiosity and admiration. To what benevolent demon, then, do I owe being thus surrounded with mystery, with silence, with peace, and sweet odours? O beatitude! the thing we name life, even in its most fortunate amplitude, has nothing in common with this supreme life with which I am now acquainted, which I taste minute by minute, second by second. Not so! Minutes are no more; seconds are no more. Time has vanished, and Eternity reigns an Eternity of delight. A heavy and terrible knocking reverberates upon the door, and, as in a hellish dream, it seems to me as though I had received a blow from a mattock. Then a Spectre enters: it is an usher who comes to torture me in the name of the Law; an infamous concubine who comes to cry misery and to add the trivialities of her life to the sorrow of mine; or it may be the errand-boy of an editor who comes to implore the remainder of a manuscript. The chamber of paradise, the Idol, the ruler of dreams, the Sylphide, as the great Rene" said; all this magic has vanished at the brutal knocking of the Spectre. Horror; I remember, I remember! Yes, this kennel, this habitation of eternal weariness, is indeed my own. Here is my senseless furniture, dusty and tattered; the dirty fireplace without a name or an ember; the sad windows where the raindrops have traced runnels in the dust; the manuscripts, erased or unfinished; the almanac with the sinister days marked off with a pencil! And this perfume of another world, whereof I intoxicated myself with a so perfected sensitiveness; alas, its place is taken by an odour of stale tobacco smoke, mingled with I know not what nauseating mustiness. Now one breathes here the rankness of desolation. In this narrow world, narrow and yet full of disgust, a single familiar object smiles at me: the phial of laudanum: old and terrible love; like all loves, alas! fruitful in caresses and treacheries. Yes, Time has reappeared; Time reigns a monarch now; and with the hideous Ancient has returned all his demoniacal following of Memories, Regrets, Tremors, Fears, Dolours, Nightmares, and twittering nerves. I assure you that the seconds are strongly and solemnly accentuated now; and each, as it drips from the pendulum, says : "I am Life: intolerable, implacable Life!" There is not a second in mortal life whose mission it is to bear good news: the good news that brings the inexplicable tear to the eye. Yes, Time reigns; Time has regained his brutal mastery. And he goads me, as though I were a steer, swith his double goad: "Woa, thou fool! Sweat, then, thou slave! Live on, thou damned!"

The Child-World

James Whitcomb Riley

A Child-World, yet a wondrous world no less, To those who knew its boundless happiness. A simple old frame house - eight rooms in all - Set just one side the center of a small But very hopeful Indiana town, - The upper-story looking squarely down Upon the main street, and the main highway From East to West, - historic in its day, Known as The National Road - old-timers, all Who linger yet, will happily recall It as the scheme and handiwork, as well As property, of "Uncle Sam," and tell Of its importance, "long and long afore Railroads wuz ever dreamp' of!" - Furthermore, The reminiscent first Inhabitants Will make that old road blossom with romance Of snowy caravans, in long parade Of covered vehicles, of every grade From ox-cart of most primitive design, To Conestoga wagons, with their fine Deep-chested six-horse teams, in heavy gear, High names and chiming bells - to childish ear And eye entrancing as the glittering train Of some sun-smitten pageant of old Spain. And, in like spirit, haply they will tell You of the roadside forests, and the yell Of "wolfs" and "painters," in the long night-ride, And "screechin' catamounts" on every side. - Of stagecoach-days, highwaymen, and strange crimes, And yet unriddled mysteries of the times Called "Good Old." "And why 'Good Old'?" once a rare Old chronicler was asked, who brushed the hair Out of his twinkling eyes and said, - "Well John, They're 'good old times' because they're dead and gone!" The old home site was portioned into three Distinctive lots. The front one - natively Facing to southward, broad and gaudy-fine With lilac, dahlia, rose, and flowering vine - The dwelling stood in; and behind that, and Upon the alley north and south, left hand, The old wood-house, - half, trimly stacked with wood, And half, a work-shop, where a workbench stood Steadfastly through all seasons. - Over it, Along the wall, hung compass, brace-and-bit, And square, and drawing-knife, and smoothing-plane - And little jack-plane, too - the children's vain Possession by pretense - in fancy they Manipulating it in endless play, Turning out countless curls and loops of bright, Fine satin shavings - Rapture infinite! Shelved quilting-frames; the toolchest; the old box Of refuse nails and screws; a rough gun-stock's Outline in "curly maple"; and a pair Of clamps and old krout-cutter hanging there. Some "patterns," in thin wood, of shield and scroll, Hung higher, with a neat "cane-fishing-pole" And careful tackle - all securely out Of reach of children, rummaging about. Beside the wood-house, with broad branches free Yet close above the roof, an apple-tree Known as "The Prince's Harvest" - Magic phrase! That was a boy's own tree, in many ways! - Its girth and height meet both for the caress Of his bare legs and his ambitiousness: And then its apples, humoring his whim, Seemed just to fairly hurry ripe for him - Even in June, impetuous as he, They dropped to meet him, halfway up the tree. And O their bruised sweet faces where they fell! - And ho! the lips that feigned to "kiss them well"! "The Old Sweet-Apple-Tree," a stalwart, stood In fairly sympathetic neighborhood Of this wild princeling with his early gold To toss about so lavishly nor hold In bounteous hoard to overbrim at once All Nature's lap when came the Autumn months. Under the spacious shade of this the eyes Of swinging children saw swift-changing skies Of blue and green, with sunshine shot between, And "when the old cat died" they saw but green. And, then, there was a cherry-tree. - We all And severally will yet recall From our lost youth, in gentlest memory, The blessed fact - There was a cherry-tree. There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows Cool even now the fevered sight that knows No more its airy visions of pure joy - As when you were a boy. There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay set His blue against its white - O blue as jet He seemed there then! - But now - Whoever knew He was so pale a blue! There was a cherry-tree - Our child-eyes saw The miracle: - Its pure white snows did thaw Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet But for a boy to eat. There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy! - There was a bloom of snow - There was a boy - There was a Bluejay of the realest blue - And fruit for both of you. Then the old garden, with the apple-trees Grouped 'round the margin, and "a stand of bees" By the "white-winter-pearmain"; and a row Of currant-bushes; and a quince or so. The old grape-arbor in the center, by The pathway to the stable, with the sty Behind it, and upon it, cootering flocks Of pigeons, and the cutest "martin-box"! - Made like a sure-enough house - with roof, and doors And windows in it, and veranda-floors And balusters all 'round it - yes, and at Each end a chimney - painted red at that And penciled white, to look like little bricks; And, to cap all the builder's cunning tricks, Two tiny little lightning-rods were run Straight up their sides, and twinkled in the sun. Who built it? Nay, no answer but a smile. - It may be you can guess who, afterwhile. Home in his stall, "Old Sorrel" munched his hay And oats and corn, and switched the flies away, In a repose of patience good to see, And earnest of the gentlest pedigree. With half pathetic eye sometimes he gazed Upon the gambols of a colt that grazed Around the edges of the lot outside, And kicked at nothing suddenly, and tried To act grown-up and graceful and high-bred, But dropped, k'whop! and scraped the buggy-shed, Leaving a tuft of woolly, foxy hair Under the sharp-end of a gate-hinge there. Then, all ignobly scrambling to his feet And whinneying a whinney like a bleat, He would pursue himself around the lot And - do the whole thing over, like as not!... Ah! what a life of constant fear and dread And flop and squawk and flight the chickens led! Above the fences, either side, were seen The neighbor-houses, set in plots of green Dooryards and greener gardens, tree and wall Alike whitewashed, and order in it all: The scythe hooked in the tree-fork; and the spade And hoe and rake and shovel all, when laid Aside, were in their places, ready for The hand of either the possessor or Of any neighbor, welcome to the loan Of any tool he might not chance to own.

The Cat

Charles Baudelaire

I. A cat is strolling through my mind Acting as though he owned the place, A lovely cat-strong, charming, sweet. When he meows, one scarcely hears, So tender and discreet his tone; But whether he should growl or purr His voice is always rich and deep. That is the secret of his charm. This purling voice that filters down Into my darkest depths of soul Fulfils me like a balanced verse, Delights me as a potion would. It puts to sleep the cruellest ills And keeps a rein on ecstasies Without the need for any words It can pronounce the longest phrase. Oh no, there is no bow that draws Across my heart, fine instrument, And makes to sing so royally The strongest and the purest chord, More than your voice, mysterious cat, Exotic cat, seraphic cat, In whom all is, angelically, As subtle as harmonious. II. From his soft fur, golden and brown, Goes out so sweet a scent, one night I might have been embalmed in it By giving him one little pet. He is my household's guardian soul; He judges, he presides, inspires All matters in his royal realm; Might he be fairy? or a god? When my eyes, to this cat I love Drawn as by a magnet's force, Turn tamely back from that appeal, And when I look within myself, I notice with astonishment The fire of his opal eyes, Clear beacons glowing, living jewels, Taking my measure, steadily.

The Clock Of The Universe

George MacDonald

A clock aeonian, steady and tall, With its back to creation's flaming wall, Stands at the foot of a dim, wide stair. Swing, swang, its pendulum goes, Swing--swang--here--there! Its tick and its tack like the sledge-hammer blows Of Tubal Cain, the mighty man! But they strike on the anvil of never an ear, On the heart of man and woman they fall, With an echo of blessing, an echo of ban; For each tick is a hope, each tack is a fear, Each tick is a Where, each tack a Not here, Each tick is a kiss, each tack is a blow, Each tick says Why, each tack I don't know. Swing, swang, the pendulum! Tick and tack, and go and come, With a haunting, far-off, dreamy hum, With a tick, tack, loud and dumb, Swings the pendulum. Two hands, together joined in prayer, With a roll and a volley of spheric thunder; Two hands, in hope spread half asunder, An empty gulf of longing embrace; Two hands, wide apart as they can fare In a fear still coasting not touching Despair, But turning again, ever round to prayer: Two hands, human hands, pass with awful motion From isle to isle of the sapphire ocean. The silent, surfaceless ocean-face Is filled with a brooding, hearkening grace; The stars dream in, and sink fainting out, And the sun and the moon go walking about, Walking about in it, solemn and slow, Solemn and slow, at a thinking pace, Walking about in it to and fro, Walking, walking about. With open beak and half-open wing Ever with eagerness quivering, On the peak of the clock Stands a cock: Tip-toe stands the cock to crow-- Golden cock with silver call Clear as trumpet tearing the sky! No one yet has heard him cry, Nor ever will till the hour supreme When Self on itself shall turn with a scream, What time the hands are joined on high In a hoping, despairing, speechless sigh, The perfect groan-prayer of the universe When the darkness clings and will not disperse Though the time is come, told ages ago, For the great white rose of the world to blow: --Tick, tack, to the waiting cock, Tick, tack, goes the aeon-clock! A polar bear, golden and gray, Crawls and crawls around the top. Black and black as an Ethiop The great sea-serpent lies coiled beneath, Living, living, but does not breathe. For the crawling bear is so far away That he cannot hear, by night or day, The bourdon big of his deep bear-bass Roaring atop of the silent face, Else would he move, and none knows then What would befall the sons of men! Eat up old Time, O raging Bear; Take Bald-head, and the children spare! Lie still, O Serpent, nor let one breath Stir thy pool and stay Time's death! Steady, Hands! for the noon is nigh: See the silvery ghost of the Dawning shy Low on the floor of the level sky! Warn for the strike, O blessed Clock; Gather thy clarion breath, gold Cock; Push on the month-figures, pale, weary-faced Moon; Tick, awful Pendulum, tick amain; And soon, oh, soon, Lord of life, and Father of boon, Give us our own in our arms again! Then the great old clock to pieces will fall Sans groaning of axle or whirring of wheel. And away like a mist of the morning steal, To stand no more in creation's hall; Its mighty weights will fall down plumb Into the regions where all is dumb; No more will its hands, in horror or prayer, Be lifted or spread at the foot of the stair That springs aloft to the Father's room; Its tick and its tack, When?--Not now, Will cease, and its muffled groan below; Its sapphire face will dissolve away In the dawn of the perfect, love-potent day; The serpent and bear will be seen no more, Growling atop, or prone on the floor; And up the stair will run as they please The children to clasp the Father's knees. O God, our father, Allhearts' All, Open the doors of thy clockless hall!

A Charm Invests A Face

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld, -- The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled. But peers beyond her mesh, And wishes, and denies, -- Lest interview annul a want That image satisfies.

The Jealous Husband

Jean de La Fontaine

A CERTAIN husband who, from jealous fear, With one eye slept while t'other watched his dear, Deprived his wife of every social joy, (Friends oft the jealous character annoy,) And made a fine collection in a book, Of tricks with which the sex their wishes hook. Strange fool! as if their wiles, to speak the truth, Were not a hydra, both in age and youth. HIS wife howe'er engaged his constant cares; He counted e'en the number of her hairs; And kept a hag who followed every hour, Where'er she went, each motion to devour; Duenna like, true semblance of a shade, That never quits, yet moves as if afraid. THIS arch collection, like a prayer-book bound; Was in the blockhead's pocket always found, The form religious of the work, he thought, Would prove a charm 'gainst vice whenever sought! ONE holy day, it happened that our dame, As from the neighb'ring church she homeward came; And passed a house, some wight, concealed from view; A basket full of filth upon her threw. WITH anxious care apologies were made; The lady, frightened by the frolick played, Quite unsuspicious to the mansion went; Her aged friend for other clothes she sent, Who hurried home, and ent'ring out of breath; Informed old hunks - what pained him more than death ZOUNDS! cried the latter, vainly I may look To find a case like this within my book; A dupe I'm made, and nothing can be worse: - Hell seize the work - 'tis thoroughly a curse! NOT wrong he proved, for, truly to confess; This throwing dirt upon the lady's dress Was done to get the hag, with Argus' eyes Removed a certain distance from the prize. The gay gallant, who watched the lucky hour, Felt doubly blessed to have her in his power. HOW vain our schemes to guard the wily sex! Oft plots we find, that ev'ry sense perplex. Go, jealous husbands, books of cases burn; Caresses lavish, and you'll find return.

A Case Of Libel.

Thomas Moore

"The greater the truth, the worse the libel." A certain Sprite, who dwells below, ('Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,) Came up incog. some years ago To try for a change the London air. So well he lookt and drest and talkt, And hid his tail and horns so handy, You'd hardly have known him as he walkt From C----e, or any other Dandy. (His horns, it seems, are made to unscrew; So he has but to take them out of the socket, And--just as some fine husbands do-- Conveniently clap them into his pocket.) In short, he lookt extremely natty, And even contrived--to his own great wonder-- By dint of sundry scents from Gattie, To keep the sulphurous hogo under. And so my gentleman hoofed about, Unknown to all but a chosen few At White's and Crockford's, where no doubt He had many post-obits falling due. Alike a gamester and a wit, At night he was seen with Crockford's crew, At morn with learned dames would sit-- So past his time 'twixt black and blue. Some wisht to make him an M. P., But, finding Wilks was also one, he Swore, in a rage, "he'd be damned, if he "Would ever sit in one house with Johnny." At length as secrets travel fast, And devils, whether he or she, Are sure to be found out at last, The affair got wind most rapidly. The Press, the impartial Press, that snubs Alike a fiend's or an angel's capers-- Miss Paton's soon as Beelzebub's, Fired off a squib in the morning papers: "We warn good men to keep aloof "From a grim old Dandy seen about "With a fire-proof wig and a cloven hoof "Thro' a neat-cut Hoby smoking out." Now,--the Devil being gentleman, Who piques himself on well-bred dealings,-- You may guess, when o'er these lines he ran, How much they hurt and shockt his feelings. Away he posts to a Man of Law, And 'twould make you laugh could you have seen 'em, As paw shook hand, and hand shook paw, And 'twas "hail, good fellow, well met," between 'em. Straight an indictment was preferred-- And much the Devil enjoyed the jest, When, asking about the Bench, he heard That, of all the Judges, his own was Best.[1] In vain Defendant proffered proof That Plaintiff's self was the Father of Evil-- Brought Hoby forth to swear to the hoof And Stultz to speak to the tail of the Devil. The Jury (saints, all snug and rich, And readers of virtuous Sunday papers) Found for the Plaintiff--on hearing which The Devil gave one of his loftiest capers. For oh, 'twas nuts to the Father of Lies (As this wily fiend is named in the Bible) To find it settled by laws so wise, That the greater the truth, the worse the libel!

The Abbreviated Fox And His Sceptical Comrades

Guy Wetmore Carryl

A certain fox had a Grecian nose And a beautiful tail. His friends Were wont to say in a jesting way A divinity shaped his ends. The fact is sad, but his foxship had A fault we should all eschew: He was so deceived that he quite believed What he heard from friends was true. One day he found in a sheltered spot A trap with stalwart springs That was cunningly planned to supply the demand For some of those tippet things. The fox drew nigh, and resolved to try The way that the trap was set: (When the trap was through with this interview There was one less tippet to get!) The fox returned to his doting friends And said, with an awkward smile, "My tail I know was comme il faut, And served me well for a while." When his comrades laughed at his shortage aft He added, with scornful bow, "Pray check your mirth, for I hear from Worth They're wearing them shorter now." But one of his friends, a bookish chap, Replied, with a thoughtful frown, "You know to-day the publishers say That the short tale won't go down; And, upon my soul, I think on the whole, That the publishers' words are true. I should hate, good sir, to part my fur In the middle, as done by you." And another added these truthful words In the midst of the eager hush, "We can part our hair 'most anywhere So long as we keep the brush." THE MORAL is this: It is never amiss To treasure the things you've penned: Preserve your tales, for, when all else fails, They'll be useful things--in the end.

The Dress-Maker

Jean de La Fontaine

A CLOISTERED nun had a lover Dwelling in the neighb'ring town; Both racked their brains to discover How they best their love might crown. The swain to pass the convent-door! - No easy matter! - Thus they swore, And wished it light. - I ne'er knew a nun In such a pass to be outdone: - In woman's clothes the youth must dress, And gain admission. I confess The ruse has oft been tried before, But it succeeded as of yore. Together in a close barred cell The lovers were, and sewed all day, Nor heeded how time flew away. - "What's that I hear? Refection bell! "'Tis time to part. Adieu! - Farewell! - "How's this?" exclaimed the abbess, "why "The last at table?" - "Madam, I "Have had my dress-maker." - "The rent "On which you've both been so intent "Is hard to stop, for the whole day "To sew and mend, you made her stay; "Much work indeed you've had to do! " - Madam, 't would last the whole night through, "When in our task we find enjoyment "There is no end of the employment."

Niagara

John Campbell

A ceaseless, awful, falling sea, whose sound Shakes earth and air, and whose resistless stroke Shoots high the volleying foam like cannon smoke! How dread and beautiful the floods, when, crowned By moonbeams on their rushing ridge, they bound Into the darkness and the veiling spray; Or, jewel-hued and rainbow-dyed, when day Lights the pale torture of the gulf profound! So poured the avenging streams upon the world When swung the ark upon the deluge wave, And, o'er each precipice in grandeur hurled, The endless torrents gave mankind a grave. God's voice is mighty, on the water loud, Here, as of old, in thunder, glory, cloud!

The Maid.

Jean de La Fontaine

A certain maid, as proud as fair, A husband thought to find Exactly to her mind - Well-form'd and young, genteel in air, Not cold nor jealous; - mark this well. Whoe'er would wed this dainty belle Must have, besides rank, wealth, and wit, And all good qualities to fit - A man 'twere difficult to get. Kind Fate, however, took great care To grant, if possible, her prayer. There came a-wooing men of note; The maiden thought them all, By half, too mean and small. 'They marry me! the creatures dote: - Alas! poor souls! their case I pity.' (Here mark the bearing of the beauty.) Some were less delicate than witty; Some had the nose too short or long; In others something else was wrong; Which made each in the maiden's eyes An altogether worthless prize. Profound contempt is aye the vice Which springs from being over-nice, Thus were the great dismiss'd; and then Came offers from inferior men. The maid, more scornful than before, Took credit to her tender heart For giving then an open door. 'They think me much in haste to part With independence! God be thank'd My lonely nights bring no regret; Nor shall I pine, or greatly fret, Should I with ancient maids be rank'd.' Such were the thoughts that pleased the fair: Age made them only thoughts that were. Adieu to lovers: - passing years Awaken doubts and chilling fears. Regret, at last, brings up the train. Day after day she sees, with pain, Some smile or charm take final flight, And leave the features of a 'fright.' Then came a hundred sorts of paint: But still no trick, nor ruse, nor feint, Avail'd to hide the cause of grief, Or bar out Time, that graceless thief. A house, when gone to wreck and ruin, May be repair'd and made a new one. Alas! for ruins of the face No such rebuilding e'er takes place. Her daintiness now changed its tune; Her mirror told her, 'Marry soon!' So did a certain wish within, With more of secrecy than sin, - A wish that dwells with even prudes, Annihilating solitudes. This maiden's choice was past belief, She soothing down her restless grief, And smoothing it of every ripple, By marrying a cripple.

To R. L. S. - A Child

William Ernest Henley

A child, Curious and innocent, Slips from his Nurse, and rejoicing Loses himself in the Fair. Thro' the jostle and din Wandering, he revels, Dreaming, desiring, possessing; Till, of a sudden Tired and afraid, he beholds The sordid assemblage Just as it is; and he runs With a sob to his Nurse (Lighting at last on him), And in her motherly bosom Cries him to sleep. Thus thro' the World, Seeing and feeling and knowing, Goes Man:    till at last, Tired of experience, he turns To the friendly and comforting breast Of the old nurse, Death. 1876

Sea Dreams

Alfred Lord Tennyson

A city clerk, but gently born and bred; His wife, an unknown artist's orphan child' One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old: They, thinking that her clear germander eye Droopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom, Came, with a month's leave given them, to the sea: For which his gains were dock'd, however small: Small were his gains, and hard his work; besides, Their slender household fortunes (for the man Had risk'd his little) like the little thrift, Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep: And oft, when sitting all alone, his face Would darken, as he cursed his credulousness, And that one unctuous mount which lured him, rogue, To buy strange shares in some Peruvian mine. Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd a coast, All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave, At close of day; slept, woke, and went the next, The Sabbath, pious variers from the church, To chapel; where a heated pulpiteer, Not preaching simple Christ to simple men, Announced the coming doom, and fulminated Against the scarlet woman and her creed: For sideways up he swung his arms, and shriek'd 'Thus, thus with violence,' ev'n as if he held The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself Were that great Angel; 'Thus with violence Shall Babylon be cast into the sea; Then comes the close.'The gentle-hearted wife Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world; He at his own: but when the wordy storm Had ended, forth they came and paced the shore, Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves, Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believed (The sootflake of so many a summer still Clung to their fancies) that they saw, the sea. So now on sand they walk'd, and now on cliff, Lingering about the thymy promontories, Till all the sails were darken'd in the west, And rosed in the east: then homeward and to bed: Where she, who kept a tender Christian hope Haunting a holy text, and still to that Returning, as the bird returns, at night, 'Let not the sun go down upon your wrath,' Said, 'Love, forgive him:' but he did not speak; And silenced by that silence lay the wife, Remembering her dear Lord who died for all, And musing on the little lives of men, And how they mar this little by their feuds. But while the two were sleeping, a full tide Rose with ground-swell, which, on the foremost rocks Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea-smoke, And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fell In vast sea-cataracts'ever and anon Dead claps of thunder from within the cliffs Heard thro' the living roar.    At this the babe, Their Margaret cradled near them, wail'd and woke The mother, and the father suddenly cried, 'A wreck, a wreck!' then turn'd, and groaning said, 'Forgive!    How many will say, 'forgive,' and find A sort of absolution in the sound To hate a little longer!    No; the sin That neither God nor man can well forgive, Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. Is it so true that second thoughts are best? Not first, and third, which are a riper first? Too ripe, too late! they come too late for use. Ah love, there surely lives in man and beast Something divine to warn them of their foes: And such a sense, when first I fronted him, Said, 'trust him not;' but after, when I came To know him more, I lost it, knew him less; Fought with what seem'd my own uncharity; Sat at his table; drank his costly wines; Made more and more allowance for his talk; Went further, fool! and trusted him with all, All my poor scrapings from a dozen years Of dust and deskwork: there is no such mine, None; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold, Not making.    Ruin'd! ruin'd! the sea roars Ruin: a fearful night!' 'Not fearful; fair,' Said the good wife, 'if every star in heaven Can make it fair: you do but bear the tide. Had you ill dreams?' 'O yes,' he said, 'I dream'd Of such a tide swelling toward the land, And I from out the boundless outer deep Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one Of those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs. I thought the motion of the boundless deep Bore through the cave, and I was heaved upon it In darkness: then I saw one lovely star Larger and larger.    'What a world,' I thought, 'To live in!' but in moving I found Only the landward exit of the cave, Bright with the sun upon the stream beyond: And near the light a giant woman sat, All over earthy, like a piece of earth, A pickaxe in her hand: then out I slipt Into a land all of sun and blossom, trees As high as heaven, and every bird that sings: And here the night-light flickering in my eyes Awoke me.' 'That was then your dream,' she said, 'Not sad, but sweet.' 'So sweet, I lay,' said he, 'And mused upon it, drifting up the stream In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced The broken vision; for I dream'd that still The motion of the great deep bore me on, And that the woman walk'd upon the brink: I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her of it: 'It came,' she said, 'by working in the mines:' O then to ask her of my shares, I thought; And ask'd; but not a word; she shook her head. And then the motion of the current ceased, And there was rolling thunder; and we reach'd A mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns; But she with her strong feet up the steep hill Trod out a path: I follow'd; and at top She pointed seaward: there a fleet of glass, That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me, Sailing along before a gloomy cloud That not one moment ceased to thunder, past In sunshine: right across its track there lay, Down in the water, a long reef of gold, Or what seem'd gold: and I was glad at first To think that in our often-ransack'd world Still so much gold was left; and then I fear'd Lest the gay navy there should splinter on it, And fearing waved my arm to warn them off; An idle signal, for the brittle fleet (I thought I could have died to save it) near'd, Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vanish'd, and I woke, I heard the clash so clearly.    Now I see My dream was Life; the woman honest Work; And my poor venture but a fleet of glass Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold.' 'Nay,' said the kindly wife to comfort him, 'You raised your arm, you tumbled down and broke The glass with little Margaret's medicine it it; And, breaking that, you made and broke your dream: A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks.' 'No trifle,' groan'd the husband; 'yesterday I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd That which I ask'd the woman in my dream. Like her, he shook his head.    'Show me the books!' He dodged me with a long and loose account. 'The books, the books!' but he, he could not wait, Bound on a matter he of life and death: When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten) Were open'd, I should find he meant me well; And then began to bloat himself, and ooze All over with the fat affectionate smile That makes the widow lean.    'My dearest friend, Have faith, have faith!    We live by faith,' said he; 'And all things work together for the good Of those''it makes me sick to quote him'last Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you went. I stood like one that had received a blow: I found a hard friend in his loose accounts, A loose one in the hard grip of his hand, A curse in his God-bless-you: then my eyes Pursued him down the street, and far away, Among the honest shoulders of the crowd, Read rascal in the motions of his back, And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee.' 'Was he so bound, poor soul?' said the good wife; 'So are we all: but do not call him, love, Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive. His gain is loss; for he that wrongs his friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar, ever condemn'd: And that drags down his life: then comes what comes Hereafter: and he meant, he said he meant, Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well.' ''With all his conscience and one eye askew'' Love, let me quote these lines, that you may learn A man is likewise counsel for himself, Too often, in that silent court of yours' 'With all his conscience and one eye askew, So false, he partly took himself for true; Whose pious talk, when most his heart was dry, Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye; Who, never naming God except for gain, So never took that useful name in vain; Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his tool, And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool; Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged, And snakelike slimed his victim ere he gorged; And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest Arising, did his holy oily best, Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven, To spread the Word by which himself had thriven.' How like you this old satire?' 'Nay,' she said 'I loathe it: he had never kindly heart, Nor ever cared to better his own kind, Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. But will you hear my dream, for I had one That altogether went to music?    Still It awed me.' Then she told it, having dream'd Of that same coast. - But round the North, a light, A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lay, And ever in it a low musical note Swell'd up and died; and, as it swell'd, a ridge Of breaker issued from the belt, and still Grew with the growing note, and when the note Had reach'd a thunderous fullness, on those cliffs Broke, mixt with awful light (the same as that Living within the belt) whereby she saw That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no more, But huge cathedral fronts of every age, Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could see. One after one: and then the great ridge drew, Lessening to the lessening music, back, And past into the belt and swell'd again Slowly to music: ever when it broke The statues, king or saint, or founder fell; Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left Came men and women in dark clusters round, Some crying, 'Set them up! they shall not fall!' And others 'Let them lie, for they have fall'n.' And still they strove and wrangled: and she grieved In her strange dream, she knew not why, to find Their wildest wailings never out of tune With that sweet note; and ever as their shrieks Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave Returning, while none mark'd it, on the crowd Broke, mixt with awful light, and show'd their eyes Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept away The men of flesh and blood, and men of stone, To the waste deeps together. 'Then I fixt My wistful eyes on two fair images, Both crown'd with stars and high among the stars,' The Virgin Mother standing with her child High up on one of those dark minster-fronts' Till she began to totter, and the child Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry Which mixt with little Margaret's, and I woke, And my dream awed me:'well'but what are dreams? Yours came but from the breaking of a glass, And mine but from the crying of a child.' 'Child?    No!' said he, 'but this tide's roar, and his, Our Boanerges with his threats of doom, And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms (Altho' I grant but little music there) Went both to make your dream: but if there were A music harmonizing our wild cries, Sphere-music such as that you dream'd about, Why, that would make our passions far too like The discords dear to the musician.    No' One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns of heaven: True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune With nothing but the Devil!' ''True' indeed! One of our town, but later by an hour Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore; While you were running down the sands, and made The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap, Good man, to please the child.    She brought strange news. Why were you silent when I spoke to-night? I had set my heart on your forgiving him Before you knew.We must forgive the dead.' 'Dead! who is dead?' 'The man your eye pursued. A little after you had parted with him, He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease.' 'Dead? he? of heart-disease? what heart had he To die of? dead!' 'Ah, dearest, if there be A devil in man, there is an angel too, And if he did that wrong you charge him with, His angel broke his heart.    But your rough voice (You spoke so loud) has roused the child again. Sleep, little birdie, sleep! will she not sleep Without her 'little birdie?' well then, sleep, And I will sing you 'birdie.'' Saying this, The woman half turn'd round from him she loved, Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the night Her other, found (for it was close beside) And half embraced the basket cradle-head With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bough That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'd The cradle, while she sang this baby song. What does the little birdie say In her nest at peep of day? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away. What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away. 'She sleeps: let us too, let all evil, sleep. He also sleeps'another sleep than ours. He can do no more wrong: forgive him, dear, And I shall sleep the sounder!' Then the man, 'His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound: I do forgive him!' 'Thanks, my love,' she said, 'Your own will be the sweeter,' and they slept.

Ezra Bartlett

Edgar Lee Masters

A chaplain in the army, A chaplain in the prisons, An exhorter in Spoon River, Drunk with divinity, Spoon River - Yet bringing poor Eliza Johnson to shame, And myself to scorn and wretchedness. But why will you never see that love of women, And even love of wine, Are the stimulants by which the soul, hungering for divinity, Reaches the ecstatic vision And sees the celestial outposts? Only after many trials for strength, Only when all stimulants fail, Does the aspiring soul By its own sheer power Find the divine By resting upon itself.

The City Mouse And The Country Mouse.

Jean de La Fontaine

A City Mouse, with ways polite, A Country Mouse invited To sup with him and spend the night. Said Country Mouse: "De - lighted!" In truth it proved a royal treat, With everything that's good to eat. Alas! When they had just begun To gobble their dinner, A knock was heard that made them run. The City Mouse seemed thinner. And as they scampered and turned tail, He saw the Country Mouse grow pale. The knocking ceased. A false alarm! The City Mouse grew braver. "Come back!" he cried. "No, no! The farm, Where I'll not quake or quaver, Suits me," replied the Country Mouse. "You're welcome to your city house."

A Clock Stopped -- Not The Mantel's;

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A Clock Stopped -- Not The Mantel's; Geneva's farthest skill Can't put the puppet bowing That just now dangled still. An awe came on the trinket! The figures hunched with pain, Then quivered out of decimals Into degreeless noon. It will not stir for doctors, This pendulum of snow; The shopman importunes it, While cool, concernless No Nods from the gilded pointers, Nods from the seconds slim, Decades of arrogance between The dial life and him.

Neighbour Peter's Mare

Jean de La Fontaine

A CERTAIN pious rector (John his name), But little preached, except when vintage came; And then no preparation he required On this he triumphed and was much admired. Another point he handled very well, Though oft'ner he'd thereon have liked to dwell, And this the children of the present day, So fully know, there's naught for me to say: John to the senses things so clearly brought, That much by wives and husbands he was sought, Who held his knowledge of superior price, And paid attention to his sage advice. Around, whatever conscience he might find, To soft delights and easy ways inclined, In person he would rigidly attend, And seek to act the confessor and friend; Not e'en his curate would he trust with these; But zealously he tried to give them ease, And ev'ry where would due attention show, Observing that divines should always know Their flocks most thoroughly and visit round; To give instruction and the truth expound. AMONG the folks, to whom he visits paid, Was neighbour Peter, one who used the spade; A villager that God, in lieu of lands, Had furnished only with a pair of hands, To dig and delve, and by the mattock gain Enough his wife and children to maintain. Still youthful charms you in his spouse might trace; The weather injured solely had her face, But not the features which were perfect yet: Some wish perhaps more blooming belles to get; The rustick truly me would ne'er have pleased; But such are oft by country parsons seized, Who low amours and dishes coarse admire, That palates more refined would not desire. THE pastor John would often on her leer, just as a cur, when store of bones are near, That would good pickings for his teeth afford, Attentively behold the precious hoard, And seem uneasy; move his feet and tail; Now prick his ears; then fear he can't prevail, The eyes still fixed upon the bite in sight, Which twenty times to these affords delight, Ere to his longing jaws the boon arrives, However anxiously the suitor strives. SELF-TORMENTS solely parson John obtained; By seeing her that o'er his senses reigned. The village-wife was innocent of this, And never dreamed of any thing amiss; The pastor's mystick looks, nor flatt'ring ways; Nor presents, aught in Magdalene could raise; But nosegays made of thyme, and marj'ram too, Were dropt on ground, or never kept in view; A hundred little cares appeared as naught 'Twas Welch to her, and ne'er conveyed a thought. A pleasant stratagem he now contrived, From which, he hoped, success might be derived. MOST clearly Peter was a heavy lout, Yet truly I could never have a doubt, That rashly he would ne'er himself commit, Though folly 'twere from him to look for wit, Or aught expect by questioning to find 'Yond this to reason, he was not designed. THE rector to him said, thou'rt poor, my friend, And hast not half enough for food to spend, With other things that necessary prove, If we below with comfort wish to move. Some day I'll show thee how thou may'st procure The means that will thy happiness insure, And make thee feel contented as a king. To me what present for it wilt thou bring? ZOOKS! Peter answered, parson, I desire, You'll me direct to do as you require; My labour pray command; 'tis all I've got; Our pig howe'er to you we can allot, We want it not; and truly it has eat More bran than thrice this vessel would complete; The cow you'll take besides, from which my wife A calf expects, to raise the means of life. No, no, the pastor with a smile replied, A recompense for this thou'lt not provide; My neighbour to oblige is all I heed; And now I'll tell thee how thou must proceed; Thy spouse, by magick, I'll transform each day, And turn her to a mare for cart or dray, And then again restore her ev'ry night, To human form to give thy heart delight. From this to thee great profit will arise; Thy ass, so slow is found, that when supplies, It carries to the market, 'tis so late, The hour is almost past ere at the gate, And then thy cabbages, and herbs, and roots, Provisions, provender, and wares and fruits, Remain unsold, and home to spoil are brought, Since rarely far from thence such things are sought. But when thy wife's a mare, she'll faster go: Strong, active, ev'ry way her worth she'll show, And home will come without expense in meat: No soup nor bread, but solely herbs she'll eat: SAID Peter, parson, clearly you are wise; From learning, what advantages arise! Is this pray sold? - If I'd much money got, To make the purchase I'd the cash allot. CONTINUED John: - now I will thee instruct, The proper manner, matters to conduct, For thee to have a clever mare by day, And still at night a charming wife survey; Face, legs, and ev'ry thing shall reappear; Come, see it done, and I'll perform it here; Thou'lt then the method fully comprehend; But hold thy tongue, or all will quickly end: A single word the magick would dispel, And, during life, no more with us 'twould dwell. Keep close thy mouth and merely ope' thy eyes: A glimpse alone to learn it will suffice; This o'er, thyself shall practise it the same, And all will follow as when first it came. THE husband promised he would hold his tongue; And John disliked deferring matters long. Come, Magdalene, said he, you will undress; To quit those Sunday-clothes, you'll acquiesce, And put yourself in Nature's pure array Well, well, proceed; with stays and sleeves away; That's better still; now petticoats lay by; How nicely with my orders you comply. WHEN Magdalene was to the linen come, Some marks of shame around her senses swum; A wife to live and die was her desire, Much rather than be seen in Eve's attire; She vowed that, spite of what the priest disclosed; She never would consent to be exposed. SAID Peter, pretty work, upon my truth: - Not let us see how you are made forsooth! What silly scruples! - Are they in your creed? You were not always led such scenes to heed: Pray how d'ye manage when for fleas you seek? 'Tis strange, good sir, that she should be so weak; What can you fear? - 'tis folly time to waste; He will not eat you: come, I say, make haste: Have done with haggling; had you acted right, Ere now the parson all had finished quite. ON saying this, her garment off he took; Put on his spectacles to overlook; And parson John, without delay, began; Said he (as o'er her person now he ran), This part umbilical will make the mare A noble breast, and strength at once declare: Then further on the pastor placed his hand, While, with the other, (as a magick wand,) He set about transforming mounts of snow; That in our climes a genial warmth bestow, And semi-globes are called, while those that rise In t'other hemisphere, of larger size, Are seldom mentioned, through respect no doubt, But these howe'er the parson, quite devout, Would not neglect, and whatsoe'er he felt, He always named, and on its beauties dwelt; The ceremony this, it seems, required, And fully ev'ry movement John admired. PROCEEDINGS so minute gave Peter pain, And as he could not see the rector gain The slightest change, he prayed the pow'rs divine, To give assistance to the priest's design; But this was vain, since all the magick spell, In metamorphosing the lady well, Depended on the fixing of the tail; Without this ornament the whole would fail. To set it on the parson hastened now, When Neighbour Peter 'gan to knit his brow, And bawled so loud, you might have heard him far: No tail, said he, I'll have: there'll be a scar; You put it on too low; but vain his cries, The husband's diligence would not suffice, For, spite of ev'ry effort, much was done, And John completely his career had run, If Peter had not pulled the rector's gown, Who hastily replied, thou ninny, clown; Did I not tell thee silence to observe, And not a footstep from thy station swerve? The whole is spoiled, insufferable elf! And for it thou hast got to thank thyself. THE husband, while the holy pastor spoke, Appeared to grumble and his stars invoke. The wife was in a rage, and 'gan to scold: Said she to Peter, wretch that I behold! Thou'lt be through life a prey to pain and grief, Come not to me and bray and hope relief, The worthy pastor would have us procured The means that might much comfort have ensured. Can he deserve such treatment to receive? Good Mister John this goose I now would leave, And ev'ry morning, while he gathers fruits, Or plants, herbs, cabbages, and various roots, Without averting him, pray, here repair, You'll soon transform me to a charming mare. No mare, replied the husband, I desire; An ass for me is all that I require.

Paul Jones

John Charles McNeill

A century of silent suns Have set since he was laid on sleep, And now they bear with booming guns And streaming banners o'er the deep A withered skin and clammy hair Upon a frame of human bones: Whose corse?    We neither know nor care, Content to name it John Paul Jones. His dust were as another's dust; His bones--what boots it where they lie? What matter where his sword is rust, Or where, now dark, his eagle eye? No foe need fear his arm again, Nor love, nor praise can make him whole; But o'er the farthest sons of men Will brood the glory of his soul. Careless though cenotaph or tomb Shall tower his country's monument, Let banners float and cannon boom, A million-throated shout be spent, Until his widowed sea shall laugh With sunlight in her mantling foam, While, to his tomb or cenotaph, We bid our hero welcome home. Twice exiled, let his ashes rest At home, afar, or in the wave, But keep his great heart with us, lest Our nation's greatness find its grave; And, while the vast deep listens by, When armored wrong makes terms to right, Keep on our lips his proud reply, "Sir, I have but begun to fight!"

Nursery Rhyme. CLXXVI. Songs.

Unknown

A carrion crow sat on an oak, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do, Watching a tailor shape his cloak; Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do. Wife, bring me my old bent bow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do, That I may shoot yon carrion crow; Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do. The tailor he shot and missed his mark, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do, And shot his own sow quite through the heart; Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do. Wife, bring brandy in a spoon, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do, For our old sow is in a swoon; Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do.

Spring

Alfred Lichtenstein

A certain Rudolf called out: I have eaten too much. Whether it's healthy is very questionable. After such a greasy lunch I really feel uncomfortable. But I belch beautifully and smoke Cigarettes now and then. Lying on my heavy belly, I chirp nothing but songs of spring. Longingly, as though on a ramp The voice squeals from the throat. And like an old lamp The wind blackens the bitter soul.

Lord Ullin's Daughter

Thomas Campbell

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry." "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle This dark and stormy water?" "O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?" Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my cheif, I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright; But for your winsome lady: And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry: For though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry." By this the storm grew loud apace, The water, wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still wilder brew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer. "Oh haste thee, hast!" the lady cries "Though tempest round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." The boat had left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, When, oh! too strong for human hand, The waters gathered o'er her. And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing: For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover: One lovely hand stretched out for aid, And one was round her lover. "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter! oh, my daughter!" 'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing: And the waters went wild o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.

Moon Song

Robert William Service

A child saw in the morning skies The dissipated-looking moon, And opened wide her big blue eyes, And cried: "Look, look, my lost balloon!" And clapped her rosy hands with glee: "Quick, mother! Bring it back to me." A poet in a lilied pond Espied the moon's reflected charms, And ravished by that beauty blonde, Leapt out to clasp her in his arms. And as he'd never learnt to swim, Poor fool! that was the end of him. A rustic glimpsed amid the trees The bluff moon caught as in a snare. "They say it do be made of cheese," Said Giles, "and that a chap bides there. . . . That Blue Boar ale be strong, I vow - The lad's a-winkin' at me now." Two lovers watched the new moon hold The old moon in her bright embrace. Said she: "There's mother, pale and old, And drawing near her resting place." Said he: "Be mine, and with me wed," Moon-high she stared . . . she shook her head. A soldier saw with dying eyes The bleared moon like a ball of blood, And thought of how in other skies, So pearly bright on leaf and bud Like peace its soft white beams had lain; Like Peace! . . . He closed his eyes again. Child, lover, poet, soldier, clown, Ah yes, old Moon, what things you've seen! I marvel now, as you look down, How can your face be so serene? And tranquil still you'll make your round, Old Moon, when we are underground.

A Dream Of Waking

George MacDonald

A child was born in sin and shame, Wronged by his very birth, Without a home, without a name, One over in the earth. No wifely triumph he inspired, Allayed no husband's fear; Intruder bare, whom none desired, He had a welcome drear. Heaven's beggar, all but turned adrift For knocking at earth's gate, His mother, like an evil gift, Shunned him with sickly hate. And now the mistress on her knee The unloved baby bore, The while the servant sullenly Prepared to leave her door. Her eggs are dear to mother-dove, Her chickens to the hen; All young ones bring with them their love, Of sheep, or goats, or men! This one lone child shall not have come In vain for love to seek: Let mother's hardened heart be dumb, A sister-babe will speak! "Mother, keep baby--keep him so; Don't let him go away." "But, darling, if his mother go, Poor baby cannot stay." "He's crying, mother: don't you see He wants to stay with you?" "No, child; he does not care for me." "Do keep him, mother--do." "For his own mother he would cry; He's hungry now, I think." "Give him to me, and let me try If I can make him drink." "Susan would hurt him! Mother will Let the poor baby stay?" Her mother's heart grew sore, but still Baby must go away! The red lip trembled; the slow tears Came darkening in her eyes; Pressed on her heart a weight of fears That sought not ease in cries. 'Twas torture--must not be endured!-- A too outrageous grief! Was there an ill could not be cured? She would find some relief! All round her universe she pried: No dawn began to break: In prophet-agony she cried-- "Mother! when shall we wake?" O insight born of torture's might!-- Such grief can only seem. Rise o'er the hills, eternal light, And melt the earthly dream.

Satire On The Earth.

Victor-Marie Hugo

("Une terre au flanc maigre.") [Bk. III. xi., October, 1840.] A clod with rugged, meagre, rust-stained, weather-worried face, Where care-filled creatures tug and delve to keep a worthless race; And glean, begrudgedly, by all their unremitting toil, Sour, scanty bread and fevered water from the ungrateful soil; Made harder by their gloom than flints that gash their harried hands, And harder in the things they call their hearts than wolfish bands, Perpetuating faults, inventing crimes for paltry ends, And yet, perversest beings! hating Death, their best of friends! Pride in the powerful no more, no less than in the poor; Hatred in both their bosoms; love in one, or, wondrous! two! Fog in the valleys; on the mountains snowfields, ever new, That only melt to send down waters for the liquid hell, In which, their strongest sons and fairest daughters vilely fell! No marvel, Justice, Modesty dwell far apart and high, Where they can feebly hear, and, rarer, answer victims' cry. At both extremes, unflinching frost, the centre scorching hot; Land storms that strip the orchards nude, leave beaten grain to rot; Oceans that rise with sudden force to wash the bloody land, Where War, amid sob-drowning cheers, claps weapons in each hand. And this to those who, luckily, abide afar - This is, ha! ha! a star!

The Bear And The Amateur Gardener.

Jean de La Fontaine

[1] A certain mountain bear, unlick'd and rude, By fate confined within a lonely wood, A new Bellerophon,[2] whose life, Knew neither comrade, friend, nor wife, - Became insane; for reason, as we term it, Dwells never long with any hermit. 'Tis good to mix in good society, Obeying rules of due propriety; And better yet to be alone; But both are ills when overdone. No animal had business where All grimly dwelt our hermit bear; Hence, bearish as he was, he grew Heart-sick, and long'd for something new. While he to sadness was addicted, An aged man, not far from there, Was by the same disease afflicted. A garden was his favourite care, - Sweet Flora's priesthood, light and fair, And eke Pomona's - ripe and red The presents that her fingers shed. These two employments, true, are sweet When made so by some friend discreet. The gardens, gaily as they look, Talk not, (except in this my book;) So, tiring of the deaf and dumb, Our man one morning left his home Some company to seek, That had the power to speak. - The bear, with thoughts the same, Down from his mountain came; And in a solitary place, They met each other, face to face. It would have made the boldest tremble; What did our man? To play the Gascon The safest seem'd. He put the mask on, His fear contriving to dissemble. The bear, unused to compliment, Growl'd bluntly, but with good intent, 'Come home with me.' The man replied: 'Sir Bear, my lodgings, nearer by, In yonder garden you may spy, Where, if you'll honour me the while, We'll break our fast in rural style. I've fruits and milk, - unworthy fare, It may be, for a wealthy bear; But then I offer what I have.' The bear accepts, with visage grave, But not unpleased; and on their way, They grow familiar, friendly, gay. Arrived, you see them, side by side, As if their friendship had been tried. To a companion so absurd, Blank solitude were well preferr'd, Yet, as the bear scarce spoke a word, The man was left quite at his leisure To trim his garden at his pleasure. Sir Bruin hunted - always brought His friend whatever game he caught; But chiefly aim'd at driving flies - Those hold and shameless parasites, That vex us with their ceaseless bites - From off our gardener's face and eyes. One day, while, stretch'd upon the ground The old man lay, in sleep profound, A fly that buzz'd around his nose, - And bit it sometimes, I suppose, - Put Bruin sadly to his trumps. At last, determined, up he jumps; 'I'll stop thy noisy buzzing now,' Says he; 'I know precisely how.' No sooner said than done. He seized a paving-stone; And by his modus operandi Did both the fly and man die. A foolish friend may cause more woe Than could, indeed, the wisest foe.

The Scythian Philosopher (Prose Fable)

Jean de La Fontaine

A certain austere philosopher of Scythia, wishing to follow a pleasant life, travelled through the land of the Greeks, and there he found in a quiet spot a sage, one such as Virgil has written of; a man the equal of kings, the peer almost of the gods, and like them content and tranquil. The happiness of this sage lay entirely in his beautiful garden. There the Scythian found him, pruning hook in hand, cutting away the useless wood from his fruit trees; lopping here, pruning there, trimming this and that, and everywhere aiding Nature, who repaid his care with usury. "Why this wrecking?" asked the philosopher. "Is it wisdom thus to mutilate these poor dwellers in your garden? Drop that merciless tool, your pruning hook. Leave the work to the scythe of time. He will send them, soon enough, to the shores of the river of the departed." "I am taking away the superfluous," answered the sage, "so that what is left may flourish the better." The Scythian returned to his cheerless abode and, taking a bill-hook, cut and trimmed every hour in the day, advising his neighbours to do likewise and prescribing to his friends the means and methods. A universal cutting-down followed. The handsomest boughs were lopped; his orchard mutilated beyond all reason. The seasons were disregarded, and neither young moons nor old were noted. In the end everything languished and died. This Scythian philosopher resembles the indiscriminating Stoic who cuts away from the soul all passions and desires, good as well as bad, even to the most innocent wishes. For my own part, I protest against such people strongly. They take from the heart its greatest impulses and we cease to live before we are dead.

The Ancient Of Days

Gilbert Keith Chesterton

A child sits in a sunny place, Too happy for a smile, And plays through one long holiday With balls to roll and pile; A painted wind-mill by his side Runs like a merry tune, But the sails are the four great winds of heaven, And the balls are the sun and moon. A staring doll's-house shows to him Green floors and starry rafter, And many-coloured graven dolls Live for his lonely laughter. The dolls have crowns and aureoles, Helmets and horns and wings. For they are the saints and seraphim, The prophets and the kings.

The Burier And His Comrade.

Jean de La Fontaine

A close-fist had his money hoarded Beyond the room his till afforded. His avarice aye growing ranker, (Whereby his mind of course grew blanker,) He was perplex'd to choose a banker; For banker he must have, he thought, Or all his heap would come to nought. 'I fear,' said he, 'if kept at home, And other robbers should not come, It might be equal cause of grief That I had proved myself the thief.' The thief! Is to enjoy one's pelf To rob or steal it from one's self? My friend, could but my pity reach you, This lesson I would gladly teach you, That wealth is weal no longer than Diffuse and part with it you can: Without that power, it is a woe. Would you for age keep back its flow? Age buried 'neath its joyless snow? With pains of getting, care of got Consumes the value, every jot, Of gold that one can never spare. To take the load of such a care, Assistants were not very rare. The earth was that which pleased him best. Dismissing thought of all the rest, He with his friend, his trustiest, - A sort of shovel-secretary, - Went forth his hoard to bury. Safe done, a few days afterward, The man must look beneath the sward - When, what a mystery! behold The mine exhausted of its gold! Suspecting, with the best of cause, His friend was privy to his loss, He bade him, in a cautious mood, To come as soon as well he could, For still some other coins he had, Which to the rest he wish'd to add. Expecting thus to get the whole, The friend put back the sum he stole, Then came with all despatch. The other proved an overmatch: Resolved at length to save by spending, His practice thus most wisely mending, The total treasure home he carried - No longer hoarded it or buried. Chapfallen was the thief, when gone He saw his prospects and his pawn. From this it may be stated, That knaves with ease are cheated.

The City Rat And The Country Rat.[1]

Jean de La Fontaine

A city rat, one night, Did, with a civil stoop, A country rat invite To end a turtle soup. Upon a Turkey carpet They found the table spread, And sure I need not harp it How well the fellows fed. The entertainment was A truly noble one; But some unlucky cause Disturb'd it when begun. It was a slight rat-tat, That put their joys to rout; Out ran the city rat; His guest, too, scamper'd out. Our rats but fairly quit, The fearful knocking ceased. 'Return we,' cried the cit, To finish there our feast. 'No,' said the rustic rat; 'To-morrow dine with me. I'm not offended at Your feast so grand and free, - 'For I've no fare resembling; But then I eat at leisure, And would not swap, for pleasure So mix'd with fear and trembling.'

Thoughts On Leaving Japan

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A changing medley of insistent sounds, Like broken airs, played on a Samisen, Pursues me, as the waves blot out the shore. The trot of wooden heels; the warning cry Of patient runners; laughter and strange words Of children, children, children everywhere: The clap of reverent hands, before some shrine; And over all the haunting temple bells, Waking, in silent chambers of the soul, Dim memories of long-forgotten lives. But oh! the sorrow of the undertone; The wail of hopeless weeping in the dawn From lips that smiled through gilded bars at night. Brave little people, of large aims, you bow Too often, and too low before the Past; You sit too long in worship of the dead. Yet have you risen, open eyed, to greet The great material Present.    Now salute The greater Future, blazing its bold trail Through old traditions.    Leave your dead to sleep In quiet peace with God.    Let your concern Be with the living, and the yet unborn; Bestow on them your thoughts, and waste no time In costly honours to insensate dust. Unlock the doors of usefulness, and lead Your lovely daughters forth to larger fields, Away from jungles of the ancient sin. For oh! the sorrow of that undertone, The wail of hopeless weeping in the dawn From lips that smiled through gilded bars at night.