Anxious no more, the
merchant
sees
The mist drive back before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill;
## p.
The mist drive back before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill;
## p.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v28 - Songs, Hymns, Lyrics
”
JULIA C. R. DORR.
THE STAR TO ITS LIGHT
"Gº
0," said the star to its light:
“Follow your fathomless Aight!
Into the dreams of space
Carry the joy of my face.
Go," said the star to its light:
« Tell me the tale of your flight. ”
As the mandate rang
The heavens through,
Quick the ray sprang,
Unheard it flew,
Sped by the touch of an unseen spur.
It crumbled the dusk of the deep
That folds the worlds in sleep,
And shot through night with noiseless stir.
Then came the day;
And all that swift array
Of diamond-sparkles died.
And lo! the far star cried,
“My light has lost its way! »
Ages on ages passed:
The light returned at last.
## p. 16742 (#442) ##########################################
16742
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
« What have you seen,
What have you heard
O ray serene,
O flame-winged bird,
I loosed on endless air ?
Why do you look so faint and white ? »
Said the star to its light.
« O star," said the tremulous ray,
“Grief and struggle I found;
Horror impeded my way.
Many a star and sun
I passed and touched on my round.
Many a life undone
I lit with a tender gleam;
I shone in the lover's eyes,
And soothed the maiden's dream.
But alas for the stifling mist of lies!
Alas, for the wrath of the battle-field
Where my glance was mixed with blood!
And woe for the hearts by hate congealed,
And the crime that rolls like a flood!
Too vast is the world for me,-
Too vast for the sparkling dew
Of a force like yours to renew.
Hopeless the world's immensity!
The suns go on without end;
The universe holds no friend:
And so I come back to you. "
«Go,” said the star to its light:
« You have not told me aright.
This you have taught: I am one
In a million of million others -
Stars, or planets, or men;
And all of these are my brothers.
Carry that message, and then
My guerdon of praise you have won!
Say that I serve in my place;
Say I will hide my own face
Ere the sorrows of others I shun.
So, then, my trust you'll requite.
Go! ” — said the star to its light.
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.
## p. 16743 (#443) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16743
THE GUIDE-POST
D"
'YE know the road to th' barrel o’ flour?
At break o' day let down the bars,
And plow y'r wheat-field, hour by hour,
Till sundown,— yes, till shine o' stars.
You peg away the livelong day,
Nor loaf about, nor gape around;
And that's the road to the thrashin'-floor,
And into the kitchen, I'll be bourd!
D'ye know the road where dollars lay ?
Follow the red cents, here and there;
For if a man leaves them, I guess
He won't find dollars anywhere.
D'ye know the road to Sunday's rest?
Jist don't o' week-days be afeard;
In field and workshop do y'r best,
And Sunday comes itself, I've heerd.
On Saturdays it's not fur off,
And brings a basketful o' cheer,-
A roast, and lots o' garden-stuff,
And, like as not, a jug o’ beer!
D'ye know the road to poverty?
Turn in at every tavern-sign;
Turn in,— 'tis temptin' as can be:
There's bran’-new cards and liquor fine.
In the last tavern there's a sack;
And when the cash y'r pocket quits,
Jist hang the wallet on y'r back —
You vagabond ! see how it fits!
D'ye know what road to honor leads,
And good old age ? a lovely sight!
By ways o' temperance, honest deeds,
And tryin' to do y'r dooty right.
And when the road forks, ary side,
And you're in doubt which one it is,
Stand still, and let y'r conscience guide:
Thank God, it can't lead much amiss!
## p. 16744 (#444) ##########################################
16744
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And now, the road to church-yard gate
You needn't ask! Go anywhere!
For, whether roundabout or straight,
All roads, at last, 'll bring you there.
Go, fearin' God, but lovin' more!
I've tried to be an honest guide ;-
You'll find the grave has got a door,
And somethin' for you t'other side.
JOHANN PETER HEBEL
Translation of Bayard Taylor.
IF WE HAD THE TIME
IS
F I HAD the time to find a place
And sit me down full face to face
With my better if, that cannot show
In my daily life that rushes so,-
It might be then I should see my soul
Was stumbling still toward the shining goal.
I might be nerved by the thought sublime, -
If I had the time!
If I had the time to let my heart
Speak out and take in my life a part,
To look about and to stretch a hand
To a comrade quartered in no-luck land,
Ah, God! if I might but just sit still
And hear the note of the whippoorwill,
I think that my wish with God's would rhyme -
If I had the time!
If I had the time to learn from you
How much for comfort my word could do;
And I told you then of my sudden will
To kiss your feet when I did you ill;
If the tears aback of the coldness feigned
Could flow, and the wrong be quite explained, -
Brothers, the souls of us all would chime,
If we had the time!
RICHARD BURTON.
## p. 16745 (#445) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16745
THE ROSEMARY
M
Y SWEET maid Rosemary -
(Her gown it is so plain
E'en Vanity,
Dressed thus, could not be vain ! ) —
Doth preach to me,
When this my life doth seem
All small and mean,
And full of briers to be;
For in the rain or sun,
Cloaked all in modest gray,
This garden nun
Doth stand as though to pray!
Content, she never heeds
If flaunting Poppy scorns,
Nor marks that weeds
Do tear her gown with thorns;
She tells her beads,
And lives her life with joy,
Her one employ
To fill some small, sweet needs!
MARGARET DELAND.
BRINGING OUR SHEAVES WITH US
T"
HE time for toil has passed, and night has come,
The last and saddest of the harvest eves;
Worn out with labor long and wearisome,
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
Each laden with his sheaves.
Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain,
Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves
That I am burdened, not so much with grain,
As with a heaviness of heart and brain ;-
Master, behold my sheaves!
Few, light, and worthless, — yet their trifling weight
Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;
For long I struggled with my hopeless fate,
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late,-
Yet these are all my sheaves.
## p. 16746 (#446) ##########################################
16746
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Full well I know I have more tares than wheat-
Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves;
Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet
I kneel down reverently and repeat,
“Master, behold my sheaves! ”
I know these blossoms, clustering heavily,
With evening dew upon their folded leaves,
Can claim no value or utility, -
Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be
The glory of my sheaves.
So do I gather strength and hope anew;
For well I know thy patient love perceives
Not what I did, but what I strove to do, -
And though the full ripe ears be sadly few,
Thou wilt accept my sheaves.
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
MOODS OF THE SOUL
I-IN TIME OF VICTORY
A
S SOLDIERS after fight confess
The fear their valor would not own
When, ere the battle's thunder-stress,
The silence made its mightier moan:
Though now the victory be mine,
'Tis of the conflict I must speak,
Still wondering how the Hand Divine
Confounds the mighty with the weak.
To-morrow I may flaunt the foe –
Not now; for in the echoing beat
Of fleeing heart-throbs well I know
The bitterness of near defeat.
O friends! who see but steadfast deeds,
Have grace of pity with your praise.
Crown if you must, but crown with weeds, –
The conquered more deserve your bays.
No, praise the dead! — the ancestral roll
That down their line new courage send,
## p. 16747 (#447) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16747
For moments when against the soul
All hell and half of heaven contend.
II — IN TIME OF DEFEAT
Yes, here is undisguised defeat;
You say, “No further fight to lose »:
With colors in the dust, 'tis meet
That tears should flow and looks accuse.
I echo every word of ruth
Or blame; yet have I lost the right
To praise with you the unfaltering truth,
— save in me — has might?
Whose power
Another day, another man;
I am not now what I have been:
Each grain that through the hour-glass ran
Rescued the sinner from his sin.
The future is my constant friend;
Above all children born to her
Alike her rich affections bend-
She, the unchiding comforter.
Perhaps on her unsullied scroll,
(Who knows? ) there may be writ at last
A fairer record of the soul
For this dark blot upon the past.
ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON.
ROYALTY
I
Am a princess royal, - child of a royal line;
All the broad moorlands I look on-lea, strand, and meadow
are mine!
Oh, I may wander at will over shores by the breakers kissed;
I may look seaward, skyward, though sunbeams fall as they list.
Mine is a race anointed, — mighty the name I bear;
Mine is the glory of giving, mine is the purple to wear.
Ay, mine to send, if I will it, ships to the end of the sea!
Mine to await their home-coming, the eyes of the people on
me.
## p. 16748 (#448) ##########################################
16748
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Sometimes the wind from the northlands, scourging the surf too
bold,
Blows the hair back from my forehead: purple seems all too
cold.
Woven
Sometimes my brows are wearied, - crown-gold seems
with rue;
Chanceth it then I remember purple is dark of hue.
Oye, my people, ye wist not that shadows, forgetting the
throne,
E'en as they fall upon your lives, darken the path of my own.
Nay, but to shrink from the thorn-sting, - turn, if a shadow be
seen,-
Maketh a princess less royal, maketh a queen not a queen.
Royalty? Nay, O my sisters! What doth it mean but to smile,-
Ay, and walk on, face unshadowed,- out of the sunlight the
while!
Crown ? Yea, there is one of fire: best it beseemeth a head
Bowed not to dark nor to tempest whither the way hath led.
Thorns spring low in the wayside, - and should a queen look
down?
Yet - 0 thou King, my Father, help me to wear my crown!
JOSEPHINE PEABODY.
THE RICHEST PRINCE
ALT
A ,
ll their wealth and vast possessions
Vaunting high in choicest terms,
Sat the German princes feasting
In the knightly hall of Worms.
"Mighty,” cried the Saxon ruler,
“Are the wealth and power I wield:
In my country's mountain gorges
Sparkling silver lies concealed. "
“See my land with plenty glowing,”
Quoth the Palgrave of the Rhine:
“Bounteous harvests in the valleys,
On the mountains noble wine. ”
## p. 16749 (#449) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16749
>
“Spacious towns and wealthy convents,"
Louis spake, Bavaria's lord,
“Make my land to yield me treasures
Great as those your fields afford. ”
Würtemberg's beloved monarch,
Eberard the Bearded, cried :-
“See, my land hath little cities;
Among my hills no metals bide:
« Yet one treasure it hath borne me!
Sleeping in the woodland free,
I may lay my head in safety
On my lowliest vassal's knee. ”
Then, as with a single utterance,
Cried aloud those princes three: -
« Bearded count, thy land hath jewels!
Thou art wealthier far than we ! »
JUSTINUS KERNER.
Translation of H. W. Dulcken.
LOUIS XV.
T"
HE King with all his kingly train
Had left his Pompadour behind,
And forth he rode in Senart's wood
The royal beasts of chase to find.
That day by chance the monarch mused;
And turning suddenly away,
He struck alone into a path
That far from crowds and courtiers lay.
He saw the pale-green shadows play
Upon the brown untrodden earth;
He saw the birds around him flit
As if he were of peasant birth;
He saw the trees that know no king
But him who bears a woodland axe:
He thought not, but he looked about
Like one who skill in thinking lacks.
Then close to him a footstep fell,
And glad of human sound was he;
## p. 16750 (#450) ##########################################
16750
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
For truth to say, he found himself
A weight from which he fain would fee.
But that which he would ne'er have guessed,
Before him now most plainly came:
The man upon his weary back
A coffin bore of rudest frame.
“Why, who art thou ? » exclaimed the King,
“And what is that I see thee bear? » —
“I am a laborer in the wood,
And 'tis a coffin for Pierre.
Close by the royal hunting-lodge
You may have often seen him toil;
But he will never work again,
And I for him must dig the soil. ”
The laborer ne'er had seen the King,
And this he thought was but a man;
Who made at first a moment's pause,
And then anew his talk began :-
“I think I do remember now,-
He had a dark and glancing eye,
And I have seen his slender arm
With wondrous blows the pick-axe ply.
“Pray tell me, friend, what accident
Can thus have killed our good Pierre ? ” –
“Oh! nothing more than usual, sir:
He died of living upon air.
'Twas hunger killed the poor good man,
Who long on empty hopes relied;
He could not pay gabel and tax,
And feed his children, so he died. ”
The man stopped short, and then went on,-
“It is, you know, a common thing:
Our children's bread is eaten up
By courtiers, mistresses, and King. ”
The King looked hard upon the man,
And afterwards the coffin eyed,
Then spurred to ask of Pompadour
How came it that the peasants died.
JOHN STERLING.
## p. 16751 (#451) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16751
THE PEOPLE'S PETITION
O
LORDS! ( rulers of the nation!
O softly clothed! O richly fed!
Omen of wealth and noble station!
Give us our daily bread.
For you we are content to toil,
For you our blood like rain is shed;
Then, lords and rulers of the soil,
Give us our daily bread.
Your silken robes, with endless care,
Still weave we; still unclothed, unfed,
We make the raiment that ye wear:
Give us our daily bread.
In the red forge-light do we stand;
We early leave, late seek, our bed,
Tempering the steel for your right hand:
Give us our daily bread.
Throughout old England's pleasant fields,
There is no spot where we may tread;
No house to us sweet shelter yields:
Give us our daily bread.
Fathers are we; we see our sons,
We see our fair young daughters, dead:
Then hear us, O ye mighty ones!
Give us our daily bread.
'Tis vain,-- with cold, unfeeling eye
Ye gaze on us, unclothed, unfed;
'Tis vain,- ye will not hear our cry,
Nor give us daily bread.
We turn from you, our lords by birth,
To him who is our Lord above;
We all are made of the same earth,
Are children of one love.
Then, Father of this world of wonders!
Judge of the living and the dead !
Lord of the lightnings and the thunders!
Give us our daily bread.
WATHEN MARK WILKS CALL.
## p. 16752 (#452) ##########################################
16752
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
W
THE SONG OF THE LOWER CLASSES
E PLOW and sow we're so very, very low
That we delve in the dirty clay,
Till we bless the plain with the golden grain,
And the vale with the fragrant hay.
Our place we know — we're so very low,
'Tis down at the landlord's feet:
We're not too low the bread to grow,
But too low the bread to eat.
Down, down we go — we're so very, very low –
To the hell of the deep-sunk mines,
But we gather the proudest gems that glow
When the crown of a despot shines.
And whenever he lacks, upon our backs
Fresh loads he deigns to lay:
We're far too low to vote the tax,
But not too low to pay.
We're low — we're low — mere rabble, we know;
But at our plastic power,
The mold at the lordling's feet will grow
Into palace and church and tower;
Then prostrate fall in the rich man's hall,
And cringe at the rich man's door:
We're not too low to build the wall,
But too low to tread the floor.
We're low,- we're very, very low,-
Yet from our fingers glide
The silken flow and the robes that glow
Round the limbs of the sons of pride.
And what we get, and what we give,
We know, and we know our share:
We're not too low the cloth to weave,
But too low the cloth to wear!
We're low — we're low — we're very, very low;
And yet when the trumpets ring,
The thrust of a poor man's arm will go
Through the heart of the proudest king.
We're low – we're low — our place we know.
We're only the rank and file:
We're not too low to kill the foe,
But too low to touch the spoil.
ERNEST CHARLES JONES.
## p. 16753 (#453) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16753
THE BALLAD OF THE COMMON FOLK
From (Gringoire)
K
INGS, in your turn that will be judged some day,
Think upon those that lack of all delight;
Have pity on the folk that love and pray,
That know no joy, that weary day and night,
That delve the soil, that die for you in fight.
Their life is like the damned souls' in fire,
That never know the taste of their desire.
The luckiest barefoot and anhungered go;
The scorching sun, the rain, the frost, the mire-
For poor folk all is misery and woe.
Like beasts that wear their lives in toil away,
Within his hovel is the wretched wight.
Will he for once make merry and be gay,
For harvest reaped or for a bridal night,
Thinking at least to mark one day with white,
Down swoops his lord upon the luckless sire,
With outstretched hand, and greed that yet more dire
From satisfaction of its lust doth grow,
And like a vulture empties barn and byre.
For poor folk all is misery and woe.
Have pity on the wretched fool whose play
Unknits your brow; the fisher that for fright
Starts, when the levin leaps athwart his way;
The dreamy blue-eyed maiden, humbly dight,
That spins before her door in the sunlight;
Have pity on the mother's void desire,
Clasping her starving infant nigh and nigher,
(Ah God! that little children should die so! )
To warm its frozen limbs for lack of fire.
For poor folk all is misery and woe.
ENVOI
For all poor folk I crave your pity, sire:
The peasant lying in the frozen mire,
The nun that telling o'er her beads doth go,
And for all those that lack their heart's desire.
For poor folk all is misery and woe.
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE.
Translation of John Payne.
XXVIII-1048
## p. 16754 (#454) ##########################################
16754
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
SONG OF THE FORGE
C'
a
LANG, clang! the massive anvils ring -
Clang, clang! a hundred hammers swing:
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky
The mighty blows still multiply:
Clang, clang!
Say, brothers of the dusky brow,
What are your strong arms forging now? —
Clang, clang! we forge the colter now
The colter of the kindly plow:
Sweet Mary, mother, bless our toil;
May its broad furrow still unbind
To genial rains, to sun and wind,
The most benignant soil.
Clang, clang-our colter's course shall be
On many a sweet and sheltered lea,
By many a streamlet's silver tide,
Amidst the song of the morning birds,
Amidst the low of the sauntering herds,
Amidst soft breezes which do stray
Through woodbine hedges and sweet May
Along the green hill's side.
When regal autumn's bounteous hand
With wide-spread glory clothes the land;
When to the valleys, from the brow
Of each resplendent slope is rolled
A ruddy sky of living gold,
We bless — we bless the plow. -
Clang, clang - again, my mates, what glows
Beneath the hammer's potent blows ? -
Clink, clank — we forge the giant chain
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain,
Midst stormy winds and adverse tides;
Secured by this, the good ship braves
The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.
Anxious no more, the merchant sees
The mist drive back before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill;
## p. 16755 (#455) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16755
Calmly he rests, though far away
In boisterous climes his vessel lay,
Reliant on our skill. -
Say on what sand these links shall sleep,
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep:
By Afric's pestilential shore,
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar,
By many a palmy western isle
Basking in spring's perpetual smile,
By stormy Labrador ?
Say, shall they feel the vessel reel,
When to the battery's deadly peal
The crushing broadside makes reply?
Or else, as at the glorious Nile,
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while
For death or victory?
Hurrah! Cling, clang! once more, what glows,
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath
The iron tempest of your blows,
The furnace's red breath ? -
Clang, clang - a burning torrent, clear
And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured
Around and up in the dusky air,
As our hammers forge the sword.
The sword! a name of dread; yet when
Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound,
While for his altar and his hearth,
While for the land that gave him birth,
The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound-
How sacred is it then!
Whenever for the truth and right
It flashes in the van of fight,-
Whether in some wild mountain pass,
As that where fell Leonidas;
Or on some sterile plain and stern,
A Marston or a Bannockburn;
Or, mid fierce crags and bursting rills,
The Switzer's Alps and Tyrol's hills;
Or as, when sank the Armada's pride,
It gleams above the stormy tide, –
## p. 16756 (#456) ##########################################
16756
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Still, still, whene'er the battle word
Is liberty,- when men do stand
For justice and their native land, -
Then Heaven bless the sword.
-
Author Unknown.
THE COWBOY
“W***
»
IAT care I, what cares he,
What cares the world of the life we know!
Little they reck of the shadowless plains,
The shelterless mesa, the sun and the rains,
The wild, free life, as the winds that blow. ”
With his broad sombrero,
His worn chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds
Where the wild bull feeds;
And he laughs ha, ha! who cares, who cares!
Ruddy and brown — careless and free -
A king in the saddle — he rides at will
O'er the measureless range where rarely change
The swart gray plains so weird and strange,
Treeless, and streamless, and wondrous still!
With his slouch sombrero,
His torn chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds
Where the wild bull feeds;
And he laughs ha, ha! who cares, who cares!
He of the towns, he of the East,
Has only a vague, dull thought of him;
In his far-off dreams the cow-boy seems
A mythical thing, a thing he deems
A Hun or a Goth, as swart and grim!
With his stained sombrero,
His rough chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds
Where the wild bull feeds;
And he laughs ha, ha! who cares, who cares!
## p. 16757 (#457) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16757
Often alone, his saddle a throne,
He scans like a sheik the numberless herd;
Where the buffalo-grass and the sage-bush dry
In the hot white glare of a cloudless sky,
And the music of streams is never heard.
With his gay sombrero,
His brown chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds
Where the wild bull feeds;
And he laughs ha, ha! who cares, who cares!
Swift and strong, and ever alert,
Yet sometimes he rests on the dreary vast;
And his thoughts, like the thoughts of other men,
Go back to his childhood's days again,
And to many a loved one in the past.
With his gay sombrero,
His rude chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
He rests awhile,
With a tear and a smile,
Then he laughs, ha, ha! who cares, who cares!
Sometimes his mood from solitude
Hurries him heedless off to the town!
Where mirth and wine through the goblet shine,
And treacherous sirens twist and twine
The lasso that often brings him down.
With his soaked sombrero,
His rent chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
He staggers back
On the homeward track,
And shouts to the plains — who cares, who cares!
'Tis over late at the ranchman's gate
He and his fellows, perhaps a score,
Halt in a quarrel o'er night begun,
With a ready blow and a random gun
There's a dead, dead comrade! nothing more.
With his slouched sombrero,
His dark chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
## p. 16758 (#458) ##########################################
16758
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
He dashes past
With face o'ercast,
And growls in his throat — who cares, who cares!
Away on the range there is little change:
He blinks in the sun, he herds the steers;
But a trail on the wind keeps close behind,
And whispers that stagger and blanch the mind,
Through the hum of the solemn noon he hears.
With his dark sombrero,
His stained chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
He sidles down
Where the grasses brown
May hide his face while he sobs — who cares!
But what care I, and what cares he?
This is the strain, common at least:
He is free and vain of his bridle-rein,
Of his spurs, of his gun, of the dull gray plain;
He is ever vain of his broncho beast!
With his gray sombrero,
His brown chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds
Where the wild bull feeds;
And he laughs, ha, ha! - who cares, who cares!
JOHN ANTROBUS.
THE SONG OF THE SONS OF ESAU
Y
E SMOOTH-FACED sons of Jacob, hug close your ingleside;
Guard well the market in its wealth, the palace in its pride!
Oh, blithe it is to wander, and the world is uide!
Hard straining at their cables, the captive vessels ride:
Haul up the prisoning anchor, swing out upon the tide!
Oh, grandly fills the canvas, and the sea is wide!
Mysterious spreads the forest, where strange shy creatures bide:
Within its dim remoteness, who knows what wonders hide ?
Oh, softly step the wild things, and the jungle's wide!
## p. 16759 (#459) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16759
Across the stretching desert the tireless camels stride,
The scorching sun above them, the scorching sands beside.
Oh, steady swing the camels, and the plain is wide!
Through leagues on leagues of ice-fields, the time-old glaciers slide
Across the drifted valley, from drifted mountain-side.
Oh, keenly stings the Northwind, and the snow is wide!
We cannot help but wander, whatever fate betide;
We seek the vast far places, nor trail nor chart to guide.
The restlessness is on us, and the world is wide !
Oh, canny sons of Jacob, to fret and toiling tied,
We grudge you not the birthright for which your father lied !
We own the right of roaming, and the world is wide!
For you the pomp and power, prosperity and pride :
For us the happy wilderness, and not a care to chide.
To give us room to wander was the world made wide!
BERTHA
OKS RUNKLE.
STROLLERS
WE
E HAVE no castles,
We have no vassals,
We have no riches, no gems and no gold;
Nothing to ponder,
Nothing to squander:
Let us go wander
As minstrels of old.
You with your lute, love,
I with my flute, love,
Let us make music by mountain and sea;
You with your glances,
I with my dances,
Singing romances
of old chivalry.
“Derry down derry!
Good folk, be merry!
Hither, and hearken where happiness is! -
Never go borrow
Care of to-morrow,
Never go sorrow
While life hath a kiss. ”
## p. 16760 (#460) ##########################################
16760
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Let the day gladden
Or the night sadden,
We will be merry in sunshine or snow;
You with your rhyme, love,
I with my chime, love,
We will make time, love,
Dance as we go.
Nothing is ours,
Only the flowers,
Meadows, and stars, and the heavens above;
Nothing to lie for,
Nothing to sigh for,
Nothing to die for
While still we have love.
“Derry down derry!
Good folk be merry!
Hither, and hearken a word that is sooth:-
Care ye not any
If ye have many
Or not a penny,
If still ye have youth! ”
MADISON J. CAWEIN.
A LOAFER
I
HANG about the streets all day,
At night I hang about;
I sleep a little when I may,
But rise betimes the morning's scout;
For through the year I always hear
Afar, aloft, a ghostly shout.
My clothes are worn to threads and loops;
My skin shows here and there;
About my face like seaweed droops
My tangled beard, my tangled hair;
From cavernous and shaggy brows
My stony eyes untroubled stare.
I move from Eastern wretchedness
Through Fleet Street and the Strand;
## p. 16761 (#461) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16761
And as the pleasant people press,
I touch them softly with my hand,
Perhaps to know that still I go
Alive about a living land.
For, far in front the clouds are riven:
I hear the ghostly cry,
As if a still voice fell from heaven
To where sea-whelmed the drowned folk lie
In sepulchres no tempest stirs,
And only eyeless things pass by.
In Piccadilly spirits pass:
Oh, eyes and cheeks that glow!
Oh, strength and comeliness! Alas,
The lustrous health is earth, I know
From shrinking eyes that recognize
No brother in my rags and woe.
I know no handicraft, no art,
But I have conquered fate;
For I have chosen the better part,
And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate.
With placid breath, on pain and death -
My certain alms alone I wait.
And daily, nightly comes the call,
The pale unechoing note,
The faint “Aha! » sent from the wall
Of heaven, but from no ruddy throat
Of human breed or seraph's seed, -
A phantom voice that cries by rote.
JOHN DAVIDSON.
THRESHED OUT
I
HEARD the sudden Binder roar;
I heard the Reaper shout:
God flung me on his threshing-floor-
His oxen trod me out! .
And here I lie, all bruised and brown,
Beneath the trampling feet -
The Ragweed and the Thistledown,
The Cockle and the Wheat!
ROBERT K. KERNIGHAN.
## p. 16762 (#462) ##########################################
16762
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE VAGABONDS
W*
E ARE two travelers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog ; - come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentleman - mind your eye!
Over the table look out for the lamp! -
The rogue is growing a little old:
Five years we've tramped through wind and weather
And slept out-doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank — and starved — together.
We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the foor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there's been frozen);
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle
(This out-door business is bad for the strings),
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
And Roger and I set up for kings!
No, thank ye, sir, I never drink:
Roger and I are exceedingly moral
Aren't we, Roger ? — see him wink! -
Well, something hot, then, — we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty too, - see him nod his head ?
What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!
He understands every word that's said,
And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk,
The truth is, sir, now I reflect,
I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, sir! ) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.
There isn't another creature living
Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving
To such a miserable, thankless master!
No, sir! -- see him wag his tail and grin!
By George! it makes my old eyes water! -
## p. 16763 (#463) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16763
That is, there's something in this gin
That chokes a fellow. But no matter!
We'll have some music if you're willing,
And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir! )
Shall march a little. Start, you villain!
Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer!
Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle!
(Some dogs have arms, you see! ) Now hold your
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,
To aid a poor old patriot soldier!
March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps, - that's five; he's mighty knowing !
The night's before us, fill the glasses !
Quick, sir! I'm ill — my brain is going!
Some brandy - thank you - there, it passes!
Why not reform ? That's easily said;
But I've gone through such wretched treatment,
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,
And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach's past reform;
And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.
Is there a way to forget to think ?
At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love — but I took to drink -
The same old story: you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features,
You needn't laugh, sir: they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures;
I was one of your handsome men !
If you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!
If you could have heard the songs I sung
When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed
That ever I, sir, should be straying
From door to door, with fiddle and dog,
## p. 16764 (#464) ##########################################
16764
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Ragged and penniless, and playing
To you to-night for a glass of grog!
She's married since,- a parson's wife:
'Twas better for her that we should part, -
Better the soberest, prosiest life
Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her ? Once: I was weak and spent
On the dusty road; a carriage stopped:
But little she dreamed, as on she went,
Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!
You've set me talking. sir; I'm sorry:
It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange ?
I had a mother so proud of me!
'Twas well she died before — Do you know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below ?
Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing in place of a heart ?
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
No doubt, remembering things that were, -
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.
I'm better now: that glass was warming.
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing
For supper and bed, or starve in the street.
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?
But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; -
The sooner the better for Roger and me!
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.
## p. 16765 (#465) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16765
THE PAUPER'S DRIVE
Thr
HERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot,-
To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot:
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings:-
Rattle his bones over the stones!
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!
Oh, where are the mourners ? Alas! there are none;
He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone,-
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man:
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can.
Rattle his bones over the stones!
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns !
What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din!
The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin!
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled! -
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!
Rattle his bones over the stones!
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!
Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach!
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.
Rattle his bones over the stones!
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!
You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed,
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid !
And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low,
You've a chance to the grave like a "gemman” to go!
Rattle his bones over the stones!
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!
But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend !
Bear soft his bones over the stones!
Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns !
THOMAS NOEL.
## p. 16766 (#466) ##########################################
16766
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE MASTER'S TOUCH
I
N THE still air the music lies unheard;
In the rough marble beauty hides unseen:
To make the music and the beauty, needs
The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen.
Great Master, touch us with thy skillful hand;
Let not the music that is in us die:
Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; not let,
Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie!
JULIA C. R. DORR.
THE STAR TO ITS LIGHT
"Gº
0," said the star to its light:
“Follow your fathomless Aight!
Into the dreams of space
Carry the joy of my face.
Go," said the star to its light:
« Tell me the tale of your flight. ”
As the mandate rang
The heavens through,
Quick the ray sprang,
Unheard it flew,
Sped by the touch of an unseen spur.
It crumbled the dusk of the deep
That folds the worlds in sleep,
And shot through night with noiseless stir.
Then came the day;
And all that swift array
Of diamond-sparkles died.
And lo! the far star cried,
“My light has lost its way! »
Ages on ages passed:
The light returned at last.
## p. 16742 (#442) ##########################################
16742
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
« What have you seen,
What have you heard
O ray serene,
O flame-winged bird,
I loosed on endless air ?
Why do you look so faint and white ? »
Said the star to its light.
« O star," said the tremulous ray,
“Grief and struggle I found;
Horror impeded my way.
Many a star and sun
I passed and touched on my round.
Many a life undone
I lit with a tender gleam;
I shone in the lover's eyes,
And soothed the maiden's dream.
But alas for the stifling mist of lies!
Alas, for the wrath of the battle-field
Where my glance was mixed with blood!
And woe for the hearts by hate congealed,
And the crime that rolls like a flood!
Too vast is the world for me,-
Too vast for the sparkling dew
Of a force like yours to renew.
Hopeless the world's immensity!
The suns go on without end;
The universe holds no friend:
And so I come back to you. "
«Go,” said the star to its light:
« You have not told me aright.
This you have taught: I am one
In a million of million others -
Stars, or planets, or men;
And all of these are my brothers.
Carry that message, and then
My guerdon of praise you have won!
Say that I serve in my place;
Say I will hide my own face
Ere the sorrows of others I shun.
So, then, my trust you'll requite.
Go! ” — said the star to its light.
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.
## p. 16743 (#443) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16743
THE GUIDE-POST
D"
'YE know the road to th' barrel o’ flour?
At break o' day let down the bars,
And plow y'r wheat-field, hour by hour,
Till sundown,— yes, till shine o' stars.
You peg away the livelong day,
Nor loaf about, nor gape around;
And that's the road to the thrashin'-floor,
And into the kitchen, I'll be bourd!
D'ye know the road where dollars lay ?
Follow the red cents, here and there;
For if a man leaves them, I guess
He won't find dollars anywhere.
D'ye know the road to Sunday's rest?
Jist don't o' week-days be afeard;
In field and workshop do y'r best,
And Sunday comes itself, I've heerd.
On Saturdays it's not fur off,
And brings a basketful o' cheer,-
A roast, and lots o' garden-stuff,
And, like as not, a jug o’ beer!
D'ye know the road to poverty?
Turn in at every tavern-sign;
Turn in,— 'tis temptin' as can be:
There's bran’-new cards and liquor fine.
In the last tavern there's a sack;
And when the cash y'r pocket quits,
Jist hang the wallet on y'r back —
You vagabond ! see how it fits!
D'ye know what road to honor leads,
And good old age ? a lovely sight!
By ways o' temperance, honest deeds,
And tryin' to do y'r dooty right.
And when the road forks, ary side,
And you're in doubt which one it is,
Stand still, and let y'r conscience guide:
Thank God, it can't lead much amiss!
## p. 16744 (#444) ##########################################
16744
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And now, the road to church-yard gate
You needn't ask! Go anywhere!
For, whether roundabout or straight,
All roads, at last, 'll bring you there.
Go, fearin' God, but lovin' more!
I've tried to be an honest guide ;-
You'll find the grave has got a door,
And somethin' for you t'other side.
JOHANN PETER HEBEL
Translation of Bayard Taylor.
IF WE HAD THE TIME
IS
F I HAD the time to find a place
And sit me down full face to face
With my better if, that cannot show
In my daily life that rushes so,-
It might be then I should see my soul
Was stumbling still toward the shining goal.
I might be nerved by the thought sublime, -
If I had the time!
If I had the time to let my heart
Speak out and take in my life a part,
To look about and to stretch a hand
To a comrade quartered in no-luck land,
Ah, God! if I might but just sit still
And hear the note of the whippoorwill,
I think that my wish with God's would rhyme -
If I had the time!
If I had the time to learn from you
How much for comfort my word could do;
And I told you then of my sudden will
To kiss your feet when I did you ill;
If the tears aback of the coldness feigned
Could flow, and the wrong be quite explained, -
Brothers, the souls of us all would chime,
If we had the time!
RICHARD BURTON.
## p. 16745 (#445) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16745
THE ROSEMARY
M
Y SWEET maid Rosemary -
(Her gown it is so plain
E'en Vanity,
Dressed thus, could not be vain ! ) —
Doth preach to me,
When this my life doth seem
All small and mean,
And full of briers to be;
For in the rain or sun,
Cloaked all in modest gray,
This garden nun
Doth stand as though to pray!
Content, she never heeds
If flaunting Poppy scorns,
Nor marks that weeds
Do tear her gown with thorns;
She tells her beads,
And lives her life with joy,
Her one employ
To fill some small, sweet needs!
MARGARET DELAND.
BRINGING OUR SHEAVES WITH US
T"
HE time for toil has passed, and night has come,
The last and saddest of the harvest eves;
Worn out with labor long and wearisome,
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
Each laden with his sheaves.
Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain,
Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves
That I am burdened, not so much with grain,
As with a heaviness of heart and brain ;-
Master, behold my sheaves!
Few, light, and worthless, — yet their trifling weight
Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;
For long I struggled with my hopeless fate,
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late,-
Yet these are all my sheaves.
## p. 16746 (#446) ##########################################
16746
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Full well I know I have more tares than wheat-
Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves;
Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet
I kneel down reverently and repeat,
“Master, behold my sheaves! ”
I know these blossoms, clustering heavily,
With evening dew upon their folded leaves,
Can claim no value or utility, -
Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be
The glory of my sheaves.
So do I gather strength and hope anew;
For well I know thy patient love perceives
Not what I did, but what I strove to do, -
And though the full ripe ears be sadly few,
Thou wilt accept my sheaves.
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
MOODS OF THE SOUL
I-IN TIME OF VICTORY
A
S SOLDIERS after fight confess
The fear their valor would not own
When, ere the battle's thunder-stress,
The silence made its mightier moan:
Though now the victory be mine,
'Tis of the conflict I must speak,
Still wondering how the Hand Divine
Confounds the mighty with the weak.
To-morrow I may flaunt the foe –
Not now; for in the echoing beat
Of fleeing heart-throbs well I know
The bitterness of near defeat.
O friends! who see but steadfast deeds,
Have grace of pity with your praise.
Crown if you must, but crown with weeds, –
The conquered more deserve your bays.
No, praise the dead! — the ancestral roll
That down their line new courage send,
## p. 16747 (#447) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16747
For moments when against the soul
All hell and half of heaven contend.
II — IN TIME OF DEFEAT
Yes, here is undisguised defeat;
You say, “No further fight to lose »:
With colors in the dust, 'tis meet
That tears should flow and looks accuse.
I echo every word of ruth
Or blame; yet have I lost the right
To praise with you the unfaltering truth,
— save in me — has might?
Whose power
Another day, another man;
I am not now what I have been:
Each grain that through the hour-glass ran
Rescued the sinner from his sin.
The future is my constant friend;
Above all children born to her
Alike her rich affections bend-
She, the unchiding comforter.
Perhaps on her unsullied scroll,
(Who knows? ) there may be writ at last
A fairer record of the soul
For this dark blot upon the past.
ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON.
ROYALTY
I
Am a princess royal, - child of a royal line;
All the broad moorlands I look on-lea, strand, and meadow
are mine!
Oh, I may wander at will over shores by the breakers kissed;
I may look seaward, skyward, though sunbeams fall as they list.
Mine is a race anointed, — mighty the name I bear;
Mine is the glory of giving, mine is the purple to wear.
Ay, mine to send, if I will it, ships to the end of the sea!
Mine to await their home-coming, the eyes of the people on
me.
## p. 16748 (#448) ##########################################
16748
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Sometimes the wind from the northlands, scourging the surf too
bold,
Blows the hair back from my forehead: purple seems all too
cold.
Woven
Sometimes my brows are wearied, - crown-gold seems
with rue;
Chanceth it then I remember purple is dark of hue.
Oye, my people, ye wist not that shadows, forgetting the
throne,
E'en as they fall upon your lives, darken the path of my own.
Nay, but to shrink from the thorn-sting, - turn, if a shadow be
seen,-
Maketh a princess less royal, maketh a queen not a queen.
Royalty? Nay, O my sisters! What doth it mean but to smile,-
Ay, and walk on, face unshadowed,- out of the sunlight the
while!
Crown ? Yea, there is one of fire: best it beseemeth a head
Bowed not to dark nor to tempest whither the way hath led.
Thorns spring low in the wayside, - and should a queen look
down?
Yet - 0 thou King, my Father, help me to wear my crown!
JOSEPHINE PEABODY.
THE RICHEST PRINCE
ALT
A ,
ll their wealth and vast possessions
Vaunting high in choicest terms,
Sat the German princes feasting
In the knightly hall of Worms.
"Mighty,” cried the Saxon ruler,
“Are the wealth and power I wield:
In my country's mountain gorges
Sparkling silver lies concealed. "
“See my land with plenty glowing,”
Quoth the Palgrave of the Rhine:
“Bounteous harvests in the valleys,
On the mountains noble wine. ”
## p. 16749 (#449) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16749
>
“Spacious towns and wealthy convents,"
Louis spake, Bavaria's lord,
“Make my land to yield me treasures
Great as those your fields afford. ”
Würtemberg's beloved monarch,
Eberard the Bearded, cried :-
“See, my land hath little cities;
Among my hills no metals bide:
« Yet one treasure it hath borne me!
Sleeping in the woodland free,
I may lay my head in safety
On my lowliest vassal's knee. ”
Then, as with a single utterance,
Cried aloud those princes three: -
« Bearded count, thy land hath jewels!
Thou art wealthier far than we ! »
JUSTINUS KERNER.
Translation of H. W. Dulcken.
LOUIS XV.
T"
HE King with all his kingly train
Had left his Pompadour behind,
And forth he rode in Senart's wood
The royal beasts of chase to find.
That day by chance the monarch mused;
And turning suddenly away,
He struck alone into a path
That far from crowds and courtiers lay.
He saw the pale-green shadows play
Upon the brown untrodden earth;
He saw the birds around him flit
As if he were of peasant birth;
He saw the trees that know no king
But him who bears a woodland axe:
He thought not, but he looked about
Like one who skill in thinking lacks.
Then close to him a footstep fell,
And glad of human sound was he;
## p. 16750 (#450) ##########################################
16750
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
For truth to say, he found himself
A weight from which he fain would fee.
But that which he would ne'er have guessed,
Before him now most plainly came:
The man upon his weary back
A coffin bore of rudest frame.
“Why, who art thou ? » exclaimed the King,
“And what is that I see thee bear? » —
“I am a laborer in the wood,
And 'tis a coffin for Pierre.
Close by the royal hunting-lodge
You may have often seen him toil;
But he will never work again,
And I for him must dig the soil. ”
The laborer ne'er had seen the King,
And this he thought was but a man;
Who made at first a moment's pause,
And then anew his talk began :-
“I think I do remember now,-
He had a dark and glancing eye,
And I have seen his slender arm
With wondrous blows the pick-axe ply.
“Pray tell me, friend, what accident
Can thus have killed our good Pierre ? ” –
“Oh! nothing more than usual, sir:
He died of living upon air.
'Twas hunger killed the poor good man,
Who long on empty hopes relied;
He could not pay gabel and tax,
And feed his children, so he died. ”
The man stopped short, and then went on,-
“It is, you know, a common thing:
Our children's bread is eaten up
By courtiers, mistresses, and King. ”
The King looked hard upon the man,
And afterwards the coffin eyed,
Then spurred to ask of Pompadour
How came it that the peasants died.
JOHN STERLING.
## p. 16751 (#451) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16751
THE PEOPLE'S PETITION
O
LORDS! ( rulers of the nation!
O softly clothed! O richly fed!
Omen of wealth and noble station!
Give us our daily bread.
For you we are content to toil,
For you our blood like rain is shed;
Then, lords and rulers of the soil,
Give us our daily bread.
Your silken robes, with endless care,
Still weave we; still unclothed, unfed,
We make the raiment that ye wear:
Give us our daily bread.
In the red forge-light do we stand;
We early leave, late seek, our bed,
Tempering the steel for your right hand:
Give us our daily bread.
Throughout old England's pleasant fields,
There is no spot where we may tread;
No house to us sweet shelter yields:
Give us our daily bread.
Fathers are we; we see our sons,
We see our fair young daughters, dead:
Then hear us, O ye mighty ones!
Give us our daily bread.
'Tis vain,-- with cold, unfeeling eye
Ye gaze on us, unclothed, unfed;
'Tis vain,- ye will not hear our cry,
Nor give us daily bread.
We turn from you, our lords by birth,
To him who is our Lord above;
We all are made of the same earth,
Are children of one love.
Then, Father of this world of wonders!
Judge of the living and the dead !
Lord of the lightnings and the thunders!
Give us our daily bread.
WATHEN MARK WILKS CALL.
## p. 16752 (#452) ##########################################
16752
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
W
THE SONG OF THE LOWER CLASSES
E PLOW and sow we're so very, very low
That we delve in the dirty clay,
Till we bless the plain with the golden grain,
And the vale with the fragrant hay.
Our place we know — we're so very low,
'Tis down at the landlord's feet:
We're not too low the bread to grow,
But too low the bread to eat.
Down, down we go — we're so very, very low –
To the hell of the deep-sunk mines,
But we gather the proudest gems that glow
When the crown of a despot shines.
And whenever he lacks, upon our backs
Fresh loads he deigns to lay:
We're far too low to vote the tax,
But not too low to pay.
We're low — we're low — mere rabble, we know;
But at our plastic power,
The mold at the lordling's feet will grow
Into palace and church and tower;
Then prostrate fall in the rich man's hall,
And cringe at the rich man's door:
We're not too low to build the wall,
But too low to tread the floor.
We're low,- we're very, very low,-
Yet from our fingers glide
The silken flow and the robes that glow
Round the limbs of the sons of pride.
And what we get, and what we give,
We know, and we know our share:
We're not too low the cloth to weave,
But too low the cloth to wear!
We're low — we're low — we're very, very low;
And yet when the trumpets ring,
The thrust of a poor man's arm will go
Through the heart of the proudest king.
We're low – we're low — our place we know.
We're only the rank and file:
We're not too low to kill the foe,
But too low to touch the spoil.
ERNEST CHARLES JONES.
## p. 16753 (#453) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16753
THE BALLAD OF THE COMMON FOLK
From (Gringoire)
K
INGS, in your turn that will be judged some day,
Think upon those that lack of all delight;
Have pity on the folk that love and pray,
That know no joy, that weary day and night,
That delve the soil, that die for you in fight.
Their life is like the damned souls' in fire,
That never know the taste of their desire.
The luckiest barefoot and anhungered go;
The scorching sun, the rain, the frost, the mire-
For poor folk all is misery and woe.
Like beasts that wear their lives in toil away,
Within his hovel is the wretched wight.
Will he for once make merry and be gay,
For harvest reaped or for a bridal night,
Thinking at least to mark one day with white,
Down swoops his lord upon the luckless sire,
With outstretched hand, and greed that yet more dire
From satisfaction of its lust doth grow,
And like a vulture empties barn and byre.
For poor folk all is misery and woe.
Have pity on the wretched fool whose play
Unknits your brow; the fisher that for fright
Starts, when the levin leaps athwart his way;
The dreamy blue-eyed maiden, humbly dight,
That spins before her door in the sunlight;
Have pity on the mother's void desire,
Clasping her starving infant nigh and nigher,
(Ah God! that little children should die so! )
To warm its frozen limbs for lack of fire.
For poor folk all is misery and woe.
ENVOI
For all poor folk I crave your pity, sire:
The peasant lying in the frozen mire,
The nun that telling o'er her beads doth go,
And for all those that lack their heart's desire.
For poor folk all is misery and woe.
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE.
Translation of John Payne.
XXVIII-1048
## p. 16754 (#454) ##########################################
16754
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
SONG OF THE FORGE
C'
a
LANG, clang! the massive anvils ring -
Clang, clang! a hundred hammers swing:
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky
The mighty blows still multiply:
Clang, clang!
Say, brothers of the dusky brow,
What are your strong arms forging now? —
Clang, clang! we forge the colter now
The colter of the kindly plow:
Sweet Mary, mother, bless our toil;
May its broad furrow still unbind
To genial rains, to sun and wind,
The most benignant soil.
Clang, clang-our colter's course shall be
On many a sweet and sheltered lea,
By many a streamlet's silver tide,
Amidst the song of the morning birds,
Amidst the low of the sauntering herds,
Amidst soft breezes which do stray
Through woodbine hedges and sweet May
Along the green hill's side.
When regal autumn's bounteous hand
With wide-spread glory clothes the land;
When to the valleys, from the brow
Of each resplendent slope is rolled
A ruddy sky of living gold,
We bless — we bless the plow. -
Clang, clang - again, my mates, what glows
Beneath the hammer's potent blows ? -
Clink, clank — we forge the giant chain
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain,
Midst stormy winds and adverse tides;
Secured by this, the good ship braves
The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.
Anxious no more, the merchant sees
The mist drive back before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill;
## p. 16755 (#455) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16755
Calmly he rests, though far away
In boisterous climes his vessel lay,
Reliant on our skill. -
Say on what sand these links shall sleep,
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep:
By Afric's pestilential shore,
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar,
By many a palmy western isle
Basking in spring's perpetual smile,
By stormy Labrador ?
Say, shall they feel the vessel reel,
When to the battery's deadly peal
The crushing broadside makes reply?
Or else, as at the glorious Nile,
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while
For death or victory?
Hurrah! Cling, clang! once more, what glows,
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath
The iron tempest of your blows,
The furnace's red breath ? -
Clang, clang - a burning torrent, clear
And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured
Around and up in the dusky air,
As our hammers forge the sword.
The sword! a name of dread; yet when
Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound,
While for his altar and his hearth,
While for the land that gave him birth,
The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound-
How sacred is it then!
Whenever for the truth and right
It flashes in the van of fight,-
Whether in some wild mountain pass,
As that where fell Leonidas;
Or on some sterile plain and stern,
A Marston or a Bannockburn;
Or, mid fierce crags and bursting rills,
The Switzer's Alps and Tyrol's hills;
Or as, when sank the Armada's pride,
It gleams above the stormy tide, –
## p. 16756 (#456) ##########################################
16756
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Still, still, whene'er the battle word
Is liberty,- when men do stand
For justice and their native land, -
Then Heaven bless the sword.
-
Author Unknown.
THE COWBOY
“W***
»
IAT care I, what cares he,
What cares the world of the life we know!
Little they reck of the shadowless plains,
The shelterless mesa, the sun and the rains,
The wild, free life, as the winds that blow. ”
With his broad sombrero,
His worn chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds
Where the wild bull feeds;
And he laughs ha, ha! who cares, who cares!
Ruddy and brown — careless and free -
A king in the saddle — he rides at will
O'er the measureless range where rarely change
The swart gray plains so weird and strange,
Treeless, and streamless, and wondrous still!
With his slouch sombrero,
His torn chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds
Where the wild bull feeds;
And he laughs ha, ha! who cares, who cares!
He of the towns, he of the East,
Has only a vague, dull thought of him;
In his far-off dreams the cow-boy seems
A mythical thing, a thing he deems
A Hun or a Goth, as swart and grim!
With his stained sombrero,
His rough chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds
Where the wild bull feeds;
And he laughs ha, ha! who cares, who cares!
## p. 16757 (#457) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16757
Often alone, his saddle a throne,
He scans like a sheik the numberless herd;
Where the buffalo-grass and the sage-bush dry
In the hot white glare of a cloudless sky,
And the music of streams is never heard.
With his gay sombrero,
His brown chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds
Where the wild bull feeds;
And he laughs ha, ha! who cares, who cares!
Swift and strong, and ever alert,
Yet sometimes he rests on the dreary vast;
And his thoughts, like the thoughts of other men,
Go back to his childhood's days again,
And to many a loved one in the past.
With his gay sombrero,
His rude chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
He rests awhile,
With a tear and a smile,
Then he laughs, ha, ha! who cares, who cares!
Sometimes his mood from solitude
Hurries him heedless off to the town!
Where mirth and wine through the goblet shine,
And treacherous sirens twist and twine
The lasso that often brings him down.
With his soaked sombrero,
His rent chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
He staggers back
On the homeward track,
And shouts to the plains — who cares, who cares!
'Tis over late at the ranchman's gate
He and his fellows, perhaps a score,
Halt in a quarrel o'er night begun,
With a ready blow and a random gun
There's a dead, dead comrade! nothing more.
With his slouched sombrero,
His dark chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
## p. 16758 (#458) ##########################################
16758
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
He dashes past
With face o'ercast,
And growls in his throat — who cares, who cares!
Away on the range there is little change:
He blinks in the sun, he herds the steers;
But a trail on the wind keeps close behind,
And whispers that stagger and blanch the mind,
Through the hum of the solemn noon he hears.
With his dark sombrero,
His stained chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
He sidles down
Where the grasses brown
May hide his face while he sobs — who cares!
But what care I, and what cares he?
This is the strain, common at least:
He is free and vain of his bridle-rein,
Of his spurs, of his gun, of the dull gray plain;
He is ever vain of his broncho beast!
With his gray sombrero,
His brown chapparejos,
And clinking spurs,
Like a Centaur he speeds
Where the wild bull feeds;
And he laughs, ha, ha! - who cares, who cares!
JOHN ANTROBUS.
THE SONG OF THE SONS OF ESAU
Y
E SMOOTH-FACED sons of Jacob, hug close your ingleside;
Guard well the market in its wealth, the palace in its pride!
Oh, blithe it is to wander, and the world is uide!
Hard straining at their cables, the captive vessels ride:
Haul up the prisoning anchor, swing out upon the tide!
Oh, grandly fills the canvas, and the sea is wide!
Mysterious spreads the forest, where strange shy creatures bide:
Within its dim remoteness, who knows what wonders hide ?
Oh, softly step the wild things, and the jungle's wide!
## p. 16759 (#459) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16759
Across the stretching desert the tireless camels stride,
The scorching sun above them, the scorching sands beside.
Oh, steady swing the camels, and the plain is wide!
Through leagues on leagues of ice-fields, the time-old glaciers slide
Across the drifted valley, from drifted mountain-side.
Oh, keenly stings the Northwind, and the snow is wide!
We cannot help but wander, whatever fate betide;
We seek the vast far places, nor trail nor chart to guide.
The restlessness is on us, and the world is wide !
Oh, canny sons of Jacob, to fret and toiling tied,
We grudge you not the birthright for which your father lied !
We own the right of roaming, and the world is wide!
For you the pomp and power, prosperity and pride :
For us the happy wilderness, and not a care to chide.
To give us room to wander was the world made wide!
BERTHA
OKS RUNKLE.
STROLLERS
WE
E HAVE no castles,
We have no vassals,
We have no riches, no gems and no gold;
Nothing to ponder,
Nothing to squander:
Let us go wander
As minstrels of old.
You with your lute, love,
I with my flute, love,
Let us make music by mountain and sea;
You with your glances,
I with my dances,
Singing romances
of old chivalry.
“Derry down derry!
Good folk, be merry!
Hither, and hearken where happiness is! -
Never go borrow
Care of to-morrow,
Never go sorrow
While life hath a kiss. ”
## p. 16760 (#460) ##########################################
16760
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Let the day gladden
Or the night sadden,
We will be merry in sunshine or snow;
You with your rhyme, love,
I with my chime, love,
We will make time, love,
Dance as we go.
Nothing is ours,
Only the flowers,
Meadows, and stars, and the heavens above;
Nothing to lie for,
Nothing to sigh for,
Nothing to die for
While still we have love.
“Derry down derry!
Good folk be merry!
Hither, and hearken a word that is sooth:-
Care ye not any
If ye have many
Or not a penny,
If still ye have youth! ”
MADISON J. CAWEIN.
A LOAFER
I
HANG about the streets all day,
At night I hang about;
I sleep a little when I may,
But rise betimes the morning's scout;
For through the year I always hear
Afar, aloft, a ghostly shout.
My clothes are worn to threads and loops;
My skin shows here and there;
About my face like seaweed droops
My tangled beard, my tangled hair;
From cavernous and shaggy brows
My stony eyes untroubled stare.
I move from Eastern wretchedness
Through Fleet Street and the Strand;
## p. 16761 (#461) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16761
And as the pleasant people press,
I touch them softly with my hand,
Perhaps to know that still I go
Alive about a living land.
For, far in front the clouds are riven:
I hear the ghostly cry,
As if a still voice fell from heaven
To where sea-whelmed the drowned folk lie
In sepulchres no tempest stirs,
And only eyeless things pass by.
In Piccadilly spirits pass:
Oh, eyes and cheeks that glow!
Oh, strength and comeliness! Alas,
The lustrous health is earth, I know
From shrinking eyes that recognize
No brother in my rags and woe.
I know no handicraft, no art,
But I have conquered fate;
For I have chosen the better part,
And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate.
With placid breath, on pain and death -
My certain alms alone I wait.
And daily, nightly comes the call,
The pale unechoing note,
The faint “Aha! » sent from the wall
Of heaven, but from no ruddy throat
Of human breed or seraph's seed, -
A phantom voice that cries by rote.
JOHN DAVIDSON.
THRESHED OUT
I
HEARD the sudden Binder roar;
I heard the Reaper shout:
God flung me on his threshing-floor-
His oxen trod me out! .
And here I lie, all bruised and brown,
Beneath the trampling feet -
The Ragweed and the Thistledown,
The Cockle and the Wheat!
ROBERT K. KERNIGHAN.
## p. 16762 (#462) ##########################################
16762
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE VAGABONDS
W*
E ARE two travelers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog ; - come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentleman - mind your eye!
Over the table look out for the lamp! -
The rogue is growing a little old:
Five years we've tramped through wind and weather
And slept out-doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank — and starved — together.
We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the foor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there's been frozen);
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle
(This out-door business is bad for the strings),
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
And Roger and I set up for kings!
No, thank ye, sir, I never drink:
Roger and I are exceedingly moral
Aren't we, Roger ? — see him wink! -
Well, something hot, then, — we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty too, - see him nod his head ?
What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!
He understands every word that's said,
And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk,
The truth is, sir, now I reflect,
I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, sir! ) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.
There isn't another creature living
Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving
To such a miserable, thankless master!
No, sir! -- see him wag his tail and grin!
By George! it makes my old eyes water! -
## p. 16763 (#463) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16763
That is, there's something in this gin
That chokes a fellow. But no matter!
We'll have some music if you're willing,
And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir! )
Shall march a little. Start, you villain!
Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer!
Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle!
(Some dogs have arms, you see! ) Now hold your
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,
To aid a poor old patriot soldier!
March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps, - that's five; he's mighty knowing !
The night's before us, fill the glasses !
Quick, sir! I'm ill — my brain is going!
Some brandy - thank you - there, it passes!
Why not reform ? That's easily said;
But I've gone through such wretched treatment,
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,
And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach's past reform;
And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.
Is there a way to forget to think ?
At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love — but I took to drink -
The same old story: you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features,
You needn't laugh, sir: they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures;
I was one of your handsome men !
If you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!
If you could have heard the songs I sung
When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed
That ever I, sir, should be straying
From door to door, with fiddle and dog,
## p. 16764 (#464) ##########################################
16764
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Ragged and penniless, and playing
To you to-night for a glass of grog!
She's married since,- a parson's wife:
'Twas better for her that we should part, -
Better the soberest, prosiest life
Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her ? Once: I was weak and spent
On the dusty road; a carriage stopped:
But little she dreamed, as on she went,
Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!
You've set me talking. sir; I'm sorry:
It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange ?
I had a mother so proud of me!
'Twas well she died before — Do you know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below ?
Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing in place of a heart ?
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
No doubt, remembering things that were, -
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.
I'm better now: that glass was warming.
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing
For supper and bed, or starve in the street.
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?
But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; -
The sooner the better for Roger and me!
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.
## p. 16765 (#465) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16765
THE PAUPER'S DRIVE
Thr
HERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot,-
To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot:
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings:-
Rattle his bones over the stones!
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!
Oh, where are the mourners ? Alas! there are none;
He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone,-
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man:
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can.
Rattle his bones over the stones!
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns !
What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din!
The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin!
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled! -
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!
Rattle his bones over the stones!
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!
Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach!
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.
Rattle his bones over the stones!
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!
You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed,
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid !
And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low,
You've a chance to the grave like a "gemman” to go!
Rattle his bones over the stones!
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!
But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend !
Bear soft his bones over the stones!
Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns !
THOMAS NOEL.
## p. 16766 (#466) ##########################################
16766
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE MASTER'S TOUCH
I
N THE still air the music lies unheard;
In the rough marble beauty hides unseen:
To make the music and the beauty, needs
The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen.
Great Master, touch us with thy skillful hand;
Let not the music that is in us die:
Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; not let,
Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie!
