No More Learning

The world is a world of lies:
A cup to the dead already -
And hurrah for the next that dies!
Cut off from the land that bore us,
Betrayed by the land we find,
When the brightest have gone before us,
And the dullest are most behind, -
Stand, stand to your glasses, steady!
'Tis all we have left to prize:
One cup to the dead already –
Hurrah for the next that dies!
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING.
THE OLD CHURCH-YARD OF BONCHURCH
Th*
He church-yard leans to the sea with its dead-
It leans to the sea with its dead so long.
Do they hear, I wonder, the first bird's song,
When the winter's anger is all but fled, -
The high, sweet voice of the west wind,
The fall of the warm, soft rain,
When the second month of the year
Puts heart in the earth again ?
Do they hear, through the glad April weather,
The green grasses waving above them ?
Do they think there are none left to love them,
They have lain for so long there together?
Do they hear the note of the cuckoo,
The cry of gulls on the wing,
The laughter of winds and waters,
The feet of the dancing Spring ?
Do they feel the old land slipping seaward,
The old land, with its hills and its graves,
As they gradually slide to the waves
With the wind blowing on them from leeward ?
Do they know of the change that awaits them,
The sepulchre vast and strange ?
Do they long for days to go over,
And bring that miraculous change?
PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.


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16376
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
HIS FOOTSTEPS
TH?
He wilderness a secret keeps
Upon whose guess I go:
Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard;
And yet I know, I know,
Some day the viewless latch will lift,
The door of air swing wide
To one lost chamber of the wood
Where those shy mysteries hide, -
One yet unfound, exceeding depth,
From which the wood-thrush sings,
Still luring me to darker shades,
In - in— to colder springs.
There is no wind abroad to-day;
But hark the pine-tops' war,
That sleep, and in their dreams repeat
The music of the shore.
What wisdom stirs among the pines ?
What song is that they sing?
Those airs that search the forest's heart,
What rumor do they bring ?
A hushed excitement fills the gloom,
And in the stillness, clear
The river's tell-tale warning rings:
<< 'Tis near -- 'tis near – 'tis near ! »
As in the fairy tale, more loud
The ghostly music plays,
When, toward the enchanted bower, the prince
Draws closer through the maze.
Nay, nay - I track a fleeter game,
A wilder than ye know,
To lairs beyond the utmost haunt
Of thrush or vireo.
This way it passed: the scent lies fresh;
The ferns still lightly shake.
Ever I follow hard upon,
But never overtake.
HENRY AUGUSTIN BEERS.


## p. 16377 (#77) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16377
THE INDIAN'S DEATH SONG
HE sun sets in night and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their light fades away.
Begin, ye tormentors — your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook shall never complain.
T*
Remember the arrows he shot from his bow!
Remember the chiefs whom his hatchet laid low!
Why so slow ? do you think I will shrink from the pain ?
No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.
Remember the place where in ambush we lay,
And the scalps that we tore from your nation away. -
Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain;
But the son of Alknomook shall never complain.
I go to the land where my father has gone:
His ghost shall rejoice at the fame of his son.
Death comes like a friend, to release me from pain;
And thy son, O Alknomook, has scorned to complain.
ANNE HUNTER.
THE PLACE TO DIE
HOW
ow little recks it where men die,
When once the moment's past
In which the dim and glazing eye
Has looked on earth its last;
Whether beneath the sculptured urn
The coffined form shall rest,
Or in its nakedness, return
Back to its mother's breast.
The soldier falls 'mid corses piled
Upon the battle-plain,
Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild
Above the gory slain;
But though his corse be grim to see,
Hoof-trampled on the sod,
What recks it when the spirit free
Has soared aloft to God?
The coward's dying eye may close
Upon his downy bed,


## p. 16378 (#78) ###########################################

16378
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And softest hands his limbs compose,
Or garments o'er him spread;
But ye who shun the bloody fray
Where fall the mangled brave,
Go strip his coffin-lid away,
And see him in his grave!
'Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes
With those we cherish near,
And wafted upward by their sighs,
Soar to some calmer sphere;
But whether on the scaffold high,
Or in the battle's van,
The fittest place where man can die
Is where he dies for man!
MICHAEL JULAND BARRY.
IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT
Is
F I SHOULD die to-night,
My friends would look upon my quiet face
Before they laid it in its resting-place,
And deem that death had left it almost fair;
And laying snow-white flowers against my hair,
Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,
And fold my hands with lingering caress
Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!
If I should die to-night,
My friends would call to mind, with loving thought,
Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought;
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said;
Errands on which the willing feet had sped:
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words, would all be put aside,
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.
If I should die to-night,
Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully;
The eyes that chill me with averted glance
Would look upon me as of yore, perchance,
And soften in the old familiar way:
For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay?
So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night.


## p. 16379 (#79) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16379
O friends, I pray to-night,
Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow!
The way is lonely: let me feel them now.
Think gently of me: I am travel-worn;
My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.
Forgive, O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!
When dreamless rest is mine, I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.
BELLE E. SMITH.
A LITTLE WHILE
B
EYOND the smiling and the weeping
I shall be soon;
Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
Beyond the sowing and the reaping,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
Beyond the blooming and the fading
I shall be soon;
Beyond the shining and the shading,
Beyond the hoping and the dreading,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
Beyond the rising and the setting
I shall be soon;
Beyond the calming and the fretting,
Beyond remembering and forgetting,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
Beyond the gathering and the strowing
I shall be soon;
Beyond the ebbing and the flowing,
Beyond the coming and the going,
I shall be soon.


## p. 16380 (#80) ###########################################

16380
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
Beyond the parting and the meeting
I shall be soon;
Beyond the farewell and the greeting,
Beyond this pulse's fever-beating,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
Beyond the frost-chain and the fever
I shall be soon;
Beyond the rock-waste and the river,
Beyond the ever and the never,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
HORATIUS BONAR.
WHEN WE ARE ALL ASLEEP
WHEN
HEN He returns, and finds the world so drear,
All sleeping, young and old, unfair and fair,
Will he stoop down and whisper in each ear,
“Awaken! ” or for pity's sake forbear,
Saying, “How shall I meet their frozen stare
Of wonder, and their eyes so full of fear?
How shall I comfort them in their despair,
If they cry out, “Too late! let us sleep here) ? »
Perchance he will not wake us up, but when
He sees us look so happy in our rest,
Will murmur, Poor dead women and dead men!
Dire was their doom, and weary was their quest, -
Wherefore awake them into life again?
Let them sleep on untroubled — it is best. ”
»
ROBERT BUCHANAN.


## p. 16381 (#81) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16381
THE MISTLETOE BOUGH
- The happiest of the happy,
When a spring-lock that lay in ambush there
Fastened her down forever. - Rogers.
T"
HE mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly branch shone on the old oak wall;
And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay,
And keeping their Christmas holiday.
The baron beheld, with a father's pride,
His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride;
While she, with her bright eyes, seemed to be
The star of the goodly company.
I'm weary of dancing now," she cried:
“Here tarry a moment — I'll hide — I'll hide!
And, Lovell, be sure thou'rt first to trace
The clue to my secret lurking-place. ”
Away she ran - and her friends began
Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;
And young Lovell cried, “Oh! where dost thou hide ?
I'm lonely without thee, my own dear bride. "
They sought her that night, and they sought her next
day;
And they sought her in vain, when a week passed away!
In the highest — the lowest — the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly — but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;
And when Lovell appeared, the children cried,
“See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride. ”
At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle: they raised the lid;
And a skeleton form lay moldering there
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!
Oh, sad was her fate! In sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest;
It closed with a spring! -- and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasped in her living tomb!
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY,


## p. 16382 (#82) ###########################################

16382
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
ANDRÉ'S RIDE
W***
"HEN André rode to Pont-du-lac,
With all his raiders at his back,
Mon Dieu! the tumult in the town!
Scarce clanged the great portcullis down
Ere in the sunshine gleamed his spears,
And up marched all his musketeers,
And far and fast in haste's array
Sped men to fight and priests to pray:
In every street a barricade
Of aught that lay to hand was made;
From every house a man was told,
Nor quittance given to young or old:
Should youth be spared or age be slack
When André rode to Pont-du-lac?
When André rode to Pont-du-lac,
With all his ravening reiver-pack,
The mid lake was a frozen road
Unbending to the cannon's load;
No warmth the sun had as it shone;
The kine were stalled, the birds were gone;
Like wild things seemed the shapes of fur
With which was every street astir,
And over all the huddling crowd
The thick breath hung - a solid cloud;
Roof, road, and river, all were white;
Men moved benumbed by day — by night
The boldest durst not bivouac,
When André rode to Pont-du-lac.
When André rode to Pont-du-lac,
We scarce could stem his swift attack;
A halt, a cheer, a bugle-call, -
Like wild-cats they were up the wall:
But still as each man won the town,
We tossed him from the ramparts down;
And when at last the stormers quailed,
And back the assailants shrank assailed,
Like wounded wasps that still could sting,
Or tigers that had missed their spring,
They would not fly, but turned at bay
And fought out all the dying day:


## p. 16383 (#83) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16383
Sweet saints! it was a crimson track
That André left by Pont-du-lac.
When André rode to Pont-du-lac,
Said he, “A troop of girls could sack
This huckster town, that hugs its hoard
But wists not how to wield a sword. ”
It makes my blood warm now to know
How soon Sir Cockerel ceased to crow,
And how 'twas my sure dagger-point
In André's harness found a joint:
For I, who now am old, was young,
And strong the thews were, now unstrung,
And deadly though our danger then,
I would that day were back again;
Ay, would to God the day were back
When André rode to Pont-du-lac!
A. H. BEESLY.
AULD ROBIN GRAY
WEN
HEN the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's a'at
hame,
And a' the weary warld to rest are gane,
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me.
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride,
But saving ae crown-piece he had naething else beside;
To mak' the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to sea,
And the crown and the pound - they were baith for me.
He hadna been gane a twelve month and a day
When my father brake his arm, and the cow was stown away;
My mither she fell sick — my Jamie was at sea -
And Auld Robin Gray came a-courting me.
My father couldna work, my mother couldna spin;
I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win:
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e,
Said, Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no marry me? ”
My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back:
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack;


## p. 16384 (#84) ###########################################

16384
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
His ship was a wrack – Why didna Jamie dee?
Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me!
-
My father urged me sair — my mother didna speak,
But she looket in my face till my heart was like to break;
They gied him my hand — my heart was in the sea
And so Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been his wife a week but only four,
When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,
I saw my Jamie's ghaist — for I couldna think it he
Till he said, “I'm come hame, love, to marry thee. ”
Oh! sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a';
I gi'ed him ae kiss and bade him gang awa'.
I wish that I were dead, but I'ın na like to dee,
For though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae's me!
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin ;
I darena think on Jamie, for that would be a sin:
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
For oh! Robin Gray he is kind to me.
LADY ANNE BARNARD.
WERENA MY HEART LICHT
T"
HERE was ance a may and she loved na men;
She biggit her bonnie bower down i' yon glen:
But naw she cries Dool! and Well-a-day!
Come down the green gate, and come here away.
When bonnie young Johnnie cam' ower the sea,
He said he saw naething sae lovely as me;
He hecht me baith rings and manie braw things,
And werena my heart licht I wad dee.
His wee wilfu' tittie she loved na me;
(I was taller and twice as bonnie as she :)
She raised sic a pother 'twixt him and his mother,
That werena my heart licht I wad dee.
The day it was set for the bridal to be:
The wife took a dwam and lay down to dee:
She mained and she graned wi' fause dolor and pain,
Till he vowed he never wad see ine again.


## p. 16385 (#85) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16385
His kindred socht ane o' higher degree,
Said, Would he wed ane was landless like me ?
Although I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie,
And werena my heart licht I wad dee.
They said I had neither coo nor cawf,
Nor dribbles o’ drink coming through the draff,
Nor pickles o' meal runnin' frae the mill-e'e,-
And werena my heart licht I wad dee.
His tittie she was baith wylie and slee:
She spied me as I came ower the lea;
And then she ran in, and made a loud din;-
Believe your ain een an ye trow na me.
His bonnet stood aye fu' round on his brow;
His old ane looked better than many ane's new:
But now he lets 't wear any gait it will hing,
And casts himsel dowie upon the com-bing.
And now he gaes daundrin' about the dykes,
And a' he dow do is to hound the tykes:
The livelong nicht he ne'er steeks his e'e;
And werena my heart licht I wad dee.
Oh! were we young now as we ance hae been,
We should hae been gallopin' down on yon green,
And linkin' it ower the lily-white lea:
And werena my heart licht I wad dee.
LADY GRIZEL BAILLIE
TO NELL GWYNNE'S LOOKING-GLASS
G"
LASS antique, 'twixt thee and Nell
Draw we here a parallel.
She, like thee, was forced to bear
All reflections, foul or fair;
Thou art deep and bright within, -
Depths as bright belonged to Gwynne;
Thou art very frail as well,
Frail as fesh is, – so was Nell.
Thou, her glass, art silver-lined, -
She too had a silver mind!
XXVIII-1025


## p. 16386 (#86) ###########################################

16386
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Thine is fresh till this far day, -
Hers till death ne'er wore away.
Thou dost to thy surface win
Wandering glances, --so did Gwynne;
Eyes on thee long love to dwell, -
So men's eyes would do on Nell.
Lifelike forms in thee are sought,-
Such the forms the actress wrought;
Truth unfailing rests in you, —
Nell, whate'er she was, was true.
Clear as virtue, dull as sin,
Thou art oft,- as oft was Gwynne;
Breathe on thee, and drops will swell, —
Bright tears dimmed the eyes of Nell.
Thine's a frame to charm the sight,-
Framed was she to give delight.
Waxen forms here truly show
Charles above and Nell below;
But between them, chin with chin,
Stuart stands as low as Gwynne,
Paired, yet parted, - meant to tell
Charles was opposite to Nell.
Round the glass wherein her face
Smiled so soft, her arms” we trace;
Thou, her mirror, hast the pair,-
Lion here, and leopard there.
She had part in these,- akin
To the lion-heart was Gwynne;
And the leopard's beauty fell
With its spots to bounding Nell.
Oft inspected, ne'er seen through,
Thou art firm, if brittle too,-
So her will, on good intent,
Might be broken, never bent.
What the glass was when therein
Beamed the face of glad Nell Gwynne,
Was that face by beauty's spell
To the honest soul of Nell.
S. LAMAN BLANCHARD.


## p. 16387 (#87) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16387
FROM THE CODE TO MALIBRAN)
O
MARIA FELICIA! the painter and bard,
Behind them, in dying, leave undying heirs:
The night of oblivion their memory spares;
And their great, eager souls, other action debarred,
Against death, against time, having valiantly warred,
Though struck down in the strife, claim its trophies as
theirs.
In the iron engraved, one his name leaves enshrined;
With a golden-sweet cadence another's entwined
Makes forever all those who shall hear it his friends.
Though he died, on the canvas lives Raphael's mind;
And from death's darkest doom till this world of ours
ends,
The mother-clasped infant his glory defends.
As the lamp guards the flame, so the bare marble halls
Of the Parthenon hold, in their desolate space,
The memory of Phidias enshrined in their walls.
And Praxiteles's child, the young Venus, yet calls
From the altar, where smiling she still holds her place,
The centuries conquered, to worship her grace.
Thus, from age after age while new light we receive,
To rest at God's feet the old glories are gone;
And the accents of genius their echoes still weave
With the great human voice, till their thoughts are but
one:
And of thee, dead but yesterday, all thy fame leaves
But a cross in the dim chapel's darkness — alone.
A cross, and oblivion, silence, and death!
Hark! the wind's softest sob; hark! the ocean's deep breath;
Hark! the fisher-boy singing his way o'er the plains:
Of thy glory, thy hope, thy young beauty's bright wreath,
Not a trace, not a sigh, not an echo remains.
ALFRED DE MUSSET.
Translation of Frances Kemble Butler.


## p. 16388 (#88) ###########################################

16388
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE EARTH AND MAN
A
LITTLE sun, a little rain,
A soft wind blowing from the west
And woods and fields are sweet again,
And warmth within the mountain's breast.
So simple is the earth we tread,
So quick with love and life her frame:
Ten thousand years have dawned and fled,
And still her magic is the same.
A little love, a little trust,
A soft impulse, a sudden dream
And life as dry as desert dust
Is fresher than a mountain stream.
So simple is the heart of man,
So ready for new hope and joy:
Ten thousand years since it began
Have left it younger than a boy.
STOPFORD A. BROOKE.
THE STRANGE COUNTRY
I
HAVE come from a mystical Land of Light
To a Strange Country;
The land I have left is forgotten quite
In the land I see.
The round earth rolls beneath my feet,
And the still stars glow;
The murinuring waters rise and retreat,
The winds come and go.
Sure as a heart-beat all things seem
In this Strange Country;
So sure, so still, in a dazzle of dream,
All things flow free.
'Tis life, all life, be it pleasure or pain,
In the field and the flood,
In the beating heart, in the burning brain,
In the flesh and the blood.


## p. 16389 (#89) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16389
Deep as death is the daily strife
Of this Strange Country:
All things thrill up till they blossom in life,
And flutter and flee.
Nothing is stranger than the rest,
From the Pole to the Pole, -
The weed by the way, the eggs in the nest,
The flesh and the soul.
Look in mine eyes, O man I meet
In this Strange Country!
Lie in my arms, O maiden sweet,
With thy mouth kiss me!
Go by, o king, with thy crowned brow
And thy sceptred hand -
Thou art a straggler too, I vow,
From the same Strange Land.
O wondrous faces that upstart
In this Strange Country! .
O souls, O shades, that become a part
Of my soul and me!
What are ye working so fast and fleet,
( human-kind ?
“We are building cities for those whose feet
Are coming behind;
“Our stay is short; we must fly again
From this Strange Country:
But others are growing, women and men,
Eternally!
Child, what art thou ? and what am I?
But a breaking wave!
Rising and rolling on, we hie
To the shore of the grave.
I have come from a mystical Land of Light
To this Strange Country:
This dawn I came; I shall go to-night,
Ay me! ay me!
I hold my hand to my head, and stand
'Neath the air's blue arc;


## p. 16390 (#90) ###########################################

16390
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
I try to remember the mystical Land,
But all is dark.
And all around me swim shapes like mine
In this Strange Country:
They break in the glamour of gleams divine,
And they moan “Ay me!
Like waves in the cold nioon's silvern breath
They gather and roll;
Each crest of white is a birth or death,
Each sound is a soul.
Oh, whose is the eye that gleams so bright
O'er this Strange Country?
It draws us along with a chain of light,
As the moon the sea!
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
FLOWER OF THE WORLD
HEREVER men sinned and wept,
I wandered in my quest;
At last in a Garden of God
I saw the Flower of the World.
W*
:
This flower had human eyes;
Its breath was the breath of the mouth:
Sunlight and starlight came,
And the flower drank bliss from both.
Whatever was base and unclean,
Whatever was sad and strange,
Was piled around its roots:
It drew its strength from the same.
Whatever was formless and base
Passed into fineness and form;
Whatever was lifeless and mean
Grew into beautiful bloom.
Then I thought, “O Flower of the World,
Miraculous blossom of things,
Light as a faint wreath of snow
Thou tremblest to fall in the wind;


## p. 16391 (#91) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16391
« O beautiful Flower of the World,
Fall not nor wither away:
He is coming – he cannot be far —
The Lord of the flowers and the stars. "
-
And I cried, “O Spirit divine
That walkest the garden unseen!
Come hither, and bless, ere it dies,
The beautiful Flower of the World. ”
>>
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
LOVE STILL HATH SOMETHING
LOVA
OVE still hath something of the sea
From whence his mother rose;
No time his slaves from love can free,
Nor give their thoughts repose.
They are becalmed in clearest days,
And in rough weather tossed;
They wither under cold delays,
Or are in tempests lost.
One while they seem to touch the port;
Then straight into the main
Some angry wind, in cruel sport,
The vessel drives again.
At first disdain and pride they fear,
Which if they chance to 'scape,
Rivals and falsehood soon appear
In a more dreadful shape.
By such degrees to joy they come,
And are so long withstood;
So slowly they receive the sum,
It hardly does them good.
'Tis cruel to prolong a pain;
And to defer a bliss,
Believe me, gentle Hermione,
No less inhuman is.
A hundred thousand foes your fears
Perhaps would not remove;


## p. 16392 (#92) ###########################################

16392
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And if I gazed a thousand years,
I could no deeper love.
'Tis fitter much for you to guess
Than for me to explain;
But grant, oh! grant that happiness
Which only does remain.
SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.
HORIZONS
M'
Y HEART gives thanks for yonder hill,
That makes this valley safe and still;
That shuts from sight my onward way
And sets a limit to my day;
That keeps my thoughts, so tired and weak,
From seeking what they should not seek.
On that fair bound across the west
My eyes find pasturage and rest,
And of its dewy stillness drink,
As do the stars upon its brink;
It shields me from the days to come,
And makes the present hour my home.
Deeper will be my rest to-night
For this near calmness of the height;
Its steadfast boundary will keep
My harbored spirit while I sleep.
Yet somewhere on its wooded sides
To-morrow's onward pathway hides,
And I shall wake at early morn,
To find a world beyond, new-born.
I thank thee, Lord, that thou dost lay
These near horizons on my way.
If I could all my journey see,
There were no charm of mystery,
No veiled grief, no changes sweet,
No restful sense of tasks complete.
I thank thee for the hills, the night,
For every barrier to my sight;
For every turn that blinds my eyes
To coming pain or glad surprise ;


## p. 16393 (#93) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16393
For every bound thou settest nigh,
To make me look more near, more high;
For mysteries too great to know:
For everything thou dost not show.
Upon thy limits rests my heart;
Its safe Horizon, Lord, thou art!
LOUISA BUSHNELL.
THE SECOND PLACE
UNTO
my loved ones have I given all:
The tireless service of my willing hands,
The strength of swift feet running to their call,
Each pulse of this fond heart whose love commands
The busy brain unto their use; each grace,
Each gift, the flower and fruit of life. To me
They give, with gracious hearts and tenderly,
The second place.
Such joy as my glad service may dispense,
They spend to make some brighter life more blest;
The grief that comes despite my frail defense,
They seek to soothe upon a dearer breast.
Love veils his deepest glories from my face;
I dimly dream how fair the light may be
Beyond the shade where I hold, longingly,
The second place.
And yet 'tis sweet to know that though I make
No soul's supremest bliss, no life shall lie
Ruined and desolated for my sake,
Nor any heart be broken when I die.
And sweet it is to see my little space
Grow wider hour by hour; and gratefully
I thank the tender fate that granteth me
The second place.
SUSAN MARR SPALDING.


## p. 16394 (#94) ###########################################

16394
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?
H, Why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.
O"
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection who proved,
The husband that mother and infant who blest
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure — her triumphs are by:
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed
That wither away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.
For we are the same that our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,
And run the same course that our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.


## p. 16395 (#95) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16395
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud:
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? .
WILLIAM KNOX.
MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE
M
Y DEAR and only love, I pray
This noble world of thee
Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchie.
For if confusion have a part, —
Which virtuous souls abhor,-
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more.
Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone;
My thoughts shall evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That puts it not unto the touch,
To win or lose it all.
But if no faithless action stain
Thy true and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
As ne'er were known before ;
I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,
And love thee more and more.
JAMES GRAHAM, Earl of Montrose.


## p. 16396 (#96) ###########################################

16396
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE WEARING OF THE GREEN
O
PADDY dear, and did you hear the news that's going round ?
The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;
St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep; his colors can't be seen:
For there's a bloody law again' the wearing of the green.
I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he said, “How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand ? »
She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen:
They are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.
Oh, if the color we must wear is England's cruel red,
Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed.
You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
But 'twill take root and flourish there, though under foot 'tis trod.
When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow,
And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show,
Then I will change the color I wear in my caubeen;
But till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearing of the green.
But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart,
Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old isle will part:
I've heard a whisper of a country that lies beyond the sea,
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.
O Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant's hand ?
Must we ask a mother's blessing from a strange and distant land ?
Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen,
And where, please God, we'll live and die still wearing of the green.
Dion BOUCICAULT.
N"
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
ot a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;


## p. 16397 (#97) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16397
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him!
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone -
But we left him alone with his glory.
CHARLES WOLFE.
ARNOLD WINKELRIED
“M
AKE way for liberty! » he cried;
Made way for liberty, and died !
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood!
A wall, where every conscious stone
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown;
A rampart all assaults to bear,
Till time to dust their frame should wear;
A wood like that enchanted grove
In which with fiends Rinaldo strove,
Where every silent tree possessed
A spirit prisoned in its breast,
Which the first stroke of coming strife
Would startle into hideous life:


## p. 16398 (#98) ###########################################

16398
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
So dense, so still, the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood!
Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected spears,
Whose polished points before them shine,
From Aank to flank, one brilliant line,
Bright as the breakers' splendors run
Along the billows, to the sun.
Opposed to these, a hovering band
Contended for their native land:
Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke
From manly necks the ignoble yoke,
And forged their fetters into swords,
On equal terms to fight their lords;
And what insurgent rage had gained,
In many a mortal fray maintained:
Marshaled once more at Freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall,
Where he who conquered, he who fell,
Was deemed a dead or living Tell!
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew,
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod
Which his awakening footstep trod.
And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burnt within,
The battle trembled to begin:
Yet while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere found;
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed.
That line 'twere suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrants' feet; —
How could they rest within their graves,
And leave their homes the homes of slaves ?
Would they not feel their children tread
With clanging chains above their head?
It must not be: this day, this hour,
Annihilates the oppressor's power;


## p. 16399 (#99) ###########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16399
All Switzerland is in the field:
She will not fly, she cannot yield –
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the number she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he
On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one, indeed :
Behold him — Arnold Winkelried!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked, he stood amid the throng
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And by the motion of his form
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And by the uplifting of his brow
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But 'twas no sooner thought than done;
The field was in a moment won;-
«Make way for Liberty! ” he cried:
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.
"Make way for Liberty! ” he cried :
Their keen points met from side to side;
He bowed amongst them like a tree,
And thus made way for Liberty.
»
Swift to the breach his comrades fly;
« Make way for Liberty! ” they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart:
While, instantaneous as his fall,
Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all;—
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.
Thus Switzerland again was free;
Thus death made way for Liberty!
JAMES MONTGOMERY.


## p. 16400 (#100) ##########################################

16400
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
LITTLE BELL
P"
IPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray:
« Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,
What's your name? ” quoth he-
«What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold,
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold. ” —
“Little Bell,” said she.
Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks,
Tossed aside her glearning golden locks;
“Bonny bird,” quoth she,
“Sing me your best song before I go. ”
Here's the very finest song I know,
Little Bell,” said he.
And the blackbird piped: you never heard
Half
gay a song from any bird -
Full of quips and wiles;
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,
All for love of that sweet face below,
Dimpled o'er with smiles.
And the while the bonny bird did pour
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er
'Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow
From the blue, bright eyes.
Down the dell she tripped, and through the glade
Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,
And from out the tree
Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,
While bold blackbird piped that all might hear,-
«Little Bell,” piped he.
(
Little Bell sat down amid the fern, -
«Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return;
Bring me nuts,” quoth she.
Up, away, the frisky squirrel hies, -
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes,-.
And adown the tree,


## p. 16401 (#101) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16401
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,
In the little lap dropped one by one —
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!
"Happy Bell,” pipes he.
Little Bell looked up and down the glade:
«Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,
Come and share with me! )
Down came squirrel eager for his fare,
Down came bonny blackbird, I declare;
Little Bell gave each his honest share -
Ah, the merry three!
And the while these frolic playmates twain
Piped and frisked from bough to bough again
'Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine out in happy overflow
From her blue, bright eyes.
By her snow-white cot at close of day
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray:
Very calm and clear
Rose the praying voice to where, unseen,
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene
Paused awhile to hear.
«What good child is this,” the angel said,
“That with happy heart, beside her bed
Prays so lovingly ? )
Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft,
« Bell, dear Bell! » crooned he.
« Whom God's creatures love,” the angel fair
Murmured, «God doth bless with angels' care:
Child, thy bed shall be
Folded safe from harm; Love, deep and kind,
Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind,
Little Bell, for thee ! »
THOMAS WESTWOOD.
XXVIII-1026


## p. 16402 (#102) ##########################################

16402
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
AN EXPERIENCE AND A MORAL
LENT my love a book one day;
She brought it back; I laid it by:
'Twas little either had to say,–
She was so strange, and I so shy.
But yet we loved indifferent things, -
The sprouting buds, the birds in tune, –
And Time stood still and wreathed his wings
With rosy links from June to June.
For her, what task to dare or do ?
What peril tempt? what hardship bear?
But with her - ah! she never knew
My heart, and what was hidden there!
And she with me, so cold and coy,
Seemed like a maid bereft of sense ;
But in the crowd, all life and joy,
And full of blushful impudence.
She married, — well, a woman needs
A mate, her life and love to share,-
And little cares sprang up like weeds
And played around her elbow-chair.
And years rolled by — but I, content,
Trimmed my own lamp, and kept it bright,
Till age's touch my hair besprent
With rays and gleams of silver light.
And then it chanced I took the book
Which she perused in days gone by;
And as I read, such passion shook
My soul,- I needs must curse or cry.
For, here and there, her love was writ,
In old, half-faded pencil-signs,
As if she yielded — bit by bit -
Her heart in dots and underlines.
Ah, silvered fool, too late you look!
I know it; let me here record
This maxim: Lend no girl a book
Unless you read it afterward!
FREDERICK S. Cozzens.


## p. 16403 (#103) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16403
HOW PERSIMMONS TOOK CARE OB DER BABY
PER
ERSIMMONS was a colored lad
'Way down in Lou'siany,
And all the teaching that he had
Was given him by his granny.
But he did his duty ever
As well as you, it may be;
With faithfulness and pride always,
He minded missus's baby.
He loved the counsels of the saints, –
And sometimes those of sinners,
To run off 'possum-hunting and
Steal (watermilion ) dinners.
And fervently at meetin' too,
On every Sunday night,
He'd with the elders shout and pray
By the pine-knots' flaring light,
And sing their rudest melodies
With voice so full and strong
You could almost think he learned them
From the angels' triumph song.
SONG
( We be nearer to de Lord
Dan de white folks,- and dey knows it:
See de glory-gate unbarred;
Walk in darkies, past de guard —
Bet you dollar he won't close it.
« Walk in, darkies, troo de gate:
Hear de kullered angels holler;
Go 'way, white folks, you're too late,-
We's de winnin' kuller. Wait
Till de trumpet blow to foller. ”
He would croon this over softly
As he lay out in the sun;
But the song he heard most often
His granny's favorite one —
Was - Jawge Washington
Thomas Jefferson
Persimmons Henry Clay, be
Quick! shut de do',
Get up off dat flo',
Come heah and mind de baby. ”


## p. 16404 (#104) ##########################################

16404
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
One night there came a fearful storm,-
Almost a second flood;
The river rose, a torrent swoln
Of beaten, yellow mud.
It bit at its embankments,
And lapped them down in foam,
Till surging through a wide crevasse,
The waves seethed round their home.
They scaled the high veranda,
They filled the parlors clear,
Till floating chairs and tables
Clashed against the chandelier.
'Twas then Persimmons's granny,
Stout of arm and terror-proof,
By means of axe and lever,
Pried up the veranda roof;
Bound mattresses upon it
With stoutest cords of rope,
Lifted out her fainting mistress,
Saying, “Honey, dar is hope!
«You, Jawge Washington
Thomas Jefferson
Persimmons Henry Clay, be
Quick on dat raf';
Don't star' like a calf,
But take good cah ob. baby! ”
The frothing river lifted them
Out on its turbid tide,
And for a while they floated on
Together, side by side;
Till, broken by the current strong,
The frail raft snapt in two,
And Persimmons saw his granny
Fast fading from his view.
The deck-hands on a steamboat
Heard, as they passed in haste,
A child's voice singing in the dark,
Upon the water's waste,
A song of faith and triumph,
Of Moses and the Lord;
And throwing out a coil of rope,
They drew him safe on board.
Full many a stranger city
Persimmons wandered through,


## p. 16405 (#105) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16405
"A-totin' ob der baby,” and
Singing songs he knew.
At length some City Fathers
Objected to his plan,
Arresting as a vagrant
Our valiant little man.
They carried out their purposes,
Persimmons « 'lowed he'd spile 'em,"
So, sloping from the station-house,
He stole baby from the 'sylum.
And on that very afternoon,
As it was growing dark,
He sang, beside the fountain in
The crowded city park,
A rude camp-meeting anthem,
Which he had sung before,
While on his granny's fragile raft
He drifted far from shore:-
.
SONG
«Moses smote de water, and
De sea gabe away;
De chillen dey passed ober, for
De sea gabe away.
O Lord! I feel so glad,
It am always dark 'fo' day;
So, honey, don't yer be sad,
De sea 'll gib away. ”
A lady dressed in mourning
Turned with a sudden start,
Gave one glance at the baby,
Then caught it to her heart;
While a substantial shadow
That was walking by her side
Seized Persimmons by the shoulder,
And while she shook him, cried:-
« You, Jawge Washington
Thomas Jefferson
Persimmons Henry Clay, be
Quick! splain yerself, chile,-
Stop dat ar fool smile,-
Whar you done been wid baby?