My wife is as lean a scold
As famine can make man's wife;
We are both of us sour and old
With drinking the dregs of life.
As famine can make man's wife;
We are both of us sour and old
With drinking the dregs of life.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v28 - Songs, Hymns, Lyrics
No more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And further, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have
Before you're summoned to the grave.
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve,
## p. 16703 (#403) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16703
In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But, when again I call this way,
Well pleased the world will leave. ”
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe and stroked his horse,
The willing Muse shall tell:
He chaffered then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,
Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He passed his hours in peace.
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now one night in musing mood,
As all alone he sat,
The unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.
Half killed with anger and surprise,
«So soon returned ! ) old Dobson cries.
“So soon, d'ye call it? " Death replies:
«Surely, my friend, you're but in jest!
Since I was here before
'Tis six-and-thirty years at least,
And you are now fourscore. ”
«So much the worse,” the clown rejoined:
“To spare the aged would be kind.
However, see your search be legal;
And your authority - is 't regal?
Else you are come on a fool's errand,
With but a secretary's warrant.
Besides, you promised me three warnings,
Which I have looked for nights and mornings,
## p. 16704 (#404) ##########################################
16704
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
But for that loss of time and ease
I can recover damages. ”
“I know,” cried Death, that at the best
I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend, at least.
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable:
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength. "
“Hold! ” says the farmer; “not so fast:
I have been lame these four years past. ”
“And no great wonder,” Death replies:
«However, you still keep your eyes;
And sure, to see one's loves and friends
For legs and arms would make amends. "
“Perhaps,” says Dobson, “so it might;
But latterly I've lost my sight. ”
« This is a shocking story, faith,
Yet there's some comfort still,” says Death:
“Each strives your sadness to amuse;
I warrant you hear all the news. ”
« There's none, cries he; "and if there were,
I'm grown so deaf I could not hear. ”
>
“Nay, then,” the spectre stern rejoined,
« These are unwarrantable yearnings:
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your three sufficient warnings.
So come along; no more we'll part,"
He said, and touched him with his dart;
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate. So ends my tale.
HESTER THRALE Piozzi
THE LADYE LOVE
From "The Yearn of the Romantic)
S"
He was hardened not with knowledge of the boarding-school or
college;
She was sung at oft in language that she did not understand;
But was learned in all romancing, and in dancing, and in glancing –
Stately, fair, and tender-hearted was the Ladye of the Land.
## p. 16705 (#405) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16705
Though she dressed in shocking fashion, she inspired the deepest
passion,
And a tune upon her lutelet was a very dangerous thing;
For her smiles, were all imploring, and her sigh set all adoring,
And she strung the hearts around her like the beads upon a string.
Now, at tourneys gayly quartered, she would see her lieges slaughtered,
Till the solitary relic crawled to crown her “Beauty's Queen";
Then, from tops of balustradings, she would sigh to serenadings,
Or, with hawk or hound and suitors, she would gallop o'er the
green.
Any summer morn awaking, full of sentiment and quaking
At the ditties and the clatter of her lovers keeping guard,
She'd behold with charming satisfaction - peeping through her lat-
tice-
Scores of guitars and of gallants shattered all about her yard!
Any day she'd feel neglected if not forcibly selected
As the booty of some Baron, who would make her will his law;
Any night she'd slumber hoping to be wakened by eloping
On the pommel of the saddle of a Knight she never saw.
Then, how charmingly exciting! setting twenty knights to fighting,
And be forced to wed the victor, who would come to claim her
glove!
Or to have to sit for hours in the tallest kind of towers,
On the thinnest sort of diet, till her heart should learn to love!
They would call her cold and cruel: yet they'd fight the daily duel,
And lay vows of love eternal and despairing at her shrine;
When at last some one would win her, they would oft neglect their
dinner,
And would talk for days of dying, or of far-off Palestine!
When her Liege would go crusading, or his neighbors' lands invading,
Then from highest turret windows would she wave her lily hands:
Or, perchance, ere seeking Vandals, he would lock her safe from
scandals,
And she'd pine, from quiet convents, for her lord in Paynim lands.
Thus, a-smiling and a-sighing, and a-laughing and a-crying,
With her eyes as stars or diamonds, and her hair as silk or gold -
Never maid so sentimental, never matron half so gentle,
Never love so true and tender, as the Ladye Love of old!
GEORGE M. DAVIE.
XXVIII-1045
## p. 16706 (#406) ##########################################
16706
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
B
CAGES AND RHYMES
LESS your hearts, ye little birds,
That you woke me with your singing!
Balmily the vernal air
Greets me, from my pillow springing!
And the little birds sang on,
Undisturbed by my appearing:
True and trustful, there they sat,
With their hymns the morning cheering.
For the darlings noticed not
Snares I slyly spread around them,
Till their little feet were caught
In the threads that closely bound them.
Every morn (I thought) their songs
Would a thrill of joy send through me;
And of happiness the deep
Secret they would whisper to me.
Ah! my error soon I found;-
Say, what stillness has come o'er you?
In a golden palace lodged,
Plenteous food and drink before you!
But no answer did they give,
Pecking wildly at the wire;
And no morning serenade
Can I win for love or hire.
Many a grand and stately thought
Round my musing mind will flutter,
Which, with sweat of brow and brain
Caught in rhyme, I fain would utter.
But so stiff and dead they seemed,
With these fetters round them clinging,
Never they, you would have deemed,
From a human heart came singing.
KARL KNORTZ;
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 16707 (#407) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16707
LARKS AND NIGHTINGALES
A
LONE I sit at eventide:
The twilight glory pales,
And o'er the meadows far and wide
Chant pensive bobolinks.
(One might say nightingales! )
Song-sparrows warble on the tree,
I hear the purling brook,
And from the old “manse o'er the lea”
Flies slow the cawing crow.
(In England 'twere a rook ! )
The last faint golden beams of day
Still glow on cottage panes,
And on their lingering homeward way
Walk weary laboring men.
(Oh, would that we had swains ! )
From farm-yards, down fair rural glades
Come sounds of tinkling bells,
And songs of merry brown milkmaids,
Sweeter than oriole's.
(Yes, thank you — Philomel's! )
I could sit here till me ng came,
All through the night hours dark,
Until I saw the sun's bright flame
And heard the chickadee.
(Alas! we have no lark! )
We have no leas, no larks, no rooks,
No swains, no nightingales,
No singing milkmaids (save in books):
The poet does his best
It is the rhyme that fails !
NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.
## p. 16708 (#408) ##########################################
16708
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
LAPSUS CALAMI
W"
LL there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason
And an unmelodious verse;
When the world shall cease to wonder
At the genius of an ass,
And a boy's eccentric blunder
Shall not bring success to pass;
When mankind shall be delivered
From the clash of magazines,
And the inkstand shall be shivered
Into countless smithereens:
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore,-
When the Rudyards cease from kipling,
And the Haggards ride no more?
JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN.
THE CRYSTAL FOUNTAIN
CONVERSATION BETWEEN AN ANXIOUS MOTHER AND A POLICEMAN AT
THE WORLD'S EXHIBITION
“G
OOD policeman, tell me, pray,
Has my daughter passed this way?
You may know her by her bonnet,
Yellow shawl, and brooch upon it:
Far and near I've sought the girl;
I have lost her in the whirl.
Do you think she yonder goes,
Where the Crystal Fountain flows ? »
»
“Ma'am,” says he, “on this here ground,
Whatsomdever's lost is found:
Rest quite heasy in your mind, -
I your daughter soon will find !
Though she's got to forrin lands,
Hicy-burgs or Hegypt's sands,
Still, depend on 't, soon she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows!
## p. 16709 (#409) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16709
“Perhaps Italian h’art attracts
Her, or them there flowers in wax.
May be she has got hup-stairs
In among they. heasy-chairs,
And like Gulliver is sleeping
Where them Lillipushums 's creeping:
But she'll wake, and then she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows!
«Yet, good ma'am, I should explain,
She may stop a bit in Spain,
Smelling of them Porto snuffs,
Looking at the Turkish stuffs;
Or if warm, a Chiny fan,
Offered by the Tartar man,
Will refresh her as she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows!
«She may see the silver things,-
Little watches, chains, and rings;
Or mayhap, ma'am, she may stray
Where the monster horgans play;
Or the music of all sorts,
Great and small pianny-forts,
May detain her as she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows!
“Or she may have gone in hope
Of a patent henvelope
To take home,- and if she's able,
Try to see the Roman table;
Or insist on one peep more
At the sparkling Koh-hi-nore:
Then, the chance is, on she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows! »
“Well, policeman, certainly
You're the man to have an eye
Over such a place as this,
And to find a straying Miss!
Pray, good man, my daughter tell,
When she hears them ring the bell,
I shall find her, if she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows ! »
From Punch.
## p. 16710 (#410) ##########################################
16710
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE STRASBURG CLOCK
M
ANY and many a year ago
To say how many I scarcely dare -
Three of us stood in Strasburg streets,
In the wide and open square,
Where, quaint and old and touched with gold
Of a summer morn, at stroke of noon
The tongue of the great Cathedral tolled,
And into the church with the crowd we strolled
To see their wonder, the famous Clock.
>
Well, my love, there are clocks a many,
As big as a house, as small as a penny;
And clocks there be with voices as queer
As any that torture human ear:
Clocks that grunt, and clocks that growl,
That wheeze like a pump, and hoot like an owl,
From the coffin shape with its brooding face
That stands on the stair (you know the place),
Saying, “Click, cluck,” like an ancient hen,
A-gathering the ininutes home again,
To the kitchen knave with its wooden stutter,
Doing equal work with double splutter,
Yelping, Click, clack,” with a vulgar jerk,
As much as to say, “Just see me work! )
But of all the clocks that tell Time's bead-roll,
There are none like this in the old Cathedral;
Never a one so bids you stand
While it deals the minutes with even hand:
For clocks, like men, are better and worse,
And some you dote on, and some you curse;
And clock and man may have such a way
Of telling the truth that you can't say nay.
So in we went and stood in the crowd
To hear the old clock as it crooned aloud
With sound and symbol, the only tongue
The maker taught it while yet 'twas young.
And we saw St. Peter clasp his hands,
And the cock crow hoarsely to all the lands,
And the twelve Apostles come and go,
And the solemn Christ pass sadly and slow;
And strange that iron-legged procession,
And odd to us the whole impression,
## p. 16711 (#411) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16711
As the crowd beneath in silence pressing,
Bent to that cold mechanic blessing.
But I alone thought far in my soul
What a touch of genius was in the whole:
And felt how graceful had been the thought
Which for the signs of the months had sought,
Sweetest of symbols, Christ's chosen train;
And much I pondered, if he whose brain
Had builded this clock with labor and pain
Did only think, Twelve months there are,
And the Bible twelve will fit to a hair;
Or did he say, with a heart in tune,
Well-beloved John is the sign of June,
And changeful Peter hath April hours,
And Paul the stately, October bowers,
And sweet, or faithful, or bold, or strong,
Unto each one shall a month belong.
But beside the thought that under it lurks,
Pray, do you think clocks are saved by their works ?
Author Unknown.
TO PROWL, MY CAT
Yºu
are life's true philosopher,
An epicure of air and sun,
An egoist in sable fur,
To whom all moralists are one.
You hold your race-traditions fast,-
While others toil, you simply live;
And, based upon a stable past,
Remain a sound conservative!
You see the beauty of the world
Through eyes of unalloyed content,
And in my study chair upcurled,
Move me to pensive wonderment!
I wish I knew your trick of thought,
The perfect balance of your ways;
They seem an inspiration caught
From other laws in older days.
## p. 16712 (#412) ##########################################
16712
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Your padded footsteps prowl my room
Half in delight and half disdain;
You like this air of studious gloom
When streets without are cold with rain!
Some day, alas! you'll come to die,
And I shall lose a constant friend;
You'll take your last look at the sky,
And be a puzzle to the end!
«C. K. B. ” in London Spectator.
FOHI'S RETRIBUTION
ohi the righteous, after journeyings wide,
A wealthy woman's house at night espied,
And faint from hunger, weary, and foot-sore,
Asked if he might not rest within her door.
F"
But she was stern: “Vagrant, your way pursue;
My house was not designed for such as you :)
And, crowding him aside with cold disdain,
"No roving vagabonds I entertain. ”
Oppressed in heart, he turned his heavy feet
Where a poor woman lived across the street;
But ere he could his simple speech begin,
She met him at the gate and led him in.
C
>>
Mixing some goat's milk with her crumbs of bread,
« This is my only food, the woman said;
« But if Fohi the humble fare should bless,
There will be full enough for both, I guess. ”
Then she prepared for him a couch of straw,
And when he fell asleep, with grief she saw
He had no under-robe -a plight so sad,
She made him one from all the cloth she had.
When from their breakfast guest and hostess rise,
She begged him not her simple gift despise,
And journeying with him for a little way,
He said, “May your first work last all the day. ”
(
Arriving home, she took the linen weft,
To fold and lay aside the pieces left,
## p. 16713 (#413) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16713
When lo! it grew, till she, by working hard,
Filled up with cloth by night her house and yard!
When her rich neighbor saw this wondrous pelf,
Deeply annoyed, and vexed within herself,
She thought, although her lips could not complain,
«No such good fortune shall escape again. ”
Months after, Fohi came along once more,
When the rich woman met him at the door,
And pressed him in, and made him take a seat,
And cooked her very best for him to eat.
Then in the morning, sleep and breakfast done,
Of her fine garments gave she Fohi one,
And journeying with him for a little way,
He said, “May your first work last all the day. ”
So, turning back, but thinking all the while
Her cloth would turn into a mountainous pile,
She heard her cows, thirsting for water, low,
And said, “To fetch you drink, poor beasts, I go. ”
But as she poured into the trough her pail,
It emptied not, nor ever seemed to fail;
She kept on pouring, but it ran all day,
And drowned her cows, and swept her house away.
Her neighbors thought the highest heavens had rained,
And of the ruin to their lands complained -
Yet never ceased the source of all her. ills
Until the sun sank down behind the hills.
JOEL BENTON.
BRUCE AND THE SPIDER
FR
OR Scotland's and for freedom's right,
The Bruce his part had played,
In five successive fields of fight
Been conquered and dismayed;
Once more against the English host
His band he led, and once more lost
The meed for which he fought:
And now from battle, faint and worn,
The homeless fugitive forlorn
A hut's lone shelter sought.
## p. 16714 (#414) ##########################################
16714
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And cheerless was that resting-place
For him who claimed a throne,-
His canopy, devoid of grace,
The rude, rough beams alone;
The heather couch his only bed, -
Yet well I ween had slumber fed
From couch of eider-down!
Through darksome night till dawn of day,
Absorbed in wakeful thoughts he lay
Of Scotland and her crown.
The sun rose brightly, and its gleam
Fell on that hapless bed,
And tinged with light each shapeless beam
Which roofed the lowly shed:
When, looking up with wistful eye,
The Bruce beheld a spider try
His filmy thread to fling
From beam to beam of that rude cot;
And well the insect's toilsome lot
Taught Scotland's future king.
Six times his gossamery thread
The wary spider threw;
In vain the filmy line was sped,
For powerless or untrue
Each aim appeared, and back recoiled
The patient insect, six times foiled,
And yet unconquered still:
And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,
Saw him prepare once more to try
His courage, strength, and skill.
One effort more, his seventh and last
The hero hailed the sign!
And on the wished-for beam hung fast
That slender silken line!
Slight as it was, his spirit caught
The more than omen, for his thought
The lesson well could trace,
Which even he who runs may read, -
That Perseverance gains its meed,
And Patience wins the race.
BERNARD BARTON.
## p. 16715 (#415) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16715
THE WANTS OF MAN
(
"Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long. ”
- GOLDSMITH
“M
»
AN wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long. ”
'Tis not with me exactly so —
But 'tis so in the song.
My wants are many, and if told,
Would muster many a score;
And were each wish a mint of gold,
I still should long for more.
What first I want is daily bread,
And canvas-backs and wine;
And all the realms of nature spread
Before me when I dine; -
Four courses scarcely can provide
My appetite to quell,
With four choice cooks from France beside,
To dress my dinner well.
What next I want, at heavy cost,
Is elegant attire:
Black sable furs for winter's frost,
And silks for summer's fire,
And cashmere shawls and Brussels lace
My bosom's front to deck;
And diamond rings my hands to grace,
And rubies for my neck.
And then I want a mansion fair,
A dwelling-house, in style,
Four stories high for wholesome air, -
A massive marble pile:
With halls for banquets and for balls,
All furnished rich and fine;
With stabled studs in fifty stalls,
* And cellars for my wine.
I want a garden and a park
My dwelling to surround;
A thousand acres (bless the mark),
With walls encompassed round,
## p. 16716 (#416) ##########################################
16716
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Where flocks may range and herds may low,
And kids and lambkins play,
And flowers and fruits commingled grow
All Eden to display.
I want, when summer's foliage falls,
And autumn strips the trees,
A house within the city's walls
For comfort and for ease;-
But here, as space is somewhat scant
And acres rather rare,
My house in town I only want
To occupy — a square.
I want a steward, butler, cooks,
A coachman, footman, grooms,
A library of well-bound books,
And picture-garnished rooms -
Correggio's (Magdalen' and Night,'
The Matron of the Chair,'
Guido's fleet coursers in their Alight,
And Claudes at least a pair.
I want a cabinet profuse
Of medals, coins, and gems;
A printing-press for private use
Of fifty thousand ems;
And plants and minerals and shells,
Worms, insects, fishes, birds,
And every beast on earth that dwells,
In solitude or herds.
I want a board of burnished plate
Of silver and of gold,
Tureens of twenty pounds in weight
With sculpture's richest mold;
Plateaus with chandeliers and lamps,
Plates, dishes all the same;
And porcelain vases with the stamps
Of Sèvres or Angoulême.
And maples of fair glossy stain
Must form my chamber doors,
And carpets of the Wilton grain
Must cover all my floors.
## p. 16717 (#417) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16717
My walls, with tapestry bedecked,
Must never be outdone;
And damask curtains must protect
Their colors from the sun.
And mirrors of the largest pane
From Venice must be brought;
And sandal-wood and bamboo-cane
For chairs and tables bought;
On all the mantelpieces, clocks
Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand,
And screens of ebony and box
Invite the stranger's hand.
I want (who does not want ? ) a wife,
Affectionate and fair;
To solace all the woes of life,
And all its joys to share;
Of temper sweet, of yielding will,
Of firm yet placid mind;
With all my faults to love me still
With sentiment refined.
And as Time's car incessant runs
And Fortune fills my store,
I want of daughters and of sons
From eight to half a score.
I want (alas! can mortal dare
Such bliss on earth to crave ? )
That all the girls be chaste and fair,
The boys all wise and brave.
And when my bosom's darling sings
With melody divine,
A pedal harp of many strings
Must with her voice combine.
A piano, exquisitely wrought,
Must open stand, apart,
That all my daughters may be taught
To win the stranger's heart.
My wife and daughters will desire
Refreshment from perfumes,
Cosmetic for the skin require
And artificial blooms.
## p. 16718 (#418) ##########################################
16718
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
The civet, fragrance shall dispense
And treasured sweets return;
Cologne revive the flagging sense,
And smoking amber burn.
And when, at night, my weary head
Begins to droop and doze,
A southern chamber holds my bed
For nature's soft repose;
With blankets, counterpanes, and sheet,
Mattress and bed of down,
And comfortables for my feet,
And pillows for my crown.
I want a warm and faithful friend
To cheer the adverse hour,
Who ne'er to flatter will descend,
Nor bend the knee to power
A friend to chide me when I'm wrong,
My inmost soul to see;
And that my friendship prove as strong
For him as his for me.
I want a kind and tender heart,
For others' wants to feel;
A soul secure from Fortune's dart,
And bosom armed with steel
To bear divine chastisement's rod;
And mingling in my plan,
Submission to the will of God
With charity to man.
I want a keen, observing eye;
An ever listening ear,
The truth through all disguise to spy,
And wisdom's voice to hear;
A tongue to speak at virtue's need,
In Heaven's sublimest strain;
And lips, the cause of man to plead,
And never plead in vain.
I want uninterrupted health
Throughout my long career;
And streams of never-failing wealth
To scatter far and near,
## p. 16719 (#419) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16719
The destitute to clothe and feed,
Free bounty to bestow,
Supply the helpless orphan's need,
And soothe the widow's woe.
I want the genius to conceive,
The talents to unfold
Designs, the vicious to retrieve,
The virtuous to uphold;
Inventive power, combining skill;
A persevering soul,
Of human hearts to mold the will
And reach from pole to pole.
I want the seals of power and place,
The ensigns of command,
Charged by the people's unbought grace,
To rule my native land:
Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask,
But from my country's will,
By day, by night, to ply the task
Her cup of bliss to fill.
I want the voice of honest praise
To follow me behind;
And to be thought in future days
The friend of human-kind:
That after ages, as they rise,
Exulting may proclaim,
In choral union to the skies,
Their blessings on my name.
-
These are the wants of mortal man;
I cannot want them long –
For life itself is but a span
And earthly bliss a song.
My last great want, absorbing all,
Is, when beneath the sod,
And summoned to my final call
The mercy of my God.
And oh! while circles in my veins
Of life the purple stream,
And yet a fragment small remains
Of nature's transient dream,
## p. 16720 (#420) ##########################################
16720
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
1
My soul, in humble hope unscared,
Forget not thou to pray,
That this thy want may be prepared
To meet the Judgment Day.
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.
AFTER THE PLAY
M"
ID the tawdry purple and tinsel bright,
With a mimic crowd bowing low at his feet,
In crown and sceptre of gilt bedight,
And a poor robe falling in fold and pleat,
He stalks on the stage and takes a seat.
Ah well, let him prosper while he may:
The curtain's soon down, for the hours are fleet,
And the king's but a beggar after the play.
In his borrowed plumage, poor shallow cheat,
He struts the stage with a strange conceit;
But let him prosper while he may,
The king's but a beggar after the play.
BURTON EGBERT STEVENSON.
THE CLOWN'S SONG
1
“Η"
ERE I am! ” — and the house rejoices;
Forth I tumble from out the slips;
“Here I am! » — and a hundred voices
Welcome me on with laughing lips.
The master, with easy pride,
Treads the sawdust down;
Or quickens the horse's stride,
And calls for his jesting clown.
«What, ho, Mr. Merriman! - Dick,
Here's a lady that wants your place. ”
I throw them a somerset, quick,
And grin in some beauty's face.
I tumble and jump and chaff,
And fill them with wild delights;
Whatever my sorrow, I laugh
Through the summer and winter nights.
## p. 16721 (#421) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16721
I joke with the men, if I dare;
Do they strike, why I cringe and stoop;
And I ride like a bird in air,
And I jump through the blazing hoop.
Whatever they say or do,
I am ready with joke and gibe;
And whenever the jests are new,
I follow, like all my tribe.
But life is not all a jest,
Whatever the wise ones say;
For when I steal home to rest
(And I seek it at dawn of day),
If winter, there is no fire;
If summer, there is no air:
My welcome's a hungry choir
Of children, and scanty fare.
My wife is as lean a scold
As famine can make man's wife;
We are both of us sour and old
With drinking the dregs of life.
Yet why do I sigh? I wonder,
Would the Pit or the Boxes sigh,
Should I wash off my paint, and, under,
Show how a fool must die ?
Author Unknown.
THE FOOLS' WALTZ
EARER and clearer than monarch and minister,
Rabble and gabble, and hypocrites sinister,
Warriors and sages of far-away ages,
Are the Fools that flit through the historical pages.
NET
They gazed somewhat dazed through their patches and powder,
They wondered and blundered and ever laughed louder;
While crown tumbled down, and while creed flew to pieces,
Their range was the change of their daily caprices.
While savage did ravage and bigotry tortured,
They rambled or gambled, or planted an orchard.
They clicked the light heel in the strathspey and reel,
Built castles, held wassails, chased moths, and played tennis;
Broke the lance for fair France, and went masked in gay Venice.
XXVIII-1046
## p. 16722 (#422) ##########################################
16722
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
They spent as they went, and were reckless of rules,
Bade defiance to science, and scoffed at the schools,
Had their flings at their kings, and were pert to the proudest;
Must joke if they spoke, and themselves laughed the loudest;
Winking and wooing, whatever was doing,
Though storms of reforms and rebellions were brewing,
Talking and mocking the age that they grew in,
They quaffed the gay draught round the red fires of ruin.
Smiling and sneering, they fit out of hearing,
They bow themselves airily out of our pages;
No sound underground of their jesting and jeering,
The dear little Fools of the far-away ages!
Can marble rest heavy on all that gay bevy,
Who parted light-hearted, and knew no returning?
Are there ghosts full of laughter that haunt the hereafter,
Too mocking for bliss and too merry for burning ?
Remember - forget them — it never will fret them,
Who gibed at misfortune whenever she met them;
At joust and at revel cast care to the devil,
And lived all their lives on whoever would let them.
Concede them the meed that is due the departed!
Slight thinker, deep drinker, lax friend and light lover;
A tear not too tender, for they were light-hearted;
A laugh not too loud, for their laughter is over;
1
A prayer light as air for the dead and gone Fools,
Too light and too slight to be tyrants or tools!
Who with jest and with zest took the world as they found it; –
Perhaps they did best just by dancing around it!
HELEN THAYER HUTCHESON.
1
A SMILING DEMON OF NOTRE DAME
Q
.
UIET as are the quiet skies,
He watches where the city lies
Floating in vision clear or dim
Through sun or rain beneath his eyes;
Her songs, her laughter, and her cries
Hour after hour drift up to him.
## p. 16723 (#423) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16723
Her days of glory or disgrace
He watches with unchanging face;
He knows what midnight crimes are done;
What horrors under summer sun;
And souls that pass in holy death
Sweep by him on the morning's breath.
Alike to holiness and sin
He feels nor alien nor akin;
Five hundred creeping mortal years
He smiles on human joy and tears,
Man-made, immortal, scorning man;
Serene, grotesque Olympian.
ELLEN BURROUGHS.
AFTER WINGS
T'S
His was your butterfly, you see.
His fine wings made him vain ? .
The caterpillars crawl, but he
Passed them in rich disdain ?
My pretty boy says: "Let him be
Only a worm again” ?
O child, when things have learned to wear
Wings once, they must be fain
To keep them always high and fair.
Think of the creeping pain
Which even a butterfly must bear
To be a worm again!
SARAH M. B. PIATT.
CONTRASTS
S"
TRANGE, that we creatures of the petty ways,
Poor prisoners behind these fleshly bars,
Can sometimes think us thoughts with God ablaze.
Touching the fringes of the outer stars.
And stranger still that, having flown so high,
And stood unshamed in shining presences,
We can resume our smallness, nor imply
In mien or gesture what that memory is.
RICHARD BURTON.
## p. 16724 (#424) ##########################################
16724
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
DREAM-PEDDLERY
I
F THERE were dreams to sell,
What would you buy ?
Some cost a passing-bell;
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life's fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rung the beli,
What would you buy? –
-
A cottage lone and still,
With bowers nigh,
Shadowy, my woes to still,
Until I die.
Such pearl from Life's fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down.
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy. -
But there were dreams to sell,
111 didst thou buy:
Life is a dream, they tell,
W ing to die.
Dreaming a dream to prize
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And if I had the spell
To call the buried well,
Which one would I? -
If there are ghosts to raise,
What shall I call
Out of hell's murky haze,
Heaven's blue pall ? —
Raise my loved long-lost boy
To lead me to his joy. -
There are no ghosts to raise;
Out of death lead no ways:
Vain is the call. -
Know'st thou not ghosts to sue ?
No love thou hast. -
## p. 16725 (#425) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16725
Else lie, as I will do,
And breathe thy last.
So out of Life's fresh crown
Fall like a rose-leaf down.
Thus are the ghosts to woo;
Thus are all dreams made true,
Ever to last!
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.
1
ALIEN
WHOR
HOM the great goddess once has kissed
Between the brows,
His heart shall find no dwelling-place
Wherein to house.
The ragged mists shall be his roof,
Where mountains loom,
And swirling winds about his face
With words of doom;
The valleys when he walks therein
Are kind and warm,
Yet ever drift across his soul
Strange gusts of storm.
If, weary, he shall stop beside
An opened door,
Dreaming, “This hearthstone is my goal,
To wend no more,”
A tumult as of snows adrift
Shall fill his ears,
His heart-strings feel the old-time lure
Adown the years,
And he shall turn from that warm light
With still regret
That dreams were made not to endure -
Nor to forget.
WILLIAM CARMAN ROBERTS.
## p. 16726 (#426) ##########################################
16726
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
CINDERELLA
ERE by the kitchen fire I sit ·
Until the generous loaves be brown :
The firelight flickers up and down;
I, waiting. ponder over it.
H
The cat comes purring to my knee,
And, springing in my lap, she lies,
The firelight darting in her eyes,
And old traditions come to me.
« The black cat,” so the legends say,
“The witches ride by night,” forsooth!
The fancy-witchery of youth
Has touched the room with mystery!
The clock ticks slow, the fire burns down.
I see strange faces in the grate-
A hooded monk, a Muse, a Fate,
An ancient knight with armor on!
I see a mask: I know it hides
The smile of one I know by day —
The face behind it drops away
And leaves a pair of burning eyes!
I wait — the firelight glimmers red -
Where is my fairy coach-and-four
To take me from the narrow door,
By eager longing fancy-led ?
The cat is restless where she lies:
The soul of one who lived below
A thousand years and more ago
Looks through me from her narrow eyes!
The clock strikes slowly from the wall
I count the heavy strokes to eight;
The fire burns lower in the grate;
A mouse is stirring in the wall!
I rouse me from my revery -
I strike a match - I kneel before
And open wide the oven door –
King Alfred fared as ill as I!
DORA READ GOODALE.
## p. 16727 (#427) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16727
A WOMAN'S WISH
Wou
COULD I were lying in a field of clover,
Of clover cool and soft, and soft and sweet,
With dusky clouds on deep skies hanging over,
And scented silence at my head and feet.
Just for one hour to slip the leash of Worry,
In eager haste, from Thought's impatient neck,
And watch it coursing, in its heedless hurry
Disdaining Wisdom's call or Duty's beck!
Ah! it were sweet, where clover clumps are meeting
And daisies hiding, so to hide and rest;
No sound except my own heart's steady beating,
Rocking itself to sleep within my breast;-
Just to lie there, filled with the deeper breathing
That comes of listening a wild bird's song!
Our souls require at times this full unsheathing,-
All swords will rust if scabbard-kept too long:
And I am tired,- so tired of rigid duty,
So tired of all my tired hands find to do!
I yearn, I faint, for some of life's free beauty,
Its loose beads with no straight string running through.
Aye, laugh, if laugh you will, at my crude speech;
But women sometimes die of such a greed, -
Die for the small joys held beyond their reach,
And the assurance they have all they need!
MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND.
OUT OF DOORS
N THE urgent solitudes
Lies the spur to larger moods;
In the friendship of the trees
Dwell all sweet serenities.
IM
ETHELWYN WETHERALD.
## p. 16728 (#428) ##########################################
16728
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
WHY
HUS LONGING ?
WY
THY thus longing, thus forever sighing,
For the far-off, unattained, and dim,
While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ?
Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,
All thy restless yearnings it would still:
Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching,
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.
Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw-
If no silken cord of love hath bound thee
To some little world through weal and woe;
If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten -
No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.
Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,
Not by works that give thee world-renown,
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses
Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.
Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give;
Thou wilt find by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.
Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,
When all nature hails the lord of light,
And his smile, the mountain tops adorning,
Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright?
Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine;
But with fervent love if thou adorest,
Thou art wealthier — all the world is thine.
Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone,
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.
## p. 16729 (#429) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16729
Nature wears the color of the spirit;
Sweetly to her worshiper she sings;
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit,
Round her trusting child she fondly flings.
HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL.
LONGING
O
TROUBLED sea, that longest evermore
From out thy cold and sunless depths to rise
To the bright orb that draws thee toward the skies,
And beat'st thy breast against the unyielding shore,
In the vain struggle to unloose the bands
That bind thee down to earth; in thy despair,
With sullen roar now leaping high in air,
Now moaning, sobbing on the insatiate sands,-
Type of the soul art thou: she strives like thee,
By time and circumstance and law bound down;
She beats against the shores of the unknown,
Wrestles with unseen force, doubt, mystery,
And longs forever for the goal afar,
That shines and still retreats, like a receding star.
ANNE C. L. Botta.
AN ANTIQUE INTAGLIO
S°
INFINITELY small we scarce may trace
The magic touches of the graver's hand;
And yet so great that Time himself doth stand
With envious gaze, all powerless to efface.
Here lie the power and skill and wondrous grace
That might the stateliest palaces have planned;
And one soul's lifelong toil perchance is spanned
Within this little circle's narrow space.
Was he content, the artist ? Did he burn
With ardent pride and sweet creative bliss
O'er thy perfected loveliness, nor yearn
For wider spheres and mightier work than this?
Or from thy beauty would he sadly turn,
And sigh, and gaze on the Acropolis ?
SUSAN MARR SPALDING.
## p. 16730 (#430) ##########################################
16730
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
CARCASSONNE
1
'M GROWING old; I'm sixty years:
I've labored all my life in vain;
In all that time of hopes and fears
I've failed my dearest wish to gain:
I see full well that here below
Bliss unalloyed there is for none.
My prayer will ne'er fulfillment know:
I never have seen Carcassonne,
I never have seen Carcassonne !
You see the city from the hill –
It lies beyond the mountains blue;
And yet to reach it one must still
Five long and weary leagues pursue;
And, to return, as many more!
Ah! had the vintage plenteous grown!
The grape withheld its yellow store.
I shall not look on Carcassonne,
I shall not look on Carcassonne!
They tell me every day is there
Not more nor less than Sunday gay;
In shining robes and garments fair
The people walk upon their way;
One gazes there on castle walls
As grand as those of Babylon,
A bishop and two generals!
I do not know fair Carcassonne,
I do not know fair Carcassonne!
The curé's right: he says that we
Are ever wayward, weak, and blind;
He tells us in his homily
Ambition ruins all mankind:
Yet could I there two days have spent,
While still the autumn sweetly shone,
Ah me! I might have died content
When I had looked on Carcassonne,
When I had looked on Carcassonne!
Thy pardon, father, I beseech,
In this my prayer if I offend:
## p. 16731 (#431) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16731
One something sees beyond his reach
From childhood to his journey's end.
My wife, our little boy Aignan,
Have traveled even to Narbonne;
My grandehild has seen Perpignan:
And I have not seen Carcassonne,
And I have not seen Carcassonne!
»
So crooned one day, close by Limoux,
A peasant, double bent with age.
« Rise up, my friend,” said I: “with you
I'll go upon this pilgrimage. ”
We left next morning his abode,
But (Heaven forgive him) half-way on
The old man died upon the road :
He never gazed on Carcassonne.
Each mortal has his Carcassonne!
GUSTAVE NADAUD.
Translation of John R. Thompson.
A RADICAL
H*
E NEVER feared to pry the stable stone
That loving lichens clad with silvery gray:
Torn ivies trembled as they slipped away,
Their empty arms now loose and listless blown.
Then turning, with that ardor all his own,
“Behold my better building! ” he would say.
“I rear as well as raze: nor by decay
Nor foe nor fire can this be overthrown! »
What was it ? Had he keener sight than we?
We saw the ruin, more we could not see;
His blocks were jasper air, a dream his plan.
We called him Stormer: ever he replied,
« Unbroken calm within my breast I hide. ”
Now God be judge betwixt us and this man!
HELEN GRAY CONE.
## p. 16732 (#432) ##########################################
16732
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
FROM DUNSTAN; OR THE POLITICIAN)
«How long, O Lord, how long ? »
N"
ow poor Tom Dunstan's cold,
Our shop is duller:
Scarce a tale is told,
And our talk has lost its old
Red-republican color.
Though he was sickly and thin,
'Twas a sight to see his face,
While, sick of the country's sin,
With a bang of the fist, and chin
Thrust out, he argued the case!
He prophesied men should be free,
And the money-bags be bled!
«She's coming, she's coming! ” said he:
Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead! »
(
All day we sat in the heat,
Like spiders spinning,
Stitching full fine and fleet,
While old Moses on his seat
Sat greasily grinning;
And here Tom said his say,
And prophesied Tyranny's death;
And the tallow burned all day,
And we stitched and stitched away
In the thick smoke of our breath.
Weary, weary were we,
Our hearts as heavy as lead;
But “Patience! she's coming! ” said he:
Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead! »
(
And at night, when we took here
The rest allowed to us,
The paper came, and the beer,
And Tom read, sharp and clear,
The news out loud to us:
And then, in his witty way,
He threw the jests about;—
The cutting things he'd say
Of the wealthy and the gay!
How he turned 'em inside out!
## p. 16733 (#433) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16733
And it made our breath more free
To hearken to what he said -
“She's coming! she's coming! ” said he:
Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead! »
(
But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer,
Would mutter, “Master!
If Freedom means to appear,
I think she might step here
A little faster! »
Then, 'twas fine to see Tom flame,
And argue, and prove, and preach,
Till Jack was silent for shame,
Or a fit of coughing came
O' sudden, to spoil Tom's speech.
Ah! Tom had the eyes to see
When Tyranny should be sped -
«She's coming! she's coming! ” said he:
Courage, boys! wait and see !
Freedom's ahead ! »
But Tom was little and weak,-
The hard hours shook him;
Hollower grew his cheek;
And when he began to speak
The coughing took him:
Ere long the cheery sound
Of his chat among us ceased,
And we made a purse, all round,
That he might not starve, at least.
His pain was sorry to see,
Yet there, on his poor sick-bed,
«She's coming, in spite of me!
Courage, and wait ! » cried he:
"Freedom's ahead! »
A little before he died,
To see his passion!
« Bring me a paper,” he cried,
And then to study it tried,
In his old sharp fashion;
And with eyeballs glittering,
His look on me he bent,
## p. 16734 (#434) ##########################################
16734
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And said that savage thing
Of the lords o' the Parliament.
Then, dying, smiling on me,
<< What matter if one be dead?
She's coming at last! ” said he:
“Courage, boy! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead! »
Ay, now Tom Dunstan's cold,
The shop feels duller:
Scarce a tale is told,
And our talk has lost the old
Red-republican color.
But we see a figure gray,
And we hear a voice of death,
And the tallow burns all day,
And we stitch and stitch away
In the thick smoke of our breath;
Ay, while in the dark sit we,
Tom seems to call from the dead
«She's coming! she's coming! ” says he:
“Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead! »
How long, O Lord! how long
Must thy handmaid linger-
She who shall right the wrong,
Make the poor sufferer strong ?
Sweet morrow, bring her!
Hasten her over the sea,
O Lord! ere hope be fled!
Bring her to men and to me! -
O slave, pray still on thy knee,
FREEDOM's ahead! »
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
DUTY
I
SLEPT and dreamed that life was Beauty;
I woke, and found that life was Duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And further, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have
Before you're summoned to the grave.
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve,
## p. 16703 (#403) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16703
In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But, when again I call this way,
Well pleased the world will leave. ”
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe and stroked his horse,
The willing Muse shall tell:
He chaffered then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,
Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He passed his hours in peace.
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now one night in musing mood,
As all alone he sat,
The unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.
Half killed with anger and surprise,
«So soon returned ! ) old Dobson cries.
“So soon, d'ye call it? " Death replies:
«Surely, my friend, you're but in jest!
Since I was here before
'Tis six-and-thirty years at least,
And you are now fourscore. ”
«So much the worse,” the clown rejoined:
“To spare the aged would be kind.
However, see your search be legal;
And your authority - is 't regal?
Else you are come on a fool's errand,
With but a secretary's warrant.
Besides, you promised me three warnings,
Which I have looked for nights and mornings,
## p. 16704 (#404) ##########################################
16704
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
But for that loss of time and ease
I can recover damages. ”
“I know,” cried Death, that at the best
I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend, at least.
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable:
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength. "
“Hold! ” says the farmer; “not so fast:
I have been lame these four years past. ”
“And no great wonder,” Death replies:
«However, you still keep your eyes;
And sure, to see one's loves and friends
For legs and arms would make amends. "
“Perhaps,” says Dobson, “so it might;
But latterly I've lost my sight. ”
« This is a shocking story, faith,
Yet there's some comfort still,” says Death:
“Each strives your sadness to amuse;
I warrant you hear all the news. ”
« There's none, cries he; "and if there were,
I'm grown so deaf I could not hear. ”
>
“Nay, then,” the spectre stern rejoined,
« These are unwarrantable yearnings:
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your three sufficient warnings.
So come along; no more we'll part,"
He said, and touched him with his dart;
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate. So ends my tale.
HESTER THRALE Piozzi
THE LADYE LOVE
From "The Yearn of the Romantic)
S"
He was hardened not with knowledge of the boarding-school or
college;
She was sung at oft in language that she did not understand;
But was learned in all romancing, and in dancing, and in glancing –
Stately, fair, and tender-hearted was the Ladye of the Land.
## p. 16705 (#405) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16705
Though she dressed in shocking fashion, she inspired the deepest
passion,
And a tune upon her lutelet was a very dangerous thing;
For her smiles, were all imploring, and her sigh set all adoring,
And she strung the hearts around her like the beads upon a string.
Now, at tourneys gayly quartered, she would see her lieges slaughtered,
Till the solitary relic crawled to crown her “Beauty's Queen";
Then, from tops of balustradings, she would sigh to serenadings,
Or, with hawk or hound and suitors, she would gallop o'er the
green.
Any summer morn awaking, full of sentiment and quaking
At the ditties and the clatter of her lovers keeping guard,
She'd behold with charming satisfaction - peeping through her lat-
tice-
Scores of guitars and of gallants shattered all about her yard!
Any day she'd feel neglected if not forcibly selected
As the booty of some Baron, who would make her will his law;
Any night she'd slumber hoping to be wakened by eloping
On the pommel of the saddle of a Knight she never saw.
Then, how charmingly exciting! setting twenty knights to fighting,
And be forced to wed the victor, who would come to claim her
glove!
Or to have to sit for hours in the tallest kind of towers,
On the thinnest sort of diet, till her heart should learn to love!
They would call her cold and cruel: yet they'd fight the daily duel,
And lay vows of love eternal and despairing at her shrine;
When at last some one would win her, they would oft neglect their
dinner,
And would talk for days of dying, or of far-off Palestine!
When her Liege would go crusading, or his neighbors' lands invading,
Then from highest turret windows would she wave her lily hands:
Or, perchance, ere seeking Vandals, he would lock her safe from
scandals,
And she'd pine, from quiet convents, for her lord in Paynim lands.
Thus, a-smiling and a-sighing, and a-laughing and a-crying,
With her eyes as stars or diamonds, and her hair as silk or gold -
Never maid so sentimental, never matron half so gentle,
Never love so true and tender, as the Ladye Love of old!
GEORGE M. DAVIE.
XXVIII-1045
## p. 16706 (#406) ##########################################
16706
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
B
CAGES AND RHYMES
LESS your hearts, ye little birds,
That you woke me with your singing!
Balmily the vernal air
Greets me, from my pillow springing!
And the little birds sang on,
Undisturbed by my appearing:
True and trustful, there they sat,
With their hymns the morning cheering.
For the darlings noticed not
Snares I slyly spread around them,
Till their little feet were caught
In the threads that closely bound them.
Every morn (I thought) their songs
Would a thrill of joy send through me;
And of happiness the deep
Secret they would whisper to me.
Ah! my error soon I found;-
Say, what stillness has come o'er you?
In a golden palace lodged,
Plenteous food and drink before you!
But no answer did they give,
Pecking wildly at the wire;
And no morning serenade
Can I win for love or hire.
Many a grand and stately thought
Round my musing mind will flutter,
Which, with sweat of brow and brain
Caught in rhyme, I fain would utter.
But so stiff and dead they seemed,
With these fetters round them clinging,
Never they, you would have deemed,
From a human heart came singing.
KARL KNORTZ;
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 16707 (#407) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16707
LARKS AND NIGHTINGALES
A
LONE I sit at eventide:
The twilight glory pales,
And o'er the meadows far and wide
Chant pensive bobolinks.
(One might say nightingales! )
Song-sparrows warble on the tree,
I hear the purling brook,
And from the old “manse o'er the lea”
Flies slow the cawing crow.
(In England 'twere a rook ! )
The last faint golden beams of day
Still glow on cottage panes,
And on their lingering homeward way
Walk weary laboring men.
(Oh, would that we had swains ! )
From farm-yards, down fair rural glades
Come sounds of tinkling bells,
And songs of merry brown milkmaids,
Sweeter than oriole's.
(Yes, thank you — Philomel's! )
I could sit here till me ng came,
All through the night hours dark,
Until I saw the sun's bright flame
And heard the chickadee.
(Alas! we have no lark! )
We have no leas, no larks, no rooks,
No swains, no nightingales,
No singing milkmaids (save in books):
The poet does his best
It is the rhyme that fails !
NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.
## p. 16708 (#408) ##########################################
16708
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
LAPSUS CALAMI
W"
LL there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason
And an unmelodious verse;
When the world shall cease to wonder
At the genius of an ass,
And a boy's eccentric blunder
Shall not bring success to pass;
When mankind shall be delivered
From the clash of magazines,
And the inkstand shall be shivered
Into countless smithereens:
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore,-
When the Rudyards cease from kipling,
And the Haggards ride no more?
JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN.
THE CRYSTAL FOUNTAIN
CONVERSATION BETWEEN AN ANXIOUS MOTHER AND A POLICEMAN AT
THE WORLD'S EXHIBITION
“G
OOD policeman, tell me, pray,
Has my daughter passed this way?
You may know her by her bonnet,
Yellow shawl, and brooch upon it:
Far and near I've sought the girl;
I have lost her in the whirl.
Do you think she yonder goes,
Where the Crystal Fountain flows ? »
»
“Ma'am,” says he, “on this here ground,
Whatsomdever's lost is found:
Rest quite heasy in your mind, -
I your daughter soon will find !
Though she's got to forrin lands,
Hicy-burgs or Hegypt's sands,
Still, depend on 't, soon she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows!
## p. 16709 (#409) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16709
“Perhaps Italian h’art attracts
Her, or them there flowers in wax.
May be she has got hup-stairs
In among they. heasy-chairs,
And like Gulliver is sleeping
Where them Lillipushums 's creeping:
But she'll wake, and then she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows!
«Yet, good ma'am, I should explain,
She may stop a bit in Spain,
Smelling of them Porto snuffs,
Looking at the Turkish stuffs;
Or if warm, a Chiny fan,
Offered by the Tartar man,
Will refresh her as she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows!
«She may see the silver things,-
Little watches, chains, and rings;
Or mayhap, ma'am, she may stray
Where the monster horgans play;
Or the music of all sorts,
Great and small pianny-forts,
May detain her as she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows!
“Or she may have gone in hope
Of a patent henvelope
To take home,- and if she's able,
Try to see the Roman table;
Or insist on one peep more
At the sparkling Koh-hi-nore:
Then, the chance is, on she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows! »
“Well, policeman, certainly
You're the man to have an eye
Over such a place as this,
And to find a straying Miss!
Pray, good man, my daughter tell,
When she hears them ring the bell,
I shall find her, if she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows ! »
From Punch.
## p. 16710 (#410) ##########################################
16710
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE STRASBURG CLOCK
M
ANY and many a year ago
To say how many I scarcely dare -
Three of us stood in Strasburg streets,
In the wide and open square,
Where, quaint and old and touched with gold
Of a summer morn, at stroke of noon
The tongue of the great Cathedral tolled,
And into the church with the crowd we strolled
To see their wonder, the famous Clock.
>
Well, my love, there are clocks a many,
As big as a house, as small as a penny;
And clocks there be with voices as queer
As any that torture human ear:
Clocks that grunt, and clocks that growl,
That wheeze like a pump, and hoot like an owl,
From the coffin shape with its brooding face
That stands on the stair (you know the place),
Saying, “Click, cluck,” like an ancient hen,
A-gathering the ininutes home again,
To the kitchen knave with its wooden stutter,
Doing equal work with double splutter,
Yelping, Click, clack,” with a vulgar jerk,
As much as to say, “Just see me work! )
But of all the clocks that tell Time's bead-roll,
There are none like this in the old Cathedral;
Never a one so bids you stand
While it deals the minutes with even hand:
For clocks, like men, are better and worse,
And some you dote on, and some you curse;
And clock and man may have such a way
Of telling the truth that you can't say nay.
So in we went and stood in the crowd
To hear the old clock as it crooned aloud
With sound and symbol, the only tongue
The maker taught it while yet 'twas young.
And we saw St. Peter clasp his hands,
And the cock crow hoarsely to all the lands,
And the twelve Apostles come and go,
And the solemn Christ pass sadly and slow;
And strange that iron-legged procession,
And odd to us the whole impression,
## p. 16711 (#411) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16711
As the crowd beneath in silence pressing,
Bent to that cold mechanic blessing.
But I alone thought far in my soul
What a touch of genius was in the whole:
And felt how graceful had been the thought
Which for the signs of the months had sought,
Sweetest of symbols, Christ's chosen train;
And much I pondered, if he whose brain
Had builded this clock with labor and pain
Did only think, Twelve months there are,
And the Bible twelve will fit to a hair;
Or did he say, with a heart in tune,
Well-beloved John is the sign of June,
And changeful Peter hath April hours,
And Paul the stately, October bowers,
And sweet, or faithful, or bold, or strong,
Unto each one shall a month belong.
But beside the thought that under it lurks,
Pray, do you think clocks are saved by their works ?
Author Unknown.
TO PROWL, MY CAT
Yºu
are life's true philosopher,
An epicure of air and sun,
An egoist in sable fur,
To whom all moralists are one.
You hold your race-traditions fast,-
While others toil, you simply live;
And, based upon a stable past,
Remain a sound conservative!
You see the beauty of the world
Through eyes of unalloyed content,
And in my study chair upcurled,
Move me to pensive wonderment!
I wish I knew your trick of thought,
The perfect balance of your ways;
They seem an inspiration caught
From other laws in older days.
## p. 16712 (#412) ##########################################
16712
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Your padded footsteps prowl my room
Half in delight and half disdain;
You like this air of studious gloom
When streets without are cold with rain!
Some day, alas! you'll come to die,
And I shall lose a constant friend;
You'll take your last look at the sky,
And be a puzzle to the end!
«C. K. B. ” in London Spectator.
FOHI'S RETRIBUTION
ohi the righteous, after journeyings wide,
A wealthy woman's house at night espied,
And faint from hunger, weary, and foot-sore,
Asked if he might not rest within her door.
F"
But she was stern: “Vagrant, your way pursue;
My house was not designed for such as you :)
And, crowding him aside with cold disdain,
"No roving vagabonds I entertain. ”
Oppressed in heart, he turned his heavy feet
Where a poor woman lived across the street;
But ere he could his simple speech begin,
She met him at the gate and led him in.
C
>>
Mixing some goat's milk with her crumbs of bread,
« This is my only food, the woman said;
« But if Fohi the humble fare should bless,
There will be full enough for both, I guess. ”
Then she prepared for him a couch of straw,
And when he fell asleep, with grief she saw
He had no under-robe -a plight so sad,
She made him one from all the cloth she had.
When from their breakfast guest and hostess rise,
She begged him not her simple gift despise,
And journeying with him for a little way,
He said, “May your first work last all the day. ”
(
Arriving home, she took the linen weft,
To fold and lay aside the pieces left,
## p. 16713 (#413) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16713
When lo! it grew, till she, by working hard,
Filled up with cloth by night her house and yard!
When her rich neighbor saw this wondrous pelf,
Deeply annoyed, and vexed within herself,
She thought, although her lips could not complain,
«No such good fortune shall escape again. ”
Months after, Fohi came along once more,
When the rich woman met him at the door,
And pressed him in, and made him take a seat,
And cooked her very best for him to eat.
Then in the morning, sleep and breakfast done,
Of her fine garments gave she Fohi one,
And journeying with him for a little way,
He said, “May your first work last all the day. ”
So, turning back, but thinking all the while
Her cloth would turn into a mountainous pile,
She heard her cows, thirsting for water, low,
And said, “To fetch you drink, poor beasts, I go. ”
But as she poured into the trough her pail,
It emptied not, nor ever seemed to fail;
She kept on pouring, but it ran all day,
And drowned her cows, and swept her house away.
Her neighbors thought the highest heavens had rained,
And of the ruin to their lands complained -
Yet never ceased the source of all her. ills
Until the sun sank down behind the hills.
JOEL BENTON.
BRUCE AND THE SPIDER
FR
OR Scotland's and for freedom's right,
The Bruce his part had played,
In five successive fields of fight
Been conquered and dismayed;
Once more against the English host
His band he led, and once more lost
The meed for which he fought:
And now from battle, faint and worn,
The homeless fugitive forlorn
A hut's lone shelter sought.
## p. 16714 (#414) ##########################################
16714
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And cheerless was that resting-place
For him who claimed a throne,-
His canopy, devoid of grace,
The rude, rough beams alone;
The heather couch his only bed, -
Yet well I ween had slumber fed
From couch of eider-down!
Through darksome night till dawn of day,
Absorbed in wakeful thoughts he lay
Of Scotland and her crown.
The sun rose brightly, and its gleam
Fell on that hapless bed,
And tinged with light each shapeless beam
Which roofed the lowly shed:
When, looking up with wistful eye,
The Bruce beheld a spider try
His filmy thread to fling
From beam to beam of that rude cot;
And well the insect's toilsome lot
Taught Scotland's future king.
Six times his gossamery thread
The wary spider threw;
In vain the filmy line was sped,
For powerless or untrue
Each aim appeared, and back recoiled
The patient insect, six times foiled,
And yet unconquered still:
And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,
Saw him prepare once more to try
His courage, strength, and skill.
One effort more, his seventh and last
The hero hailed the sign!
And on the wished-for beam hung fast
That slender silken line!
Slight as it was, his spirit caught
The more than omen, for his thought
The lesson well could trace,
Which even he who runs may read, -
That Perseverance gains its meed,
And Patience wins the race.
BERNARD BARTON.
## p. 16715 (#415) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16715
THE WANTS OF MAN
(
"Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long. ”
- GOLDSMITH
“M
»
AN wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long. ”
'Tis not with me exactly so —
But 'tis so in the song.
My wants are many, and if told,
Would muster many a score;
And were each wish a mint of gold,
I still should long for more.
What first I want is daily bread,
And canvas-backs and wine;
And all the realms of nature spread
Before me when I dine; -
Four courses scarcely can provide
My appetite to quell,
With four choice cooks from France beside,
To dress my dinner well.
What next I want, at heavy cost,
Is elegant attire:
Black sable furs for winter's frost,
And silks for summer's fire,
And cashmere shawls and Brussels lace
My bosom's front to deck;
And diamond rings my hands to grace,
And rubies for my neck.
And then I want a mansion fair,
A dwelling-house, in style,
Four stories high for wholesome air, -
A massive marble pile:
With halls for banquets and for balls,
All furnished rich and fine;
With stabled studs in fifty stalls,
* And cellars for my wine.
I want a garden and a park
My dwelling to surround;
A thousand acres (bless the mark),
With walls encompassed round,
## p. 16716 (#416) ##########################################
16716
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Where flocks may range and herds may low,
And kids and lambkins play,
And flowers and fruits commingled grow
All Eden to display.
I want, when summer's foliage falls,
And autumn strips the trees,
A house within the city's walls
For comfort and for ease;-
But here, as space is somewhat scant
And acres rather rare,
My house in town I only want
To occupy — a square.
I want a steward, butler, cooks,
A coachman, footman, grooms,
A library of well-bound books,
And picture-garnished rooms -
Correggio's (Magdalen' and Night,'
The Matron of the Chair,'
Guido's fleet coursers in their Alight,
And Claudes at least a pair.
I want a cabinet profuse
Of medals, coins, and gems;
A printing-press for private use
Of fifty thousand ems;
And plants and minerals and shells,
Worms, insects, fishes, birds,
And every beast on earth that dwells,
In solitude or herds.
I want a board of burnished plate
Of silver and of gold,
Tureens of twenty pounds in weight
With sculpture's richest mold;
Plateaus with chandeliers and lamps,
Plates, dishes all the same;
And porcelain vases with the stamps
Of Sèvres or Angoulême.
And maples of fair glossy stain
Must form my chamber doors,
And carpets of the Wilton grain
Must cover all my floors.
## p. 16717 (#417) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16717
My walls, with tapestry bedecked,
Must never be outdone;
And damask curtains must protect
Their colors from the sun.
And mirrors of the largest pane
From Venice must be brought;
And sandal-wood and bamboo-cane
For chairs and tables bought;
On all the mantelpieces, clocks
Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand,
And screens of ebony and box
Invite the stranger's hand.
I want (who does not want ? ) a wife,
Affectionate and fair;
To solace all the woes of life,
And all its joys to share;
Of temper sweet, of yielding will,
Of firm yet placid mind;
With all my faults to love me still
With sentiment refined.
And as Time's car incessant runs
And Fortune fills my store,
I want of daughters and of sons
From eight to half a score.
I want (alas! can mortal dare
Such bliss on earth to crave ? )
That all the girls be chaste and fair,
The boys all wise and brave.
And when my bosom's darling sings
With melody divine,
A pedal harp of many strings
Must with her voice combine.
A piano, exquisitely wrought,
Must open stand, apart,
That all my daughters may be taught
To win the stranger's heart.
My wife and daughters will desire
Refreshment from perfumes,
Cosmetic for the skin require
And artificial blooms.
## p. 16718 (#418) ##########################################
16718
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
The civet, fragrance shall dispense
And treasured sweets return;
Cologne revive the flagging sense,
And smoking amber burn.
And when, at night, my weary head
Begins to droop and doze,
A southern chamber holds my bed
For nature's soft repose;
With blankets, counterpanes, and sheet,
Mattress and bed of down,
And comfortables for my feet,
And pillows for my crown.
I want a warm and faithful friend
To cheer the adverse hour,
Who ne'er to flatter will descend,
Nor bend the knee to power
A friend to chide me when I'm wrong,
My inmost soul to see;
And that my friendship prove as strong
For him as his for me.
I want a kind and tender heart,
For others' wants to feel;
A soul secure from Fortune's dart,
And bosom armed with steel
To bear divine chastisement's rod;
And mingling in my plan,
Submission to the will of God
With charity to man.
I want a keen, observing eye;
An ever listening ear,
The truth through all disguise to spy,
And wisdom's voice to hear;
A tongue to speak at virtue's need,
In Heaven's sublimest strain;
And lips, the cause of man to plead,
And never plead in vain.
I want uninterrupted health
Throughout my long career;
And streams of never-failing wealth
To scatter far and near,
## p. 16719 (#419) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16719
The destitute to clothe and feed,
Free bounty to bestow,
Supply the helpless orphan's need,
And soothe the widow's woe.
I want the genius to conceive,
The talents to unfold
Designs, the vicious to retrieve,
The virtuous to uphold;
Inventive power, combining skill;
A persevering soul,
Of human hearts to mold the will
And reach from pole to pole.
I want the seals of power and place,
The ensigns of command,
Charged by the people's unbought grace,
To rule my native land:
Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask,
But from my country's will,
By day, by night, to ply the task
Her cup of bliss to fill.
I want the voice of honest praise
To follow me behind;
And to be thought in future days
The friend of human-kind:
That after ages, as they rise,
Exulting may proclaim,
In choral union to the skies,
Their blessings on my name.
-
These are the wants of mortal man;
I cannot want them long –
For life itself is but a span
And earthly bliss a song.
My last great want, absorbing all,
Is, when beneath the sod,
And summoned to my final call
The mercy of my God.
And oh! while circles in my veins
Of life the purple stream,
And yet a fragment small remains
Of nature's transient dream,
## p. 16720 (#420) ##########################################
16720
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
1
My soul, in humble hope unscared,
Forget not thou to pray,
That this thy want may be prepared
To meet the Judgment Day.
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.
AFTER THE PLAY
M"
ID the tawdry purple and tinsel bright,
With a mimic crowd bowing low at his feet,
In crown and sceptre of gilt bedight,
And a poor robe falling in fold and pleat,
He stalks on the stage and takes a seat.
Ah well, let him prosper while he may:
The curtain's soon down, for the hours are fleet,
And the king's but a beggar after the play.
In his borrowed plumage, poor shallow cheat,
He struts the stage with a strange conceit;
But let him prosper while he may,
The king's but a beggar after the play.
BURTON EGBERT STEVENSON.
THE CLOWN'S SONG
1
“Η"
ERE I am! ” — and the house rejoices;
Forth I tumble from out the slips;
“Here I am! » — and a hundred voices
Welcome me on with laughing lips.
The master, with easy pride,
Treads the sawdust down;
Or quickens the horse's stride,
And calls for his jesting clown.
«What, ho, Mr. Merriman! - Dick,
Here's a lady that wants your place. ”
I throw them a somerset, quick,
And grin in some beauty's face.
I tumble and jump and chaff,
And fill them with wild delights;
Whatever my sorrow, I laugh
Through the summer and winter nights.
## p. 16721 (#421) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16721
I joke with the men, if I dare;
Do they strike, why I cringe and stoop;
And I ride like a bird in air,
And I jump through the blazing hoop.
Whatever they say or do,
I am ready with joke and gibe;
And whenever the jests are new,
I follow, like all my tribe.
But life is not all a jest,
Whatever the wise ones say;
For when I steal home to rest
(And I seek it at dawn of day),
If winter, there is no fire;
If summer, there is no air:
My welcome's a hungry choir
Of children, and scanty fare.
My wife is as lean a scold
As famine can make man's wife;
We are both of us sour and old
With drinking the dregs of life.
Yet why do I sigh? I wonder,
Would the Pit or the Boxes sigh,
Should I wash off my paint, and, under,
Show how a fool must die ?
Author Unknown.
THE FOOLS' WALTZ
EARER and clearer than monarch and minister,
Rabble and gabble, and hypocrites sinister,
Warriors and sages of far-away ages,
Are the Fools that flit through the historical pages.
NET
They gazed somewhat dazed through their patches and powder,
They wondered and blundered and ever laughed louder;
While crown tumbled down, and while creed flew to pieces,
Their range was the change of their daily caprices.
While savage did ravage and bigotry tortured,
They rambled or gambled, or planted an orchard.
They clicked the light heel in the strathspey and reel,
Built castles, held wassails, chased moths, and played tennis;
Broke the lance for fair France, and went masked in gay Venice.
XXVIII-1046
## p. 16722 (#422) ##########################################
16722
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
They spent as they went, and were reckless of rules,
Bade defiance to science, and scoffed at the schools,
Had their flings at their kings, and were pert to the proudest;
Must joke if they spoke, and themselves laughed the loudest;
Winking and wooing, whatever was doing,
Though storms of reforms and rebellions were brewing,
Talking and mocking the age that they grew in,
They quaffed the gay draught round the red fires of ruin.
Smiling and sneering, they fit out of hearing,
They bow themselves airily out of our pages;
No sound underground of their jesting and jeering,
The dear little Fools of the far-away ages!
Can marble rest heavy on all that gay bevy,
Who parted light-hearted, and knew no returning?
Are there ghosts full of laughter that haunt the hereafter,
Too mocking for bliss and too merry for burning ?
Remember - forget them — it never will fret them,
Who gibed at misfortune whenever she met them;
At joust and at revel cast care to the devil,
And lived all their lives on whoever would let them.
Concede them the meed that is due the departed!
Slight thinker, deep drinker, lax friend and light lover;
A tear not too tender, for they were light-hearted;
A laugh not too loud, for their laughter is over;
1
A prayer light as air for the dead and gone Fools,
Too light and too slight to be tyrants or tools!
Who with jest and with zest took the world as they found it; –
Perhaps they did best just by dancing around it!
HELEN THAYER HUTCHESON.
1
A SMILING DEMON OF NOTRE DAME
Q
.
UIET as are the quiet skies,
He watches where the city lies
Floating in vision clear or dim
Through sun or rain beneath his eyes;
Her songs, her laughter, and her cries
Hour after hour drift up to him.
## p. 16723 (#423) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16723
Her days of glory or disgrace
He watches with unchanging face;
He knows what midnight crimes are done;
What horrors under summer sun;
And souls that pass in holy death
Sweep by him on the morning's breath.
Alike to holiness and sin
He feels nor alien nor akin;
Five hundred creeping mortal years
He smiles on human joy and tears,
Man-made, immortal, scorning man;
Serene, grotesque Olympian.
ELLEN BURROUGHS.
AFTER WINGS
T'S
His was your butterfly, you see.
His fine wings made him vain ? .
The caterpillars crawl, but he
Passed them in rich disdain ?
My pretty boy says: "Let him be
Only a worm again” ?
O child, when things have learned to wear
Wings once, they must be fain
To keep them always high and fair.
Think of the creeping pain
Which even a butterfly must bear
To be a worm again!
SARAH M. B. PIATT.
CONTRASTS
S"
TRANGE, that we creatures of the petty ways,
Poor prisoners behind these fleshly bars,
Can sometimes think us thoughts with God ablaze.
Touching the fringes of the outer stars.
And stranger still that, having flown so high,
And stood unshamed in shining presences,
We can resume our smallness, nor imply
In mien or gesture what that memory is.
RICHARD BURTON.
## p. 16724 (#424) ##########################################
16724
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
DREAM-PEDDLERY
I
F THERE were dreams to sell,
What would you buy ?
Some cost a passing-bell;
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life's fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rung the beli,
What would you buy? –
-
A cottage lone and still,
With bowers nigh,
Shadowy, my woes to still,
Until I die.
Such pearl from Life's fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down.
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy. -
But there were dreams to sell,
111 didst thou buy:
Life is a dream, they tell,
W ing to die.
Dreaming a dream to prize
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And if I had the spell
To call the buried well,
Which one would I? -
If there are ghosts to raise,
What shall I call
Out of hell's murky haze,
Heaven's blue pall ? —
Raise my loved long-lost boy
To lead me to his joy. -
There are no ghosts to raise;
Out of death lead no ways:
Vain is the call. -
Know'st thou not ghosts to sue ?
No love thou hast. -
## p. 16725 (#425) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16725
Else lie, as I will do,
And breathe thy last.
So out of Life's fresh crown
Fall like a rose-leaf down.
Thus are the ghosts to woo;
Thus are all dreams made true,
Ever to last!
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.
1
ALIEN
WHOR
HOM the great goddess once has kissed
Between the brows,
His heart shall find no dwelling-place
Wherein to house.
The ragged mists shall be his roof,
Where mountains loom,
And swirling winds about his face
With words of doom;
The valleys when he walks therein
Are kind and warm,
Yet ever drift across his soul
Strange gusts of storm.
If, weary, he shall stop beside
An opened door,
Dreaming, “This hearthstone is my goal,
To wend no more,”
A tumult as of snows adrift
Shall fill his ears,
His heart-strings feel the old-time lure
Adown the years,
And he shall turn from that warm light
With still regret
That dreams were made not to endure -
Nor to forget.
WILLIAM CARMAN ROBERTS.
## p. 16726 (#426) ##########################################
16726
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
CINDERELLA
ERE by the kitchen fire I sit ·
Until the generous loaves be brown :
The firelight flickers up and down;
I, waiting. ponder over it.
H
The cat comes purring to my knee,
And, springing in my lap, she lies,
The firelight darting in her eyes,
And old traditions come to me.
« The black cat,” so the legends say,
“The witches ride by night,” forsooth!
The fancy-witchery of youth
Has touched the room with mystery!
The clock ticks slow, the fire burns down.
I see strange faces in the grate-
A hooded monk, a Muse, a Fate,
An ancient knight with armor on!
I see a mask: I know it hides
The smile of one I know by day —
The face behind it drops away
And leaves a pair of burning eyes!
I wait — the firelight glimmers red -
Where is my fairy coach-and-four
To take me from the narrow door,
By eager longing fancy-led ?
The cat is restless where she lies:
The soul of one who lived below
A thousand years and more ago
Looks through me from her narrow eyes!
The clock strikes slowly from the wall
I count the heavy strokes to eight;
The fire burns lower in the grate;
A mouse is stirring in the wall!
I rouse me from my revery -
I strike a match - I kneel before
And open wide the oven door –
King Alfred fared as ill as I!
DORA READ GOODALE.
## p. 16727 (#427) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16727
A WOMAN'S WISH
Wou
COULD I were lying in a field of clover,
Of clover cool and soft, and soft and sweet,
With dusky clouds on deep skies hanging over,
And scented silence at my head and feet.
Just for one hour to slip the leash of Worry,
In eager haste, from Thought's impatient neck,
And watch it coursing, in its heedless hurry
Disdaining Wisdom's call or Duty's beck!
Ah! it were sweet, where clover clumps are meeting
And daisies hiding, so to hide and rest;
No sound except my own heart's steady beating,
Rocking itself to sleep within my breast;-
Just to lie there, filled with the deeper breathing
That comes of listening a wild bird's song!
Our souls require at times this full unsheathing,-
All swords will rust if scabbard-kept too long:
And I am tired,- so tired of rigid duty,
So tired of all my tired hands find to do!
I yearn, I faint, for some of life's free beauty,
Its loose beads with no straight string running through.
Aye, laugh, if laugh you will, at my crude speech;
But women sometimes die of such a greed, -
Die for the small joys held beyond their reach,
And the assurance they have all they need!
MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND.
OUT OF DOORS
N THE urgent solitudes
Lies the spur to larger moods;
In the friendship of the trees
Dwell all sweet serenities.
IM
ETHELWYN WETHERALD.
## p. 16728 (#428) ##########################################
16728
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
WHY
HUS LONGING ?
WY
THY thus longing, thus forever sighing,
For the far-off, unattained, and dim,
While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ?
Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,
All thy restless yearnings it would still:
Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching,
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.
Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw-
If no silken cord of love hath bound thee
To some little world through weal and woe;
If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten -
No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.
Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,
Not by works that give thee world-renown,
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses
Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.
Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give;
Thou wilt find by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.
Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,
When all nature hails the lord of light,
And his smile, the mountain tops adorning,
Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright?
Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine;
But with fervent love if thou adorest,
Thou art wealthier — all the world is thine.
Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone,
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.
## p. 16729 (#429) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16729
Nature wears the color of the spirit;
Sweetly to her worshiper she sings;
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit,
Round her trusting child she fondly flings.
HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL.
LONGING
O
TROUBLED sea, that longest evermore
From out thy cold and sunless depths to rise
To the bright orb that draws thee toward the skies,
And beat'st thy breast against the unyielding shore,
In the vain struggle to unloose the bands
That bind thee down to earth; in thy despair,
With sullen roar now leaping high in air,
Now moaning, sobbing on the insatiate sands,-
Type of the soul art thou: she strives like thee,
By time and circumstance and law bound down;
She beats against the shores of the unknown,
Wrestles with unseen force, doubt, mystery,
And longs forever for the goal afar,
That shines and still retreats, like a receding star.
ANNE C. L. Botta.
AN ANTIQUE INTAGLIO
S°
INFINITELY small we scarce may trace
The magic touches of the graver's hand;
And yet so great that Time himself doth stand
With envious gaze, all powerless to efface.
Here lie the power and skill and wondrous grace
That might the stateliest palaces have planned;
And one soul's lifelong toil perchance is spanned
Within this little circle's narrow space.
Was he content, the artist ? Did he burn
With ardent pride and sweet creative bliss
O'er thy perfected loveliness, nor yearn
For wider spheres and mightier work than this?
Or from thy beauty would he sadly turn,
And sigh, and gaze on the Acropolis ?
SUSAN MARR SPALDING.
## p. 16730 (#430) ##########################################
16730
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
CARCASSONNE
1
'M GROWING old; I'm sixty years:
I've labored all my life in vain;
In all that time of hopes and fears
I've failed my dearest wish to gain:
I see full well that here below
Bliss unalloyed there is for none.
My prayer will ne'er fulfillment know:
I never have seen Carcassonne,
I never have seen Carcassonne !
You see the city from the hill –
It lies beyond the mountains blue;
And yet to reach it one must still
Five long and weary leagues pursue;
And, to return, as many more!
Ah! had the vintage plenteous grown!
The grape withheld its yellow store.
I shall not look on Carcassonne,
I shall not look on Carcassonne!
They tell me every day is there
Not more nor less than Sunday gay;
In shining robes and garments fair
The people walk upon their way;
One gazes there on castle walls
As grand as those of Babylon,
A bishop and two generals!
I do not know fair Carcassonne,
I do not know fair Carcassonne!
The curé's right: he says that we
Are ever wayward, weak, and blind;
He tells us in his homily
Ambition ruins all mankind:
Yet could I there two days have spent,
While still the autumn sweetly shone,
Ah me! I might have died content
When I had looked on Carcassonne,
When I had looked on Carcassonne!
Thy pardon, father, I beseech,
In this my prayer if I offend:
## p. 16731 (#431) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16731
One something sees beyond his reach
From childhood to his journey's end.
My wife, our little boy Aignan,
Have traveled even to Narbonne;
My grandehild has seen Perpignan:
And I have not seen Carcassonne,
And I have not seen Carcassonne!
»
So crooned one day, close by Limoux,
A peasant, double bent with age.
« Rise up, my friend,” said I: “with you
I'll go upon this pilgrimage. ”
We left next morning his abode,
But (Heaven forgive him) half-way on
The old man died upon the road :
He never gazed on Carcassonne.
Each mortal has his Carcassonne!
GUSTAVE NADAUD.
Translation of John R. Thompson.
A RADICAL
H*
E NEVER feared to pry the stable stone
That loving lichens clad with silvery gray:
Torn ivies trembled as they slipped away,
Their empty arms now loose and listless blown.
Then turning, with that ardor all his own,
“Behold my better building! ” he would say.
“I rear as well as raze: nor by decay
Nor foe nor fire can this be overthrown! »
What was it ? Had he keener sight than we?
We saw the ruin, more we could not see;
His blocks were jasper air, a dream his plan.
We called him Stormer: ever he replied,
« Unbroken calm within my breast I hide. ”
Now God be judge betwixt us and this man!
HELEN GRAY CONE.
## p. 16732 (#432) ##########################################
16732
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
FROM DUNSTAN; OR THE POLITICIAN)
«How long, O Lord, how long ? »
N"
ow poor Tom Dunstan's cold,
Our shop is duller:
Scarce a tale is told,
And our talk has lost its old
Red-republican color.
Though he was sickly and thin,
'Twas a sight to see his face,
While, sick of the country's sin,
With a bang of the fist, and chin
Thrust out, he argued the case!
He prophesied men should be free,
And the money-bags be bled!
«She's coming, she's coming! ” said he:
Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead! »
(
All day we sat in the heat,
Like spiders spinning,
Stitching full fine and fleet,
While old Moses on his seat
Sat greasily grinning;
And here Tom said his say,
And prophesied Tyranny's death;
And the tallow burned all day,
And we stitched and stitched away
In the thick smoke of our breath.
Weary, weary were we,
Our hearts as heavy as lead;
But “Patience! she's coming! ” said he:
Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead! »
(
And at night, when we took here
The rest allowed to us,
The paper came, and the beer,
And Tom read, sharp and clear,
The news out loud to us:
And then, in his witty way,
He threw the jests about;—
The cutting things he'd say
Of the wealthy and the gay!
How he turned 'em inside out!
## p. 16733 (#433) ##########################################
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16733
And it made our breath more free
To hearken to what he said -
“She's coming! she's coming! ” said he:
Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead! »
(
But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer,
Would mutter, “Master!
If Freedom means to appear,
I think she might step here
A little faster! »
Then, 'twas fine to see Tom flame,
And argue, and prove, and preach,
Till Jack was silent for shame,
Or a fit of coughing came
O' sudden, to spoil Tom's speech.
Ah! Tom had the eyes to see
When Tyranny should be sped -
«She's coming! she's coming! ” said he:
Courage, boys! wait and see !
Freedom's ahead ! »
But Tom was little and weak,-
The hard hours shook him;
Hollower grew his cheek;
And when he began to speak
The coughing took him:
Ere long the cheery sound
Of his chat among us ceased,
And we made a purse, all round,
That he might not starve, at least.
His pain was sorry to see,
Yet there, on his poor sick-bed,
«She's coming, in spite of me!
Courage, and wait ! » cried he:
"Freedom's ahead! »
A little before he died,
To see his passion!
« Bring me a paper,” he cried,
And then to study it tried,
In his old sharp fashion;
And with eyeballs glittering,
His look on me he bent,
## p. 16734 (#434) ##########################################
16734
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And said that savage thing
Of the lords o' the Parliament.
Then, dying, smiling on me,
<< What matter if one be dead?
She's coming at last! ” said he:
“Courage, boy! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead! »
Ay, now Tom Dunstan's cold,
The shop feels duller:
Scarce a tale is told,
And our talk has lost the old
Red-republican color.
But we see a figure gray,
And we hear a voice of death,
And the tallow burns all day,
And we stitch and stitch away
In the thick smoke of our breath;
Ay, while in the dark sit we,
Tom seems to call from the dead
«She's coming! she's coming! ” says he:
“Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead! »
How long, O Lord! how long
Must thy handmaid linger-
She who shall right the wrong,
Make the poor sufferer strong ?
Sweet morrow, bring her!
Hasten her over the sea,
O Lord! ere hope be fled!
Bring her to men and to me! -
O slave, pray still on thy knee,
FREEDOM's ahead! »
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
DUTY
I
SLEPT and dreamed that life was Beauty;
I woke, and found that life was Duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
