Poems You Ought to Know

Macdonald Clarke was born at New London, Conn., in 1798.  On account of his many eccentricities he gained the name of the “Mad Poet.”  His poems have been collected under the titles of “A Review of the Eve of Eternity and Other Poems,” “The Elixir of Moonshine, by the Mad Poet,” “The Gossip,” “Poetic Sketches,” and “The Belles of Broadway.”  He died in 1842.

’Mid the half-lit air, and the lonely place,
   Rose the buried Pleasures of perish’d years.
I saw the Past, with her pallid face,
   Whose smiles had turned to tears.
On many a burial stone,
I read the names of beings once known,
   Who oft in childish glee,
   Had jumped across the graves with me—
Sported, many a truant day,
Where—now their ashes lay.

There the dead Poet had been placed,
   Who died in the dawn of thought—
And there, the girl whose virtues graced
   The lines his love had wrought—
Beauty’s power, and Talent’s pride,
   And Passion’s fever, early chill’d
   The heart that felt, the eye that thrill’d,
All, the dazzling dreams of each,
Faded, out of Rapture’s reach.

The sun had sunk, and the summer skies
   Were dotted with specks of light,
That melted soon, in the deep moon-rise,
   That flowed over Croton Height.
For the Evening, in her robe of white,
   Smiled o’er sea and land, with pensive eyes,
Saddening the heart, like the first fair night,
   After a loved one dies.

BONNY DUNDEE.
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

To the lords of convention ’twas Claver’se who spoke,
“Ere the king’s crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke;
So let each cavalier who loves honor and me
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.

      “Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
      Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;
      Come open the West Port and let me gang free,
      And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.”

With sour featured whigs the Grassmarket was crammed,
As if half the west had set tryst to be hanged;
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each ee,
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,
And lang hafted gullies to kill cavaliers;
And they shrunk to close heads, and the causeway was free,
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.

“Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks—
Ere I own an usurper, I’ll couch with the fox;
And tremble, false whigs, in the midst of your glee;
You have not seen the last of my bonnets and me.”

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
   Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order?
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale
   All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the border.
      Many a banner spread
      Flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story.
      Mount and make ready then,
      Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for the queen and our old Scottish glory.

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,
   Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,
   Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
      Trumpets are sounding,
      War steeds are bounding;
Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order,
      England shall many a day
      Tell of the bloody fray,
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

This poem, like Bryant’s “Waterfowl,” like many of Longfellow’s, speaks of the objects of nature in a reflective, almost religious tone, portraying the love of our American poets for “these living pages of God’s book.”

Dear common flower, that grow’st beside the way,
   Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,
First pledge of blithesome May,
   Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,
High hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they
An El Dorado in the grass have found,
Which not the rich earth’s ample round
May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me
Than all the prouder summer blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow
   Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,
Nor wrinkled the lean brow
   Of age to rob the lover’s heart of ease;
’Tis the spring’s largess, which she scatters now
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,
Though most hearts never understand
To take it at God’s value, but pass by
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye,

How like a prodigal doth nature seem,
   When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!
Thou teachest me to deem
   More sacredly of every human heart,
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,
Did we but pay the love we owe.
And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look,
On all these pages of God’s book.

This poem has passed in American books of selections as having been written by an unknown “R. Garrett,” this being mainly the consequence of an error in editing the little book called “Sea and Shore,” some twenty years ago.  It now, however, appears as the work of a man dear to many Americans, Dr. Richard Garnett, late of the British Museum.

The stream was smooth as glass.  We said: “Arise, and let’s away.”
The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay,
And spread the sail and strong the oar, we gayly took our way.
When shall the sandy bar be crost?  When shall we find the bay?

The broadening flood swells slowly out o’er cattle dotted plains;
The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains;
The laborer looks up to see our shallop speed away.
When shall the sandy bar be crost?  When shall we find the bay?

Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large,
Slow as an oak to woodman’s stroke, sinks flaming at their marge;
The waves are bright with mirror’d light as jacinths on our way.
When shall the sandy bar be crost?  When shall we find the bay?

The seagull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sight
The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.
We’ll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay,
When once the sandy bar is crost and we are in the bay.

What rises white and awful as a shroud enfolded ghost?
What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangor on the coast?
Pull back! pull back!  The raging flood sweeps every oar away.
O stream, is this thy bar of sand?  O boat, is this the bay?

Phoebe Cary, sister of Alice Cary, was born in Hamilton County, near Cincinnati, Sept. 24, 1824; died in Newport, R. I., July 31, 1871.  Her educational advantages were superior to those of Alice, whose constant companion she was through life.  “Nearer Home” was written when she was 18 years old.  Intense sorrow for her sister, whom she survived, doubtless hastened her death.

One sweetly solemn thought
   Comes to me o’er and o’er;
I’m nearer my home today
   Than I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father’s house,
   Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
   Nearer the crystal sea;

But lying darkly between,
   Winding down through the night,
Is the silent, unknown stream,
   That leads us at length to the light.

Closer and closer my steps
   Come to the dread abysm;
Closer Death to my lips
   Presses the awful chrism.

O, if my mortal feet
   Have almost gained the brink;
If it be I am nearer home
   Even today than I think;

Father, perfect my trust;
   Let my spirit feel in death
That her feet are firmly set
   On the rock of a living faith!

William Blake was born at London in 1757; he died there in 1827.  He is well known among children for his “Songs of Innocence.”  Other of his works are: “Book of Thel,” the “Marriage of Heaven and Earth,” “Gates of Paradise,” “Songs of Experience.” He was also a painter and an engraver, and among his best work in that line are his illustrations to Blair’s “Grave,” and to the book of Job.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

What the hammer?  What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil?  What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
   I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high born kinsman came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not so happy in heaven,
   Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
   In her sepulcher there by the sea,
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

TODAY.
BY THOMAS CARLYLE.

So here hath been dawning another blue day;
Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away?

Out of eternity this new day is born;
Into eternity at night will return.

Behold it aforetime no eye ever did;
So soon it forever from all eyes is hid.

Here hath been dawning another blue day;
Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away?

My boat is on the shore,
   And my bark is on the sea;
But before I go, Tom Moore,
   Here’s a double health to thee!

Here’s a sigh to those who love me,
   And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky’s above me,
   Here’s a heart for every fate!

Though the ocean roar around me,
   Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
   It hath springs that may be won.

Were’t the last drop in the well,
   As I gasp’d upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
   ’T is to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,
   The libation I would pour
Should be—Peace with thine and mine,
   And a health to thee, Tom Moore!

      From gold to gray
      Our mild, sweet day
Of Indian summer fades too soon;
      But tenderly
      Above the sea
Hangs, white and calm, the hunter’s moon.

      In its pale fire
      The village spire
Shows like the zodiac’s spectral lance;
      The painted walls
      Whereon it falls
Transfigured stand in marble trance!

A friend of Burns states this stirring poem was written during a frightful storm in the wilds of Glenken, in Galloway.  It was written in September, 1793.

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has often led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
   Or to victorie!

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour;
See approach proud Edward’s pow’r—
   Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
   Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa’,
   Let him follow me!

By oppression’s woes and pains!
By our sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
   But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
   Let us do or die!

Jerusalem, the golden,
   With milk and honey blest!
Beneath thy contemplation
   Sink heart and voice oppressed;
I know not, Oh, I know not,
   What joys await me there,
What radiancy of glory,
   What bliss beyond compare.

They stand, those halls of Zion,
   All jubilant with song,
And bright with many an angel,
   And all the martyr throng;
The Prince is ever in them,
   The daylight is serene;
The pastures of the blessed
   Are decked in glorious sheen.

There is the throne of David;
   And there, from care released,
The shout of them that triumph,
   The song of them that feast:
And they who, with their Leader,
   Have conquered in the fight
Forever and forever
   Are clad in robes of white.

This is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
Oh, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray’s which the flying feet hung to,—
So to be singled out, built in and sung to!

This is a heart the Queen leant on
Thrilled in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on,
Meet for love’s regal dalmatic.
Oh what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart’s, ere the wanderer went on—
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!

John Anderson, my jo, John,
   When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
   Your bonny brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
   Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
   John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
   We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a canty day, John,
   We’ve had wi’ ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, John,
   But hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
   John Anderson, my jo.

Zoè mou sas agapo.
(My life, I love thee.)

Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Zoè mou sas agapo.

By those tresses unconfined,
Woo’d by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Zoè mou sas agapo.

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love’s alternate joy and woe,
Zoè mou sas agapo.

Maid of Athens!  I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee?  No!
Zoè mou sas agapo.

Ben Jonson was born about the year 1573, at Westminster.  Little is known about his early life, but in 1597 he is found playing and writing for “The Admiral’s Men,” and later for the “Lord Chamberlain’s Servants.”  Afterwards he stood in great favor at court, and wrote many of his best plays during that time—the “Alchemist,” “Catiline,” “Bartholomew Fair,” and “Epicoene.”  He died in 1637, after several years of illness, which affected his wit and brilliancy in such a manner that many of his later plays were not heard to the end.  He is buried in Westminster Abbey.  He also wrote some prose and some of the most beautiful lyrics of the English language.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
   And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
   And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
   Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
   I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
   Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope that there
   It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe
   And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
   Not of itself but thee.

NELLIE.

If I were you, when ladies at the play, sir,
   Beckon and nod, a melodrama through,
I would not turn abstractedly away, sir,
   If I were you!

FRANK.

If I were you, when persons I affected,
   Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew,
I would, at least, pretend I recollected,
   If I were you!

If I were you, when ladies are so lavish,
   Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two,
I would not dance with odious Miss McTavish,
   If I were you!

FRANK.

If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer
   Whiff of the best—the mildest “honey-dew,”
I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer,
   If I were you!

NELLIE.

If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter,
   Even to write the “Cynical Review”—

FRANK.

No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter,
   If I were you!

NELLIE.

Really!  You would?  Why, Frank, you’re quite delightful—
   Hot as Othello, and as black of hue;
Borrow my fan.  I would not look so frightful,
   If I were you!

FRANK.

“It is the cause.”  I mean your chaperon is
   Bringing some well-curled juvenile.  Adieu!
I shall retire.  I’d spare that poor Adonis,
   If I were you!

NELLIE.

Go, if you will.  At once!  And by express, sir!
   Where shall it be? to China—or Peru?
Go.  I should leave inquirers my address, sir,
   If I were you!

No—I remain.  To stay and fight a duel
   Seems on the whole, the proper thing to do—,
Ah, you are strong—I would not then be cruel,
   If I were you!

NELLIE.

One does not like one’s feelings to be doubted—

FRANK.

   One does not like one’s friends to misconstrue—

NELLIE.

If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted?

FRANK.

   I should admit that I was piqued, too.

NELLIE.

Ask me to dance!  I’d say no more about it,
   If I were you!

(Waltz—Exeunt.)

KUBLA KHAN.
BY SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born at Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire 1772.  He studied at Cambridge, but left without taking his degree.  In 1795 he married Sara Fricker, Southey’s sister-in-law; in the same year he moved to Bristol.  Here he published, in collaboration with Wordsworth, the “Lyrical Ballads.”  In 1798 he went to Germany on an annuity from the Wedgewood brothers, but he soon returned to England and lived at Keswick.  Later he went to London, where he lived at the house of Dr. Gilman and lectured on Shakespeare and the fine arts.  He died at London in 1834.

   A damsel with a dulcimer
   In a vision once I saw;
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
   Her symphony and song
To such deep delight ’twould win me
   That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air—
   That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware!  Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
   Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey dew hath fed
   And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on, which they did bring,
   It was too wide a peck;
And to say truth (for out it must),
It looked like the great collar (just)
   About our young colt’s neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
   As if they fear’d the light;
But oh, she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter day
   Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison,
   (Who sees them is undone),
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Catherine pear.
   (The side that’s next the sun).

Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compar’d to that was next her chin
   (Some bee had stung it newly);
But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face
I durst no more upon them gaze
   Than on the sun in July.

Sunset and evening star
   And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
   When I put out to sea.

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
   Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
   Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
   And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
   When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
   The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
   When I have crossed the bar.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS.
BY THOMAS MOORE.

The harp that once through Tara’s halls
   The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls
   As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
   So glory’s thrill is o’er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise
   Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
   The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone that breaks at night
   Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
   The only throb she gives,
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
   To show that still she lives

Francis Sylvester Mahony, better known as Father Prout, was born in Cork in 1804.  Though he was a Jesuit priest, he was more of a literatus than a man of God.  He is the author of the famous “Reliques of Father Prout,” which he wrote for Frazer’s Magazine.  Later he was the Rome correspondent for the Daily News and the Paris correspondent of the Globe.  He died in Paris in 1866.  Among his poems the following is the only one worth mention:

With deep affection and recollection
   I often think of those Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would in the days of childhood
   Fling round my cradle their magic spells.
   On this I ponder, where’er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
      With thy bells of Shandon,
      That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

I have heard bells tolling “old Adrian’s mole” in,
   Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious,
   In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame;
   But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter
Flings o’er the Tiber, pealing solemnly.
      O! the bells of Shandon
      Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

There’s a bell in Moscow, while on tower and kiosko
   In St. Sophia the Turkman gets,
And loud in air calls men to prayer
   From the tapering summit of tall minarets.
   Such empty phantom I freely grant ’em,
But there’s an anthem more dear to me;
      ’Tis the bells of Shandon,
      That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

The many theater-goers who were pleased with Mr. Esmond’s comedy, “When We Were Twenty-One,” as played by the Goodwins, may like to see the Thackeray song from which the play took its name.  It is an imitation of a poem by Beranger.

With pensive eyes the little room I view,
   Where in my youth I weathered it so long,
With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two,
   And a light heart still breaking into song;
Making a mock of life and all its cares,
   Rich in the glory of my rising sun,
Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,
   In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Yes, ’tis a garret, let him know’t who will;
   There was my bed—full hard it was and small;
My table there—and I decipher still
   Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall.
Ye joys that Time hath swept with him away,
   Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun
For you I pawned my watch how many a day,
   In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

*          *          *

Let us begone—the place is sad and strange;
   How far, far off those happy times appear;
All that I have to live I’d gladly change
   For one such month as I have wasted here—
To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power
   From founts of hope that never will return,
And drink all life’s quintessence in an hour—
   Give me the days when I was twenty-one!

ON A GIRDLE.
BY EDMUND WALLER.

That which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind:
No monarch but would give his crown
His arms might do what this hath done.

It was my heaven’s extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer:
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love
Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair:
Give me but what this ribband bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.  Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

THE DAY IS DONE.
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The day is done, and the darkness
   Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
   From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
   Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
   That my soul cannot resist;

A feeling of sadness and longing
   That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
   As the mist resembles the rain.

Not from the grand old masters,
   Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
   Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
   Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
   And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
   Whose songs gushed from his heart
As showers from the clouds of summer
   Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who through long days of labor
   And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
   Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
   The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
   That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
   The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
   The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
   And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
   And as silently steal away.

I don’t go much on religion,
   I never ain’t had no show;
But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,
   On the handful o’ things I know.
I don’t pan out on the prophets,
   And free-will, and that sort of thing—
But I b’lieve in God and the angels
   Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips,
   And my little Gabe come along—
No four-year-old in the county
   Could beat him for pretty and strong,
Peart, and chippy, and sassy,
   Always ready to swear and fight—
And I’d larnt him to chaw terbacker
   Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket
   As I passed by Taggart’s store;
I went in for a jug of molasses
   And left the team at the door.
They scared at something and started—
   I heard one little squall
And hell-to-split over the prairie
   Went team, Little Breeches and all.

And here all hope soured on me,
   Of my fellow-critter’s aid—
I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,
   Crotch deep in the snow and prayed.

*          *          *

By this, the torches was played out,
   And me and Isrul Parr
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
   That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed
   Where they shut up the lambs at night.
We looked in and seen them huddled thar,
   So warm, and sleepy, and white,
And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
   As peart as ever you see,
“I want a chaw of terbacker,
   And that’s what the matter of me.”

How did he git thar?  Angels.
   He could never have walked in that storm;
They jest stooped down and toted him
   To whar it was safe and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
   And fotching him to his own,
Is a durned sight better business
   Than loafing around the Throne.

Didn’t know Flynn—
Flynn of Virginia—
   Long as he’s been ’yar?
   Look’ee here, stranger
Whar hev you been?

Here in this tunnel
He was my pardner,
That same Tom Flynn—
   Working together,
   In wind and weather,
Day out and in.

Didn’t know Flynn!
   Well, that is queer.
Why, it’s a sin,
To think of Tom Flynn—
   Tom, with his cheer;
   Tom, without fear—
Stranger, look ’yar!

That lets me out
   Here in the damp—
Out of the sun—
   That ’ar derned lamp
Makes my eyes run.
Well, there—I’m done.

But, sir, when you’ll
Hear the next fool
Asking of Flynn—
Flynn of Virginia—
   Just you chip in,
   Say you knew Flynn;
Say that you’ve been ’yar.

PORTIA’S SPEECH ON MERCY.
BY WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath.  It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
’Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptered sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice.

Time goes, you say?  Ah, no!
Alas!  Time stays, we go;
   Or else, were this not so,
What need to chain the hours,
For youth were always ours?
   Time goes, you say?—ah, no!

Once, in the days of old,
Your locks were curling gold,
   And mine had shamed the crow;
Now, in the self-same stage,
We’ve reached the silver age;
   Time goes, you say?—ah, no!

Once, when my voice was strong,
I filled the woods with song
   To praise your “rose” and “snow”;
My bird that sung is dead;
Where are your roses fled?
   Alas!  Time stays—we go!

See in what traversed ways,
What backward fate delays
   The hopes we used to know;
Where are our old desires—
Ah! where those vanished fires?
   Time goes, you say?—ah, no!

How far, how far, O sweet,
The past behind our feet
   Lies in the even-glow!
Now, on the forward way,
Let us fold hands and pray;
   Alas!  Time stays—we go!

Up to her chamber window,
   A slight wire trellis goes,
And up this Romeo ladder
   Clambers a bold white rose.
I lounge in the ilex shadows,
   I see the lady lean,
Unclasping her silken girdle,
   The curtain’s folds between.

She smiles on her white-rose lover,
   She reaches out her hand
And helps him in at the window—
   I see it where I stand!
To her scarlet lip she holds him,
   And kisses him many a time—
Ah me!  It was he that won her
   Because he dared to climb.

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS.
BY BRET HARTE.

I reside at Table Mountain and my name is Truthful James;
I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games;
And I’ll tell in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark that it is not a proper plan
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow man,
And if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim
To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.

Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see
Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same society,
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault,
It seems he had been trespassing on Jones’ family vault;
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent
To say another is an ass—at least, to all intent;
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant
Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel’s raised a point of order, when—
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen,
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile and curled up on the floor,
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage
In a warfare with the remnants of a paleozoic age;
And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,
Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games,
For I live at Table Mountain and my name is Truthful James;
And I’ve told in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

These verses were written by the author of “The Blue and the Gray.”  Nathan Hale, great-uncle of Edward Everett Hale, was born at Coventry, Conn., June 6, 1755.  He was sent to New York by Washington to get information about the British, and was arrested while on that mission.  He was hanged as a spy by order of Sir William Howe, Sept. 22, 1776.  By his executioner he was denied the use of a Bible, and his family letters were burned.

To drum beat and heart beat,
   A soldier marches by;
There is color in his cheek,
   There is courage in his eye,
Yet to drum beat and heart beat
   In a moment he must die.

By the starlight and moonlight,
   He seeks the Briton’s camp;
He hears the rustling flag
   And the armed sentry’s tramp;
And the starlight and the moonlight
   His silent wanderings lamp.

With slow tread and still tread,
   He scans the tented line;
And he counts the battery guns,
   By the gaunt and shadowy pine;
And his slow tread and still tread
   Gives no warning sign.

The dark wave, the plumed wave,
   It meets his eager glance;
And it sparkles ’neath the stars,
   Like the glimmer of a lance—
A dark wave, a plumed wave,
   On an emerald expanse.

With a calm brow and a steady brow,
   He listens to his doom;
In his look there is no fear,
   Nor a shadowy trace of gloom;
But with calm brow and steady brow,
   He robes him for the tomb.

In the long night, the still night,
   He kneels upon the sod;
And the brutal guards withhold
   E’en the solemn word of God!
In the long night, the still night,
   He walks where Christ hath trod.

’Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,
   He dies upon the tree;
And he mourns that he can lose
   But one life for liberty;
And in the blue morn, the sunny morn,
   His spent wings are free.

But his last words, his message words,
   They burn, lest friendly eye
Should read how proud and calm
   A patriot could die.
With his last words, his dying words,
   A soldier’s battle cry.

From fame leaf and angel leaf,
   From monument and urn,
The sad earth, the glad of heaven,
   His tragic fate shall learn;
And on fame leaf and angel leaf
   The name of HALE shall burn!

Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts
   Thick breaks the red flame.
All Etna heaves fiercely
   Her forest-clothed flame.

Not here, O, Apollo,
   Are haunts meet for thee,
But where Helicon breaks down
   In cliff to the sea.

Where the moon-silver’d inlets
   Send far their light voice
Up the still vale of Thisbe,
   O, speed, and rejoice!

On the sward at the cliff-top
   Lie strewn the white flocks;
On the cliff-side the pigeons
   Roost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds,
   Soft-lull’d by the rills,
Lie wrapped in their blankets,
   Asleep on the hills.

What forms are those coming,
   So white through the gloom?
What garments out-glistening
   The gold-flower’d broom?

’Tis Apollo comes leading
   His choir, the Nine—
The Leader is fairest,
   But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollow,
   They stream up again.
What seeks on this mountain
   The glorified train?

They bathe in this mountain,
   In the spring by their road.
Then on to Olympus,
   Their endless abode.

Whose praise do they mention?
   Of what is it told,
What will be forever,
   What was from of old.

First hymn they the Father
   Of all things; and then,
The rest of Immortals,
   The action of men.

The Day in his hotness,
   The strife with the palm;
The Night in her silence,
   The Stars in their calm.

Where shall the lover rest,
   Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden’s breast,
   Parted forever?
Where through groves deep and high,
   Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die,
   Under the willow.

There, through the summer day,
   Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,
   Scarce are boughs waving.
There thy rest shalt thou take,
   Parted forever,
Never again to wake,
   Never, O, never!

Where shall the traitor rest,
   He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden’s breast,
   Ruin and leave her?
In the lost battle,
   Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war’s rattle
   With groans of the dying.

THE GRASS.
BY EMILY DICKINSON.

The grass so little has to do—
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine—
A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pass
In odors so divine,
As lowly spices gone to sleep,
Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
And dream the days away—
The grass so little has to do,
I wish I were the hay!