Part 13
No man like him the horn could sound, And hill and valley rang with glee, When Echo bandied round and round The halloo of Simon Lee. In those proud days he little cared For husbandry or tillage; To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village.
He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the chase was done, He reel'd and was stone-blind. And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices.
But O the heavy change!--bereft Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty: His master's dead, and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor.
And he is lean and he is sick, His body dwindled and awry Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. He has no son, he has no child; His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village common.
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, A scrap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor. This scrap of land he from the heath Enclosed when he was stronger; But what avails the land to them Which he can till no longer?
Oft, working by her husband's side, Ruth does what Simon cannot do; For she, with scanty cause for pride, Is stouter of the two. And, though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, 'Tis little, very little, all That they can do between them.
Few months of life has he in store As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more Do his weak ankles swell. My gentle reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, And now I fear that you expect Some tale will be related.
O reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle reader! you would find A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, And you must kindly take it; It is no tale; but, should you think, Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
One summer-day I chanced to see This old man doing all he could To unearth the root of an old tree, A stump of rotten wood. The mattock totter'd in his hand So vain was his endeavour That at the root of the old tree He might have work'd for ever.
"You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool," to him I said; And at the word right gladly he Received my proffer'd aid. I struck, and with a single blow The tangled root I sever'd, At which the poor old man so long And vainly had endeavour'd.
The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seem'd to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Has oftener left me mourning.
W. WORDSWORTH.
220. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
I have had playmates, I have had companions In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a Love once, fairest among women: Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces,
How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
C. LAMB.
221. THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.
As slow our ship her foamy track Against the wind was cleaving, Her trembling pennant still look'd back To that dear isle 'twas leaving. So loth we part from all we love, From all the links that bind us; So turn our hearts, as on we rove, To those we've left behind us!
When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years We talk with joyous seeming-- With smiles that might as well be tears, So faint, so sad their beaming; While memory brings us back again Each early tie that twined us, Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then To those we've left behind us!
And when in other climes, we meet Some isle or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery wild and sweet, And nought but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss If Heaven had but assign'd us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we've left behind us!
As travellers oft look back at eve When eastward darkly going, To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing,-- So, when the close of pleasure's day To gloom hath near consign'd us, We turn to catch our fading ray Of joy that's left behind us.
T. MOORE.
222. YOUTH AND AGE.
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.
O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,-- As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!
LORD BYRON.
223. A LESSON.
There is a flower, the Lesser Celandine, That shrinks like many more from cold and rain, And the first moment that the sun may shine, Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
But lately, one rough day, this flower I past, And recognised it, though an alter'd form, Now standing forth an offering to the blast, And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
I stopp'd and said with inly-mutter'd voice, "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold; This neither is its courage nor its choice, But its necessity in being old.
"The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; It cannot help itself in its decay; Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue." And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
To be a prodigal's favourite--then, worse truth, A miser's pensioner--behold our lot! O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
W. WORDSWORTH.
224. PAST AND PRESENT.
I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups-- Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow.
I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy.
T. HOOD.
225. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.
Oft, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
When I remember all The friends, so link'd together, I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
T. MOORE.
226. INVOCATION.
Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Spirit of Delight! Wherefore hast thou left me now Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day 'Tis since thou art fled away.
How shall ever one like me Win thee back again? With the joyous and the free Thou wilt scoff at pain. Spirit false! thou hast forgot All but those who need thee not.
As a lizard with the shade Of a trembling leaf, Thou with sorrow art dismay'd; Even the sighs of grief Reproach thee, that thou art not near, And reproach thou wilt not hear.
Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure;-- Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure;-- Pity then will cut away Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.
I love all that thou lovest, Spirit of Delight! The fresh Earth in new leaves drest And the starry night; Autumn evening, and the morn When the golden mists are born.
I love snow, and all the forms Of the radiant frost; I love waves, and winds, and storms, Everything almost Which is Nature's, and may be Untainted by man's misery.
I love tranquil solitude, And such society As is quiet, wise, and good; Between thee and me What diff'rence? but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less.
I love Love--though he has wings, And like light can flee, But above all other things, Spirit, I love thee-- Thou art love and life! O come! Make once more my heart thy home!
P.B. SHELLEY.
227. STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.
The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light: The breath of the moist air is light Around its unexpanded buds; Like many a voice of one delight-- The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'-- The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown; I sit upon the sands alone; The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion-- How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that Content, surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found, And walked with inward glory crown'd-- Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure; Others I see whom these surround-- Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mild Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
P.B. SHELLEY.
228. THE SCHOLAR.
My days among the Dead are past; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old: My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the Dead; with them I live in long-past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the Dead; anon My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on Through all Futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust.
R. SOUTHEY.
229. THE MERMAID TAVERN.
Souls of Poets dead and gone What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of Venison? O generous food! Drest as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his Maid Marian, Sup and browse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day Mine host's signboard flew away Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer's old quill To a sheepskin gave the story-- Said he saw you in your glory Underneath a new-old Sign Sipping beverage divine, And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac! Souls of poets dead and gone What Elysium have ye known-- Happy field or mossy cavern-- Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
J. KEATS.
230. THE PRIDE OF YOUTH.
Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely.
"Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?" --"When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye."
"Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?" --"The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly.
"The glowworm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady!"
SIR W. SCOTT.
231. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
One more Unfortunate Weary of breath Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her-- All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonour, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family-- Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?
Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! O! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurl'd-- Any where, any where Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran, Over the brink of it,-- Picture it, think of it, Dissolute Man! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring Thro' muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest. --Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!
Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!
T. HOOD.
232. ELEGY.
O snatch'd away in beauty's bloom! On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year, And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou, who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
LORD BYRON.
233. HESTER.
When maidens such as Hester die Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try With vain endeavour. A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together.
A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flush'd her spirit: I know not by what name beside I shall it call: if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule Which doth the human feeling cool; But she was train'd in Nature's school; Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind; A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind; Ye could not Hester.
My sprightly neighbour! gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore Some summer morning-- When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet fore-warning?
C. LAMB.
234. CORONACH.
He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The fount reappearing From the raindrops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper Take the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are serest, But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever!
SIR W. SCOTT.
235. THE DEATH BED.
We watch'd her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.
But when the morn came dim and sad And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed--she had Another morn than ours.
T. HOOD.
236. ROSABELLE.
O listen, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew, And, gentle lady, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
"The blackening wave is edged with white; To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh.
"Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round lady gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?
"'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my lady-mother there Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
"'Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."
--O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam.
It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's grove of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each baron, for a sabled shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply.
Seem'd all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-- So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high Saint Clair.
There are twenty of Roslin's baron's bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold, But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!
And each Saint Clair was buried there With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
SIR W. SCOTT.
237. ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.