Part 14
Her bosom heaved--she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stept-- Then suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me and wept
She half enclosed me with her arms, 85 She pressed me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face.
’Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly ’twas a bashful art, 90 That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart.
I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, 95 My bright and beauteous Bride. _Samuel Taylor Coleridge._
CLXXXVI
_SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY._
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light 5 Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace, Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; 10 Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 15 But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! _Lord Byron._
CLXXXVII
_SONG._
Oh welcome, bat and owlet gray, Thus winging low your airy way! And welcome, moth and drowsy fly, That to mine ear come humming by! And welcome, shadows dim and deep, 5 And stars that through the pale sky peep! O welcome all! to me ye say, My woodland Love is on her way.
Upon the soft wind floats her hair; Her breath is in the dewy air; 10 Her steps are in the whispered sound, That steals along the stilly ground. O dawn of day, in rosy bower, What art thou to this witching hour? O noon of day, in sunshine bright, 15 What art thou to the fall of night? _Joanna Baillie._
CLXXXVIII
_THE LONELY._
She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning, A smile of her’s was like an act of grace; She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning, Like daily beauties of the vulgar race; But if she smiled, a light was on her face, 5 A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam Of peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the stream Of human thought with unabiding glory; Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream, A visitation, bright and transitory. 10
But she is changed,--hath felt the touch of sorrow; No love hath she, no understanding friend; Oh grief! when heaven is forced of earth to borrow What the poor niggard earth has not to lend; But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend. 15 The tallest flower that skyward rears its head, Grows from the common ground, and there must shed Its delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely, That they should find so base a bridal bed, Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely! 20
She had a brother, and a tender father; And she was loved, but not as others are, From whom we ask return of love,--but rather As one might love a dream; a phantom-fair Of something exquisitely strange and rare, 25 Which all were glad to look on, men and maids, Yet no one claimed--as oft, in dewy glades The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness, Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;-- The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness. 30
’Tis vain to say--her worst of grief is only The common lot, which all the world have known; To her ’tis more, because her heart is lonely, And yet she hath no strength to stand alone;-- Once she had playmates, fancies of her own, 35 And she did love them. They are past away, As fairies vanish at the break of day; And like a spectre of an age departed, Or unsphered angel wofully astray, She glides along--the solitary-hearted. _Hartley Coleridge._
CLXXXIX
_PROUD MAISIE._
Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely.
‘Tell me, thou bonny bird, 5 When shall I marry me?’ --‘When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.’
‘Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?’ 10 --‘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, 15 Welcome, proud lady.’ _Sir Walter Scott._
CXC
_AN HOUR WITH THEE._
An hour with thee!--When earliest day Dapples with gold the eastern gray, Oh, what can frame my mind to bear The toil and turmoil, cark and care, New griefs, which coming hours unfold, 5 And sad remembrance of the old?-- One hour with thee.
One hour with thee!--When burning June Waves his red flag at pitch of noon; What shall repay the faithful swain 10 His labour on the sultry plain; And more than cave or sheltering bough, Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow?-- One hour with thee.
One hour with thee!--When sun is set, 15 Oh, what can teach me to forget The thankless labours of the day, The hopes, the wishes, flung away, The increasing wants, and lessening gains, The master’s pride, who scorns my pains?-- 20 One hour with thee. _Sir Walter Scott._
CXCI
_THE FUGITIVES._
The waters are flashing, The white hail is dashing, The lightnings are glancing, The hoar-spray is dancing-- Away! 5 The whirlwind is rolling, The thunder is tolling, The forest is swinging, The minster bells ringing-- Come away! 10 The earth is like ocean, Wreck-strewn and in motion: Bird, beast, man, and worm, Have crept out of the storm-- Come away! 15
‘Our boat has one sail, And the helmsman is pale;--A bold pilot I trow, Who should follow us now,’ Shouted He-- 20 And She cried: ‘Ply the oar, Put off gaily from shore!’ As she spoke bolts of death, Mixed with hail, specked their path O’er the sea. 25 And from isle, tower, and rock, The blue beacon-cloud broke, Though dumb in the blast, The red cannon flashed fast From the lee. 30
‘And fear’st thou, and fear’st thou? And see’st thou, and hear’st thou? And drive we not free O’er the terrible sea, I and thou?’ 35 One boat-cloak did cover The loved and the lover-- Their blood beats one measure, They murmur proud pleasure Soft and low;-- 40 While around the lashed ocean, Like mountains in motion, Is withdrawn and uplifted, Sunk, shattered, and shifted, To and fro. 45
In the court of the fortress, Beside the pale portress, Like a bloodhound well beaten The bridegroom stands, eaten By shame: 50 On the topmost watch turret, As a death-boding spirit, Stands the gray tyrant father, To his voice the mad weather Seems tame; 55 And with curses as wild As e’er clung to child, He devotes to the blast The best, loveliest, and last, Of his name! 60 _Percy Bysshe Shelley._
CXCII
_LUCY._
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove; A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone 5 Half-hidden from the eye! --Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; 10 But she is in her grave, and oh! The difference to me! _William Wordsworth._
CXCIII
_ODE TO PSYCHE._
O Goddess, hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung, Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 5 The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes? I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof 10 Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: ’Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; 15 Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too; Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: 20 The wingèd Boy I knew; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? His Psyche true!
O latest-born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy! 25 Fairer than Phœbe’s sapphire-regioned star! Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heaped with flowers; Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan 30 Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. 35 O brightest! though too late for antique vows, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire; Yet even in these days so far retired 40 From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olympians, I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; 45 Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swingèd censer teeming: Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 50 In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branchèd thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep; 55 And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, 60 With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, 65 A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in! _John Keats._
CXCIV
_THE SUNFLOWER._
Ah Sunflower! weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun; Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller’s journey is done; Where the Youth pined away with desire, 5 And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my Sunflower wishes to go. _William Blake._
CXCV
_REGRETS._
Too true it is, my time of power was spent In idly watering weeds of casual growth, That wasted energy to desperate sloth Declined, and fond self-seeking discontent; That the huge debt for all that Nature lent 5 I sought to cancel, and was nothing loth To deem myself an outlaw, severed both From duty and from hope,--yea, blindly sent Without an errand, where I would to stray:-- Too true it is, that, knowing now my state, 10 I weakly mourn the sin I ought to hate, Nor love the law I yet would fain obey: But true it is, above all law and fate Is Faith, abiding the appointed day. _Hartley Coleridge._
CXCVI
_TO A LOFTY BEAUTY, FROM HER POOR KINSMAN._
Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries, Nor seen thy girlish, sweet vicissitude, Thy mazy motions, striving to elude, Yet wooing still a parents watchful eyes, Thy humours, many as the opal’s dyes, 5 And lovely all;--methinks thy scornful mood, And bearing high of stately womanhood,-- Thy brow, where Beauty sits to tyrannize O’er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee; For never sure was seen a royal bride, 10 Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride-- My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee: But when I see thee at thy father’s side, Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee. _Hartley Coleridge._
CXCVII
_THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET._
Green little vaulter on the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that’s heard amidst the lazy noon, When ev’n the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 5 With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, One to the fields, the other to the hearth, 10 Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong At your clear hearts, and both seem given to earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song, In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth. _Leigh Hunt._
CXCVIII
_TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF LAKEN IN THE WINTER._
O melancholy bird!--a winter’s day Thou standest by the margin of the pool, And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school To patience, which all evil can allay; God has appointed thee the fish thy prey; 5 And given thyself a lesson to the fool Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. There need not schools, nor the professor’s chair, Though these be good, true wisdom to impart; 10 He, who has not enough for these to spare Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair; Nature is always wise in every part. _Lord Thurlow._
CXCIX
_THE SYLVAN LIFE._
When in the woods I wander all alone, The woods that are my solace and delight, Which I more covet than a prince’s throne, My toil by day and canopy by night; (Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, 5 These lights shall light me to old age’s gate, While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright, Heavy with fear, death’s fearful summons wait;) Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone, Weighing in thought the world’s no-happiness, 10 I cannot choose but wonder at its moan, Since so plain joys the woody life can bless: Then live who may where honied words prevail, I with the deer, and with the nightingale! _Lord Thurlow._
CC
_SPRING._
Again the violet of our early days Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, And kindles into fragrance at his blaze; The streams, rejoiced that winter’s work is done, Talk of to-morrow’s cowslips, as they run. 5 Wild apple! thou art bursting into bloom; Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn! Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb; And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born. 9 Then haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn, Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands From sea to sea, while daisies infinite Uplift in praise their little glowing hands O’er every hill that under heaven expands. 15 _Ebenezer Elliot._
CCI
_THE POETRY OF EARTH_
The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the grasshopper’s--he takes the lead 5 In summer luxury,--he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost 10 Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The grasshopper’s among some grassy hills. _John Keats._
CCII
_SONNET._
Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome, Ringing with echoes of Italian song: Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong, And all the pleasant place is like a home. Hark, on the right with full piano tone 5 Old Dante’s voice encircles all the air: Hark yet again, like flute-tones mingling rare, Comes the keen sweetness of Petrarca’s moan. Pass thou the lintel freely; without fear Feast on the music. I do better know thee, 10 Than to suspect this pleasure thou dost owe me Will wrong thy gentle spirit, or make less dear That element whence thou must draw thy life-- An English maiden, and an English wife. _Arthur Henry Hallam._
CCIII
_THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB._
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 5 That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown:
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; 10 And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 15 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf,
And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown: 20
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! _Lord Byron._
CCIV
_THRASYMENE._
Is this the spot where Rome’s eternal foe Into his snares the mighty legions drew, Whence from the carnage, spiritless and few, A remnant scarcely reached her gates of woe? Is this the stream, thus gliding soft and slow, 5 That, from the gushing wounds of thousands, grew So fierce a flood, that waves of crimson hue Rushed on the bosom of the lake below? The mountains that gave back the battle-cry Are silent now;--perchance yon hillocks green 10 Mark where the bones of those old warriors lie! Heaven never gladdened a more peaceful scene; Never left softer breeze a fairer sky To sport upon thy waters, Thrasymene. _Charles Strong._
CCV
_THE BATTLE OF NASEBY._
BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON’S REGIMENT.
Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?
Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 5 And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.
It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 9 That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine, And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.
Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, The General rode along us to form us to the fight, When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout, 15 Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right.
And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line! For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws! For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! 20
The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks; For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.
They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! 25 Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast, O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! Stand back to back, in God’s name, and fight it to the last.
Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground: Hark! hark!--What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear? 30 Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he, thank God, ’tis he, boys. Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.
Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, 35 And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.
Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar: And he--he turns, he flies:--shame on those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. 40
Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make your search secure, Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.
Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, 45 When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks, Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.
Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate, And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, 50 Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?
Down, down, for ever down with the Mitre and the Crown, With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope; There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham’s Stalls: 55 The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.
And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children’s ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England’s sword; And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word. 60 _Lord Macaulay._
CCVI
_CAVALIER SONG._
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, My true love has mounted his steed and away, Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down; Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear, 5 He has placed the steel-cap o’er his long-flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,-- Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws, Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause; 10 His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,-- God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall; But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town, 15 That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.
There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There’s Erin’s high Ormond and Scotland’s Montrose! Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown, With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown? 20