Part 7

Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss, The magic power to charm us thus? Is it, that in thy glaring eye, And rapid movements, we descry, While we at ease, secure from ill, The chimney-corner snugly fill, A lion darting on the prey, A tiger at his ruthless play? Or is it, that in thee we trace, With all thy varied wanton grace, An emblem view’d with kindred eye, Of tricksy, restless infancy? Ah! many a lightly-sportive child, Who hath, like thee, our wits beguil’d, To dull and sober manhood grown, With strange recoil our hearts disown. Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure, When thou becom’st a cat demure, Full many a cuff and angry word, Chid roughly from the tempting board. And yet, for that thou hast, I ween, So oft our favour’d playmate been, Soft be the change which thou shalt prove When time hath spoil’d thee of our love; Still be thou deem’d, by housewife fat, A comely, careful, mousing cat, Whose dish is, for the public good, Replenish’d oft with savoury food.

Nor when thy span of life is past, Be thou to pond or dunghill cast; But gently borne on goodman’s spade, Beneath the decent sod be laid, And children show, with glistening eyes, The place where poor old Pussy lies.

_83. Song_

The gowan glitters on the sward, The lavrock’s in the sky, And colley on my plaid keeps ward, And time is passing by. Oh no! sad and slow! I hear nae welcome sound; The shadow of our trysting-bush, It wears so slowly round!

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west, My lambs are bleating near; But still the sound that I lo’e best, Alack! I canna hear! Oh no! sad and slow! The shadow lingers still; And like a lanely ghaist I stand, And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar, The mill wi’ clacking din; And Luckey scolding frae the door, To bring the bairnies in. Oh no! sad and slow! These are nae the sounds for me; The shadow of our trysting-bush, It creeps sae drearily!

I coft yestreen from chapman Tam A snood o’ bonnie blue, And promis’d when our trysting cam, To tie it round her brow. Oh no! sad and slow! The time it winna pass! The shadow of that weary thorn Is tether’d on the grass.

O now I see her on the way, She’s past the Witch’s knowe; She’s climbing up the Brownie’s brae; My heart is in a lowe. Oh no! sad and slow! ’Tis glamrie I hae seen; The shadow of that hawthorn bush Will move nae mair till e’en.

My book o’ grace I’ll try to read, Tho’ con’d wi’ little skill; When colley barks, I’ll raise my head, And find her on the hill. Oh no! ’tis nae so! The time will ne’er be gane! The shadow of the trysting-bush Is fix’d like ony stane.

_84. The Outlaw_

The chough and crow to roost are gone, The owl sits on the tree, The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan, Like infant charity. The wild-fire dances on the fen, The red star sheds its ray, Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men! It is our opening day.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep, And clos’d is every flower, And winking tapers faintly peep High from my Lady’s bower; Bewilder’d hinds with shorten’d ken Shrink on their murky way, Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men! It is our opening day.

Nor board nor garner own we now, Nor roof nor latchèd door, Nor kind mate bound by holy vow To bless a good man’s store; Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, And night is grown our day, Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men! And use it as ye may.

CATHERINE M. FANSHAWE

1765-1834

_85. A Riddle on the Letter H_

’Twas in heaven pronounced—it was mutter’d in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confess’d. ’Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder. Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends at his birth and awaits him in death: Presides o’er his happiness, honour, and health, Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth. In the heaps of the miser ’tis hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown’d. Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home! In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion is drown’d. ’Twill not soften the heart; and tho’ deaf be the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear. Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower, Ah, breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour.

MARY LAMB

1764-1847

_86. A Child_

A child’s a plaything for an hour; Its pretty tricks we try For that or for a longer space— Then tire, and lay it by.

But I knew one that to itself All seasons could control; That would have mock’d the sense of pain Out of a grievèd soul.

Thou straggler into loving arms, Young climber-up of knees, When I forget thy thousand ways Then life and all shall cease.

CAROLINE, LADY NAIRNE

1766-1845

_87. The Land o’ the Leal_

I’m wearin’ awa’, John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, I’m wearin’ awa’ To the land o’ the leal. There’s nae sorrow there, John: There’s neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair In the land o’ the leal.

Our bonnie bairn’s there, John; She was baith guid and fair, John; And, oh! we grudged her sair To the land o’ the leal. But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John, And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John, The joy that’s aye to last In the land o’ the leal.

Sae dear that joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu’ man e’er brought To the land o’ the leal. O dry your glistening e’e, John! My saul langs to be free, John, And angels beckon me To the land o’ the leal.

O haud ye leal and true, John; Your day it’s wearin’ through, John, And I’ll welcome you To the land o’ the leal. Now fareyeweel, my ain John: This warld’s cares are vain, John; We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain, In the land o’ the leal.

_88. The Auld House_

Oh, the auld house, the auld house What though the rooms were wee? Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there, And bairnies fu’ o’ glee! The wild rose and the jessamine Still hang upon the wa’— How mony cherished memories Do they, sweet flowers, reca’!

Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird, Sae canty, kind, and crouse! How mony did he welcome to His ain wee dear auld house! And the leddy, too, sae genty, There sheltered Scotland’s heir, And clipt a lock wi’ her ain hand Frae his lang yellow hair.

The mavis still doth sweetly sing, The blue-bells sweetly blaw; The bonnie Earn’s clear winding still, But the auld house is awa’. The auld house, the auld house! Deserted though ye be, There ne’er can be a new house Will seem sae fair to me.

Still flourishing the auld pear tree, The bairnies liked to see; And oh, how aften did they speir When ripe they a’ wad be! The voices sweet, the wee bit feet Aye rinnin’ here and there; The merry shout—oh! whiles we greet To think we’ll hear nae mair.

For they are a’ wide scattered now, Some to the Indies gane, And ane, alas! to her lang hame; Not here we’ll meet again. The Kirkyaird! the Kirkyaird! Wi’ flowers o’ every hue, Sheltered by the holly’s shade, An’ the dark sombre yew.

The setting sun, the setting sun, How glorious it gaed doun! The cloudy splendour raised our hearts To cloudless skies abune! The auld dial, the auld dial! It tauld how time did pass: The wintry winds ha’e dung it doun, Now hid ’mang weeds and grass.

_89. Caller Herrin’_

_Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’?_ _They’re bonnie fish and halesome farin’:_ _Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’,_ _New drawn frae the Forth?_

When ye were sleepin’ on your pillows, Dreamed ye aught o’ our puir fellows Darkling as they faced the billows, A’ to fill the woven willows?

Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’? They’re no brought here without brave darin’, Buy my caller herrin’, Hauled through wind and rain.

Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’? Oh, ye may ca’ them vulgar farin’; Wives and mithers, ’maist despairin’, Ca’ them lives o’ men.

When the creel o’ herrin’ passes, Ladies, clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw pelisses, Cast their heads, and screw their faces.

Caller herrin’s no got lightly; Ye can trip the spring fu’ tightly; Spite o’ tauntin’, flauntin’, flingin’, Gow[3] has set you a’ a-singin’.

Neebour wives, now tent my tellin’ When the bonnie fish ye’re sellin’, At ae word be in your dealin’, Truth will stand when a’ thing’s failin’.

FOOTNOTES

[3] A famous fiddler.

_90. Heavenward_

Would you be young again? So would not I— One tear to memory giv’n, Onward I’d hie. Life’s dark flood forded o’er, All but at rest on shore, Say, would you plunge once more, With home so nigh?

If you might, would you now Retrace your way? Wander through thorny wilds, Faint and astray? Night’s gloomy watches fled, Morning all beaming red, Hope’s smiles around us shed, Heavenward—away.

Where are they gone, of yore My best delight? Dear and more dear, tho’ now Hidden from sight. Where they rejoice to be, There is the land for me; Fly time—fly speedily! Come, life and light.

HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS

1762-1827

_91. Sonnet to Twilight_

Meek Twilight! soften the declining day, And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves; When o’er the mountain slow descends the ray That gives to silence the deserted groves. Ah, let the happy court the morning still, When, in her blooming loveliness array’d, She bids fresh beauty light the vale, or hill, And rapture warble in the vocal shade. Sweet is the odour of the morning’s flower, And rich in melody her accents rise; Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour, At which her blossoms close, her music dies— For then, while languid nature droops her head, She wakes the tear ’tis luxury to shed.

_92. Sonnet to Hope_

O ever skill’d to wear the form we love! To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart; Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove The lasting sadness of an aching heart. Thy voice, benign Enchantress! let me hear; Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom, That Fancy’s radiance, Friendship’s precious tear, Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune’s gloom. But come not glowing in the dazzling ray, Which once with dear illusions charm’d my eye, O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die; Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!

ANNE M’VICAR GRANT OF LAGGAN

1755-1838

_93. Postscript_

Jean, fetch that heap of tangled yarn, And bring those stockings here to darn, And get from Anne the dairy keys, That I may go and count my cheese; To every useful occupation, Befitting of my place or station, I’ll henceforth dedicate my time, And if again I write in rhyme, ’Twill be a shrewd severe lampoon On country wives who fly to town, And leave their dairy and relations, To curl their hair and follow fashions: Or else an acrimonious satire On matrons who, in spite of Nature, With common useful duties quarrel, To plant in vain the barren laurel.

AMELIA OPIE

1769-1853

_94. A Lament_

There was an eye whose partial glance Could ne’er my numerous failings see; There was an ear that heard untired When others spoke in praise of me.

There was a heart time only taught With warmer love for me to burn; A heart whene’er from home I roved Which fondly pined for my return.

There was a lip which always breathed E’en short farewells in tones of sadness; There was a voice whose eager sound My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness.

There was a mind whose vigorous power On mine its own effulgence threw, And called my humble talents forth, While thence its dearest joys it drew.

There was a love which for my weal With anxious fears would overflow; Which wept, which pray’d for me, and sought From future ills to guard—But now!—

That eye is closed, and deaf that ear, That lip and voice are mute for ever; And cold that heart of anxious love, Which Death alone from mine could sever:

And lost to me that ardent mind, Which loved my various tasks to see; And oh! of all the praise I gain’d His was the dearest far to me!

Now I unloved, uncheered, _alone_, Life’s weary wilderness must tread, Till He who heals the broken heart In mercy bids me join the dead.

CAROLINE SOUTHEY

1786-1854

_95. To Death_

Come not in terrors clad, to claim An unresisting prey: Come like an evening shadow, Death! So stealthily, so silently! And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath; Then willingly, O willingly, With thee I’ll go away.

What need to clutch with iron grasp What gentlest touch may take? What need with aspect dark to scare, So awfully, so terribly, The weary soul would hardly care, Call’d quietly, call’d tenderly, From thy dread power to break?

’Tis not as when thou markest out The young, the blest, the gay, The loved, the loving—they who dream So happily, so hopefully; Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, And shrinkingly, reluctantly, The summon’d may obey.

But I have drunk enough of life— The cup assign’d to me Dash’d with a little sweet at best, So scantily, so scantily— To know full well that all the rest More bitterly, more bitterly, Drugg’d to the last will be.

And I may live to pain some heart That kindly cares for me: To pain, but not to bless, O Death! Come quietly—come lovingly— And shut mine eyes and steal my breath; Then willingly, O willingly, I’ll go away with thee.

EMMA (HART) WILLARD

1787-1870

_96. Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep_

Rocked in the cradle of the deep I lay me down in peace to sleep; Secure I rest upon the wave, For Thou, O Lord, hast power to save. I know Thou wilt not slight my call, For Thou dost mark the sparrow’s fall; And calm and peaceful shall I sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

When in the dead of night I lie And gaze upon the trackless sky, The star-bespangled heavenly scroll, The boundless waters as they roll,— I feel Thy wondrous power to save From perils of the stormy wave: Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I calmly rest and soundly sleep.

And such the trust that still were mine, Though stormy winds swept o’er the brine, Or though the tempest’s fiery breath Roused me from sleep to wreck and death. In ocean cave, still safe with Thee The germ of immortality! And calm and peaceful shall I sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS

1793-1835

_97. Night-Blowing Flowers_

Children of night! unfolding meekly, slowly, To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy, And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers; To solemn things and deep, To spirit-haunted sleep, To thoughts, all purified From earth, ye seem allied, O dedicated flowers!

Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined; Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind. So doth love’s dreaming heart Dwell from the throng apart, And but to shades disclose The inmost thought, which glows With its pure life entwined.

Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices, To no triumphant song your petals thrill, But send forth odours with the faint, soft voices Rising from hidden streams, when all is still. So doth lone prayer arise Mingling with secret sighs, When grief unfolds, like you, Her breast, for heavenly dew In silent hours to fill.

_98. Casabianca_

The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle’s wreck Shone round him o’er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm— A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though childlike, form.

The flames rolled on—he would not go Without his father’s word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud:—‘Say, father, say If yet my task is done!’ He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

‘Speak, father!’ once again he cried, ‘If I may yet be gone!’ And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair;

And shouted yet once more aloud, ‘My father! must I stay?’ While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above that gallant child Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound— The boy—Oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea!— With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part; But the noblest thing which perished there Was that young faithful heart.

_99. A Dirge_

Calm on the bosom of thy God, Fair spirit, rest thee now! Ee’n while with us thy footstep trod, His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath! Soul, to its place on high!— They that have seen thy look in death No more may fear to die.

SARA COLERIDGE

1802-1852

_100. O Sleep, my Babe_

O sleep, my babe, hear not the rippling wave, Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling’ring strays To drink thy balmy breath, And sigh one long farewell.

Soon shall it mourn above thy wat’ry bed, And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore, Deep murm’ring in reproach, Thy sad untimely fate.

Ere those dear eyes had open’d to the light, In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold, O waken’d but to sleep, Whence it can wake no more!

A thousand and a thousand silken leaves The tufted beech unfolds in early spring, All clad in tenderest green, All of the self-same shape;

A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet, Each year sends forth, yet every mother views Her last not least beloved Like its dear self alone.

Its musing mind hath ever yet foreshaped The face to-morrow’s sun shall first reveal, No heart hath e’er conceived What love that face will bring.

O sleep, my babe, nor heed how mourns the gale To part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath, As when it deeply sighs O’er autumn’s latest bloom.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

1806-1861

_101. To George Sand. I. A Desire_

Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man, Self-called George Sand! whose soul, amid the lions Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance, And answers roar for roar, as spirits can! I would some mild miraculous thunder ran Above the applauded circus, in appliance Of thine own nobler nature’s strength and science, Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan, From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place With holier light! that thou to woman’s claim, And man’s, mightst join beside the angel’s grace Of a pure genius sanctified from blame,— Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace, To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.

_102. II. A Recognition_

True genius, but true woman! dost deny Thy woman’s nature with a manly scorn, And break away the gauds and armlets worn By weaker women in captivity? Ah, vain denial! that revolted cry Is sobbed in by a woman’s voice forlorn!— Thy woman’s hair, my sister, all unshorn, Floats back dishevelled strength in agony, Disproving thy man’s name! and while before The world thou burnest in a poet-fire, We see thy woman-heart beat evermore Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and higher, Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore, Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire.

_Sonnets from the Portuguese_

_103. i_

I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair, And a voice said in mastery while I strove, ... ‘Guess now who holds thee.’—‘Death,’ I said. But, there, The silver answer rang, ... ‘Not Death, but Love.’

_104. iii_

Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart! Unlike our uses and our destinies. Our ministering two angels look surprise On one another, as they strike athwart Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art A guest for queens to social pageantries, With gages from a hundred brighter eyes Than tears even can make mine, to ply thy part Of chief musician. What hast _thou_ to do With looking from the lattice-lights at me, A poor, tired, wandering singer, ... singing through The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree? The chrism is on thine head,—on mine, the dew,— And Death must dig the level where these agree.

_105. vi_

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before, Without the sense of that which I forebore, ... Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine, And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

_106. xxii_

When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire At either curvèd point,—what bitter wrong Can the earth do to us, that we should not long Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher, The angels would press on us, and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay Rather on earth, Belovèd,—where the unfit Contrarious moods of men recoil away And isolate pure spirits, and permit A place to stand and love in for a day, With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.

_107. xxviii_