Heavy, enamelled, the flower of the gold and the brass of the mountain. Trembling with joy she gazed, so well Hæphaistos had made it, Deep in the forges of Etna, while Charis his lady beside him Mingled her grace in his craft as he wrought for his sister Athené. Then on the brows of the maiden a veil bound Pallas Athené; Ample it fell to her feet, deep-fringed, a wonder of weaving. Ages and ages agone it was wrought on the heights of Olympus, Wrought in the gold-strung loom, by the finger of cunning Athené. In it she wove all creatures that teem in the womb of the ocean; Nereid, siren, and triton, and dolphin, and arrowy fishes Glittering round, many-hued, on the flame-red folds of the mantle. In it she wove, too, a town where gray-haired kings sat in judgment; Sceptre in hand in the market they sat, doing right by the people, Wise: while above watched Justice, and near, far-seeing Apollo. Round it she wove for a fringe all herbs of the earth and the water, Violet, asphodel, ivy, and vine-leaves, roses and lilies, Coral and sea-fan, and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean: Now from Olympus she bore it, a dower to the bride of a hero. Over the limbs of the damsel she wrapped it: the maid still trembled, Shading her face with her hands; for the eyes of the goddess were awful. Then, as a pine upon Ida when southwest winds blow landward, Stately she bent to the damsel, and breathed on her under her breathing Taller and fairer she grew; and the goddess spoke in her wisdom: Courage I give thee; the heart of a queen, and the mind of Immortals; Godlike to talk with the gods, and to look on their eyes unshrinking; Fearing the sun and the stars no more, and the blue salt water; Fearing us only, the lords of Olympus, friends of the heroes; Chastely and wisely to govern thyself and thy house and thy people, Bearing a godlike race to thy spouse, till dying I set thee Blissful, they turned them to go: but the fairtressed Pallas Athené Rose, like a pillar of tall white cloud, toward silver Olympus; Far above ocean and shore, and the peaks of the isles and the mainland; Where no frost nor storm is, in clear blue windless abysses, High in the home of the summer, the seats of the happy Immortals, Shrouded in keen deep blaze, unapproachable, there ever youthful Hebé, Harmonié, and the daughter of Jove, Aphrodité, Whirled in the white-linked dance with the goldcrowned Hours and the Graces, Hand within hand, while clear piped Phoebe, queen of the woodlands. All day long they rejoiced: but Athené still in her chamber Bent herself over her loom, as the stars rang loud to her singing, Chanting of order and right, and of foresight, warden of nations; Chanting of labor and craft, and of wealth in the port and the garner; Chanting of valor and fame, and the man who can fall with the foremost, Fighting for children and wife, and the field which his father bequeathed him. Sweetly and solemnly sang she, and planned new lessons for mortals: Happy, who hearing obey her, the wise unsullied Athené. THE SANDS OF DEE. 'O MARY, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home The western wind was wild and dank with foam, Across the sands of Dee;" And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand, And round and round the sand, The rolling mist came down and hid the land; "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hairA tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Was never salmon yet that shone so fair They rowed her in across the rolling foam, But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee. : THE THREE FISHES. THE THREE FISHERS. THREE fishers went sailing away to the West, And the children stood watching them out of For men must work, and women must weep, Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work, and women must weep, Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the For men must work, and women must weep, THE OUBIT. Ir was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang; I'll shew her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn, A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in: O when he took the water, the saumon-fry they rose, And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes. 523 ASK if I love thee? Oh, smiles cannot tell Ask if I love thee? How else could I borrow Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor Laugh when they sneer at the fanatic's bride, Knowing no bliss, save to toil and abide Weeping by thee. oubit's shame; Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame. O haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the For critics lie, like saumon-fry, to mak' their THE STARLINGS. EARLY in spring-time, on raw and windy mornings, Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing: DOLCINO TO MARGARET. THE world goes up and the world goes down, No, never come over again. For woman is warm though man be cold, But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King's ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were we. All day we fought like bull-dogs, but they burst the booms at night; And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight. Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die. And now I'm old and going-I'm sure I can't tell where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again. THE WORLD'S AGE. WHO will say the world is dying? Still the race of Hero-spirits Pass the lamp from hand to hand; Age from age the Words inherits"Wife, and Child, and Fatherland." Still the youthful hunter gathers Fiery joy from wold and wood; He will dare as dared his fathers, Give him cause as good. While a slave bewails his fetters; While an orphan pleads in vain ; Heir of all the age's gain; While a moan from man is wrung; Know, by every want and blessing, That the world is young. ALTON LOCKE'S SONG WEEP, weep, weep and weep, For pauper, dolt, and slave! Hark! from wasted moor and fen Feverous alley, stifling den, Swells the wail of Saxon men Work! or the grave! Down, down, down and down With idler, knave, and tyrant! Why for sluggards cark and moil? He that will not live by toil Has no right on English soil! God's word's our warrant! Up, up, up and up! Face your game and play it! The night is past, behold the sun! The idols fall, the lie is done! The Judge is set, the doom begun! Who shall stay it? So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine; HE wiled me through the furzy croft; And the water is spent and gone? Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine: I never shall drink but this one. He wiled me down the sandy lane. He told his boy's love, soft and oft, Until I told him mine again. And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse, We married, and we sailed the main; And lead him me round to the door: He must take such a leap to-night perforce, As horse never took before. A soldier, and a soldier's wife. We marched through many a burning plain; We sighed for many a gallant life. But his God keep it safe from harm! He toiled, and dared, and earned command. And those three stripes upon his arm Were more to me than gold or land. Sure he would win some great renown: Our lives were strong, our hearts were high. One night the fever struck him down. I sat, and stared, and saw him die. I had his children-one, two, three. I sit beneath the mango-shade; I live my five years' life all o'erRound yonder stems his children played; He mounted guard at yonder door. 'Tis I, not they, am gone and dead. They live; they know; they feel; they see. Their spirits light the golden shade Beneath the giant mango-tree. All things, save I, are full of life; The swooping hawks, the swinging nests. The lizards basking on the soil, The butterflies who sun their wings; The bees about their household toil, They live, they love, the blissful things. Each tender purple mango-shoot, That folds and droops so bashful down: It lives; it sucks some hidden root; It rears at east a broad green crown. It blossoms; and the children cry"Watch when the mango-apples fall "It lives; but rootless, fruitless, I— I breathe and dream;-and that is all. Thus am I dead: yet cannot die: But still within my foolish brain There hangs a pale-blue evening sky; A furzy croft; a sandy lane. While louder and prouder the world-echoes cheer us. Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us, Lead us, and lift us, and halloo our game to usWe cannot call the hounds off, and no shame to us Don't be left staring alone! THE DAY OF THE LORD. THE Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand; The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold; Gather you, gather you, angels of God— Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell- Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold, While the Lord of all ages is here? True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, And those who can suffer can dare. Each old age of gold was an iron age too, And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do, In the Day of the Lord at hand. |
