Imagens da página
PDF
ePub

"T was vain; each word they spoke was vain;
She took with her the little store
Left at her father's dying day,
And for the Baltic sailed away:

Such steadfast love that maiden bore!

Is this the boy, so stout and bold
That on the green hill sat with her?
Is this the brother, blithe of cheer,
The careless heart without a fear?
Is this the joyful mariner?

The same for in that hospital

There is no English boy but heThe same - the very same, none other, Sweet Alice Fleming, than thy brotherAnd well he knoweth thee!

Ay, though the boy with suffering bowed,
Was changed indeed, and feeble grown,
Better to him than oil and wine,
Better by far than doctors nine,
Was his kind sister's cheering tone.

And soon 't was told through Riga town
What love an English sister bore
Her brother-how she left her home
Among the mountains, and had come
To tend him on this distant shore.

And she a maiden scarce sixteen!-
"T was a sweet tale of tenderness,
That all were happy to repeat;
The women, passing in the street,

Spoke of it, and they spoke to bless.

So did the merchants on the quay ;
So did all people old and young;
And when into the street she went,
All looked a kindly sentiment,

.. And blessed her in their Russian tongue.

But now the youth grew strong and stout,
And as he to the sea was bent,
And ne'er in toil or danger quailed,
So, light of heart and proud, he sailed
Mate of a ship from Riga sent.

Its owner was Paul Carlowitz,

A merchant and of Russian birth, As rich as Cræsus; and this same, Despite his ships, and wealth and name, For of an ancient line he came,

Loved Alice Fleming for her worth. He was no merchant old and gruff,

Sitting 'mong money-bags in state, Not he!-a handsome man and kind As you in any land would find,

Or choose for any maiden's mate. And if you sail to Riga town,

You'll find it true, upon my life; And any child will show you where Lives Carlowitz, who took the fair Poor English maiden for his wife.

ONE OF THE VANITIES OF HUMAN WISHES.

PUER LOQUITUR.

I WISH that I myself had lived
In the ages that are gone,

Like a brother of the Wandering Jew-
And yet kept living on;

For then, in its early glory,
I could have proudly paced
The City of the Wilderness,
Old Tadmor of the Waste :

And have seen the Queen of Sheba,
With her camels, riding on,

With her spiceries rich and precious stones,
To great King Solomon;

And all the ivory palaces,

With floors of beaten gold;
And in the green, fair gardens walked
Of Babylon the old;

And have talked with grey Phoenicians
Of dark and solemn seas,

And heard the wild and dismal tales
Of their far voyages.

I could have solved all mysteries
Of Egypt old and vast,
And read each hieroglyphic scroll
From the first word to the last.

I should have known what cities
In the desert wastes were hid;
And have walked, as in my father's house,
Through each great pyramid.

I might have sate on Homer's knees,
A little, prattling boy,

Hearing all he knew of Grecian tales
And the bloody work at Troy.

I should have seen fair Athens,
The immortal and the free,
O'erlooking, with her marble walls,
The islands and the sea.

I should have seen each Naiad
That haunted rock and stream;
And walked with wisest Plato,
In the groves of Academe.

I should have seen old Phidias,
Hewing his marble stone;
And every grave tragedian,
And every poet known.
Think what a Cicerone

I should have been, to trace
The city of the Seven Hills

Who had known its ancient race;
Had stood by warlike Romulus
In council and in fray,
And with his horde of robbers dwelt,
In red-roofed huts of clay!

Think but of Julius Cæsar,

The heroic, wise, and brave-
To have seen his legions in the field,
His galleys on the wave!

Then, to have sate in the Forum,

When Cicero's words grew strong;
Or at evening by the Tiber walked,
To listen Virgil's song!

I should have seen Rome's glory dimmed
When, round her leaguered wall,
Came down the Vandal and the Goth,

The Scythian and the Gaul;

And the dwarfish Huns by myriads,
From the unknown northern shores;
As if the very earth gave up
The brown-men of the moors.

I should have seen Old Wodin
And his seven sons go forth,

From the green banks of the Caspian sea
To the dim wilds of the north;

To the dark and piny forests,

Where he made his drear abode,
And taught his wild and fearful faith,
And thus became their god.
And the terrible Vikingr,

Dwellers on the stormy sea,
The Norsemen and their Runic lore
Had all been known to me!
Think only of the dismal tales,

Of the mysteries I should know,

If my long life had but begun
Three thousand years ago!

THE GARDEN.

NAY, go not to the town to-day,
The fierceness of this noon-tide ray,
Like furnace-fire, will hotly fall,
Reflected from each red-brick wall;
And the smooth pavement of the street,
Will seem to scorch thy passing feet;
And in the crush, and in the crowd
Of busy men, with voices loud,
Mingle not thou! but turn aside,
And let me be this day thy guide;
Come to the garden! Let us pass
Adown this smoothly-shaven grass;
Soft, cool, and as a carpet laid
For the fair foot of Eastern maid.
Here cannot come the scorching heat
Of noonday to thy cool retreat :
The shadow of a broad plane-tree
Is o'er thee like a canopy;
And, just anigh, within thine ear,
The tinkle of a fountain clear,
Within a marble basin falling;

And 'mong the shrouding leaves is heard
The song of many an unseen bird;
And near and far the cuckoo calling!—

And here come odours that the breeze
Brings from the scented flowering trees;
Rich scent that gives the fancy flight
To eastern gardens of delight;
And say, whatever bower of bliss,
Was fairer in romance than this?-
Romance!-ay sure, and we will find
Some tale for this sweet spot designed,
Some ancient tale of woe and wonder,
Made to be read the blue sky under-
Made to be read when thoughts are free;
Some tale of fancy, fresh and airy,
Of beautiful dwellers in the sea,
Or gambols of the summer faëry!

Now scorching noon is passed, and closed
The book on which our thoughts reposed,
That pleasant book of fairy-wonder,
Made to be read the blue skies under.
Now let us take a wider range,
The garden has unceasing change;
And in this sunset's golden tide,

See how the flowers are beautified;

Sweet flowers,-sweet, radiant flowers that we Regard as visible poetry

The flowers of Greece, the flowers of Spain,
Of islands in the Southern main;
Of sunny Persia; far Cathay,
And the lion-realms of Africa-
How do they send the fancy forth,

As if she had a ship to speed her

To the far corners of the earth,

Where'er a vagrant thought can lead her!
Where'er there is a breath of flowers,
That far-off, pleasant land is ours!

Now, in these walks of verdant shade
Which arching ever-greens have made,
Let thee and me, with minds sedate,
Watch till the evening groweth late;
For holy is that serious thought
Which by the coming night is brought;
For then doth spiritual life unfold,

As flowers in day-light open wide;
And God's good spirit, as of old,

Seems to walk here at eventide!

SONG FOR THE BALL-PLAYERS.

Ur goes the ball with might and main,
And soon it cometh down again;
Ups and downs, I've heard them say
For many a year, is the world's way!
Up goes the ball,-like a goblet-cup;
Hold your hand as you send it up!
Down it comes,-ere it reach the ground,
Catch the ball so firm and round!

An up and down, that is the way,

With a good round ball, that you must play;
Up, high as you can, then down again,
Five and five, and a double ten.

The world is a ball, and every star,
And the sun himself, great balls they are;
Round they go, and round about,
Ever and ever, yet ne'er are out!

Up goes the ball! oh, if I threw

Up to the very sky so blue,

Up to the moon, or to Charles Wain,

Now, the tale that I had in my mind to rehearse,
Was related by Willy, though not told in verse:
Said Willy, "the cat had a kitten that lay
Behind my bed's head, on a cushion of hay;

A beautiful kit, though a mischievous elf,

And given to prowling about by itself.

Now it happened, one day, as I came from my work,
Before I had put by my rake and my fork,

"I would be long ere the ball came down again! The old cat came up, and she pawed and she mewed,

An up and down-that is the way,

With a good round ball, that you must play;
Up, high as you can, and down again,
Ten and ten, and six times ten!

Face to the shade, and back to the shine;
Send up your balls with a toss like mine,
Straight as a dart, as if 't were cast
From the spring of a mighty arbalast!
There it goes! good luck to the ball!
Here it comes, with a plumping fall;
How merry it is, our balls to throw,
Standing together thus in a row!

An up and a down, that is the way,
With a good round ball, that you must play;
Up, high as you can, and down again,
Now we have counted ten times ten.

THE KITTEN'S MISHAP.

I'LL tell you a tale of a watery disaster;
Of a cat, and a kitten, and their little master;
A tale it shall be, neither made-up nor silly,
Of two good little children, named Peggy and Willy.
They were not rich children and clever, like you,
Who had books, toys, and pictures, and nothing to do;
They were two little orphans, that lived on a common,
In a very small house, with a very old woman.
A very old woman, as poor as could be;

With the wofullest visage that ever I viewed,

And she showed me the door, and she ran in and out;

I couldn't conceive what the cat was about!

At length, I bethought that the creature was good,
And she would have her way, let it be what it would;
And no sooner she saw me inclined to obey,
Than she set up her tail, and she scampered away
To a pond not far off, where the kitten I found
In a bottomless basket, just sinking, half drowned
However it got there, I never could tell,
For a cat hates the water- but so it befel;
Perhaps some bad boy this bad action had done,
To torture the kitten, and then call it fun;
Yet that I don't know; but I soon got her out,
And a terrible fright she had had, there's no doubt;
"T was a pitiful object, it drooped down its head,
And Peggy for some time declared it was dead.
But its heart was alive, spite the panic and pain,
And it opened its eyes and looked up again,
And we gave it some milk, and we dried its wet fur,
And oh! what a pleasure there was in its purr;
At length when we saw that all danger was over,
And that, well warmed and dried, it began to recover,
We laid it in bed, on its cushion of hay,

And wrapped it up snugly, and bade it 'good day.'
And then its poor mother gave over her mourning,
And lay down and purred like the wheel that was
turning;

And she and the kitten by care unperplexed,
Slept, purred, and scarce stirred all that day and the

next;

Then scarcely a trace of her trouble she bore,
Though meeker and graver than ever before."

And they worked for the bread that they eat, all So here ends my tale of this watery disaster,

three.

The old woman was feeble, rheumatic, and thin,
And with very great labour she managed to spin;
And all the day long, with unwearying zeal,
From Monday to Saturday round went her wheel;
Yet with all her turning, she scarce could contrive
To earn the small pittance that kept her alive;
So these good little children they both did their best,
And gave from their earnings what made up the rest.

Of wealth, which so many consider a blessing,
The three nothing knew—yet the joy of possessing,
Even in this poor cottage the inmates could share,
For the dame had her wheel, and her table and chair;
But Peggy and Willy, than these had far more;
For hers was the blackbird, that hung at the door,
The sweet singing blackbird, that filled with delight
Of its music, the cottage, from morning to night:
And his was the cat that slept under his bed,
And never looked famished howe'er it was fed.

Of the cat, and the kitten, and their little master.

SPRING.

APRIL.

SPRING! the beautiful Spring is coming,
The sun shines bright and the bees are humming;
And the fields are rich with the early flowers,

Beds of crocus and daisies white,
And under the budding hedge-row, showers
Of the ficary golden bright!
Come, come, let you and me
Go out, and the promise of Spring-time see,
For many a pleasant nook I know,
Where the hooded arum and blue-bell grow,
And crowds of violets white as snow;
Come, come, let's go!

195

Let's go, for hark,

I hear the lark;

And the blackbird and the thrush on the hill-side

tree,

Shout to each other so merrily.

And the wren sings loud,

And a little crowd

Of gnats in the sun dance cheerily.
Come, come! come along with me,

For the tassels are red on the tall larch tree,

And in homesteads hilly,

The spathed daffodilly

Is growing in beauty for me and thee!

MAY.

"T is Spring! 't is Spring, all creatures know it,
The skies, the earth, the waters show it,
The freckled snakes come out i' the sun,
The leverets race in the meadows green;
The sleep of the little dormouse is done,

And the frisking squirrel again is seen!
Come, come who will,
Let us take our fill

Of delight in the valley, the field, the hill;
Let us go to the wood that so late was still;
The air is ringing

With singing, singing!

And flowers are springing

The lanes along,

The white and the red,

And the umbelled head,

And the single-blowing,

All thickly growing,

This merry May morn, a thousand strong!
The fishes are glad this May morning,
And like things of light

Through the waters bright,
Flash to and fro!

There's a sound of joy in the youthful Spring
Hark! hark!

There sings the lark!

Why tarry we yet? let's go!

The strong lamb boundeth,

The glad foal neighs;

And joy resoundeth

A thousand ways—

Over hill, and valley, and wood, and plain, Joy poureth down like a shower of rain! I'll tarry no more! come, come, let's go!

LIFE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

THE splintered, northern mountains lay
All round about my mother's dwelling,
All full of craggy hollows grey,

Where ice-cold, sparkling streams were welling.

Upon the mountains lay the snow,

Far gleaming snows that melted never;

And deeply, darkly, far below,

Went sounding on, a lonely river.

Upon the mountain summits hung
The tempest-clouds so darkly scowling,
And winds in caverned hollows sung,
Like unto desert creatures howling.
Day after day the sunshine slept,
Night after night the moon was hidden;
And rain and wind about us kept,
Week after week, like guests unbidden.

And many a time the deep snows fell,
In the dark months of winter weather;
And quite shut in our mountain dell,
We, and our lonely flock together.

We had a little flock of sheep,

I herded them both night and morning; My mother in the house did keep,

Her busy wheel for ever turning.

What joy it was, as I brought them round,
Into their pen, at nightfall darkling,
To hear that old wheel's droning sound,
And see the cheerful wood-fire sparkling!

On stilly eves, beside my flock,

The sounds I heard will haunt me ever, The eagle rising from the rock,

The wind-borne roaring of the river:

The gathering of the coming storm,
Like far-off angry giants talking;
The grey mist like a ghostly form

Over the ridgy mountain stalking!

I saw, I heard, I loved them all;

My days and nights were never weary,
Though many a passing guest would call
My life forlorn, those mountains dreary.
Would I were back among the hills;

Could see the heath, and scent the gowan,
Would I could hear those sounding rills,
And sit beneath the lonely rowan!

But our little flock of sheep are gone,

Like snowy clouds in moonlight flying;

And my mother lies 'neath the churchyard stone, With long, dry bent-grass round her sighing!

PILGRIMS.

WITH hoary hair, and bent with age,
He
goes forth on his pilgrimage,
An old man from his forest-cell,
With sandalled feet, and scallop shell;
His sight is dim, his steps are slow,
And pain and hardship must he know,
An old, way-faring man, alone,
And yet his spirit bears him on.
For what? the holy place to see;
To kneel upon Mount Calvary,
Golgotha's dreary bound to trace,
To traverse every desert place,

In which the Saviour trod of yore;
For this he beareth travail sore,
Hunger and weariness and pain,
Nor longeth for his home again!

Now see another pilgrim, gay,
And heartsome as a morn in May;
Young, beautiful, and brave, and strong,
As a wild stag he bounds along;
Mountains his path may not impede ;
The winds and waters serve his need.
He is a pilgrim bound to see

All the old lands of poesy;

At antique cross and altar-stone,

And where dim pagan rites were done;

In groves; by springs; on mountains hoar;

In classic vale; by classic shore;

Where wise men walked; where brave men fell;

Or tale of love hath left its spell,
It matters not his foot is there,
Joyful to breathe of classic air;
Joyful on classic forms to gaze,

And call back light from ancient days.—
It is a fond and ardent quest,

And leaves its pilgrim ill at rest!

Behold, once more! - From youth to age
Man goeth on a pilgrimage;
Or rich or poor, unwise or wise,
Before each one this journey lies;
"T is to a land afar, unknown,
Yet where the great of old are gone,
Poet and patriot, sage and seer;
All whom we worship or revere;
This awful pilgrimage have made, —
Have passed to the dim land of shade.
Youth, with his radiant locks, is there;
And old men with their silver hair;
And children sportive in their glee ;-
A strange and countless company!
Ne'er on that land gazed human eyes;
Man's science hath not traced its skies,
Nor mortal traveller e'er brought back
Chart of that journey's fearful track.

[ocr errors]

Thou art a pilgrim to that shore, — Like them, thou canst return no more! Oh, gird thee, for thou needest strength For the way's peril as its length! Oh, faint not by the way, nor heed Dangers nor lures, nor check thy speed; So God be with thee, pilgrim blessed, Thou journeyest to the LAND OF REST!

I never see these flowers but they
Send back my memory far away,
To years long past, and many a day
Else perished long ago!
They bring my childhood's years again—
Our garden-fence, I see it plain,
With ficaries like a golden rain

Showered on the earth below.

A happy child, I leap, I run,
And memories come back, one by one,
Like swallows with the summer's sun,
To their old haunts of joy!
A happy child, once more I stand,
With my kind sister hand in hand,

And hear those tones so sweet, so bland,
That never brought annoy!

I hear again my mother's wheel,
Her hand upon my head I feel;

Her kiss, which every grief could heal,
Is on my cheek even now;

I see the dial over-head;

I see the porch o'er which was led,
The pyracantha green and red,

And jessamine's slender bough.

I see the garden-thicket's shade,
Where all the summer long we played,
And gardens set, and houses made,
Our early work and late;

Our little gardens, side by side,
Each bordered round with London-pride,
Some six feet long, and three feet wide,
To us a large estate!

The apple and the damson trees;
The cottage-shelter for our bees;
I see them and beyond all these,
A something dearer still;

[ocr errors]

I see an eye serenely blue,
A cheek of girlhood's freshest hue,
A buoyant heart, a spirit true,
Alike in good and ill.

Sweet Sister, thou wert all to me,
And I, sufficient friend for thee: -
Where was a happier twain than we,
Who had no mate beside?
Like wayside flowers in merry May,
Our pleasures round about us lay;-
A joyful morning had our day,
Whate'er our eve betide!

COWSLIPS.

NAY, tell me not of Austral flowers,
Or purple bells from Persia bowers,
The cowslip of this land of ours,
Is dearer far to me!
This flower in other years I knew!
I know the fields wherein it grew,
With violets white and violets blue,
Beneath the garden-tree!

THE INDIAN BIRD.

A MAIDEN had an Indian bird,

And she kept it in her bower; The sweetest bird that e'er was seen,— Its feathers were of the light sea-green, And its eye had a mild intelligence, As if it were gifted with human sense:

« AnteriorContinuar »