Red-letter Poems by English Men and Women

Alack, for Corydon no rival now! But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate,

Some good survivor with his flute would go,

Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate; And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow,

And relax Pluto's brow,

And make leap up with joy the beauteous head

Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair

Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air, And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead.

O easy access to the hearer's grace When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine!

For she herself had trod Sicilian

fields,

She knew the Dorian water's gush divine,

She knew each lily white which
Enna yields,

Each rose with blushing face; She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain.

But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard!

Her foot the Cumner cowslips

never stirr'd;

And we should tease her with our plaint in vain!

THE LAST WORD.
CREEP into thy narrow bed,
Creep, and let no more be said!
Vain thy onset! all stands fast.
Thou thyself must break at last.

Let the long contention cease!
Geese are swans, and swans are geese.
Let them have it how they will!
Thou art tired; best be still.

They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore | Charge once more, then, and be dumb!

[SYDNEY DOBELL was born at Cranbrook in Kent in 1824, was educated at home, and for the greater part of his life was engaged in business in Gloucestershire. His first published poem, The Roman, inspired by his life-long enthusiasm for the Italian cause, appeared in 1850; his next, Balder, was finished in 1853. In 1855 he wrote in conjunction with Alexander Smith a series of sonnets, suggested by the Crimean struggle. This volume was followed by another, of descriptive and lyrical verses, on the same theme, England in Time of War. Subsequently his health gave way, and after living for several years, the winters of which he passed abroad, more or less in the condition of an invalid, he died at Barton End House near Nailsworth, in 1874. A complete edi. tion of his poems was published in 1875.]

TOMMY'S DEAD.

You may give over plough, boys,
You may take the gear to the stead;
All the sweat o' your brow, boys,
Will never get beer and bread.
The seed's waste, I know, boys;
There's not a blade will grow, boys;
'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

Send the colt to the fair, boys-
He's going blind, as I said,
My old eyes can't bear, boys,
To see him in the shed;
The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,
I doubt she's badly bred;
Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There'll be no more corn, boys,
Neither white nor red;
There's no sign of grass, boys,
You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,
The land's not what it was, boys,
And the beasts must be fed:
You may turn Peg away, boys,
You may pay off old Ned,
We've had a dull day, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

The sky is shrivelled and shred;
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread.
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.
There's nothing but cinders and sand,
The rat and the mouse have fled,
And the summer's empty and cold;
Over valley and wold,

Wherever I turn my head,
There's a mildew and a mould;
The sun's going out overhead,
And I'm very old,

And Tommy's dead.

What am I staying for, boys?
You're all born and bred
'Tis fifty years and more, boys,
Since wife and I were wed;
And she's gone before, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

She was always sweet, boys,
Upon his curly head,

She knew she'd never see't, boys,
And she stole off to bed;

I've been sitting up alone, boys, For he'd come home, he said, But it's time I was gone, boys, For Tommy's dead.

Put the shutters up, boys,
Bring out the beer and bread,
Make haste and sup, boys,

For my eyes are heavy as lead;

There's something wrong i' the cup, boys,
There's something ill wi' the bread;
I don't care to sup, boys,

And Tommy's dead.

I'm not right, I doubt, boys,
I've such a sleepy head;

I shall never more be stout, boys,
You may carry me to bed.
What are you about, boys,
The prayers are all said,
The fire's raked out, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

"How's my boy-my boy?

What care I for the ship, sailor —
I was never aboard her.

Be she afloat or be she aground
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how's my John?"-

Every man aboard her."
Every man on board went down,
"How's my boy,—my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I'm not their mother-

How's my boy-my boy?
Tell me of him and no other!
How's my boy-my boy?"

MISS MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY.

Circa 1825-circa 1875.

[A SISTER to F. E. Smedley. Author of Nina, 1861; Twice Lost, and other Prose Tales, 1863; Linnet's Trial, 1864; A Mere Story, 1869; Other Folks' Lives, 1869; Lays and Bal lads from English History, 1858; Poems, 1868; Two Dramatic Poems, 1874. Her reputation as a poet rests chiefly upon her shorter poems.]

Up all the shining heights he prayed
For that poor Shadow in the cold!
Still came the word, "Not ours to aid;
We cannot make the doors unfold."

But that poor Shadow, still outside,
Wrung all the sacred air with pain;

And all the souls went up and cried,
Where never cry was heard in vain.
No eye beheld the pitying Face,

The answer none might understand,
But dimly through the silent space
Was seen the stretching of a Hand.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
1825-1864.

(BORN at London, Oct. 30, 1825; daughter of Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). Her first contributions to Household Words, under the name "Mary Berwick," were in 1853, to which periodical she became a regular contributor. She also wrote for Cornhill and Good Words. Her Poems, Legends, and Lyrics, were published in two volumes, 1858 and 1860. Died at London, Feb. 2, 1864. Her works were reissued in 1865, with an introduction by Charles Dickens.]

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