A Library of Poetry and Song: Being Choice Selections from the Best Poets

And the

ancient mariner beholdeth his native country.

And, having once turned round, walks | They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light;

on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

This seraph band each waved his hand;
No voice did they impart,

No voice; but O, the silence sank

But soon there breathed a wind on me, Like music on my heart!

And the bay was white with silent light, The skiff-boat neared, — I heard them

The angel Till, rising from the same,

ic spirits

leave the dead bodies,

And ap

pear in their own forms of light.

Full many shapes, that shadows were,
In crimson colors came.

A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were ;
I turned my eyes upon the deck, –
O Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat;
And, by the holy rood!

A man all light, a seraph man,

On every corse there stood.

talk:

'Why, this is strange, I trow !

Where are those lights, so many and fair,
That signal made but now?'

The hermit of the wood

'Strange, by my faith!' the hermit Approach

said,

'And they answered not our cheer!
The planks looked warped! and see
those sails,

How thin they are and sear!

I never saw aught like to them,
Unless perchance it were

This seraph band, each waved his Brown skeletons of leaves that lag

hand,

It was a heavenly sight!

My forest-brook along,

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,

eth the ship with we der.

The ship suddenly sinketh.

The an

cient mari

in the

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, | Which forced me to begin my tale, –
That eats the she-wolf's young.'
And then it left me free.

'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look,' The pilot made reply,

Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns ;

'I am a-feared.' — 'Push on, push on !' And till my ghastly tale is told, Said the hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirred;

The boat came close beneath the ship,
And straight a sound was heard:

Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread;

It reached the ship, it split the bay;
The ship went down like lead.

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,

ner is saved Which sky and ocean smote, pilot's boat. Like one that hath been seven days drowned,

The an

cient mari.

ner earnest

ly entreat

My body lay afloat;

But, swift as dreams, myself I found Within the pilot's boat.

Upon the whirl where sank the ship The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound.

I moved my lips,
And fell down in a fit;
The holy hermit raised his eyes,
And prayed where he did sit.

the pilot shrieked,

I took the oars; the pilot's boy,
Who now doth crazy go,

This heart within me burns.

And ever and anon, throughout his future life, an

agony constraineth him to

travel from land to

I pass, like night, from land to land; land,

I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see

I know the man that must hear me,
To him my tale I teach.

Laughed loud and long; and all the Farewell! farewell! but this I tell

Ha ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see, Both man and bird and beast. The Devil knows how to row.'

And now, all in my own countree,

I stood on the firm land!

The hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand.

He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all."

'O, shrieve me, shrieve me, holy The mariner, whose eye is bright,

man!'.

eth the her- The hermit crossed his brow:

And to teach, by his own example love and reverence of all things that God made and loveth.

Forthwith this frame of mine wrenched

was

A sadder and a wiser man

He rose the morrow morn.

With a woful agony,

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLeridge,

THE RAVEN.

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my

chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;

Only this, and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow,

the lost Lenore,

sorrow for

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore !"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder

than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window-lattice;

Let me see then what there at is, and this mystery explore,

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;

'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open then I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above

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my chamber door,— Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, "art sure no craven;

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore,

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore ?"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !"

"Sir," said I," or madam, truly your forgive- Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to here

ness I implore;

discourse so plainly,

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you Though its answer little meaning, little rele

to dream before;

vancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his

chamber door,

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his

chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore!"

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust,

spoke only

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness That one word, as if his soul in that one word gave no token, he did outpour.

And the only word there spoken was the whis- Nothing further then he uttered,
pered word "Lenore !"
then he fluttered,

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other | On this home by horror haunted, — tell me truly, friends have flown before, I implore, On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes Is there is there balm in Gilead?-tell me, have flown before." - tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !"

Then the bird said, "Nevermore!"

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly" Prophet !” said I, "thing of evil!— prophet spoken, still, if bird or devil! "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only By that heaven that bends above us, - by that stock and store, God we both adore, Caught from some unhappy master, whom un- Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the merciful disaster distant Aidenn, Followed fast and followed faster, till his song It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the anone burden bore,

gels name Lenore,

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy bur- Clasp a fair and radiant maiden, whom the an

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into
smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of
bird and bust and door,

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself
to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore —

Meant in croaking "Nevermore !"

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight gloating o'er,

She shall press - ah! nevermore! Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,

Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on

the tufted floor.

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SONG OF THE SEA BY THE ROYAL
GARDEN AT NAPLES.

I HAVE Swung for ages to and fro;

I have striven in vain to reach thy feet, O Garden of joy! whose walls are low, And odors are so sweet.

I palpitate with fitful love;

I sigh and sing with changing breath;
I raise my hands to heaven above,
I smite my shores beneath!

In vain, in vain! while far and fine,

To curb the madness of my sweep,

Runs the white limit of a line I may not overleap.

Once thou wert sleeping on my breast,
Till fiery Titans lifted thee
From the fair silence of thy rest,

Out of the loving sea.

And I swing eternal to and fro;

I strive in vain to reach thy feet,
O Garden of joy! whose walls are low,
And odors are so sweet!

ROSSITER W. RAYMOND.

SONG OF THE LIGHTNING.

"PUCK. I put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes."

MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

AWAY! away! through the sightless air

Stretch forth your iron thread! For I would not dim my sandals fair

With the dust ye tamely tread! Ay, rear it up on its million piers,

Let it circle the world around,

And the journey ye make in a hundred years I'll clear at a single bound!

Though I cannot toil, like the groaning slave
Ye have fettered with iron skill

To ferry you over the boundless wave,
Or grind in the noisy mill,

Let him sing his giant strength and speed!
Why, a single shaft of mine

Would give that monster a flight indeed,

To the depths of the ocean's brine!

No! no! I'm the spirit of light and love!
To my unseen hand 't is given
To pencil the ambient clouds above

And polish the stars of heaven !
I scatter the golden rays of fire
On the horizon far below,
And deck the sky where storms expire
With my red and dazzling glow.

With a glance I cleave the sky in twain; 1 light it with a glare,

When fall the boding drops of rain

Through the darkly curtained air!
The rock-built towers, the turrets gray,
The piles of a thousand years,
Have not the strength of potter's clay
Beneath my glittering spears.

From the Alps' or the Andes' highest crag,
From the peaks of eternal snow,
The blazing folds of my fiery flag
Illume the world below.

The hieroglyphs on the Persian wall,
The letters of high command, —
Where the prophet read the tyrant's fall,
Were traced by my burning hand.
And oft in fire have I wrote since then
What angry Heaven decreed;
But the sealed eyes of sinful men
Were all too blind to read.

At length the hour of light is here,
And kings no more shall bind,
Nor bigots crush with craven fear,
The forward march of mind.
The words of Truth and Freedom's rays
Are from my pinions hurled ;
And soon the light of better days
Shall rise upon the world.

GEORGE W. CUTTER.

ORIGIN OF THE OPAL.

A DEW-DROP came, with a spark of flame
He had caught from the sun's last ray,
To a violet's breast, where he lay at rest
Till the hours brought back the day.

The rose looked down, with a blush and frown;
But she smiled all at once, to view
Her own bright form, with its coloring warm,
Reflected back by the dew.

Then the stranger took a stolen look

At the sky, so soft and blue;
And a leaflet green, with its silver sheen,
Was seen by the idler too.

A cold north-wind, as he thus reclined,
Of a sudden raged around;

And a maiden fair, who was walking there,
Next morning, an opal found.

ANONYMOUS.

THE ORIGIN OF GOLD.

THE Fallen looked on the world and sneered. "I can guess," he muttered, "why God is feared,

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