Courage

The poet in his lone yet genial hour
Gives to his eyes a magnifying power:
Or rather he emancipates his eyes
From the black shapeless accidents of size -
In unctuous cones of kindling coal,
Or smoke upwreathing from the pipe's trim bole,
        His gifted ken can see
        Phantoms of sublimity.

The English to be met with everywhere.--Alps and Threadneedle Street.--The Simplon and the Stocks.--Rage for travelling.--Blue Stockings among the Wahabees.--Parasols and Pyramids.--Mrs. Hopkins and the Wall of China.


And is there then no earthly place,
    Where we can rest in dream Elysian,
Without some curst, round English face,
    Popping up near to break the vision?
Mid northern lakes, mid southern vines,
    Unholy cits we're doomed to meet;
Nor highest Alps nor Apennines
    Are sacred from Threadneedle Street!

If up the Simplon's path we wind,
Fancying we leave this world behind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear
As--"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear--
"The funds--(phew I curse this ugly hill)--
"Are lowering fast--(what, higher s...

[1]

A countryman, as Aesop certifies,
A charitable man, but not so wise,
One day in winter found,
Stretch'd on the snowy ground,
A chill'd or frozen snake,
As torpid as a stake,
And, if alive, devoid of sense.
He took him up, and bore him home,
And, thinking not what recompense
For such a charity would come,
Before the fire stretch'd him,
And back to being fetch'd him.
The snake scarce felt the genial heat
Before his heart with native malice beat.
He raised his head, thrust out his forkèd tongue,
Coil'd up, and at his benefactor sprung.
'Ungrateful wretch!' said he, 'is this the way
My care and kindness you repay?
Now you shall die.' With that his axe he takes,
And with two blows three serpents makes.
Trunk, head, and ...

"There!" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride
Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed,
"Is Mosgiel Farm; and that's the very field
Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide
A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried
Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose;
And, by that simple notice, the repose
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified.
Beneath "the random 'bield' of clod or stone"
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour
Have passed away; less happy than the One
That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove
The tender charm of poetry and love.

When I see other women's sons at play,
God, pity me, lest I should turn away
In rage and grief, and should not dare to look
At my child, sitting patient with his book!

But when their sons hold all the world in fee,
With young men's pride, oh, then think not of me!
Load me with burdens, let me feel the rod,
And give my son his manhood, my God!

I often wish'd that I had clear,
For life, six hundred pounds a-year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden's end,
A terrace walk, and half a rood
Of land, set out to plant a wood.
    Well, now I have all this and more,
I ask not to increase my store;[2]
But should be perfectly content,
Could I but live on this side Trent;[3]
Nor cross the channel twice a-year,
To spend six months with statesmen here.
    I must by all means come to town,
'Tis for the service of the crown.
"Lewis, the Dean will be of use;
Send for him up, take no excuse."
The toil, the danger of the seas,
Great ministers ne'er think of these;
Or let it cost a hundred pound,
No matter where the money's found,
It is but so much more in debt,
And that ...

Because you love me I have much achieved,
Had you despised me then I must have failed,
But since I knew you trusted and believed,
I could not disappoint you and so prevailed.

You are carried in a basket,
Like a carcase from the shambles,
To the theatre, a cockpit
Where they stretch you on a table.

Then they bid you close your eyelids,
And they mask you with a napkin,
And the anaesthetic reaches
Hot and subtle through your being.

And you gasp and reel and shudder
In a rushing, swaying rapture,
While the voices at your elbow
Fade - receding - fainter - farther.

Lights about you shower and tumble,
And your blood seems crystallising -
Edged and vibrant, yet within you
Racked and hurried back and forward.

Then the lights grow fast and furious,
And you hear a noise of waters,
And you wrestle, blind and dizzy,
In an agony of effort,

Till a sudden lull accepts you,
And you sound an utt...

In dim samite was she bedight,
And on her hair a hoop of gold,
Like fox-fire in the tawn moonlight,
Was glimmering cold.

With soft gray eyes she gloomed and glowered;
With soft red lips she sang a song:
What knight might gaze upon her face,
Nor fare along?

For all her looks were full of spells,
And all her words of sorcery;
And in some way they seemed to say
"Oh, come with me!

"Oh, come with me! oh, come with me!
Oh, come with me, my love, Sir Kay!"--
How should he know the witch, I trow,
Morgan le Fay?

How should he know the wily witch,
With sweet white face and raven hair?
Who by her art bewitched his heart
And held him there.

For soul and sense had waxed amort
To wold and weald, to slade and stream;

My feet shall tread no more thy mossy side,
    When once they turn away, thou Pleasant Water,
Nor ever more, reflected in thy tide,
    Will shine the eyes of the White Island's daughter.
But often in my dreams, when I am gone
    Beyond the sea that parts thy home and mine,
    Upon thy banks the evening sun will shine,
And I shall hear thy low, still flowing on.
And when the burden of existence lies
    Upon my soul, darkly and heavily,
I'll clasp my hands over my weary eyes,
    Thou Pleasant Water, and thy clear waves see.
Bright be thy course for ever and for ever,
    Child of pure mountain springs, and mountain snow;
And as thou wanderest on to meet the river
    Oh, still in light and music mayst thou flow!
I never shall come back to the...

Holy-Rood, come forth and shield
Us i' th' city and the field;
Safely guard us, now and aye,
From the blast that burns by day;
And those sounds that us affright
In the dead of dampish night;
Drive all hurtful fiends us fro,
By the time the cocks first crow.

The silver Wedding! on some pensive ear
From towers remote as sound the silvery bells,
To-day from one far unforgotten year
A silvery faint memorial music swells.

And silver-pale the dim memorial light
Of musing age on youthful joys is shed,
The golden joys of fancy’s dawning bright,
The golden bliss of, Woo’d, and won, and wed.

Ah, golden then, but silver now! In sooth,
The years that pale the cheek, that dim the eyes,
And silver o’er the golden hairs of youth,
Less prized can make its only priceless prize.

Not so; the voice this silver name that gave
To this, the ripe and unenfeebled date,
For steps together tottering to the grave,
Hath bid the perfect golden title wait.

Rather, if silver this, if that be gold,
From good to bette...

The Sabbath bells renew the inviting peal;
Glad music! yet there be that, worn with pain
And sickness, listen where they long have lain,
In sadness listen. With maternal zeal
Inspired, the Church sends ministers to kneel
Beside the afflicted; to sustain with prayer,
And soothe the heart confession hath laid bare
That pardon, from God's throne, may set its seal
On a true Penitent. When breath departs
From one disburthened so, so comforted,
His Spirit Angels greet; and ours be hope
That, if the Sufferer rise from his sick-bed,
Hence he will gain a firmer mind, to cope
With a bad world, and foil the Tempter's arts.

Last night I watched for Death -
So sick of life was I! -
When in the street beneath
I heard his watchman cry
The hour, while passing by.

I called. And in the night
I heard him stop below,
His owlish lanthorn's light
Blurring the windy snow -
How long the time and slow!

I said, Why dost thou cower
There at my door and knock?
Come in! It is the hour!
Cease fumbling at the lock!
Naught's well! 'Tis no o'clock!

Black through the door with him
Swept in the Winter's breath;
His cloak was great and grim -
But he, who smiled beneath,
Had the face of Love not Death.

Thy home seemed not of earth - so blest
    But there has fall'n a shaft of fate
The dove is stricken; and the nest
    She warmed and cheered is desolate.

But fairest not for thee, we mourn:
    Blest from thy birth, thou still art so
The tear must dew thine early urn
    For him whom thou hast taught to know

The zest of joys - complete, as knows
    Thy vital flame, the pang that tost
And changed thee past, where now it glows
    Knowing, yet feeling all is lost.

There is a flower of tender white
    And, on its spotless bosom, play
The moon's soft beams, one lovely night;
    But when appears the morning ray

'Tis shut and withered - even now
    Around your lime I see it wave; [FN#27]
'Tis pure, and fresh, and fair, as thou...

I am content. In triumph's tone
My song, let people know!
And many a mighty man, with throne
And sceptre, is not so.
And if he is, why then, I cry,
The man is just the same as I.

The Mogul's gold, the Sultan's show,
The hero's bliss, who, vext
To find no other world below,
Up to the moon looked next--
I'd none of them; for things like that
Are only fit for laughing at.

My motto is--Content with this.
Gold--rank--I prize not such.
That which I have, my measure is;
Wise men desire not much.
Men wish and wish, and have their will,
And wish again, as hungry still.

And gold or honour, though it rings,
Is but a brittle glass;
Experience of changing things
Might teach a very ass!
Right often Many turns to None,
And...

Ye who have come o'er the sea
to behold this grey minster of lands,
Whose floor is the tomb of time past,
and whose walls by the toil of dead hands
Show pictures amidst of the ruin
of deeds that have overpast death,
Stay by this tomb in a tomb
to ask of who lieth beneath.
Ah! the world changeth too soon,
that ye stand there with unbated breath,
As I name him that Gunnar of old,
who erst in the haymaking tide
Felt all the land fragrant and fresh,
as amidst of the edges he died.
Too swiftly fame fadeth away,
if ye tremble not lest once again
The grey mound should open and show him
glad-eyed without grudging or pain.
Little labour methinks to behold him
but the tale-teller laboured in vain.

Little labour for ears that may hearken
to...

Sing, O Song of Hiawatha,
Of the happy days that followed,
In the land of the Ojibways,
In the pleasant land and peaceful!
Sing the mysteries of Mondamin,
Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields!
    Buried was the bloody hatchet,
Buried was the dreadful war-club,
Buried were all warlike weapons,
And the war-cry was forgotten.
There was peace among the nations;
Unmolested roved the hunters,
Built the birch canoe for sailing,
Caught the fish in lake and river,
Shot the deer and trapped the beaver;
Unmolested worked the women,
Made their sugar from the maple,
Gathered wild rice in the meadows,
Dressed the skins of deer and beaver.
    All around the happy village
Stood the maize-fields, green and shining,
Waved the green plumes of Mondamin,<...