Death

A winter sky of pale blue and pale gold,
Bare trees, a wind that made the wood-path cold,
And one slow-moving figure, gray and old.

We met where the soft path falls from the wood
Down to the village. As I came near she stood
And answered when I spoke, drawing the hood

Back from her face. I saw only her eyes,
Large and sad. I could not bear those eyes.
They were like new graves. I could not bear her eyes.

But what we said as each passed on is gone.
We looked and spoke and passed like strangers on,
I to the high wood, she towards the paling sun.

And there, where the clear-heavened small pool lies,
And the tallest beeches brush the bending skies,
In pool and tree I saw again her eyes.

I.

What be those crown’d forms high over the sacred fountain?
Bards, that the mighty Muses have raised to the heights of the mountain,
And over the flight of the Ages! O Goddesses, help me up thither!
Lightning may shrivel the laurel of Cæsar, but mine would not wither.
Steep is the mountain, but you, you will help me to overcome it,
And stand with my head in the zenith, and roll my voice from the summit,
Sounding for ever and ever thro’ Earth and her listening nations,
And mixt with the great sphere-music of stars and of constellations.


II.

What be those two shapes high over the sacred fountain,
Taller than all the Muses, and huger than all the mountain?
On those two known peaks they stand ever spreading and heightening;
Poet, that evergreen laurel i...

I leave the world to-morrow,
What news for Fairyland?
I’m tired of dust and sorrow
And folk on every hand.

A moon more calm and splendid
Moves there through deeper skies,
By maiden stars attended
She peaces goddes-wise.

And there no wrath oppresses,
And there no teardrops start,
There cool winds breathe caresses,
That soothe the weary heart.

The wealth the mad world follows
Turns ashes in the hand
Of him who sees the hollows
And glades of Fairyland.

And pine boughs sigh no sorrow
Where fairy rotas play,
I leave the world to-morrow
For ever and a day.

Dans les moments de la vie ou la reflexion devient plus calme et plus profonde, ou l'interet et l'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agreable a Dieu, qui avait cree tous les hommes a son image.--THIERRY, Conquete de l'Angleterre.

In his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying;
Loud, without, the tempest thundered
            And the castle-turret shook,

In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,
And the lands his sires had plundered,
            Written in the Doomsday Book.

By his bed a monk was seated,
Who in humble voice repeated
Many a prayer and pater-noster,
            Fr...

Meek Maid! that sitting on yon lofty tower,
View'st the calm floods that wildly beat below,
Be off! yon sunbeam veils a heavy shower,
Which sets my heart with joy a aching, oh!
For why, O maid, with locks of jetty flax,
Should grief convulse my heart with joyful knocks?
It is but reasonable you should ax,
Because it soundeth like a paradox.
Hear, then, bright virgin! if the rain comes down,
'Twill wet the roads, and spoil my morning ride;
But it will also spoil thy bran-new gown,
And therefore cure thee of thy cursed pride.
Moral this sonnet, if well understood,
Shows the same thing may bring both harm and good.

All day they loitered by the resting ships,
Telling their beauties over, taking stock;
At night the verdict left my messmate's lips,
"The Wanderer is the finest ship in dock."

I had not seen her, but a friend, since drowned,
Drew her, with painted ports, low, lovely, lean,
Saying, "The Wanderer, clipper, outward bound,
The loveliest ship my eyes have ever seen

"Perhaps to-morrow you will see her sail.
She sails at sunrise": but the morrow showed
No Wanderer setting forth for me to hail;
Far down the stream men pointed where she rode,

Rode the great trackway to the sea, dim, dim,
Already gone before the stars were gone.
I saw her at the sea-line's smoky rim
Grow swiftly vaguer as they towed her on.

Soon even her masts were hidden in the ...

Vat for should dis spirit of mortal ban proud?
Man valk round a minute, and talk purty loud;
Den doctor ban coming, and say, "Ay can't save."
And man have to tak running yump into grave.

To-day dis har faller ban svelling around,
His head ban so light dat his feet ant touch ground.
To-morrow he light vith his face in the sand,
And hustle lak hal to get gude helping hand.

Ay see lots of fallers who tenk dey ban vise,
Yu see dem yureself ef yu open yure eyes;
Dey tal 'bout the gold dey skol making some day,
And yump ven the vash-voman com for her pay.

Ay tal yu, dear frend, purty sune we ban dead,
So ay tenk we ban suckers to getting svelled head.
It ant wery far from Prince Albert to shroud;
Vat for should dis spirit of mortal ban proud?

[R]

Mai non vo' più cantar, com' io soleva.

ENIGMAS.


    Never more shall I sing, as I have sung:
For still she heeded not; and I was scorn'd:
So e'en in loveliest spots is trouble found.
Unceasingly to sigh is no relief.
Already on the Alp snow gathers round:
Already day is near; and I awake.
An affable and modest air is sweet;
And in a lovely lady that she be
Noble and dignified, not proud and cold,
Well pleases it to find.
Love o'er his empire rules without a sword.
He who has miss'd his way let him turn back:
Who has no home the heath must be his bed:
Who lost or has not gold,
Will sate his thirst at the clear crystal spring.

I trusted in Saint Peter, not so now;
Let him who can my meaning understand.

Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night
Has not as yet begun
To make a seizure on the light,
Or to seal up the sun.

No marigolds yet closed are;
No shadows great appear;
Nor doth the early shepherds' star
Shine like a spangle here.

Stay but till my Julia close
Her life-begetting eye,
And let the whole world then dispose
Itself to live or die.

The wind told the little leaves to hurry,
And chased them down the way,
While the mother tree laughed loud in glee,
For she thought her babes at play,
The cruel wind and the rain laughed loudly,
We'll bury them deep, they said,
And the old tree grieves, and the little leaves
Lie low, all chilled and dead.

We're older nor we used to be,
But that's noa reason why
We owt to mope i' misery,
An whine an grooan an sigh.

We've had awr shares o' ups an daans,
I' this world's whirligig;
An for its favors or its fraans
We needn't care a fig.

Let them, at's enterin on life
Be worried wi' its cares;
We've tasted booath its joys an strife,
They're welcome nah to theirs.

To tak things easy owt to be
An old man's futer plan,
Till th' time comes when he has to dee, -
Then dee as weel's he can.

It's foolish nah to brood an freeat,
Abaat what might ha been;
At sixty we dooant see wi' th' een,
We saw wi at sixteen.

Young shoolders worn't meant to bear
Old heeads, an nivver will;
Youth had its fling when we wor thear,

Exquisite mosses, so lovely and green,
Covering the rocks with emerald sheen;
Hiding the scars which convulsions have made;
Blessing the mound where our angel was laid;
Forming a carpet on which we may tread;
Clothing with beauty the rotten and dead;
Sheathing from storm-blasts the young forest tree--
Beautiful mosses, examples for me.

Trod under foot by all kinds of men;
Gracing the mountain or hid in the fen;
Never adorning the brow of the fair;
Seldom deemed worthy some corner to share
In the bouquets that are cast in the way
Princely feet tread on reception's proud day;
The glory of roses do not attain;
Beautiful mosses, ye grow not in vain.

Answer the end by your Maker designed.
Humble your bloom, but your mission is kind.
Those will...

    When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
    And Death looks you bang in the eye,
    And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
    To cock your revolver and . . . die.
    But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
    And self-dissolution is barred.
    In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
    It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.

    "You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.
    You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
    "You've had a raw deal!" I know - but don't squeal,
    Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
    It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
    So don't be a piker, old pard!
    Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:
    It's the keeping-your-c...

(1683-64.)


I

Like snows the camps on southern hills
Lay all the winter long,
Our levies there in patience stood -
They stood in patience strong.
On fronting slopes gleamed other camps
Where faith as firmly clung:
Ah, froward king! so brave miss -
The zealots of the Wrong.

In this strife of brothers
(God, hear their country call),
However it be, whatever betide,
Let not the just one fall.

Through the pointed glass our soldiers saw
The base-ball bounding sent;
They could have joined them in their sport
But for the vale's deep rent.
And others turned the reddish soil,
Like diggers of graves they bent:
The reddish soil and tranching toil
Begat presentiment.

Did the Fathers feel mistrust?