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Page 537 of 1621

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Page 537 of 1621

In Mythic Seas.

'Neath saffron stars and satin skies, dark-blue,
Between dim sylvan isles, a happy two.
We sailed, and from the siren-haunted shore,
All mystic in its mist, the soft gale bore
The Siren's song, while on the ghostly steeps
Strange foliage grew, deeps folding upon deeps,
That hung and beamed with blossom and with bud,
Thick-powdered, pallid, or like urns of blood
Dripping, and blowing from wide mouths of blooms
On our bare brows cool gales of sweet perfumes.
While from the yellow stars that splashed the skies
O'er our light shallop dropped soft mysteries
Of calm and sleep, until the yellower moon
Rose full of fire above a dark lagoon;
And as she rose the nightingales on sprays
Of heavy, shadowy roses burst in praise
Of her wild loveliness, with boisterous pain

Madison Julius Cawein

Widow McFarlane

    I was the Widow McFarlane,
Weaver of carpets for all the village.
And I pity you still at the loom of life,
You who are singing to the shuttle
And lovingly watching the work of your hands,
If you reach the day of hate, of terrible truth.
For the cloth of life is woven, you know,
To a pattern hidden under the loom -
A pattern you never see!
And you weave high-hearted, singing, singing,
You guard the threads of love and friendship
For noble figures in gold and purple.
And long after other eyes can see
You have woven a moon-white strip of cloth,
You laugh in your strength, for Hope overlays it
With shapes of love and beauty.
The loom stops short!
The pattern's out
You're alone i...

Edgar Lee Masters

Snow Song

Fairy snow, fairy snow,
Blowing, blowing everywhere,
Would that I
Too, could fly
Lightly, lightly through the air.

Like a wee, crystal star
I should drift, I should blow
Near, more near,
To my dear
Where he comes through the snow.

I should fly to my love
Like a flake in the storm,
I should die,
I should die,
On his lips that are warm.

Sara Teasdale

Horace, Book III, Ode II; To The Earl Of Oxford, Late Lord Treasurer

SENT TO HIM WHEN IN THE TOWER, 1716

These spirited verses, although they have not the affecting pathos of those addressed by Pope to the same great person, during his misfortunes, evince the firmness of Swift's political principles and personal attachment. - Scott. See Moral Essays, Epistle V, Pope's "Works," edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, 191.


How blest is he who for his country dies,
Since death pursues the coward as he flies!
The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack;
With trembling knees, and Terror at his back;
Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind,
Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind.
Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine;
But shall with unattainted honour shine;
Nor stoops to take the staff, nor lays it down,
Just as the...

Jonathan Swift

I Shall Make Beauty

    I shall make beauty out of many things:
Lights, colours, motions, sky and earth and sea,
The soft unbosoming of all the springs
Which that inscrutable hand allows to me,
Odours of flowers, sounds of smitten strings,
The voice of many a wind in many a tree,
Fields, rivers, moors, swift feet and floating wings,
Rocks, caves, and hills that stand and clouds that flee.

Men also and women, beautiful and dear,
Shall come and pass and leave a fragrant breath;
And my own heart, laughter and pain and fear,
The majesties of evil and of death;
But never, never shall my verses trace
The loveliness of your most lovely face.

John Collings Squire, Sir

The Night-Rain

Tattered, in ragged raiment of the rain,
The Night arrives. Outside the window there
He stands and, streaming, taps upon the pane;
Or, crouching down beside the cellar-stair,
Letting his hat-brim drain,
Mutters, black-gazing through his trickling hair.

Then on the roof with cautious feet he treads,
Whispering a word into the windy flues;.
And all the house, huddling itsflowerbeds,
Looks, dark of face, as if it heard strange news,
Hugging the musky heads
Of all its roses to its sides of ooze.

Now in the garden, with a glowworm lamp,
Night searches, letting his black mantle pour;
Treading the poppies down with heavy tramp,
Thudding the apple, sodden to its core,
Into the dripping damp,
From boughs the wet loads, dragging more and more.

Madison Julius Cawein

Th' Demon o' Debt.

We read ov a man once possessed ov a devil,
An pity his sorrowful case;
But at this day we fancy we're free from sich evil,
An noa mooar have that trubble to face.
But dooan't be deceived, for yo're nooan aght o' danger,
Ther's a trap for yor feet ready set,
An if to sich sorrow yo'd still be a stranger,
Be careful to keep aght o' debt.

For debt is a demon 'at nivver shows pity,
An when once yor fast in his grip,
Yo may try to luk wise or appear to be witty,
But he'll drive yo to wreck wi' his whip.
He tempts yo to start wi' a little at furst,
An then deeper an deeper yo get,
Till at last yo find aght 'at yor life is accurst,
An yo grooan under th' burden o' debt.

Then sweet sleep forsakes yo an tossin wi' care,
Yo wearily wear neet away;

John Hartley

To Molde

(See Note 64)

Molde, Molde,
True as a song,
Billowy rhythms whose thoughts fill with love me,
Follow thy form in bright colors above me,
Bear thy beauty along.
Naught is so black as thy fjord, when storm-lashes
Sea-salted scourge it and inward it dashes,
Naught is so mild as thy strand, as thine islands,
Ah, as thine islands!
Naught is so strong as thy mountain-linked ring,
Naught is so sweet as thy summer-nights bring.
Molde, Molde,
True as a song,
Murm'ring memories throng.

Molde, Molde,
Flower-o'ergrown,
Houses and gardens where good friends wander!
Hundreds of miles away, - but I'm yonder
'Mid the roses full-blown.
Strong shines the sun on that mountain-rimmed beauty,
Fast is the ...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

The Emu Of Whroo

We've a tale to tell you of a spavined emit,
A bird with a smile like a crack in a hat,
Who was owned by M‘Cue, of the township of Whroo,
The county of Rodney, his front name was Pat.
The bird was a dandy, although a bit bandy,
Her knees, too, were queer and her neck out of gauge,
She’d eat what was handy, from crowbars to candy,
Was tall, too, and tough for a chick of her age.
But her taste and her height, and her figure and smile,
Were the smallest potatoes compared with her guile.

M‘Cue’s bird had a name, Arabella that same,
A name that was given by Pat, we may say,
To the memory and fame of a red-headed flame,
Because, as he said, ‘she wuz builded that way.’
The bird Arabella let nothing compel her,
Her temper was bad when disturbed, as a rule.
She’d...

Edward

Oh, Ask Me Not

        Love, should I set my heart upon a crown,
Squander my years, and gain it,
What recompense of pleasure could I own?
For youth's red drops would stain it.

Much have I thought on what our lives may mean,
And what their best endeavor,
Seeing we may not come again to glean,
But, losing, lose forever.

Seeing how zealots, making choice of pain,
From home and country parted,
Have thought it life to leave their fellows slain,
Their women broken-hearted;

How teasing truth a thousand faces claims,
As in a broken mirror,
And what a father died for in the flames
His own son scorns as error;

...

John Charles McNeill

The Eagle.

The winds sweep by him on his mountain throne,
Hurling the clouds together at his feet,
Till Earth is hidden, lost, and swallow'd up
As in the flood of waters,--and he sits
Eyeing the boundless firmament above,
Proud and unruffled, till his heart exclaims,--
"I am a god, Heaven is my home,--the Earth
Serveth me but for footstool."

The strong winds
Sweep on, and wide his pinions spreadeth he,--
"Bear me afar!" and on the mighty storm
He rides triumphant, spurning the dim Earth--
Whither, O whither goest thou? What star
Shall raise its mountains for thee? What far orb
Echo the fierceness of thy battle-cry?

What dost thou when the thunder is unloosed?
"I sit amongst the crags, and feel the Earth
Tremble beneath me, whilst my heart is firm.
I...

Walter R. Cassels

The Chimney Sweeper

A little black thing in the snow,
Crying "weep! weep!" in notes of woe!
"Where are thy father and mother? Say!"
"They are both gone up to the church to pray.

"Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smiled among the winter's snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

"And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his priest and king,
Who make up a heaven of our misery."

William Blake

The Jungle Books

Now Chil the Kite brings home the night
That Mang the Bat sets free
The herds are shut in byre and hut,
For loosed till dawn are we.
This is the hour of pride and power,
Talon and tush and claw.
Oh, hear the call! Good hunting all
That keep the Jungle Law!

- Mowgli's Brothers.

His spots are the joy of the Leopard: his horns are the Buffalo's pride,
Be clean, for the strength of the hunter is known by the gloss of his hide.
If ye find that the bullock can toss you, or the heavy-browed Sambhur can gore;
Ye need not stop work to inform us. We knew it ten seasons before.
Oppress not the cubs of the stranger, but hail them as Sister and Brother,
For though they are little and fubsy it may be the Bear is their mother.
"There is none like to me! " says the Cub...

Rudyard

Inscription On A Goblet.

    There's death in the cup, sae beware!
Nay, more, there is danger in touching;
But wha can avoid the fell snare?
The man and his wine's sae bewitching!

Robert Burns

On The River

The sun is low,
The waters flow,
My boat is dancing to and fro.
The eve is still,
Yet from the hill
The killdeer echoes loud and shrill.

The paddles plash,
The wavelets dash,
We see the summer lightning flash;
While now and then,
In marsh and fen
Too muddy for the feet of men,

Where neither bird
Nor beast has stirred,
The spotted bullfrog's croak is heard.
The wind is high,
The grasses sigh,
The sluggish stream goes sobbing by.

And far away
The dying day
Has cast its last effulgent ray;
While on the land
The shadows stand
Proclaiming that the eve's at hand.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Beatrice Cenci.

O beautiful woman, too well we know
The terrible weight of thy woman's woe,
So great that the world, in its careless way,
Remembered thy beauty for more than a day.
In the name of the truth from thy brow is torn
The crown of redemption thou long hast worn,
And into the valley of sin thou art hurled
To be trampled anew by the feet of the world.

The beautiful picture is thine no more
That hangs in the palace on Italy's shore;
The tear-stained eyes where the shadow lies,
Like a darksome cloud in the summer skies,
Will tell thy story to men no more,
For all untrue is the tale of yore;
And the far-famed picture that hangs on the wall
Is a painter's fancy--that is all.

Italia's shore is a land of light
Where the sunlight of day drowns the shadows of...

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

In The Crowd.

How happy they are, in all seeming,
How gay, or how smilingly proud,
How brightly their faces are beaming,
These people who make up the crowd.
How they bow, how they bend, how they flutter,
How they look at each other and smile,
How they glow, and what bon mots they utter!
But a strange thought has found me the while!

It is odd, but I stand here and fancy
These people who now play a part,
All forced by some strange necromancy
To speak, and to act, from the heart.
What a hush would come over the laughter!
What a silence would fall on the mirth!
And then what a wail would sweep after,
As the night-wind sweeps over the earth.

If the secrets held under and hidden
In the intricate hearts of the crowd,

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Sonnet, On Taking A Favourite Walk, After Recovery From Sickness

Ye scenes beloved! O welcome once again!
Forbidden long to my desiring sight,
Now, now! triumphant o'er disease and pain,
I visit ye with fresh, increased delight.

Vine-mantled Hills, whose heights I joy'd to climb,
The Morn's sweet infant breathings to inhale;
River! whose banks I roved in trance sublime,
While fancy-whispering Eve spread soft her veil;

And thou, O Wood, in whose moon-checkered shade
The nightly songstress oft has charm'd my ear
Till Morning told me I so long had stay'd:
Hail all ye objects to my memory dear!
Once more, to feel the transports ye impart,
Health wakes my every sense and tunes my heart.

Thomas Oldham

Page 537 of 1621

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Page 537 of 1621