Friendship

    Miss one, two, and three could never agree,
    While they gossiped round a tea-caddy.

    Today I had the awfulest time,
        Dear mother, in the wood.
    That hill out there we were to climb,
        And we'd been very good.
    But nurse was walking up the hill,
        When little Anne and I,
    We had to stop and stand quite still,
        And Anne began to cry.

    For something moved behind the trees,
        We felt so all alone -
    Said I to Anne, "Stop crying, please,
        I'll hit it with a stone."
    Cried Anne, "Oh, listen, hear it growl."
        Said I, "I'm not afraid
    Of bears or lions." "Now don't scowl.
        You look so cross," she said.
    So then I had to smile and smile, for Anne was crying all the while.
    And if we didn'thear a bear, I'm sure, dear mother, one was there.

  ...

No lovelier hills than thine have laid
My tired thoughts to rest:
No peace of lovelier valleys made
Like peace within my breast.

Thine are the woods whereto my soul,
Out of the noontide beam,
Flees for a refuge green and cool
And tranquil as a dream.

Thy breaking seas like trumpets peal;
Thy clouds - how oft have I
Watched their bright towers of silence steal
Into infinity!

My heart within me faults to roam
In thought even far from thee:
Thine be the grave whereto I come,
And thine my darkness be.

The dawn grows red in the eastern sky,
    (Long, so long is the day,)
And I lean from my lattice and sigh and sigh,
As I watch the night fog creeping by
    And vanish over the bay.

The thrush soars up, over green clad hills,
    (The day is long, so long;)
Like liquid silver his music spills,
And ever it quivers, and runs, and trills
    In a glad sweet burst of song.

Under my window there blooms a rose,
    (How long a day can be.)
And I lean and whisper what no soul knows
Of my heart's sorrows and secret woes,
    And the red rose sighs, 'Ah me!'

A ship sails into the waiting bay,
    (The day is long, alack,)
But what would that matter to me, I pray
If the ship that sailed out yesterday
    Should never more come back.

I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice,
To a realm they call Fool's Paradise,
Lying N.N.E. of the Land of Sense,
And seldom blest with a glimmer thence.
But they wanted not in this happy place,
Where a light of its own gilds every face;
Or if some wear a shadowy brow,
'Tis the wish to look wise,--not knowing how.
Self-glory glistens o'er all that's there,
The trees, the flowers have a jaunty air;
The well-bred wind in a whisper blows,
The snow, if it snows, is couleur de rose,
The falling founts in a titter fall,
And the sun looks simpering down on all.

Oh, 'tisn't in tongue or pen to trace
The scenes I saw in that joyous place.
There were Lords and Ladies sitting together,
In converse sweet, "What charming weather!--

When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came,
An earthquake, mingling with the battle's shock,
Checked not its rage; unfelt the ground did rock,
Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly aim.
Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day's shame,
Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure,
Save in this Rill that took from blood the name
Which yet it bears, sweet Stream! as crystal pure.
So may all trace and sign of deeds aloof
From the true guidance of humanity,
Thro' Time and Nature's influence, purify
Their spirit; or, unless they for reproof
Or warning serve, thus let them all, on ground
That gave them being, vanish to a sound.

I sometimes think as here I sit
Of things I have done,
Which seemed in doing not unfit
To face the sun:
Yet never a soul has paused a whit
On such not one.

There was that eager strenuous press
To sow good seed;
There was that saving from distress
In the nick of need;
There were those words in the wilderness:
Who cared to heed?

Yet can this be full true, or no?
For one did care,
And, spiriting into my house, to, fro,
Like wind on the stair,
Cares still, heeds all, and will, even though
I may despair.

By W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson, Avenue Theatre, Monday, November 29, 1897.

Spoken by Miss ELIZABETH ROBINS.

Once was an Age, an Age of blood and gold,
An Age of shipmen scoundrelly and bold -
BLACKBEARD and AVORY, SINGLETON, ROBERTS, KIDD:
An Age which seemed, the while it rolled its quid,
Brave with adventure and doubloons and crime,
Rum and the Ebony Trade: when, time on time,
Real Pirates, right Sea-Highwaymen, could mock
The carrion strung at EXECUTION DOCK;
And the trim Slaver, with her raking rig,
Her cloud of sails, her spars superb and trig,
Held, in a villainous ecstasy of gain,
Her musky course from BENIN to the MAIN,
And back again for niggers:
    When, in fine,
Some thought that EDEN bloomed across the Line,
And some, like CO...

Pluck not the wayside flower,
It is the traveller's dower;
A thousand passers-by
Its beauties may espy,
May win a touch of blessing
From Nature's mild caressing.
The sad of heart perceives
A violet under leaves
Like sonic fresh-budding hope;
The primrose on the slope
A spot of sunshine dwells,
And cheerful message tells
Of kind renewing power;
The nodding bluebell's dye
Is drawn from happy sky.
Then spare the wayside flower!
It is the traveller's dower.

Give me to-night to hide me in the shade,
    That neither moon nor star
May see the secret place where I am laid,
    Nor watch me from afar.

Let not the dark its prying ghosts employ
    To peer on my retreat,
And see the fragments of my broken toy
    Lie scattered at my feet.

I fashioned it, that idol of my own,
    Of metal strange and bright;
I made my toy a god - I raised a throne
    To honour my delight.

This haunted byway of the grove was lit
    With lamps my hand had trimmed,
Before the altar in the midst of it
    I kept their flame undimmed.

My steps turned ever to the hidden shrine;
    Aware or unaware,
My soul dwelt only in that spot divine,
    And now a wreck lies there.

Give me to-night to w...

TO THE MEMORY OF PATRICK KELLEY, WHO BY HIS MANY GOOD QUALITIES DURING SOME YEARS' RESIDENCE IN MY FAMILY, GREATLY ENDEARED HIMSELF TO ME AND MINE.


From Erin's fair Isle to this country he came,
And found brothers and sisters to welcome him here;
Though then but a youth, yet robust seemed his frame,
And life promised fair for many a long year.

A place was soon found where around the same board,
He with two of his sisters did constantly meet;
And when his day's work had all been performed,
At the same fireside he found a third seat.

His faithfulness such, so true-hearted was he,
That love in return could not be denied;
As one of the family - he soon ceased to be
The stranger, who lately for work had applied.

Youth passed into manhoo...

No doubt but ye are the People-your throne is above the King's.
Whoso speaks in your presence must say acceptable things:
Bowing the head in worship, bending the knee in fear,
Bringing the word well smoothen-such as a King should hear.

Fenced by your careful fathers, ringed by your leaden seas,
Long did ye wake in quiet and long lie down at ease;
Till Ye said of Strife, "What is it?" of the Sword, "It is far from our ken";
Till ye made a sport of your shrunken hosts and a toy of your armed men.
Ye stopped your ears to the warning-ye would neither look nor heed,
Ye set your leisure before their toil and your lusts above their need.
Because of your witless learning and your beasts of warren and chase,
Ye grudged your sons to their service and your fields for their camping-place.

EV-ER-Y child who has the use
Of his sen-ses knows a goose.
See them un-der-neath the tree
Gath-er round the goose-girl's knee,
While she reads them by the hour
From the works of Scho-pen-hau-er.
How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend!
But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hend
What Scho-pen-hau-er's driv-ing at?
Oh, not at all; but what of that?
Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she;
And, for that mat-ter, nor does he.

Now, this is the cup the White Men drink
When they go to right a wrong,
And that is the cup of the old world's hate,
Cruel and strained and strong.
We have drunk that cup, and a bitter, bitter cup,
And tossed the dregs away.
But well for the world when the White Men drink
To the dawn of the White Man's day!


Now, this is the road that the White Men tread
When they go to clean a land,
Iron underfoot and levin overhead
And the deep on either hand.
We have trod that road, and a wet and windy road,
Our chosen star for guide.
Oh, well for the world when the White Men tread
Their highway side by side!


Now, this is the faith that the White Men hold,
When they build their homes afar,
"Freedom for ourselves and freedom for our sons

My senses ofttimes are oppress'd,

Oft stagnant is my blood;
But when by Christel's sight I'm blest,

I feel my strength renew'd.
I see her here, I see her there,

And really cannot tell
The manner how, the when, the where,

The why I love her well.

If with the merest glance I view

Her black and roguish eyes,
And gaze on her black eyebrows too,

My spirit upward flies.
Has any one a mouth so sweet,

Such love-round cheeks as she?
Ah, when the eye her beauties meet,

It ne'er content can be.

And when in airy German dance

I clasp her form divine,
So quick we whirl, so quick advance,

What rapture then like mine!
And when she's giddy, and feels warm,

I cradle her, poor ...

To the Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland

Come, sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing Harvest Home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Dress'd up with all the country art.
See, here a malkin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure, as it is sweet;
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
(Clad, all, in linen, white as lilies.)
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart, hear, how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the c...

Sleep on, and dream of Heav'n awhile.
Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still seem to smile,
And move, and breathe delicious sighs!--

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks,
And mantle o'er her neck of snow.
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish--and fear to know.

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast.
--And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above controul,
Thy thoughts belong to Heav'n and thee!
And may the secret of thy soul
Repose within its sanctuary!

"Thou shalt be - Nothing." - OMAR KHAYYAM.
"Tombless, with no remembrance." - W. SHAKESPEARE.

Dead shalt thou lie; and nought
Be told of thee or thought,
For thou hast plucked not of the Muses' tree:
And even in Hades' halls
Amidst thy fellow-thralls
No friendly shade thy shade shall company!